My travel adventures started in Waikiki Beach, where overweight tourists shamelessly flaunted polyester, sunburns, and bad attitudes. Fresh out of college in 1971, I waited there for two unwelcome days at ex-lover Becky's for sketchy pal Lizardo to call from his coffee/marijuana farm in Kona. Plan A (the only one I had) was to join him in Captain Cook and get started on my noble mission. What noble mission? The one where I grew incredible pot, raised consciousness, and changed the world. Also, end the Vietnam war and evict Nixon from office. That noble mission. Though noisy and crowded, Waikiki was not where Becky or I wanted me to be. Me, because I required nature, and Becky because. . .well, it's a long list. On the bright side, I met a crazed commune leader named Ray and learned of his organic farm in the countryside, where I strongly suspected he grew the incredible weed we were smoking. Was that a delicious Plan B I tasted?
The overly-lush view just outside the down-letter Lizardo's mold-infested cabin in dreary Volcano, a tiny place featuring a wild profusion of flowers, tropical growth, and near-constant rain. Also, a fog-enshrouded volcano we couldn't see. Where, to my surprise, he'd just moved from Kona to chase the fleet-footed Vicky. . .who dodged his affections and moved back to Kona. Right into Lizardo's newly vacant coffee farm with her new boyfriend. There went Plan A. To apologize for his ironic mistake, he took me to an organic farm mired in mud and owned by a maltempered Hungarian widow named Agonia who'd poisoned her husband with toadstools and tried to get me with beets. That was some apology. She had stinky feet, a unibrow, and unless I missed my guess, a taste for human flesh. Looks like I'd need that Plan B.
The not-so-lush view of the Waianae Mountains on the way to the leeward coast and Ray's organic farm (AKA: Plan B). Sadly, the waterfall pools filled with bikini-clad wahines that moistened my dreams remained behind on the windward side. To its credit, the sun-drenched leeward coast was the opposite of Volcano. Kind of an egotist, it boasted world class beaches, great surf, and fun diving. Pretty cool! What else? Humongous local felons not thrilled at seeing longhaired haoles on their turf. Not so cool. Especially since the farm was in Nanakuli, right on the other side of those mountains at the dead end of felon-lined MakiMaki Road. . .loosely translated by my cannibal neighbors as "Die, haole, die!" and known to the police, news agencies, and everyone else, as the most dangerous road in Hawaii. But I wasn't gonna let a little thing like brutal death stop me from my philanthropic mission. Not without a Plan C, anyway.
Speaking of dangerous felons, here's a shot of our pig-farming neighbors (ironically named the Hogg Brothers) having a bit of fun after a day of castrating pigs. Feisty fellas weighing well over a quarter-ton each, with an insatiable yearning for Spam and, well, everything else, the Hoggs were typical of the diabetic giants living along MakiMaki Road. Their desolate farm featured free range pigs and an unspeakably vile odor. Also, rusted out car bodies, worn out refrigerators, and dozens of crushed toilets. Even some junk. Ray suspected the hefty Hoggs' voracious appetites had something to do with the high turnover rate at the organic farm. Also suggested I had them to thank for the empty room I scored when Louie the Flake suddenly disappeared.
Pictured here, a typically gorgeous sunset near Nanakuli beach park at the foot of fiercely potholed MakiMaki Road. Either very brave or insanely reckless, we nature-loving farmers would drive through a gauntlet of gargantuan neighbors, bad vibes, and empty Primo Beer bottles to celebrate glorious views like this almost every evening. Which is why Ray always packed heat. Also, a pack of attack dogs. And what better way to celebrate nature's beauty and our survival than with the traditional sunset doobie? Done celebrating, we'd jump in the still-warm water with our furry bodyguards and catch some waves. Sometimes with dolphins, sometimes with manta rays, but always with big smiles.
Just behind the farm the Waianae Mountains rose up to knife-like ridges creased by KoliKoli Pass, where the Japanese sneaked through to bomb Pearl Harbor. I went there on a hike with Leilani (Miss June from the Girls of Hawaii calendar) and her boyfriend Peter. Walking behind him on a foot-wide trail, it occurred to me that a fall promised certain death. With one little stumble or, say, a helpful shove, the irresistible Miss June would suddenly be single. The death-defying hike was worth it. We watched a blood red sun set over Makaha and a blood red full moon rise over Haliewa. Twins for a moment. Incredible! Thrilled by the rare sight, I patted Pete on the back, said "Mahalo, man!" Then, "Oops. . ." Pete, also excited, screamed, "Aaaaa. . ." Imagine my embarrassment. Thank God he landed on a rare outcrop, because Miss June might have taken his murder the wrong way. Plus, I grew pot and there was my good karma to consider.
What Ray's secret garden looked like when I first saw it. Reachable only through an ultra-sneaky tunnel and a cordon of intolerant white German shepherds from South Africa, it hid out back in a big field of ten-foot tall elephant grass. With the males just picked, it held only females about to flower. That's where my demented guru taught me the art of growing da kine pakalolo. He also offered sure-fired tips on alienating women. Only he called it relationship advice. As if I needed tips on that. Looks like Plan B might work out. How about that? Despite my dad's raving, my mom's incessant nagging, and my college guidance counselor's grave doubts, I'd literally landed my dream job in the marijuana field. Even better, when Ray moved to Maui the secret garden became mine!
Several months later, my own pakalolo plants were in flower. The flowers were looking good and smelling incredible, but still needed a bit more maturing. Which became a problem when heartless Bank of Hawaii minion Mr. Watanabe showed up with an eviction notice. "You're out of here at the end of the month." When I suggested we might be hard to evict, Mr. Watanabe suggested back, "Ha! Not after the Elite Eviction Team arrives!" Who? "Four psychopathic Samoans on PCP, a Bank of Hawaii tank, and a pack of rabid Rottweilers! They'll all be heavily armed." That's who. "In case you hippies get violent. Like at Kent State." I asked if that wasn't a bit of overkill and he replied, "You just can't kill a hippie too murdered." Though eloquent, Mr. Watanabe was not sympathetic.
Just about time to harvest my own first crop. The sugar-coated buds tasted like mango bubblegum, choked you like a serial killer, and produced a soaring, euphoric high. In other words, da kine da kine! (Hawaiians love saying everything twice.) As a rookie grower, I wasn't sure how much more they'd mature, but with a Bank of Hawaii tank on the way, I figured: Probably not much. Though there wasn't enough to change the world, there was enough to change mine! Now, I just needed to ratchet up the philanthropy, oh, about a jillion times.
My arch enemy: Uncle Dick (AKA: The 37th President of the United States), pictured here at a family reunion haranguing me for costing him the 1960 election with my nerdy hypnotism and ventriloquist skills. As you can see, as fiendish despots went, Tricky Dick was not a colorful man. Dad was also furious about my little prank. He and silent partner Uncle Dick had held big dreams involving communists and nuclear destruction. Also, a bonanza with their Good Guys Bomb Shelter scam. As reward for saving the world, I got grounded through Christmas vacation. Their deranged dreams didn't die easily and I grew up with a bomb shelter in the front yard. Above it: a 50 foot flag and a permanent mushroom-shaped cloud put out by a modified dry ice dispenser. (You don't want to know what was in the missile silo out back.) Dad was not only insane, he was not popular with the neighbors, either.
Self-portrait of Dad, Mad Scientist in Chief for the CIA, and nicknamed Dr. Strangelove by admiring colleagues. Here he is, ready to kick some commie ass. To be honest, Dad was wildly delusional. Except for the inevitable Uncle Sam outfit and persistent scowl, he looked nothing like this. With Dr. Strangelove in charge of the Secret Weapons Lab, he had access to all kinds of diabolic toys (shrink rays, laser cannons, terminators...you name it) the world was endangered. Worse, so was I. A control freak, Dad wanted me following the American Dream. Specifically, enrolled in law school. He had this feeling Uncle Dick would need some devious legal help down the line. Aside from that, he vowed to crush my philanthropic dream by any means necessary. But why? "Because I can."
Whew! Looks like I harvested just in time, 'cause here comes the Bank of Hawaii's Elite Eviction Team. . .as gleefully promised by heartless bank minion Mr. Watanabe. Where'd the B of H get a tank? Mr. Watanabe had snarked, "Heh heh. . .the Army got a little behind in payments!" Not pictured lurking behind the Bank of Hawaii tank: a Bank of Hawaii bulldozer donated by the anonymous new owner (a certain Dr. Strangelove, as it turned out) and the aforementioned well-armed Rottweilers. And that was it for Plan B. A dark moment for my mission. .and by extension, the whole world. On the other hand, after working a couple of crops, I knew I'd found my calling. Growing pot was fun! No way I could stop now. Not while the world needed me. It was time for Plan C. The one I didn't have.
Peaceful Makua Beach on the far western coast of Oahu. Far from Waikiki: no condos, no tourists, and near-constant waves perfect for body surfing. Uninhabited except by a dozen or so hippies and some local fishermen a half mile away. Just behind the beach is Makua Valley, the Army's not-so-peaceful Weapons Testing Range. . .uninhabited except by ghosts of Hawaiians blown up while protesting explosions. It was a sensitive issue. The Army, hated by locals as land-grabbing interlopers, and understanding the need for compassion and discretion, suggested, "The rest of them don't wanna blow up? Tell da buggas to keep off their ancestral lands." I moved to Makua Beach moments before the Bank of Hawaii's Elite Eviction Team arrived. . .and immediately after Miss June invited me to sleep at her hooch. What's a hooch? In this case, a canvas tent draped over am 8x8 foot wooden frame. Not much, but it had a million dollar view, no rent, and Miss June! Just one catch. Miss June wouldn't be there. Exploring the area around my new home, staring at Makua Valley's big gate with the skull and crossbones (real ones) all those intimidating signs promising annihilation (painted in blood), I saw Plan C coming into focus. No one would think to look for pakalolo there. After all, only the criminally insane would try to grow pot on a bombing range. If that wasn't a great idea, I didn't know what was.
Elite members of the U.S. Army's Annihilation Team, pictured here in Makua Valley taking a break, enjoying the prospect of gunning noble philanthropists down. Guess I was wrong about no one looking for pakalolo there. Government contract killers having a good time were one thing, but lurking evilly in the background was someone much more fiendish. Someone with no sense of humor or regard for good times who wanted me in law school. Someone equipped with weapons of mass destruction and eager to use them. Also, an entire Secret Weapons Lab full of diabolic toys that he used all the time. On me. If you guessed the maniacal Dr. Strangelove (AKA: Dad), congratulations, you guessed correctly. Well, no one ever said changing the world would be easy. I'd just assumed it.