The Hula Part Two The Manapua Man

My walk along the beach toward home gives me time to collect my thoughts about today.  Wow… What a day. Today could not possibly get any better. I feel like running and skipping; I would fly if I had wings. I know it must be around 4:00. You can sense the “Golden Hour” approaching when the sun begins to transform its rays into golden streams of light, the hour insisting that the sun begins its slow descent. I wonder if how I feel today could be an epiphany. I’ve never felt like this before. I know that my future Saturdays will be spent in the sunshine, not in the church. First things first…I need to be home by 6:00 for dinner. I can make those two blocks in no time.

Emerging from my thoughts, a familiar sight catches my eye. It’s the Manapua Man, a short distance down the beach. The thought of the deliciousness hiding in the oversized baskets makes my stomach rumble. Cone sushi and a Manapua bun would be the perfect walking-home snack. 

The Manapua Man commands attention. Unmistakably Chinese, with his tall, thin Northern China frame and a big smile that reveals his uneven yellow teeth. His daily uniform of a white tee shirt, shorts, no shoes, and a wide-brimmed rice patty hat, along with the six-foot-long bamboo pole across his shoulders, sets him apart as he walks along the beach selling his goods. His name is Guo, which he has told me means strength and a strong spirit. He’s well-known and recognized along Waikiki Beach, and his unique charm has won him many friends. He once joked about charging for photos with tourists, especially the ones who were not nice.

His smiling face radiates as we near each other. “Howzit, you look sad.” No, just a lot of thoughts in my head. “Why no ugly dog on Saturdays?”. He asks. Church, no dogs allowed, I say. His yellow smile precedes his deep laugh, “Big church, too many rules. Maybe you should be a Buddhist, dogs allowed.” We both have a good laugh, but his words stand out amidst my kaleidoscope of recent thoughts.

We laugh about my funny-looking dog, Whiskers. “You hungry,” he asks as he uncovers the baskets, and the aroma takes hold of all my senses. Both baskets are full, the manapua being the most fragrant. The inside of the basket looks like a stacked pyramid. Small, neat squares of parchment separate the round white buns from one another. The Chinese who introduced it to Hawaii called it Char Siu Boa. The local Hawaiians renamed it mea ono (pastry) pua’a (pork), which became manapua. The steamed bun has a bit of sweetness, contrasting with the salty, warm red pork inside. This remarkable flavor explodes with my first bite as a bit of pork juice runs down my chin, which makes us laugh. We say our goodbyes, and I tell him, I’m gonna think about Buddha. Right now, I’m not so happy with the big church.

Walking away, the conversation about Whiskers, the church, the rules, and Buddha lingers with me. Is it a coincidence? Perhaps I’m on the right path. The idea of exploring Buddha sparks my curiosity. After all, there are many ways to connect with the divine, and I’m beginning to realize that. 

Just as I hit the intersection of the Surf Rider Hotel and the beach, I finish my manapua. I could easily have eaten a cone sushi, as well. I hop onto the wooden walkway leading to Kalakaua Avenue and home. The sun is warming my back as I turn my head for one last look at the sun before we both head into the evening. I still have some time before 6:00, home is barely two blocks away. One of the few requests that Annabelle, my mom, makes is to be on time. I’ll take the pretty cut home – through the International Market Place. Kalakaua Avenue is bustling with tourists, as usual. I pass the Princess Kaiulani Hotel and wave to Kimo, who is manning the street entrance to the hotel lobby. Seeing Kimo jolts me out of my daydreams and rolls me back to reality. I’m thinking about Annabelle, my mom, and what she’ll think of my new plan. Compared to most moms, I would say she is pretty easygoing as long as you’re going in her direction.

Two years after my father died, I turned nine, and I started calling my mother by her first name, Annabelle. I liked the sound of her name. And now, when I think about it, it helped me separate the grieving woman from my mother. She heard me once and quickly told me, “You are not on a first-name basis with me. I’m your mother, not one of your buddies.” That first year after my father’s death was rough for both of us. My mother, at times, seemed to fade into her sadness and grief, especially after I went to bed.

I made a quick right turn into The International Market Place, which is huge and right in the middle of Waikiki Beach. It’s famous for its open tropical space and massive ancient banyan tree about forty to fifty feet from the entrance. The IMP covers about a half block facing Kalakaua Avenue and extends almost a full block back to Kuhio Avenue and the Post Office. There are dozens of small and mid-sized shops with thatched roofs selling Hawaii-style souvenirs to tourists, including sprouting coconuts, puka shell jewelry, and “Howzit” printed tee shirts. Scattered throughout the IMP are small food stands and restaurants offering an assortment of local and Asian foods. One deep breath, and you know you’re no longer in Kansas. Dukes, is the star attraction. The most well-known restaurant/nightclub on Oahu, owned by the famous Duke Kahanamoku and home to Don Ho and the Aliis. My sister and her husband often go to the dinner show or drop in for a midnight cocktail and rave about it for days.

I walk home most days from the beach through the IMP. Watching the tourists and chatting for a minute with local friends working in the small shops is always fun. One larger, fancy Hawaii-style clothing store always has the best displays. The main display is just inside the store entrance. Propped up on a long, foot-high pedestal covered in sand is an entire family of mannequins dressed in a riot of Hawaiian print muumuus and matching aloha shirts. All are accessorized with straw hats, Koa Nut necklaces, and fake Plumeria leis. Any slight tropical breeze can cause the muumuus and the matching aloha shirts to move as if all the mannequins are swaying to the Hawaiian music drifting through the store. The mannequin family does a great job of luring families from Iowa and transforming them into authentic Hawaiian tourists.

Jay Jay, the elegant store manager, looks like a mannequin standing at the store entrance. Her blond hair is perfectly cut in a mod Vidal Sassoon signature style. She could easily be a poster girl for the 1960s. Her tall, thin body is elongated by the short shift dress riding about six inches above her knees. Finishing the ‘Look’ is the perfect shade of tan flowing down her long arms and legs, and topping it all off is her irresistible smile. Yes, I want to be just like Jay Jay when I grow up.

“Hey, kiddo, are you old enough to work for me yet?” No, in two more years, I’ll be sixteen and can work part-time for you through the High School Work Program. “Well, better here than at Woolworths in Ala Moana Shopping Center…Right.” We both agree on that statement since most of the jobs offered through the program are – file clerk, stock or sales clerk at Woolworths, or the dreaded Dole Pineapple factory.

Walking toward her, I decided to tell Jay Jay about my conversation with Gao, the manapua man. I give her a brief overview of my afternoon while in church, including my talk later with Guo and his advice about becoming a Buddhist. Earlier, on my walk from the beach, I kept thinking, do I have to have another religion or church to talk to God? My determination was vanning the closer I got to home. Did I really think that Annabelle would agree with the hula on the beach instead of going to church? I went on telling her about doing a hula for God to take away my sins. I took a deep breath and asked her, where do you go to talk to God? She looked at me, a little startled and curious at the same time. She threw her head back and laughed, which made me laugh, and we stood there laughing while the mannequin family in their matching Hawaii-style outfits picked up the beat of their breezy dance and seemed to join in the fun.

With a half-smile, she finally says, “God and I have not had a formal visit for some time.”

“This conversation calls for a drink. Let’s get a Coke.” We walked next door to the Red Rooster Restaurant, deciding to sit on the upstairs lanai, and ordered our Cokes. Jay Jay maintained her amusement about my question. I wondered if it was my question or a private joke that hopefully she would share. She picked up our conversation and said, “Frankly, kiddo, I don’t recall ever being formally introduced to God. I was never baptized, christened, or had a bat mitzvah. Years later, when I spoke with my mother about this, she related her motivation. She believed that this would leave a clean slate for my brother and me to choose our own path to God. But it actually left me feeling a little adrift, untethered, especially when I was younger. Where I come from, Sunday is spent in the House of God. And the house in which you worshiped Him was as important as the neighborhood you lived in.” 

Jay Jay played with her straw and said, “Anyway, here I am, at the Red Rooster, reflecting on my relationship to God with a fourteen-year-old who wants to leave the church and dance for God.” Ha, “Times change, don’t they? I think, in an odd way, my mother’s decision about religion and church set the tone for who I am today.” She was quiet for a moment and continued. “Possibly, if I had been raised a God-fearing kid, I would never have ended up with the clean slate that my mother envisioned. That slate is a little tarnished now, but hell, here I am, having the time of my life. It’s 1961, and I’m thirty-one. Not bad looking, being paid to work in paradise, and living in a town where there are four men to every woman. Thank you to the Army, Navy, Marines, and the Air Force. I would probably not even be here, living this life, if I had been held to the norm or organized religion. Sometimes, I think, maybe I’ve met God, but I didn’t realize it. Maybe He was disguised as happiness.”

Jay Jay went back to work, and I went about my way home. The more I thought of my conversation with Jay Jay, the more I felt I should take extra time to think everything through before talking to Annabelle about my epiphany. The hula and my future plans to leave the church might be a bit much for her, all at one time.

I remember her thinking out loud about talking to a fourteen-year-old about God. I think that could be to my advantage. I picked up my step. I want to list all the grown-ups I think might talk to me about God and how they communicate with Him.

To be continued…