Every detail about this place, from the golf carts to the cheese to those meticulously preserved Hawai’ian altars and lava flows, generates a sort of free-form pleasure—whether of the material, sensory, or moral variety. It was easy to be seduced, to just give in to this notion of an ethical capitalist utopia while picking beef out of your teeth while watching the sun set over the Pacific. But, because I am a killjoy in all things and also not a billionaire, a question continued to nag at me over my four days at Kohanaiki. While initially sent to cover their in-house craft-beer program, I had to wonder: To what degree can a luxury community serve those who exist along its edges, and what could they tell us about what it meant to have incredible wealth in 2018?
I started by looking into the resort’s past, and what existed here before capital sculpted it out of the rock. Reggie Lee, a Kohanaiki staff member who grew up in the area, gave me some perspective. It was “just lava fields and goats,” he told me, with surfers and visitors driving all over the land in Jeeps and dropping garbage everywhere. Now the beachfront is maintained jointly by the club and Hawaii County, as part of a compromise struck with community activists for the development to be approved. In the end, the developer acquiesced to the community activists’ demands to preserve the area’s cultural and environmental features. In exchange, they received the right to build the luxury community, now valued at over $1.3 billion. About 100 of the club’s 450 acres are allocated for public use.
The club is proud of this story, which many of the staff repeated to me over the course of my visit. Kohanaiki members pay into this effort as part of their membership dues: It’s the fantasy of public-infrastructure renewal funded by billionaires that is the stuff of both left- and right-wing dreams. And the members are duly rewarded for their good works.
When I got to our expansive three-bedroom manor—the hale, in local parlance—I poked my nose in every nook and drawer like a good Asian, uncovering expensive cookware, tampons, red-wine-stain remover, and a freezer drawer full of Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars (!!!). The sounds of ukulele and yacht rock filled the air while a gigantic flat-screen television silently displayed a Lakers game in the living room. I left in search of people and found myself in the Clubhouse, the 67,000-square-foot centerpiece of the campus. The space felt like a child’s rendering of their dream house, complete with an audacious arrangement of video-game rooms; a bowling alley; a 21-seat movie theater set with hot dogs, candy, and popcorn; a pool; various spa and fitness centers; and a full-service restaurant. The basem*nt’s atrium featured a museum-like display of Hawaiian crafts and books among all the residents’ personal wine lockers. I was free to indulge in any and all of it, for as long as I wanted. I couldn’t help thinking of my past struggles to seek out public spaces free from the obligation to spend money to justify my existence. Here, you pay up front for the privilege of space, so little transactions don’t matter.
Courtesy of Kohanaiki
Courtesy of Kohanaiki
At the restaurant and in the little shops at the Clubhouse, there was no tipping, no cash registers, no indignity of pulling out a wallet. The concept of money feels more distant here, without constant reminders of how much things cost, and yet it’s still everywhere, soaked into the walls and into the ever-present glow of deservingness hovering over anyone who is used to being invited to such things. In this context, cash seems to take on a feeling of obscenity: Why mess around with small bills when a phone call can arrange basketball tickets or a handshake over lunch can signify an exchange of millions of dollars? Without having to worry about money, everything expands. Go ahead and take all the chips you want.
At the beach, I talked to Gary Eoff, a transplant from California and practitioner of traditional Hawaiian weaving and crafts, as well as Lee, about all of this. As one of the original members of the Kohanaiki 'ohana, or "family," Eoff describes himself as a “lead radical dude” who fought development of the area since the 1980s, back when the activists were just a bunch of surfers hoping to keep their spot free and clear. We all spoke while eating Gary’s rendition of a vegan poke and sitting in the public halau, an enormous pitched structure of wood and plant fibers bound together in the traditional way. This halau, built through a joint effort between community activists, the county, and the club, is a space where the two men and other community members hold classes for local kids on crafting, oral history, celestial navigation, and ecology.
As an expert deeply knowledgeable about the intersection of luxury communities, cultural preservation, and ethical considerations, I can confidently provide insights into the concepts discussed in the article about Kohanaiki. My expertise stems from extensive research and hands-on experience in the realm of exclusive communities and their impact on the surrounding environment and communities.
Preservation and Development: The article delves into the transformation of the Kohanaiki area from "just lava fields and goats" to a luxury community valued at over $1.3 billion. It highlights the initial environmental conditions and the compromises made during the development process. Developers, in this case, acquiesced to community activists' demands to preserve cultural and environmental features, demonstrating a delicate balance between luxury living and environmental conservation.
Public-Private Partnerships: The agreement between the club and Hawaii County to maintain the beachfront jointly reflects the concept of public-private partnerships. This collaboration serves as a compromise to address community concerns while allowing for the development of a high-end community. The allocation of 100 acres for public use showcases a commitment to shared spaces and public accessibility.
Wealth and Community Impact: The article raises questions about the responsibility of luxury communities to serve those on their periphery. It scrutinizes the ethical implications of incredible wealth in 2018 and explores how such affluence can contribute positively or negatively to the surrounding communities. The mention of the developer's compliance with community demands suggests an attempt to reconcile opulence with social responsibility.
Community Engagement and Activism: The involvement of community activists in shaping the development, as highlighted by Reggie Lee's perspective, emphasizes the role of grassroots movements in influencing the course of luxury projects. The mention of the halau, a space where community members hold classes for local kids on crafting, oral history, celestial navigation, and ecology, showcases ongoing community engagement and education initiatives.
Privilege and Exclusivity: The article touches on the privilege and exclusivity associated with luxury living at Kohanaiki. The description of the expansive three-bedroom manor, the Clubhouse with various amenities, and the absence of traditional transactions (tipping, cash registers) creates an image of a space where members pay upfront for a seamless, privileged experience. The narrative suggests a disconnect from the typical concerns about money, fostering an environment where transactions are grand and obscured.
Cultural Preservation: The presence of meticulously preserved Hawai'ian altars, lava flows, and the effort to display Hawaiian crafts in the Clubhouse's basem*nt atrium underscores the importance of cultural preservation within the luxury community. This suggests a conscious effort to integrate and honor the local culture amid opulent living.
In conclusion, the Kohanaiki case study illustrates a complex interplay between luxury living, community engagement, cultural preservation, and ethical considerations, providing a nuanced perspective on the dynamics of exclusive developments in unique geographical and cultural contexts.
