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Contested Land Development in Hawai‘i: Regime
Change in a Tourism Economy
By Jennifer Rene Darrah
AB, Harvard College, 2001
MA, Brown University, 2005
Submitted in partial fulfillment of the
requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy
in the Department of Sociology at Brown University
Providence, Rhode Island
May 2010
© Copyright 2010 by Jennifer Darrah
This dissertation by Jennifer Darrah is accepted in its present form
by the Department of Sociology as satisfying the
dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy
Date:
John R. Logan, Advisor
Recommended to the Graduate Council
Date:
Patrick Heller, Committee Member
Date:
Gianpaolo Baiocchi, Committee Member
Date:
Susan Fainstein, Committee Member
Approved by the Graduate Council
Date:
Sheila Bonde, Dean of the Graduate School
iii
JENNIFER DARRAH
[email protected]
Brown University
Department of Sociology
Providence, RI 02912
EDUCATION
________________________________________________________
Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island
Ph. D. in Sociology (expected May 2010).
Dissertation: “Contested Land Development in Hawai‘i: Regime Change in a
Tourism Economy.”
Committee: John R. Logan (Chair); Patrick Heller; Gianpaolo Baiocchi; Susan
Fainstein (Harvard University)
Comprehensive Exam Areas: Urban Sociology and Race Relations; Political
Sociology: Theories of the State and Civil Society; Comparative-Historical
Methods
M. A. in Sociology (2005).
Thesis: “Brazil’s Response to AIDS: Embedded State, Hybrid Institutional
Spaces, and Social Movement Autonomy”
Committee: Patrick Heller (Chair); Phil Brown
Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts
A. B. magna cum laude, Social Studies (2001)
RESEARCH AND TEACHING INTERESTS________________________________________
Urban Sociology
Political Sociology
International Migration
Social Movements
Race and Ethnic Relations
GIS and Spatial Analysis
Comparative-Historical Methods
Sociological Theory
PUBLICATIONS___________________________________________________________
John R. Logan, Sookhee Oh and Jennifer Darrah. 2009. “The Political Impact of the
New Hispanic Second Generation.” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies. 35:7; pp.
1201-1223.
Madeleine Scammell, Laura Senier, Jennifer Darrah, Phil Brown and Susan Santos.
2009. “Tangible Evidence, Trust and Power: Public Perceptions of Community
Environmental Health Studies.” Social Science and Medicine. 68: 1; pp. 143-153.
iv
Manuscripts Under Review:
John R. Logan, Jennifer Darrah and Sookhee Oh. “Collective Influences on the
Participation of Immigrants and Minorities in American Electoral Politics.” Revise and
Resubmit.
John R. Logan, Sookhee Oh and Jennifer Darrah. “The Political and Community
Context of Immigrant Naturalization.” Revise and Resubmit.
Other Papers:
John R. Logan and Jennifer Darrah. Report of the American Communities Project.
2008. “The Repressive Effects of Voter ID requirements on Naturalization and
Participation.” Released for public distribution at (http://www.s4.brown.edu/voterid/)
Jennifer Darrah. “Book Review: Gregory D. Squires and Charis E. Kubrin. 2006.
Privileged Places: Race, Residence, and the Structure of Opportunity.” International
Journal of Urban and Regional Research Vol 32.1. March 2008.
RESEARCH EXPERIENCE
____________
Research Assistant, Professor John R. Logan, Department of Sociology, Brown
University
Ethnic Consciousness and Immigrant Political Incorporation (2005-2009)
Historical Mapping (1880; 1940-1990 Census Data Mapping Projects) (20072009)
TEACHING EXPERIENCE____ _______________________________________________
Lecturer, Program in Social Studies, Harvard University
“Race, Place and Identity in the American City” Seminar (Spring 2010)
Thesis Writing Seminar for senior honors thesis writers (2009-2010)
Instructor, Spatial Structures in the Social Sciences GIS Training Institute
Led segment on georeferencing (June 2008)
Lecturer, Rhode Island School of Design, Providence, Rhode Island
“Urban Sociology: Adversity and Opportunity in the Metropolis” (Spring 2007)
Teaching Assistant, Department of Sociology, Brown University
“Globalization and Social Conflict” with Professor Patrick Heller (Spring 2005)
v
Teaching Assistant, Department of Sociology, Brown University
“Introduction to Sociological Theory” with Professor James Mahoney (Fall 2004)
________________________________
PROFESSIONAL PRESENTATIONS_
Jennifer Darrah. “Land-Use Regulation and Public Participation: Do Hawai‘i’s LandUse Laws Democratize Urban Development?” Eastern Sociological Society Annual
Meeting (March 2010).
Jennifer Darrah, John R. Logan, and Hongwei Xu. “Probing the Links Between Latino
Political Presence and Latino Identity.” National Conference on Latino Politics, Policy,
and Power. Brown University (October 2009).
Jennifer Darrah. “Tourism Urbanization: A case study of the proposed Lā‘au
development project, Moloka‘i, Hawai‘i.” Hawai‘i Sociological Association Annual
Meeting (February 2009).
Jennifer Darrah. “Comparative Explanations of Urban Development Regime Change in
Hawai‘i.” American Sociological Association Annual Meeting (August 2008).
Jennifer Darrah. “Democracy, Diversity, and Land-Development in Hawai‘i: A
Research Agenda.” University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, Department of Sociology, invited
colloquium speaker (April 2008).
Jennifer Darrah, Sookhee Oh, and John R. Logan. “Political Incorporation across
Space and Generation among Hispanic and Asian Immigrants.” Eastern Sociological
Society Annual Meeting (March 2008).
John R. Logan, Sookhee Oh and Jennifer Darrah. “Individual and Community Effects
on Immigrant Naturalization”. Poster presented at the Annual Conference of the
Population Association of America (2007).
John R. Logan, Jennifer Darrah and Sookhee Oh. “Immigrant Participation in Electoral
Politics.” Eastern Sociological Society Conference (March 2006).
Madeleine Scammell, Laura Senier, and Jennifer Darrah. “Tangible Evidence:
Competing Perceptions of Environmental Health Studies.” Paper presented at the
American Sociological Association Annual Meeting (August 2006).
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Jennifer Darrah. “Brazil’s Response to AIDS: Enveloped Society, Embedded State,
Mobilized Civil Sphere.” American Sociological Association Annual Meeting (August
2005).
HONORS AND FELLOWSHIPS__________________________________________ _____
National Science Foundation Dissertation Improvement Grant (2009-2010)
Brown University Dissertation Fellowship, Graduate School (2008-2009)
S4 Fellow, Spatial Structures in the Social Sciences, Brown University (2006-2008)
Feinberg Memorial Grant, Brown University Sociology Department and Graduate
School, to support qualitative methods training (Consortium for Qualitative Research
Methods) training at Arizona State University (2006)
Tinker Foundation Fellowship for M.A. research in Brazil (2005)
East-West Center Research Award, to support summer research assistantship (2005)
University Fellowship, Brown University Graduate School, to support full time
coursework (2004)
PROFESSIONAL MEMBERSHIPS AND ACTIVITIES________________________________
Journal Reviewer: Urban Studies
American Sociological Association (2003-present); Community and Urban Sociology
Section Membership Committee (2009-present)
Eastern Sociological Society, member and meeting presider/discussant (2006-present)
Participant/Discussant, Migrant Incorporation Workshop, Harvard University
Participant, Colloquium on Comparative Research, Seminar Series, Brown University
Participant/Discussant, Center for Latin American Studies Roundtable Series, Brown
University
CAMPUS AND DEPARTMENTAL SERVICE_______________________________________
Liaison to Faculty Search Committee in International Development, Brown University
(2006)
Departmental Liaison, Sheridan Center for Teaching, Brown University (2004-2006)
Co-organizer, discussion on Public Sociology, Brown University (2005)
Graduate Council Representative for Sociology Department, Brown University (20032004)
vii
Acknowledgements I am very grateful for the time, counsel, research advice, and intellectual guidance
offered by all of my dissertation committee members: John Logan, Patrick Heller, Susan
Fainstein, and Gianpaolo Baiocchi. Many thanks to dissertation committee chair John
Logan for always providing wise and gentle, but always honest and persistent, guidance.
Through the last few years he has been a model for me of both professional and personal
excellence. From day one at Brown, Patrick Heller provided valued inspiration and
guidance. I am very grateful for his dedicated mentorship for all of these years.
I have also been lucky to have recently gained the opportunity to work with Susan
Fainstein and Gianpaolo Baiocchi. Susan was particularly generous with her time,
advice, and suggestions. During the early stages of this thesis, she offered valuable
suggestions and made me feel confident that other scholars could potentially care about
the small state of Hawai‘i. Thanks to Gianpaolo for helpful suggestions and
encouragement throughout the process.
This dissertation was supported by a Brown University Graduate School
Dissertation Fellowship and a National Science Foundation Dissertation Improvement
Grant (with PI John R. Logan).
I am deeply grateful to all those I interviewed, whose names I cannot reveal, who
graciously shared their time and insights during interviews. Interview respondents
inspired me over and over again with their commitment to communities of Hawai‘i and a
common determination to forge a positive future. Many shared more openly and in a
more heartfelt way than I expected. Mahalo for trusting me and for sharing your visions.
Colleagues and friends in Hawai‘i, including scholars and local experts on land
and planning, provided much appreciated assistance. Lee Sichter guided this project
from beginning to end and shared his deep expertise on land use in Hawaii; I am very
grateful for his invaluable suggestions and many forms of kōkua and personal
encouragement. University of Hawai‘i professors David Callies, Davianna McGregor,
Kem Lowry, Bill Wood, Jon Okamura, Makena Coffman, Luciano Minerbi, and Jon
Matsuoka kindly shared their perspectives and generously offered their advice. Special
thanks also to David Callies for opening doors at Hōkūli‘a. Gavan Daws and George
Cooper served as a sounding board and their book provided the original inspiration for
this project.
Key individuals hosted me and offered generous assistance in field research sites.
John De Fries, CEO of Hōkūli‘a, along with this culture team, hosted several visits to the
viii
Hōkūli‘a project site. I appreciate the help from the Kona Historical Society, and
especially from “Pixi.” Thanks also to Hawai‘i County Planning Department staff, and
Hawai‘i Island State Historic Preservation Division Staff, especially Analu Josephides.
My godparents Mark and Rae Therrien also graciously made several Big Island visits
possible by opening their home.
At HCDA, director Anthony Ching, Deepak Neupane and staff kindly provided
access to documents and answered many questions.
Saucy and Goat Dudoit and family on Moloka‘i and the Hunt/Austin ‘Ohana
graciously hosted me at Kapualei Ranch, providing wonderful introductions and
invaluable insight about the Moloka‘i community. I sincerely appreciate Noelani Lee
Yamashita and Malia Akutagawa for sharing much aloha and opening doors on Moloka‘i.
Mahalo to Josh Pastrana, Harmonee Williams, and the Akakū staff for allowing me to
spend time in their office and view the fruits of their labor.
Many friends from Hawai‘i provided introductions and were sources of helpful
information. A warm mahalo to Fran Gendrano and Shannon Ball, Jen Chow, Wei Fang,
Josh Stanbro, Corey Johnson, Ka‘eo Duarte, Leina‘ala Ley, Meli and Mark James, Mike,
Lisa and Melissa Gibson, Kina Mahi, Sam Chillingworth, Chris Kalima, and Ka‘imi
Judd. Thanks especially to Leina for sharing a passion for Hawai‘i land politics since we
were teenagers.
Colleagues from Brown University and beyond and fellow dissertation writers
have helped make this a rich and enjoyable learning experience. Thanks to Laura Senier,
Esther Hernandez-Medina, Oslec Villegas, Daniel Schensul, and Rebecca Altman and the
other members of the wonderful sociological community at Brown. Also, I appreciated
writing companionship from Regine Joseph and Chiwen Bao, and the feedback and
support of the wonderful dissertation writers group composed of Soohan Kim, Alison
Denton Jones, Jundai Liu, Hsinchao Wu, and Sabrina Pendergrass. Thanks also to
Kirstin Butler for crucial support at the end of the process. Regine especially supported
the dissertation process in many big and small ways (and best of all made me laugh the
whole way through!). I appreciate transcription assistance from Veronica Lowe, Milan
Satcher, and Alyse Ruiz. Amanda Katz from the Brown Writing Center was a wonderful
source of guidance.
My parents supported this project in innumerable big and small ways. I
particularly appreciated the stimulating conversations and all of the special forms of care
they provided, each in their own way (scanning documents, driving to the inter-island
airport at 5:00am, debating about “corruption” in local politics, helping me prepare
ix
ho‘okupu for neighbor island hosts, commenting on papers, and much more). It was so
much fun sharing the research process with all of them. Finally, I am deeply grateful to
my husband Kanu Okike for supporting me, this project, and my broader growth and
ambitions in more ways than I can begin to describe.
x
Table of Contents List of Tables and Figures............................................................................................................. xii
Glossary………………………………………………………………………………………….xiv
List of Acronyms and Definitions……………………………………………………………...xviii
Chapter 1. Introduction: The Contradictions of Diversifying and Democratizing Land
Development in Hawai‘i ............................................................................................................... ..1
Chapter 2. Theoretical Frameworks and Central Concepts .......................................................... 37
Chapter 3. Research Methods and Data ........................................................................................ 69
Chapter 4. The Context of Land-Development: Hawai‘i’s Evolving Regimes and Institutions..90
Chapter 5.The West Beach Project: Land Development on the Edge of the Tourism-Growth
Regime…………………………………………………………………………………………..152
Chapter 6. Democracy in Action?: The Defeat of the Proposed Development at Lā‘au Point...199
Chapter 7. Entangled in an Unraveling Regime: The Stalemate at Hōkūli‘a…………………..255
Chapter 8. Conclusion: Overview of Findings and Implications…………………………........321
References……………………………………………………………………………………….350
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List of Tables and Figures Figure 1.1 State of Hawai‘i Counties, Major Islands, and Research Sites ...……………………...7
Figure 1.2 Income from Major Industries, 1974-2008…………………………..……………….15
Table 1.1 Share of "Vacant for seasonal, recreational, or occasional use" housing units out of total
housing units in State of Hawai‘i and Counties (and divisions of Hawai‘i County), 1990 and
2000……………………………………………………………………………………………….16
Figure 1.3 Population of Hawai‘i 1778-2008...…………………………………………………..19
Figure 1.4 Population Share of Hawai‘i’s Five Major Ethnic Groups, 1778-1990………………21
Table 1.2 State of Hawai‘i Major Ethnic Groups and Foreign-Born Population, 2000...………..22
Table 3.1 Research Sites and Key Characteristics……………...………………………………...75
Table 3.2 Interview Respondents for Each Case……………………………………………...….79
Figure 4.1 State Land Use Districts 1964 and 2005.………………………...…………….........111
Figure 4.2 Overlapping Jurisdictions: Schematic of Land Use Districts and Management Areas
with Relevant State, County, and Federal Authorities……………………………………...…...132
Table 4.1 Overview of Land Use Regulatory Field…………………………………...………...146
Figure 5.1 Island of O‘ahu (City and County of Honolulu) Census Designated Places and Other
Sites of Interest……….…………………………………………………………………………157
Figure 5.2 Sketch of Proposed West Beach Development (as of 1985)……………...………....160
Table 5.1 Timeline of Approvals Granted to West Beach Development Project……...………..181
Figure 5.3 Parody of Restrictions on Public Use of Ocean and Coastal Resources at Ko Olina
Resort……...…………………………………………………………………………………….191
Figure 6.1 Island of Moloka‘i Census Designated Places and Other Sites of Interest………….202
Figure 6.2 Moloka‘i Ranch Property and other Sites of Interest……...………………………...204
Table 6.1 Timeline of Proposed Development at Lā‘au Point and Master Land Use Plan...…...218
xii
Table 6.2 Goals of the Community-Based Master Land Use Plan for Moloka‘i Ranch and
Proposed Uses for ~65,000 Acres of Privately Owned Ranch Lands…..………………………222
Figure 6.3 Proposed Land Uses in Community-Based Master Land Use Plan…………...…….223
Figure 7.1 Island of Hawai‘i (County of Hawai‘i) Census Designated Places and Other Sites of
Interest………………………………………………………………………………………...…262
Figure 7.2 Basic Timeline of 1250 Oceanside Partners “Hōkūli‘a” Development Project……..270
Table 7.1 List of Permits and Entitlements Secured by 1250 Oceanside Partners from 1993-2003
(and Other Key Events)……..…………………………………………………………………..273
Table 7.2 Oceanside Partners’ Investments and Sales from Project inception until May 2004...304
Table 8.1 Cultural Forms and their Causal Impacts in each Case Study………………...……...346
xiii
Glossary All words below are from the Hawaiian Language, or ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i, unless otherwise noted.
Where words have multiple meanings, I have included the meanings relevant to their use in the
text of this dissertation.
Note on usage: The glottal stop, or ‘okina is denoted as ‘. It is treated like a consonant. Vowels
marked with a macron or kakahō are somewhat longer than other vowels and always stressed.
Note on pronunciation:
Vowels (unstressed) a like a in above; e like e in bet; i like y in city; o like o in sole; u like oo in
moon.
Consonants similar to English use
ahupua‘a
Land division usually extending from the uplands to the sea
‘āina
Land, earth
‘āina momona, Fat, fertile or rich land (of Moloka‘i); A phrase used to describe the island of
Moloka‘i
Moloka‘i
akua
God, goddess, spirit, ghost, devil, image, idol, corpse; divine, supernatural, godly
aloha ‘āina
Love of the land or of one’s country, patriotism; “aloha ‘āina is a very old
concept, to judge from the many sayings (perhaps thousands) illustrating deep
love of the land”
‘anae
Full-sized ‘ama ‘ama mullet fish
‘eha
Hurt, in pain, painful, aching, sore, pained; pain, injury, ailment, suffering,
soreness, aching
ēkoa
A common roadside shrub or small tree, from tropical America, with long
pinnate leaves, round white flower heads, and long, flat, brown pods. Also
known as koa haole or false koa.
Ewa
Place name west of Honolulu, used as a direction term
Great Mahele “Great Land Division” occurred in 1848 when communal and government
Hawaiian Kingdom lands were divided up and distributed to owners, created
western-style land tenure
hālau
Long house, as for canoes or hula instruction; meeting house
Hāloa
Son of Wākea, mythical ancestor of all Hawaiians; also poetic name for taro
(older brother of humankind)
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haole
White person, American, Englishman, Caucasian; formerly, any foreigner
heiau
Pre-Christian place of worship, shrine; some heiau were elaborately constructed
stone platforms, others simple earth terraces
honi
To kiss; a kiss
honu
General name for turtle and tortoise
hula
Hawaiian dance
iwi
Bone; The Bones of the dead, considered the most cherished possession, were
hidden, and hence there are many figurative expressions with iwi meaning life,
old age
kahuna
Priest, sorcerer, magician, wizard, minister, expert in any profession
kalo
Taro, a kind of aroid cultivated since ancient times for food. . . In Hawai‘i, taro
has been the staple from earliest times to the present, and [in Hawai‘i] its culture
developed greatly, including more than 300 forms (in Hawai‘i, it is also often
grown in wet or bog-like areas).
kama‘āina
Native-born, one born in a place, host; (also, used commonly referred to Nativeborn Caucasians descended from Caucasian residents of Hawai‘i from the early
days of Western contact (e.g. the descendants of Missionaries or
Americans/Europeans who settled in the islands in the 1800s).
kanaka maoli Literally, kanaka means person or human being. Maoli means native,
Indigenous, genuine, true. Kanaka maoli refers to Hawaiian native (Native
Hawaiian)
kaumaha
Heavy; weight, heaviness. Figurative: sad, wretched, dismal, dreary, downcast,
troubled, depressed, grief
keiki
Child, offspring, descendant, progeny
kīpuka
Variation or change of form (puka, hole), as a calm place in a high sea, . .
.especially a clear place or oasis within a lava bed where there may be vegetation.
“Cultural kīpuka” (McGregor 2008) uses the metaphor to refer to places where
Hawaiian culture and practices continue to thrive
koa
1) Soldier, warrior, fighter; military, hero, martial; 2) The largest of native forest
trees (endemic). . . a valuable lumber tree, formerly used for canoes, surfboards,
calabashes, now for furniture and ukuleles
ko‘a
Shrine, often consisting of circular piles of coral or stone, built along the shore or
by ponds or streams, used in ceremonies as to make fish multiply.
xv
kōkua
Help, aid, assistance, relief, assistant, associate, helper. Kōkua refers to a social
movement of Hawai‘i of the 1970s that protested rampant urban development
kūkae
Excreta, dung, feces; manure
kuleana
Right, privilege, concern, responsibility, . . . ; small piece of property within an
ahupua‘a
kumi
(Japanese Language) cooperative, mutual-aid, or neighborhood groups or
associations of ethnic Japanese. Kumi exist in rural Japan, and also formed in
Kona, Hawai‘i beginning in the late 1800s, and early 1900s, and persisting to
today
kupuna
Grandparent, ancestor, relative or close friend of the grandparent’s generation
lānai
Porch, veranda, balcony
laua‘e
A fragrant fern (indigenous to Hawai‘i)
lei
Lei, garland, wreath, necklace of flowers
limu
A general name for all kinds of plants living under water, both fresh and salt, also
algae growing in any damp place in the air, as on the ground, on rocks, and on
other plants
luna
Foreman, boss, leader, overseer, supervisor, headman
makahiki
An ancient festival beginning about the middle of October and lasting about four
months, with sports and religious festivities and taboo on war
makai
On the seaside, toward the sea, in the direction of the sea
makua
Parent, any relative of the parents’ generation, as uncle, aunt, cousin. (mākua is
plural)
mana
Supernatural or divine power, mana, miraculous power
mauka
Inland, upland, towards the mountain
momona
Fat, fertile, rich, as soil; fruitful
mo‘opuna
Grandchild; great-niece or –nephew; relatives two generations later, whether
blood or adopted; descendant; posterity
xvi
nisei
(Japanese Language) Refers to children of Japanese immigrants, second
generation (used in the Americas, Australia, and other immigrant-receiving
countries)
‘ohana
Family, relative, kin group
‘ōkole
Buttocks
‘ōpio
Youth, juvenile
palaka
A checkered shirt, usually blue and white, of block-print cloth; in the 19th century
a coarse work shirt worn by males (a symbolic reference to plantation workers or
working-class residents of Hawai‘i)
pono
Goodness, uprightness, morality, moral qualities, correct or proper procedure,
excellence, well-being. . . proper, righteous, right, upright, just, virtuous, fair…in
perfect order
wahi pana
Celebrated, noted or legendary place
wahi kapu
Sacred, holy, forbidden place
Source: Definitions directly quoted from, Pukui, Mary Kawena and Samuel H. Elbert. 1986
(Original 1957). Hawaiian Dictionary. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai‘i Press.
xvii
List of Acronyms and Definitions AIS
Archaeological Inventory Survey. A survey that is a condition of land use
approvals. The purpose is to identify all historic sites on a development project;
interpret the nature of the sites; assess their significance, and provide mitigation
measures.
CC&Rs
Covenants, Conditions and Restrictions. Govern homeowner associations or
developments. An extensive list of CC&R’s was proposed to govern the
proposed residential development at Lā‘au Point.
DBA
District Boundary Amendment. Can be conferred by the State Land Use
Commission as a result of semi-judicial process. Shifts lands from one state land
use district to another, i.e. amends existing state district boundaries.
DHHL
Department of Hawaiian Homelands. A department of the State of Hawai‘i
that administers Hawaiian Homelands. Hawaiian Homelands are part of a land
trust created in 1921 with the Hawaiian Homes Commission Act, which set aside
200,000 acres of land to help “rehabilitate” Native Hawaiians and provide them
opportunities for housing and “homesteading” (e.g. farming, or subsistence
activities). Native Hawaiians of blood quantum 50% are eligible to live in
Homestead lands through virtually cost-free long term leases.
DLNR
Department of Land and Natural Resources.
EC
Enterprise Community. A designation by the U.S. Department of Agriculture.
The island of Moloka‘i was designated an EC in 1999 and would accordingly
receive funds for economic development for ten years.
EIS
Environmental Impact Statement. In the State of Hawai‘i, the Hawai‘i
Revised Statutes (Chapter 343) stipulate when EIS’s must occur—typically for
projects with major anticipated environmental impacts. Typically EIS’s must
accompany any petition to the State Land Use Commission for DBAs, or
applications to revise County General Plans or receive Special Management Area
Permits. EIS’s follow a formal process which allows for public comment and
review. If significant environmental impacts are expected (after a preliminary
Environmental Assessment), then a Draft EIS is prepared, on which state
agencies and members of the public may comment. Then a developer will
prepare and submit a Final EIS, which must address all of these comments. In
Hawai‘i, since 2000, EIS’s must explicitly address possible cultural and social
impacts.
xviii
KAL-MEC
Ke ‘Aupuni Lōkāhi, aka the Moloka‘i EC. Non-profit organization charged
with managing the Moloka‘i EC grant and associated projects.
(S)LUC
Hawai‘i State Land Use Commission. Charged with administering the State
Land Use law and adjudicating DBAs and other state land matters.
MPL
Moloka‘i Properties Limited, aka and dba, Moloka‘i Ranch.
OHA
Office of Hawaiian Affairs. A state agency (that holds significant autonomous
powers) established in 1978 to promote the betterment of Native Hawaiians and
administer resources from ceded lands trust (lands ceded to the State of Hawai‘i
at the time of statehood. Many lands were originally government or public lands
held by the Hawaiian Nation prior to annexation (see Van Dyke 2008).
PASH
Public Access Shoreline Hawai‘i v. Hawai‘i Planning Commission.
Landmark decision issued by the Hawai‘i Supreme Court in 1995 referred to in
shorthand as PASH.
SHPD
State Historic Preservation Division A division of the State Department of
Land and Natural Resources (DLNR) charged with enforcing cultural and
historical preservation law. Within SHPD there is an Archaeological Program
(that deals with non burial related historical artifacts) and a Burial Sites Program
(that manages burial protection law and coordinates with Island Burial Councils).
(In court documents, SHPD is sometimes referred to as DLNR/SHPD).
xix
Chapter 1 Introduction: The Contradictions of Diversifying and Democratizing Land Development in Hawai‘i The Prophecy of the kahuna [priest] at Pakui heiau [place of worship] in Ualapu‘e
foretold that the old system would collapse and after seven generations the people of the
land would rise like a wave to restore the pono [righteousness]. 1
Hā‘ule ka Lewa, Hā‘ule ka Lani, Hō‘ale ka lepo pōpolo. [The skies will come down, the
heavens fall, and the people, black and of the dirt, will rise up.] 2
We are living in those times now. We are the 7th generation. . .
Today, as we witness the waters of Moloka‘i churn and boil . . . an unsettledness that
seeks resolution. This signals a turning point for change and transformation.
(Akutagawa 2008)
By conventional standards, people on Moloka‘i—a rural island in the state of Hawai‘i—lack
worldly wealth. Their poverty rates are twice those of the state as a whole, and they rank near the
bottom in statewide per capita income and college degrees. The majority of the island’s
population is Native Hawaiian, and as with Native Hawaiians elsewhere, standard indicators
place many near the bottom of Hawai‘i’s socio-economic hierarchy (Okamura 1998 and 2008).
Yet Moloka‘i by other measures possesses largesse: a richness in its ‘āina momona, or fat and
fertile lands; bounty in its shared traditions; and wealth generated by daily greetings and leisurely
conversations that knit individuals into familiarity and solidarity. Outside the formal economy
1
See glossary for definitions of all Hawaiian words. Hawaiian proper names (place names and people
names) are not italicized nor given definitions. Record of this Prophecy, issued during the early 1800s in
the time of Queen Ka‘ahumanu’s reign, has been passed down on Moloka‘i through well-recognized
historian, genealogist, kumu hula [hula master], and cultural leader John Ka‘imikaua through knowledge
given to him by Kawahinekapuheleikapokale (Akutagawa 2008; Morgan 2007).
2
The metaphorical meaning of this is offered by Morgan: “A time will come when the ali‘i [chiefs] will
fall and be no more, but a time will come when the maka‘āinana [commoner] will rise up and be restored”
(2007). Pukui and Ebert define lepo pōpolo as a derogatory term for commoners.
1
2
traditional practices nourish people in multiple ways. For example, a 1994 study indicated that
families on Moloka‘i acquired on average 28% of their food from subsistence fishing, hunting,
gathering, and cultivation—and for Native Hawaiian families this number was as high as 38%
(Matsuoka et al 1994). Such activities draw from and support “traditional Hawaiian cultural
values, customs and practices;” they encourage health, social solidarity (through sharing amongst
families and neighbors), and a relationship of reciprocity with land (McGregor 2007: 246).
If capitalism inexorably stretches across the globe, seeking always for new terrains to
master and carve into markets (Marx 1977), then Moloka‘i should look different by now. Its
quiet streets without streetlights, its empty stretches of white sand, and its green valleys which arc
uninterrupted from mountain peak to sea coast are improbable holdouts amidst an island state
fixated upon by the global tourist imagination. Visitors and investors from all over the world,
joined with local entrepreneurs, have turned much of the state into a destination for leisure, play,
and consumption. But Moloka‘i—along with other “cultural kīpuka,” or holdouts—has resisted
(McGregor 2007).
The latest tussle over land pitted the people of Moloka‘i against a multi-billion-dollar
Hong Kong–based global conglomerate, which owns approximately 40% of the island’s
landmass. Guoco Leisure, operating in Hawai‘i through its subsidiary Moloka‘i Properties
Limited (MPL) or Moloka‘i Ranch, aimed to create a luxury residential sojourn for the global
ultra-rich on an uninhabited corner of Moloka‘i’s southwest coast. For over three years, MPL
negotiated with local residents and offered many gifts, including portions of their land and
resources for environmental stewardship, affordable housing, and other community “give backs.”
Hawai‘i’s governor, Linda Lingle, and the powerful U.S. Senator Daniel Inouye supported the
project. Nevertheless, a vocal group of charismatic, predominantly Native Hawaiian activists and
3
youths—the wave of a new generation rising—defeated the planned luxury development by
influencing the powerful Hawai‘i State Land Use Commission.
This seemed an improbable victory, and yet I noticed similar storylines throughout the
state—situations in which seemingly humble communities had taken on deep-pocketed land
developers, with their powerful political allies, and triumphed. For example, in Kaka‘ako, a slice
of coastal land between downtown Honolulu and Waikiki, a multi-generational and multi-racial
cabal of surfers, 3rd generation “local Asian” small-business owners, environmentalists, and
downtown residents banded together in the name of “People Power” to kill a luxury high-rise
project along the coastline, by prodding the state legislature into action. In South Kona, on the
western coast of the “Big Island” or the island of Hawai‘i, a 642-acre proposed golf course and
luxury residential enclave called Hōkūli‘a, in another rural, relatively poor, and largely Native
Hawaiian region also generated controversy and potent opposition. At Hōkūli‘a, an
internationally renowned developer of golf-course communities, in this case backed by Japan
Airlines and other international banks, was stopped in his tracks by a historic Hawai‘i Supreme
Court ruling in favor of plaintiffs fighting the development in the name of environmental
conservation, cultural and historic preservation, and the perpetuation of agriculture. In the wake
of this lawsuit and related projects, developers of the project radically reformulated their master
plan and construction practices.
I became increasingly curious about how these communities had seemingly trounced
their outsized opponents, even amidst the gaping financial disparities distinctive of a tourism
destination (Mullins 1994; 2003). These outcomes were also striking because urban theory
highlights the vulnerability and limited autonomy of such local communities, decidedly lacking in
economic resources compared to their well-financed opposition (Castells 1983; Feagin 1983,
4
1988 and 1998; Gottdiener 1985; Gottdiener and Feagin 1988; Harvey 1973; Lefebvre 1991;
Logan and Molotch 1987). As on Moloka‘i, did the communities of South Kona and Kaka‘ako
also possess resources less recognizable through standard sociological lenses—as yet unidentified
“weapons of the weak” (Scott 1985)? What explained these apparent triumphs of local
“community power” and were these events sporadic or indicative of broader trends and patterns?
Through what strategies and mechanisms had local communities defeated or re-shaped these
controversial tourism development projects? And were these really the triumphant democratic
moments they appeared to be, or rather were these only superficial community wins with hidden
negative consequences and unseen victims?
These queries resonate with classic questions of urban sociology and urban politics,
scholarship that has sought to uncover how and under what conditions vulnerable communities
influence the fate of their built and natural environments and neighborhoods (Castells 1983;
Clavel 1986; Fainstein and Hirst 1995; Harvey 1973; Mitchell 2003). Such questions stem from a
central concern regarding power and how it works to shape land, create places, and influence
urban development. At heart, they are questions about the possibility of inclusive, just and
democratic urban development. The goal of this dissertation was to investigate such questions in
the state of Hawai‘i, a place I consider to be an instructive experiment in the democratization of
land development.
Characterizing Development in Hawai‘i: A Wave of Democratization? One salient feature of these controversial development projects jumped out right away: the
labyrinthine land-use laws regulating each development site, limiting the landowners’ property
5
rights, and constraining the developers’ rights to build. This attracted me to Hawai‘i as a research
site in the first place—the fact that the state is the home of innovative policies and unique
political institutions linked to land use. These institutions have emerged and evolved over time
through political negotiation, class compromise, and social movement organizing by labor
groups, environmentalists, and politicized Native Hawaiians. Dense land regulations might be
expected in an island state where conflicts over land are central to politics. Also, scholars argue
that other tourism destinations are notable for high levels of regulations (Hoffman et al 2003: 7;
Mullins 2003).
What is theoretically intriguing about Hawai‘i’s land-use regulations is that they seem to
embody the normative core of theories of urban justice: the idea that social and community
rights, meanings, and uses of land should be prioritized (at least partially) over private property
rights and the commodification of land or place. However, unlike other well-studied locales with
experiments in progressive land-use policy (such as San Francisco, Southern California,
Vancouver, Portland, and Minneapolis), Hawai‘i has been almost completely ignored in the urban
studies literature. These case studies, therefore, provided a window into the consequences of
Hawai‘i’s distinctly evolved land-use regulations.
I came to believe that the case studies provided evidence of democratization of urban
development in the state as a whole—or the firmer anchoring of land in social or communal
rather that commercial meanings. These research sites indicated that an ever-widening and
diversifying circle of actors gained access to the power to shape land use. Broader historical
changes—shifting land regulatory frameworks and public perceptions of land development—
provided additional signals of democratization.
This research project was driven by the instinct that there is considerable room to better
conceptualize how non-elites and “local communities”—those without privileged sway over
6
government or business interests—can exert power over development. What does it look like to
expand and broaden public access to control over land development? How does the power to
develop operate in such locales? In short, how does the democratization of development occur?
To investigate these questions, I conducted in-depth case studies of four controversial
development sites on three different islands and in three different counties. These included three
sites touched on above: Lā‘au Point, on the island of Moloka‘i; the Hōkūli‘a Project, on the “Big
Island” or Island of Hawai‘i; and the oceanfront or makai area of Kaka‘ako near downtown
Honolulu on the island of O‘ahu. I also studied one additional site, the West Beach Project on the
western coast of O‘ahu, for analytical contrast. Like the other projects, West Beach was intended
to be a massive luxury resort on a relatively untouched coastal area, situated at the gateway of a
predominantly rural and working-class Native Hawaiian community. Yet unlike the other
projects, it appeared that West Beach had proceeded mostly according to plan. The combined
wealth, political might, and persuasive public relations of a major developer, a large landowner, a
rich Japanese construction company, and a host of local politicians apparently overcame most
cries of community protest. This thesis draws from all four case studies; however, I primarily
report findings about Lā‘au, Hōkūli‘a, and West Beach. The following map shows the location of
each of the research sites within the state of Hawai‘i.
7
Figure 1.1 State of Hawai‘i Counties, Major Islands, and Research Sites
Kauai
County
Honolulu County
West Beach Project
“Ko Olina”
Kaka’ako
Makai **
*
Honolulu
Maui County
La’au Point
Hawaii
County
*Agricultural Lands of
Importance to the State of Hawaii
State of Hawaii
Counties
and
Major Islands
Research Sites
Hokuli’a
Project
**Studied but not discussed at length in this thesis
Source: Modified map from the State of Hawai‘i Department of Business and Economic
Development and Tourism with the Office of Planning
Using interviews, public records, news and other historical accounts—data sources and a
research strategy discussed at length in Chapter 3—I aimed to reconstruct the processes of land
development with attention to community protest and efforts to influence development. I sought
to identify which social groups and which types of actors believed they had exerted influence, and
I looked for pivotal moments. Close investigation revealed that complex politics shaped the
outcomes at each location. At the same time my view of the outcomes at each site evolved.
While I still categorize the outcomes in the first three cases (Lā’au, Hōkūli‘a, and Kaka‘ako) as
8
instances of “successful” community influence over development, clearly many local residents or
public leaders did not view these outcomes and events as uniformly positive.
Key Terms and Research Questions I have mentioned several core theoretical concepts, including power over development,
democratization, community, and political institutions. In this section I offer a preliminary
overview of these key terms as well as the specific research questions driving this dissertation.
Core concepts and theoretical frameworks will be discussed at length in Chapter 2.
Key Terms First, urban development refers to, literally, what gets built or to major changes to land
use such as changes in zoning, infrastructure, or alterations of the built environment (Elkin 1987).
I use the terms urban development and land development interchangeably. In this study, all of the
projects (proposed and achieved) can be considered instances of tourism urbanization (Mullins
1991 and 1994) in that they were designed to support play, leisure, or high-end consumption by
visitors and affluent local residents.
I draw from urban regime theory to conceptualize processes of urban development.
Urban regime theory suggests that durable arrangements and systems of cooperation between
local governments and local businesses shape local governing agendas and the land development
processes so central to local politics (Stone 1989 and 1993). Regime theory assumes that
businesses and private interests have an important role in shaping development. However, the
theoretical perspective does not assume that the interests of private elites dominate local growth
agendas (Elkin 1987). Rather, regime theory highlights the durable and enduring connections
between public officials and business interests, as well as the political institutions (formal and
9
informal) which support such connections. The idea is that these connections create a “capacity
to govern” and systematically influence the treatment of land and growth.
Theory has shown just how persistent and durable regimes are, in the U.S. and beyond,
that emphasize the goal of “growth” or the ever-intensive development of land for profit. For
example, Clarence Stone, a progenitor of urban regime theory, focused analytical attention on a
resilient growth regime in Atlanta, which was oriented toward a particular form of “downtown
development” and suburban growth that served the interests of entrenched local economic elites
and their public partners (1989). Other scholars have noted just how prevalent the goal of
“growth” is in local and state governments within the U.S. Harvey Molotch, for example, coined
the idea of the growth machine to characterize the drive of local political and economic elites who
work together so often and effectively to drive the juggernaut of urban development (Jonas and
Wilson 1999; Logan and Molotch 1987; Logan et al 1997; Molotch 1976 and 1993). By contrast
this dissertation aims to shed light on processes and conditions that challenge the
commodification of land for profit or that undermine growth machine imperatives.
Accordingly, I conceptualize the power to develop or influence development in terms of
concrete ends: the ability to influence what does or does not get built, to shape specific spatial
forms, and to create specific forms of land use. Power in urban development is directed and
concrete and ultimately visible in the physical or spatial ends it produces (Elkin 1987). I
uncovered multiple currencies or “faces” (Lukes 2005) of power relevant to shaping the built
environment, or which undergird the power to develop. These involve manipulating privileged
forms of knowledge, influencing the thoughts and preferences of community actors and decision
makers, asserting strategic claims in privileged venues, or using the power of money to buy
support from publics and officials. Of course, as discussed above, the cooperative arrangements
between private interests and public officials also significantly undergird the power to develop.
10
Additionally, I conceptualized “community” in broad terms to include local residents and
non-elites concerned with “use-values” (Logan and Molotch 1987), as opposed to landowners,
“place entrepreneurs,” developers, or public officials hoping to generate profit or “exchange
value” from land. I define “elites” as landowners, real-estate developers, financial backers, and
those associated with the real-estate industry—in short, all actors pursuing commercial profit out
of land development. Elites may be “global” or “cosmopolitan” elites who operate
transnationally (such as developers and financiers with real-estate investments and financial
backing from throughout the world). Local elites include land owners or businesses and
companies that operate primarily within the state of Hawai‘i. I think of political elites as elected
or appointed officials and their key allies—important for urban development as key partners to
business or commercial land development interests (Elkin 1987; Fainstein and Fainstein 1983;
Stone 1989).
“Communities” defined in such broad terms necessarily contain much internal diversity.
For example, the communities I studied are economically and ethnically heterogeneous; even
within regions, solidarities and sensibilities vary by neighborhood, family, occupation group,
birthplace, and spiritual identity. It became clear that some factions felt sidestepped or even
trampled by the efforts of other community factions in the course of contestation over
development projects. Hawaiian conceptions of land particularly pointed beyond the classic
opposition between use and exchange values. For certain Native Hawaiians, land in general is
linked to cultural survival, and specific geographic sites can hold symbolic value or significance
that extends beyond direct usage. This kind of symbolic value may be a distinctive subset of use
values.
Community influence over development in these case studies took multiple forms and
pushed for multiple ends. In many ways, community efforts were oppositional: they rejected
11
land-use plans and aimed to halt projects. However, community action also involved much more
than negation; this included attempts to restructure the proposed development plans or to propose
alternative (non-residential or tourism oriented) land-use plans. For example, the fight to block
luxury housing at Lā‘au on Moloka‘i coupled with counter efforts to develop sustainable wind
energy projects. I pay special attention to the symbolic vocabulary employed by communities to
characterize specific places and their relationship to places, which I term “place narratives.”
These are the narratives or stories people tell about places that frame their relationship to place.
This builds on the literature from cultural sociology on narratives (e.g. Somers 1992) discussed in
the next chapter.
Finally, this thesis examines the role of institutions, broadly understood, which have
consequences for land development. I examine formal political institutions, such as legal
regulations and state agencies. According to urban regime theory, such institutions often
motivate specific forms of cooperation between public officials and private business interests
(this is because businesses need the cooperation of local public officials who, in the U.S., often
have direct authority over local land regulations). I also examine institutions in a more informal
(though highly structured) sense as cultural scripts or frameworks, borrowing from the literature
on “new institutionalism,” as will also be discussed more in the following chapter.
Research Questions These are the major research questions of this dissertation:
•
What role do institutions, including regulations and cultural frameworks, play in shaping
the politics of land development or structuring power to influence land use and
development?
12
•
Under what conditions do communities become empowered or disempowered to
influence land development? What forms of protest, public input, or strategies and
mechanisms do publics or communities employ to influence development? Under what
conditions do land-use regulations and political institutions help or hinder community
efforts to exert influence over urban development?
•
How and on what terms is development contested in Hawai‘i and with what
consequences? What kind of cultural claims do communities assert to try to shape land
development and with what consequences? How and under what conditions do noneconomic currencies, such as cultural frameworks and community organizing, become a
source of influence or leverage over urban development?
A Brief Profile of the State of Hawai‘i Before offering a preview of my findings, this section gives a brief introduction to the case of
Hawai‘i and provides a few orienting facts. I provide additional discussion of key historical
events later in Chapter 4. Many of the events touched on below involved great political turmoil,
and their causes and consequences are hotly debated. Furthermore, historical moments I mention
are often seen through the lens of colonialism: as domination and dispossession of a native people
from their land, heritage, and traditional rights (Blaisdell and Mokuau 1994; Kame‘eleihiwa
1992; Kauanui 2008; Osorio 2002; Silva 2004; Trask 1994a and 1994b). In the case study
chapters, I provide basic demographic information for each of the specific islands and districts
studied. In this section I conclude with basic population and economic indicators of the state as a
whole.
13
A (Very) Brief History of Hawai‘i Land has been at the center of Hawaiian politics and society for centuries. Cooper and
Daws famously noted the following “permanent truth about politics in Hawai‘i:” “There never
has been a ruling class or governing group that has not drawn its strength and sought its
continuing advantage from land” (1990: 14). In Hawai‘i, with land as the most important
resource and the center of economy, the power to shape land has big implications.
Ancient Polynesians are thought to have first inhabited the Hawaiian Islands in
approximately 500 AD. Ancient Hawaiians developed complex agricultural systems in a feudalstyle system, in which high chiefs or ali’i ruled over those of other social strata, who cultivated
lands. Each island had its own political system and independent rulers until King Kamehameha
(of the island of Hawai‘i) politically united the islands in 1810. Henceforth, the islands became
collectively known as Hawai‘i.
In 1778, British captain James Cook became the first European to land in Hawai‘i,
introducing it into the occidental imagination. With this contact came conflict, devastating spread
of disease, and clashes in worldview—turmoil that characterized American and European
settlement and colonization throughout the world. Europeans and Americans initiated commerce
in Hawai‘i and traded in sandalwood and whale oil. By the mid-1800s, American and European
businessmen established what would become a thriving sugar plantation economy. Waves of
American Christian missionaries arrived as well, making powerful marks on Hawaiian society
and beliefs. Caucasians thus gained political, economic, and cultural influence. Meanwhile, in
1840, the nation of Hawai‘i adopted a constitutional monarchy. In 1848, Hawai‘i was radically
transformed by the creation of private property in the Great Māhele (or “Great Dividing”), which
divided formerly communal lands into private parcels (further discussed in Chapter 4).
14
In 1893, American businessmen orchestrated a coup backed by U.S. Marines and
established the Republic of Hawai‘i, in what is widely seen as an illegal overthrow of an
independent nation (see especially the “Apology Bill,” Public Law 103 adopted by Joint
Resolution of the U.S. Congress 1993). Soon after, in 1898, Hawai‘i was annexed to the United
States and became a Territory through an act of Congress, despite the opposition of many
Hawaiian citizens. This marked the beginning of American political control of Hawai‘i, control
that is highly contested and seen by some, especially Native Hawaiian nationalists and
sovereignty groups, as a form of colonial occupation that continues today (Blaisdell and Mokuau
1994; Kame‘eleihiwa 1992; Kauanui 2008; Osorio 2002; Silva 2004; Trask 1994a and 1994b).
This Territorial period, from roughly 1900 until statehood in 1959, saw the heyday of Hawai‘i’s
sugar economy, which depended on a plantation system fueled by imported immigrant labor.
Other agricultural ventures took place as well, including cattle ranching and pineapple cultivation.
In 1959, Hawai‘i became the 50th state. This sparked a series of economic shifts, which
will be discussed at length in future chapters. Most importantly, since statehood, tourism has
become the primary economic driver of the state economy. Organized labor has also been a
powerful force on the scene, particularly during the early statehood years. Through the end of the
20th century, agri-business—namely, the sugar and pineapple industries—steeply declined as
tourism and real-estate development began to take its place. Government spending, including
defense spending and military activity by the U.S. federal government, also make up a significant
share of Hawai‘i’s economy. Figure 1.2 illustrates the shifting relative importance of Hawai‘i’s
major “export” industries (visitor expenditures and defense industry expenditures are counted as
export industries). The last three decades show the exponential increases of visitor and defense
expenditures accompanied by flat and then declining income from pineapple and sugar
production.
15
Figure 1.2 Income from Major Industries, 1974-2008
Direct Income from Major Export Industries,
1974‐2008, State of Hawai'i
13,500
12,000
10,500
Direct Income from Industry (In Millions of dollars)
Visitor
Expenditures 9,000
7,500
6,000
Defense
Expenditures 4,500
Raw Sugar and Molasses
3,000
Fresh & Processed
Pineapple
1,500
1974
1977
1980
1983
1986
1989
1992
1995
1998
2001
2004
2007
0
Source: Hawai‘i State Department of Business and Economic Development (DBEDT)
Databook (compiled from Hawai‘i Agricultural Statistics Service; U.S. Census Bureau;
DBEDT Tourism Research Branch; DBEDT Statistics & Data Support Branch)
16
In recent years, Hawai‘i has also grown in popularity as a site for “vacation homes” (nonowner occupied homes used for recreational or seasonal use)—another form of tourism growth.
Policy makers suggest this growth has been particularly clear since the 1990s (Public Policy
Center 2004). Census data offer one snapshot of this phenomenon. Table 1.1 (below) shows the
changing share of housing units designated as “vacant for seasonal, recreational, or occasional
use” out of all housing units from 1990 to 2000. The overall share of part-time homes is
particular clear in Maui County, and growth in vacation homes is striking for Kauai County. Data
from three districts of the County of Hawai‘i, which covers the “Big Island,” are also shown.
These county districts are on the western sunny coast of the Big Island, which has seen strong
growth in tourism and second home development (particularly clear for North Kona). The
Hōkūli‘a case study discussed in Chapter 7 is located at the border of South Kona and North
Kona.
Table 1.1. Share of "Vacant for seasonal, recreational, or occasional use" housing units out
of total housing units in State of Hawai‘i and Counties (and divisions of Hawai‘i County),
1990 and 2000
1990
Total
Housing
Units
Seasonal/Part
-time Units
%
Parttime
2000
Total
Housing
Units
Seasonal/Part
-time Units
%
Parttime
1990-2000
% Growth
in Parttime Units
State Total
City and
County of
Honolulu
Kauai
County
Maui
County
Hawai‘i
County
South
Kohala
389,810
12,806
3%
460,542
25,584
6%
+3%
281,683
4,462
2%
315,988
6,856
2%
0%
17,613
333
2%
25,331
3,850
15%
+13%
42,160
5,944
14%
56,549
9,777
17%
+3%
48,253
2,045
4%
62,674
5,101
8%
+4%
4,235
437
10%
5,794
847
15%
+5%
North Kona
South Kona
9,990
2,928
811
94
8%
3%
13,960
3,514
2,753
218
20%
6%
+12%
+3%
Source: Census 1990 and Census 2000 (Summary File 1)
17
Another historical event that sets the stage for this thesis is the Hawaiian Renaissance and
related Hawaiian Sovereignty Movement (which I refer to generically as the Hawaiian
Movement). Beginning in the 1970s, a Native Hawaiian movement has pushed for political selfdetermination, rights to lands owned by the independent Hawaiian government and kings at the
time of U.S. annexation 3 , and cultural recognition. The movement began with conflicts over
land, protests against military training and occupation (in places like Kaho‘olawe, and Mākua),
disputes against real-estate development and suburbanization, and related eviction of urban
tenants and rural lessees. The Hawaiian Renaissance also nurtured the resurgence of cultural
practices and traditions like Native Hawaiian language, hula (dance), music, and other religious
practices—traditions that had been culturally stigmatized by Americans and Europeans (including
Christian missionaries).
Hawaiian Conceptions and Narratives of Land Hawaiian frameworks for understanding land (‘āina) are so important to this dissertation,
they are worth introducing here. Many Native Hawaiians view land as the source of cultural and
personal meaning and may even put this meaning in terms of cultural survival (Trask 1994a and
1994b; Ritte 1978; Kana‘iaupuni and Malone 2006). A recognized cultural leader, “Koa,” whom
I interviewed, offered a compelling description of what can be lost as a result of land
development or urbanization in Hawai‘i:
We don't just lose a piece of land. We lose our connection to our ancestors, and that
guidance from above. We lose our connection to the past: all these historical and cultural
sites which get bulldozed and demolished. They save a few that look nice, kind of as
window dressing, you know to say this is how the Hawaiians lived. . . here is a platform,
here is a house site.
3
Some of these are called “Ceded” lands, lands which were ceded to the federal government, and later the
state of Hawai‘i as part of the Admissions act. (See Van Dyke 2008).
18
But the entire connectivity. . . to the people who lived there . . . and all those clues to the
past, that gets taken away. And it is not just . . . it’s neat to do archaeological digs and
find fish hooks. These are the connections that keep our people alive. (Koa, emphasis
added).
Koa describes a framework or narrative for conceptualizing land that I heard over and over again
during the course of research. These frameworks have also been promulgated and documented
by other Native Hawaiian scholars and leaders (Trask 1994a and 1994b; Ritte 1978;
Kana‘iaupuni and Malone 2006).
Also, as is hinted above and discussed in Chapter 4, connectivity to the land, for
Hawaiians, is often understood in terms of a connection to ancestors—or a physical and spiritual
connection to their bones (iwi kupuna) or ancient graves. Native Hawaiians of ancient times were
buried in many ways, following the traditions and protocols of each region. In some areas, it was
common practice to bury kupuna (ancestors) near the coast. Also, most graves were unmarked
and many were carefully hidden (in caves or underground lava tubes) in order to preserve the
spiritual power of the deceased ancestor. As a result, many graves with ancient bones are found
all over Hawai‘i, especially in places popular for tourism urbanization. Liu articulates the
significance of native bones:
In traditional Hawaiian belief . . . The spirit of a person lives in her or his bones . . The
bones of the living are a link between the ancestors and the eventual immortality of a
living person. ..The bones contain the mana [spiritual power] of the deceased, and when
they are buried they impart their mana to the ground, ahupua‘a and island, and thus make
the area sacred with mana (Liu 2009).
Hawaiian place narratives about land, often linked to the significance of bones, have become
more dominant in the current postcolonial regime. Bones also appear as a motivator of political
action in the stories of the following case studies.
19
Population Trends and Current Characteristics Contact with Europeans (and later Americans) in 1778 sparked major population change.
Conservative estimates put the Native Hawaiian population upon Cook’s arrival at approximately
300,000 (Nordyke 1989), though several scholars have suggested that the population was closer
to 600,000 or even up to 1 million (Lindsey 1996; Stannard 1989). Overall, population dipped
following contact and began to rise with an increasingly accelerated pace (largely due to the
arrivals of other ethnic groups) once Hawai‘i was annexed to the U.S. in 1898.
The rate of
population growth has particularly accelerated since statehood in 1959. Figure 1.3 illustrates
total resident population trends in Hawai‘i since 1778.
Figure 1.3 Population of Hawai‘i 1778-2008
Population of Hawaii 1778-2008
1,400,000
Total Population
1,200,000
1,000,000
800,000
600,000
Population
400,000
200,000
1760 1780 1800 1820 1840 1860 1880 1900 1920 1940 1960 1980 2000 2020
Year
Source: Nordyke 1889 (Original source of counts: Estimates for 1778 and 1823; missionary
censuses for 1831-1832 and 1835-1836; official government censuses for 1850-1980 (Hawai‘i
State Department of Planning and Economic Development, U.S. Census) )
20
Since contact with the “West,” Hawai‘i’s ethnic and racial composition has also shifted,
from a Native Hawaiian–only population to a current population with no majority group. Disease
quickly decimated the Native Hawaiian population, and the proportion of Caucasians has risen
slowly over time. Chinese immigrants arrived to work plantations in the 1890s, followed by
waves of Japanese, and later Filipinos. Smaller populations from Korea, Puerto Rico and
Portugal also landed on Hawai‘i’s shores beginning in the 1900s. The following figure (1.4)
illustrates the changing population composition, showing shares of the five major ethnic groups.
Population characteristics for 2000 are shown separately below.
21
Figure 1.4 Population Share of Hawai‘i’s Five Major Ethnic Groups, 1778-1990
Population Share of Hawaii's Five
Major Ethnic Groups, 1778-1990
1,000,000
900,000
800,000
Population
700,000
600,000
500,000
Filipino
400,000
Japanese
300,000
Chinese
200,000
Caucasian
100,000
Hawaiian
0
1778 1853 1884 1890 1900 1920 1940 1960 1970 1980 1990
Year*
(*illustration not to scale; year of population observations at irregular intervals)
Source: Haas (1998). (Counts are for total population—civilian and military. Figures report
U.S. Census data up until 1960 and State of Hawai‘i Health Surveillance Survey data for 19701990, except for Filipinos. “Hawaiian” counts refer to any individual with any Native Hawaiian
ancestry. Caucasian includes Portuguese, Spanish, Puerto Rican, and other Caucasians.
Currently, Hawai‘i’s permanent, non-military, resident population is approximately 1.2
million. The state also welcomes nearly 7 million visitors per year. The population is true to its
immigrant roots and highly multi-ethnic. Table 1.2 (below) illustrates the major ethnic/racial
groups of the islands, reporting responses to the question about ancestry from 2000 Census
sample data. White counts are compiled from the race question and numbers apply to those who
list only white race alone (not in combination). The major ethnic or ancestry groups in Hawai‘i
are whites, Japanese, Hawaiian, Filipino, and Chinese. Japanese and Chinese groups were
amongst the earliest immigrant arrivals, while Filipino immigrants form a later wave of
22
immigrants that continues today. Hence, the state’s Filipino population has a high rate of foreignborn members. Other immigrants continue to arrive as well, giving the state a relatively large
share of foreign born residents—besides the Philippines, the most significant flows of immigrants
come from China, Korea, and Vietnam. The state also has high rates of interracial marriage and
individuals identifying as more than one race.
Table 1.2 State of Hawai‘i Major Ethnic Groups and Foreign-Born Population, 2000
Ethnic Group
White*
Japanese
Hawaiian
Filipino
Chinese
Top 5 Groups
Frequency
292,086
231,947
167,846
190,867
71,643
Latino
Korean
Black
Samoan
Vietnamese
Top 10 Groups
Total Population
Top 6 Immig. Groups
40,026
27,680
21,940
14,195
7,644
1,211,717
% of State
Population
24%
19%
14%
16%
6%
79%
% Foreign
Born of Group
6%
8%
0.2%
47%
30%
3%
2%
2%
1%
0.6%
88%
100%
15%
58%
5%
17%
77%
18%
159,452 (75% of Total Immigrants)
Source: IPUMS 2000, 5% (First Ancestry)
*White race alone
Source: Ruggles et al 2000 (IPUMS)
Counts of Native Hawaiians vary significantly depending on the metric (and thus may be
underestimated in the tables above). Hawaiians as a population are legally defined as anyone
who can trace ancestry to inhabitants of Hawai‘i prior to 1778, when Captain Cook arrived in the
islands (Hawai‘i Rev. Stat. § 10-2). (Many Hawaiians have multiple ancestries in addition to
native ancestry. Individuals descended partially or fully from pre-contact indigenous people
23
often identify as “Hawaiian” or “Native Hawaiian” 4 and are often considered “Hawaiian” by
social researchers. I adopt this usage in this dissertation and use the terms Native Hawaiian and
Hawaiian interchangeably.)
As hinted at above, research suggests that despite Hawai‘i’s celebrated history of interracialism (Jung 2003) and “racial aloha” (or racial cooperation) (Fuchs 1961), a clear ethnic
hierarchy persists. Okamura, for example, through analyses of decennial census data, concludes
that Native Hawaiians, Filipinos, and other Pacific Islander groups (including Samoans and
Micronesians) consistently rank at the bottom of socio-economic ranking measured by poverty,
educational attainment, income, and professional occupation (2008). By contrast, since the
1970s, whites as well as those with Japanese or Chinese ancestry (despite humble immigrant
plantation roots) have ranked near the top of this hierarchy (ibid).
Why Study Hawai‘i? Processes of democratization of land development in Hawai‘i are shaped fundamentally by its
position in the global economy as a tourist destination. Moreover, the sites I studied are prized on
the global market for their coastal locations and beauty. This both enables and constrains the
democratic possibilities. The desirability of the location gives bargaining power to social claims
(Logan and Molotch 1987)—investors generally want to invest in Hawai‘i and their expected
high returns make them willing to negotiate. However, at the same time, dependence on tourism
creates several structural vulnerabilities.
4
For certain legal purposes (e.g. access to Hawaiian Homelands), “Native Hawaiians” refer to people
descended solely from pre-1778 residents of Hawai‘i while “Hawaiian” refers to those with any traceable
ancestry in the islands prior to 1778. In this dissertation, as noted above, I used these terms
interchangeably.
24
Why should we, as social scientists, care about such exotic locations? First, tourism is a
growing industry, and one with importance as an urban development strategy in well-established
urban centers as well as in newly urbanizing locations (Gladstone 1998; Hoffman et al 2003; Judd
and Fainstein 1999; Mullins 1991). In the developing world, or even in “peripheries” within the
U.S., tourism may be seen as the only viable engine of economic growth. Tourism depends on
specific types of urban development, which Mullins termed “tourism urbanization:” the creation
of urban forms that can be used and enjoyed by visitors; buildings, structures and changes to the
natural environment that facilitate the consumption or enjoyment of place (Gladstone 1998;
Mullins 1991 and 1994).
Yet political-economic processes are likely to be different in different types of
economies. Like other kinds of urban development, tourism urbanization involves social
struggles over form and meanings. Also, struggles over tourism may be distinctive from other
urban processes (Gotham 2005a, 2005b and 2007; Hoffman et al 2003; Judd and Fainstein 1999;
Mullins 1991 and 1994). Many political-economic approaches, especially regulation perspectives
(though for exception see Hoffman et al 2003 and Judd and Fainstein 1999) presume an
industrial/post-industrial model (e.g. Brenner 2004) inappropriate for non-industrial economies
like Hawai‘i (Pretecielle 1990). Asserting the idea that tourism development processes are
distinctive, Hoffman et al (2003) view urban tourism as more “regulated,” or more conditioned by
rules, laws, and cultural frameworks, than other urban forms. Tourism urbanization involves
exploitation of natural resources and the establishment of distinctive spatial forms, such as coastal
sprawl (Mullins 1991). The exploitation of natural resources may be more visible and
pronounced than in existing urban centers, since tourism urbanization can involve major changes
to places that have never been the site of significant residential, commercial or industrial activity.
25
Overall, the geographies of capitalism stretch over diverse terrains and all deserve sustained and
critical scrutiny.
The social struggles involved in tourism urbanization may also be particularly complex
because of their symbolic dimension (Hoffman et al 2003). Struggles may involve heightened
contestation over “urban meanings” (Castells 1983) because places must be discursively or
symbolically packaged to be advertised, sold, and consumed as tourist destinations (Hoffman et al
2003; Zukin 1997). Such commodification can spark battles over the symbolic significance of
places (Gotham 2005a).
However, only recently has focused empirical attention been given to tourism
urbanization. The concept was generated with reference to Australia (Mullins 1991 and 1994),
and only one major study has systematically applied the framework to a U.S. context (a study
which employed population and economic census data and thus only revealed certain patterns)
(Gladstone 1998). A small handful of cases have been examined in the U.S., none of which have
included Hawai‘i, arguably the archetypical U.S. tourist destination (Fainstein and Judd 1999;
Gladstone 1998; Hoffman et al 2003).
Finally, Hawai‘i is also well-suited for an examination of varied types of conflict over
land. It is distinctive in that groups defined not only by economic interests, but also by shared
collective identities, history or “culture,” have tried to gain sway over development. Hawai‘i is
thus a place where efforts at economic redistribution as well as recognition of distinctive cultural
identities and lifestyles (Fraser 1997) can be vividly seen in contests over development.
Regimes as Context for Land Development I work with core insights from urban regime theory, which suggest that institutions as
well as political-economic conditions define given land-development regimes. In Hawai‘i, as
26
elsewhere, political and economic elites have privileged sway over land development. At the
same time, the power to develop land is very clearly structured by laws and institutions—both
formal political institutions, such as laws and state agencies, and informal institutions such as
prevailing cultural scripts, narratives, or frameworks—what some scholars call value discourses
or “culture as institutions” (Dimaggio and Powell 1983; Healey 1997; Lamont and Small 2008).
A given regime also creates the possibilities for inclusion or exclusion in the processes and
outcomes of land development.
Modern Hawai‘i has apparently undergone several regime shifts—or political-economic
and social changes—with systemic consequences for how land development works in the state.
From about 1900-1950, when Hawai‘i was a territory of the U.S., Hawai‘i’s politics, and hence
the treatment of land, were dominated by a small Caucasian oligarchic plantation elite. Elites
exploited land to generate profits from the then dominant sugar trade during what I consider the
plantation-territorial regime.
Regime change came in the 1950s when the Democratic Party, organized labor, and
working-class ethnic groups overcame oligarchic rule. The Democratic Party ousted the
dominant Republican Party from formal political control, which had consistently served sugar
and elite interests. Democrats and their allies promoted tourism and real-estate development to
provide wider economic opportunities. I call this a shift from the plantation-territorial regime to a
tourism-growth regime—a historical break that has been widely recognized among Hawaiian
historians (Coffman 2003; Cayetano 2009). The hegemony of this growth regime held,
particularly from the late 1950s through the late 1970s, through class alliances, corporatist
accommodation of labor, and a persuasive discourse that land development could create
economic opportunity. Like other urban growth regimes documented in the urban studies
27
literature, diverse actors came together to collectively promote the commercialization of land.
Several groups of local residents disputed the goals of this growth-regime, particularly beginning
in the 1970s. Regime players thus had to accommodate these challengers. However, despite
unrest in reaction to tourism development, the imperative of land-development-led growth
remained hegemonic at least through the late 1980s.
When I began to explore the historical context of the controversial developments at Lā‘au
Point (initiated in the early 2000s), the Hōkūli‘a project (initiated in the early 1990s), and in
Kaka‘ako Makai, I began to notice evidence of yet another regime shift. This shift, however, was
marked not by a clear historical rupture but rather by evidence of accumulated changes in
political and cultural institutions: new land-use regulations, new political institutions, and newly
ascendant place narratives.
Community influence over urban development in these three cases was apparently
facilitated by the system of land-use regulations, political institutions, and prevailing cultural
sensibilities. In particular, relatively new sensibilities about Hawaiian culture, the value of
agricultural and rural lifestyles, as well as relatively new legal protections for Native Hawaiian
cultural rights appeared to matter in these cases. I began to wonder whether these apparent
changes in institutions made a meaningful difference in development processes. Was there a new
era of land development emerging in Hawai‘i?
Further analysis and exploration suggested that, yes, the state has undergone yet another
relatively recent regime shift. I consider this a transition to what I term a postcolonial regime,
which has occurred particularly since the 1990s. Leftist democrats, environmentalists, and most
importantly, the Native Hawaiian Movement (for political self-determination and cultural
recognition) have changed formal political institutions and land regulations through institutional
28
“layering” (Thelen 1999 and 2004). They have also forwarded cultural narratives (like “aloha
‘āina”—roughly translated as “love of land”), which now effectively compete with
developmentalist scripts. In doing so, challengers have chipped away at the consensus and
cultural frameworks underlying the preexisting tourism-growth regime. Public sentiments are
now more likely to question Hawai‘i’s reliance on land-intensive/tourism development. As a
result, new collective actors have gained influence over land development. A review of key landuse laws (provided in Chapter 4) as well as the specific case studies of Chapters 5, 6, and 7
provide evidence of regime shift. However, Hawaiian scholars have not yet clearly
acknowledged that these recent historical changes have had a systematic influence on processes
of land development (though many scholars have noted the growing political power of the Native
Hawaiian Movement).
This emergent postcolonial regime is characterized by new laws which protect cultural
rights and which further “democratize development,” or embed it in specific cultural meanings.
Examples include thickly layered Environmental Impact Statement rules (which have required the
assessment of potential cultural and social impacts of development in addition to environmental
impacts since 2000); multi-leveled land-use regulations; the codification of Native Hawaiian
traditional and customary rights and practices on private land; and the authority of Island Burial
Councils which hold the authority to require developers to change their plans if they find ancient
burials on private property (an issue which vexes most major development projects in Hawai‘i).
This new regime offers new tools—chiefly cultural and institutional tools—that can be
used by diverse groups, including under-resourced groups, to influence development. In other
words, political and economic elites do not hold a monopoly over these tools (though elites often
attempt to strategically deploy them in opposition to community-based opponents). Overall, the
29
availability of these tools creates more contingency for development outcomes. Accordingly,
there are more politics, more venues of contestation, and more complex layers of politics.
Moreover, the consequences of development in the new regime are not always “democratic” or
fully inclusive of all public interests, or even in service of the greater good or reflective of
widespread public deliberation.
Overview of Dissertation Now I turn to an overview of this dissertation. I argue that in Hawai‘i, especially since the
apparent rise of the postcolonial regime, influence over land development extends beyond the
privileged few with money and elite political connections. Land development increasingly occurs
within a regime or institutional context that generates alternative currencies of power. I see this
as a form of democratization of land development that has occurred over broad historical periods.
However, democratization of development in Hawai‘i has not been straightforward. It is
dynamic, contingent, and begets contradictions discussed below. This is in part because
democratization is about the availability of new tools that are up for grabs, and that can be used
by multiple actors.
Institutions as Opportunities to Influence Development My case studies, which can be seen as illustrating existing theories of political
institutions, reveal ways in which institutions structure land development. The case studies show
the processes through which certain groups, including historically marginalized and underresourced groups, exert leverage over land development. They leverage political institutions,
drawing upon compelling place narratives and “repertoires of contention” (Tilly 2006), or
historically distinct styles, strategies, and forms of opposition, which have currency or cultural
30
capital in the current land development regime. Institutions create opportunities for diverse actors
to influence land development, and they invite and shape claims, conflicts, and interests.
What is unusual about many institutions discussed in this thesis is the extent to which
their raison d’être involves the attempt to “de-commodify” land. Institutions in this case are
particularly important for constructing venues or arenas of conflict (Baumgartner and Jones 1993;
Pralle 2003). These arenas may include formal and informal venues ranging from public hearings
to community meetings to backroom negotiations (ibid).
Hawai‘i’s political institutions are also characterized by “legal pluralism” (Merry 1988)
(roots in both Hawaiian Kingdom law and U.S. law/English Common Law); “legal ambiguity”
(Edelman 1992) (a fuzziness or indeterminacy of law); and density and fragmentation.
Moreover, the pluralism, ambiguity, and institutional density of Hawai‘i’s land-use regulatory
system have become even more pronounced since the emergence of the postcolonial regime.
This has several important political consequences.
For one, the current institutional regime creates complexity and contingency. Both
developers and communities play the real-estate game and seek to exploit the gray areas of legal
ambiguity. They pivot upon different and conflicting bases of the law, they “venue shop” (i.e.
instrumentally seek political institutions and agencies in which to assert their interests), and they
engage in intensive public relations efforts (Baumgartner and Jones 1993). The density,
ambiguity, and complexity of Hawai‘i’s land-use regulatory system also pushes conflict over
development into the arena of public relations. In short, political institutions in Hawai‘i in recent
years have increasingly multiplied the arenas of conflict as they have also enabled new
opportunities for public input.
31
Additionally, political institutions, along with laws and regulations, construct privileged
publics by encoding new cultural categories that recognize specific actors as key interveners in
the development process. Institutions also help to construct authority and cultural capital
(Bourdieu 1984). Laws and regulations define the decision makers who hold state-sponsored
authority over zoning and permitting decisions. At the same time, the law empowers other forms
of expertise, including archaeological and planning knowledge as well as savvy or experience
within the given institutional context. Finally, institutions suggest the sequence or steps of
development and may also define “critical junctures” (Mahoney 2000a and 2002; Pierson 2000)
or moments of contingency in which intervention may be more decisive than at other moments.
Sequence is important because even well-organized actors, or actors with access to privileged
knowledge or cultural capital, may only have influence at certain moments.
One key example in this dissertation of a “privileged public”—which has been
increasingly demarcated by law since 1992—is Native Hawaiian cultural practitioners and lineal
descendants who, once officially recognized by state agencies, must be consulted by developers.
An example of cultural capital is seen in archaeology and planning knowledge. The complexity
of regulations that govern land use in Hawai‘i also endows knowledgeable planners, as well as
savvy community members, with sway in the development process. At the same time, members
of the public, particularly those with extensive experience engaging with public agencies, as well
as those with access to cultural practices with legitimacy in the current regime, can effectively
assert influence in a given regime.
Contradictions of Democratizing Development An additional major finding is that democratization of development and regime change in
Hawai‘i has come with dilemmas, trade-offs, contingencies, and contradictions. The tools and
32
opportunities created by new political institutions can be appropriated in contingent ways, and
can even create new forms of popular or social exclusion. I did not observe easy democratic
outcomes in development controversies, of the sort that might be expected given the apparent
progressive tendencies of Hawai‘i’s land-use laws.
For example, cultural claims sometimes come at the expense of economic claims and
create fractures in vulnerable communities. The current regime invites the cooptation of
Hawaiian claims, and the strategic manipulation of Hawaiian individuals and communities.
Moreover, the communities that engage in fights over development often find themselves torn as
different factions engage with urban development on different terms. Particularly in the current
regime context, opposition to development expressed in cultural terms can clash with efforts to
extract important economic concessions from developers. Cultural claims, newly powerful in
recent decades, created divides in working-class communities, especially among those pursuing
job opportunities, good wages, public infrastructure, and property taxes from development
projects. Prior forms of compromise and associated narratives that held the previous regime
together are no longer applicable, and agreements to divide up the economic spoils of
development do not satisfy certain culture-based and lifestyle objections to urbanization.
Another contradictory consequence is a form of rationalization (Weber 1930; Habermas
1970 and 1989) of land conflict. This comes from the proliferation of laws that empower
technical experts like archaeologists, planners, geologists, and lawyers (Fischer 1990; Espeland
1998). A complex regulatory field and multi-layered legal system requires mastery over new
realms of expertise. Accordingly, the quality of the land-development conflicts has shifted. Hot
conflicts between use-values and exchange values are pushed into apparently cooler classification
battles. Unruly public passions are squeezed into the language of Environmental Impact
Statements and rational evaluations of “commensurability,” “alternative plans,” “impacts,” and
33
“mitigation” (Espeland 1998). For example, the Hōkūli‘a project propelled protracted debates
about “vested rights,” what qualifies as a “farm dwelling” according to the state land-use law.
These kinds of classifications can create new forms of exclusion, especially if
communities become dependent upon experts. Additionally, classification battles can obscure
deeper conflicts. This can distract publics from other forms of political organizing. At the same
time, members of communities who gain access to these powerful forms of expertise, either
through experience or ties with sympathetic lawyers, archaeologists, or planners, find new
political ground to stand on, even if they lack the financial resources of their opponents. 5
Expertise rises in importance to join traditional political-economic bases of power, and this shift
may have ambiguous and contingent consequences in terms of empowering communities or
under-resourced groups. Finally, the time, money, and emotion needed to intervene in
development through legal channels (lawsuits or contested case hearings) can take a tremendous
toll on would-be opponents of development.
Some of the tensions above are also exacerbated by existing economic and socialstructural conditions—in part linked to Hawai‘i’s tourism-dependent economy. First, the
subordinate economic and social position of Native Hawaiians invites fractures within Hawaiian
communities—given the importance of both cultural and economic claims to these communities,
the split between factions stands to become heated indeed. Legal and cultural empowerment
without economic equality pits cultural claims against perceived, or real, economic needs
satisfied by tourism development. Also, limited state resources constrain the capacity of formal
political institutions (due to, for example, under-funding or under-staffing of state institutions),
which might otherwise better support subordinate groups’ influence on urban development.
5
This parallels “citizen-science alliances,” seen in studies of health social movements, which help to
empower disadvantaged communities (Brown et al 2004; Epstein 1996).
34
Dissertation Structure This thesis takes the following structure: In the next chapter, Chapter 2, I further situate
my questions and findings in theories of power, democratization, institutions, culture, and urban
development. In Chapter 3, I connect my research questions to the research design and explain
the comparative strategy and data choices. Chapter 4 argues that regime shift has occurred and
identifies the three phases or regimes that condition land development. This chapter also
examines Hawai‘i’s land-use regulatory context and makes the case that new regulations
demarcate an emergent postcolonial regime. I also point to characteristics of the regulatory field
which are indicative of legal ambiguity, legal pluralism, and regulatory density.
The next three chapters offer case studies in which I closely examine the processes of
land development. Chapter 5 is a discussion of the West Beach project, a case which illustrates
key dynamics of the tourism-growth regime. This case was initiated in 1977, a period in which
the tourism-growth regime still prevailed. Select local residents protested against this project
because of its anticipated impacts on the local environment (including ocean ecologies), on local
cultural practices (such as using the area for fishing and gathering other ocean resources), and on
the agricultural and rural character of the surrounding region. Activists employed place
narratives that have since become more dominant. They also tried to use the legal system to
influence the project. However, the context of development at that point in time did not support
the efforts of West Beach opponents: the place narratives they used were not yet broadly
resonant, and the legal claims they made were not yet backed by the force of specific Hawai‘i
Supreme Court rulings and other state policies. Negotiation over development mostly involved
Democratic Party leaders, organized labor representatives, and the developers. The deals forged
with the developer primarily placated the economic concerns of party and union members; deals
distributed economic benefits by and the developer agreed to build public infrastructure and
35
affordable housing as well as agreeing to distribute jobs to union members of the region. Also,
in this case, the discourse that development was broadly beneficial and would bring jobs and wide
public benefits was largely hegemonic.
In Chapter 6, I discuss the proposed development at Lā‘au, explaining the processes
through which one faction of local residents strikingly defeated a luxury residential development
project. This project was initiated during the early 2000s, much later than the West Beach
project, a time period which the postcolonial regime was fairly well-established. Chapter 6 shows
new sources of community power enabled by the postcolonial regime. Specifically, it shows how
place narratives, like aloha ‘āina, effectively congealed community opposition. Such place
narratives paralleled those asserted by the opponents of the West Beach project. Yet, in this new
historical context, these place narratives could effectively compete with the logic of development
for jobs and economic growth. This case also demonstrates how cultural capital, like the ability
to successfully make a case in front of key state agencies like the State Land Use Commission,
are particularly potent tools of influence in the current regime. This case also shows how a local
developer attempted to negotiate with local residents and placate their concerns related to
environment, Hawaiian culture, and the protection of rural or agricultural lifestyles.
Finally, Chapter 7 discusses the Hōkūli‘a project, a project that was initiated in the early
1990s. Hōkūli‘a was initiated between the two time periods of the other two cases; as a result, it
reveals the development dynamics characteristic of regime transition. In this case, the developer
got caught in a stalemate because it was operating in terms of the previous regime. Key deals
were made with local Democratic Party members; the developer promised to build infrastructure,
provide jobs, and bolster the county tax base. Nevertheless, both the regulatory environment and
broader cultural sensibilities were changing around the project. Deals made that were
36
characteristic of an earlier era (paralleling, for example, those of the West Beach case) did not
sufficiently address or placate the concerns of those asserting claims over land based in Native
Hawaiian culture and other grievances linked to anticipated environmental impacts and
anticipated threat to the rural and agricultural character of the region. The new context
empowered a relatively small set of disgruntled community members who objected to the
developer’s treatment of ancient burials, historic sites, and environmental protection. The new
context, in other words, provided potent tools that motivated community opponents used to both
stall and alter the development. However, this case study also reveals just how harrowing and
complex it is for community members to make use of the tools provided by the emergent
regime—it reveals the contradictions inherent in the form of democratization Hawai‘i is
experiencing. Hard ball political negotiation moved into families and neighborhoods and
exacerbated community fractures. At the same time, formerly marginalized groups and
individuals found new channels through which to influence development—through the historical
review process, through litigation, and through the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council. Individuals
and communities who supported the project and welcomed its anticipated economic benefits were
disappointed by the outcomes—their interests were trumped by the actions of those speaking
against the development on the basis of culture, environment, and lifestyle. This chapter is the
longest, because Hōkūli‘a proved to be the most complicated of the case studies.
Finally, I close in Chapter 8 with comparisons, conclusions, and theoretical implications.
In this chapter I also briefly touch on the findings of my fourth case study of Kaka‘ako Makai. I
argue that the theoretical implications of this dissertation include highlighting the ways that
“culture”— narratives, cultural capital, and institutions which affirm cultural categories—shape
development. I also end by underscoring the theoretical importance of taking institutions
seriously in studies of urban process.
Chapter 2. Theoretical Frameworks and Central Concepts Introduction In this chapter I highlight debates and concepts from existing literatures which shed light on
fundamental questions raised by the cases of this thesis: How can communities and local
residents influence land development? What tools and opportunities do diverse communities
exploit to help shape their built and natural environments? What conditions create possibilities for
public inclusion in urban political processes? What is the significance of formal political
institutions, and associated cultural frameworks, for empowering local residents to shape how
land development works?
The outcomes at Lā‘au Point, Hōkūli‘a, and Kaka‘ako are surprising when seen in light
of the literature on urban growth politics and urban regime theory. These literatures highlight the
prevalence and persistence of growth regimes, regimes oriented toward local economic
development, the commodification of place, and the increasing intensification of land use. The
existing literature also draws attention to the political and economic inequality that structures
real-estate development and serves the interests of dominant groups (Castells 1983; Feagin 1983,
1988 and 1998; Gottdiener 1985; Gottdiener and Feagin 1988; Harvey 1973; Lefebvre 1991;
Logan and Molotch 1987). Some scholars go so far as seeing the imperative of growth as a
juggernaut (or “machine”) (Molotch 1976) that almost always prevails, most often at the expense
of the values and interests of local residents. Even studies of growth challengers suggest that
37
38
only the most resourced communities can effectively disrupt the dominance of growth agendas.
How can we then make sense of the apparent instances of successful community influence over
development in the case studies of this thesis—sites where local residents with an apparent lack
of resources prevailed?
The cases of this thesis thus raise questions about the limits and possibilities of thwarting
elite-driven growth agendas. Hawai‘i residents appear to be making use of unique sources of
leverage to challenge the pursuit of profit by developers, landowners, and investors. What
lessons then does Hawai‘i reveal about the pathways through which the democratization of
development can proceed?
Overall, this thesis motivates a look beyond political-economic resources toward other
resources or “capital” that may be more readily utilized by diverse communities to guide urban
development. As suggested in the introduction to this thesis, I hypothesized that the institutional
and cultural changes forwarded by the Hawaiian Social Movement had a role in enabling the
observed outcomes. A core analytical issue then is how and whether institutions and “culture” (as
narratives, cultural capital, or institutions and the cultural categories they encode) (Lamont and
Small 2008) can create opportunities for local residents to shape land use. I draw from key works
in cultural sociology and institutionalism to make sense of the unexpected outcomes at Lā‘au and
Hōkūli‘a.
Another theoretical problem raised by the cases of this thesis is the question of urban
regime change. A regime perspective implies that specific development outcomes should not be
seen as isolated events but rather as driven by systemic relations between political and economic
actors. This suggests the possibility that the outcomes I observed are indicative of broader
changes and are more than the result of contingent and highly localized processes. A conceptual
39
challenge, however, is that urban regime theory presumes that regimes endure. It is therefore
difficult to explain regime change, or gauge, for example, whether development processes and
outcomes in Hawai‘i mark a significant regime shift. To grapple with these issues, I engage with
critiques and extensions of urban regime theory as well as ideas from institutional and historical
sociology.
Hawai‘i as a State­Level Urban Regime? Before proceeding, it is necessary to justify why I engage with “urban theories” even
though the conflicts I explore in this dissertation take place in rural areas resisting tourism
urbanization rather than in “cities.”
Though the “subject” of urban regime theory is somewhat slippery, I see the theoretical
core of urban regime theory as about the political and economic processes of economic
development and the treatment of land. This fits with the view of scholars who stress that local
politics are fundamentally the politics of development (Castells 1977; Molotch 1976 and 1993;
Peterson 1981; Stone and Sanders 1987; Logan and Molotch 1987). Therefore, because I am
focusing on development policy and land use, I believe it is useful to engage urban regime theory.
This also accords with the ideas of scholars who paint “urban” and spatial processes with the
same theoretical brush (Lefebvre 1991; Brenner 2000). Conflicts between capital and social
meanings take place over a range of territories and geographical scales. In the case of Hawai‘i,
many institutions and political actions decisive for land development operate on a state scale
rather than a more local or urban scale. Therefore, the conditions and dynamics of development
and land use in Hawai‘i are arguably shaped by a state-level regime.
40
Patterns of Exclusion in Urban Politics: Why the Case Studies are Puzzling I begin by reviewing theories from urban political economy. Given its core premises, politicaleconomic urban theory is well equipped to understand elite influence over urban development
and spatial form. However, such perspectives do not fully explain outcomes such as those I
observed in this research.
Urban political-economic approaches argue that urban processes reproduce inequality
and systematically exclude or devalue certain social groups; they reflect and perpetuate existing
hierarchies. Political-economic urban theories stress basic economic divides and argue that the
owners of land and capital possess a systematic advantage over individuals or groups without
access to financial resources or control over land. Variants of such theories also suggest that those
who seek profit through the buying, selling, and developing of real-estate tend to dominate local
politics due to their privileged political position and the seductiveness of their agenda. The result
is that urban processes systematically benefit owners, investors, commercial interests, and various
“property entrepreneurs” (Feagin 1998; Gottdiener 1985; Gottdiener and Feagin 1988; Harvey
1973; Lefebvre 1991; Logan and Molotch 1987).
Scholars have also delimited the multiple ways that legal and political systems perpetuate
these advantages (Castells 1983; Feagin 1993 and 1998; Harvey 1996; Lefebvre 1991; Logan and
Molotch 1987; Mitchell 2003; Molotch 1976 and 1993). Political-economic urban theory also
highlights how those with formal political power are typically in positions to directly shape
development (ibid; Elkin 1987; Gans 1962; Stone 1989). By contrast, marginalized groups with
limited sway over the levers of political power, due to a lack of social capital, economic capital,
or political clout, bear the negative consequences of urban processes.
41
Political-economic marginalization in urban politics often blurs with other forms of
marginalization. Exclusion linked to social groupings by race, neighborhood location, culture, or
identity can additionally constrain meaningful participation in political decisions that impact
space. Of course, ethno-racial hierarchies often map onto political-economic inequalities in the
U.S., but stigma or marginalization linked to identity or social status can trigger additional spirals
of exclusion in urban politics (Feagin 1998; Gotham 2002; Massey and Denton 1998; Small
2004).
Urban Regime Theory Urban regime theory draws upon core insights of urban political-economy yet highlights
patterns of cooperation between business and political actors. In general, regimes can refer to
governmental or political-economic systems at national levels, or even the international level
(Tilly 2000). Tilly gives an encompassing and straightforward definition of a regime as a “set of
relations between a government and persons subject to that government’s jurisdiction” (2004:
127; see also 2000). A regime demarcates the ruling groups inside and outside of government.
Public and elected officials, and the ruling party, are central to a regime as “agents of
government” (Tilly 2000). Additional collective actors may be fully incorporated polity members
or may be relatively marginalized challengers hoping to gain leverage.
Urban regime theory by contrast invokes a more specific focus and has been
fundamentally attuned to contestations over growth and urban development. Clarence Stone (and
others) generated urban regime theory in response to debates within urban politics about the
source and nature of “power” in the so-called community power debates (see also Fainstein and
Fainstein 1983 for early versions). He pointed out that in order for local governments to exercise
the capacity to govern, they need “power over” or the “capacity to act” and to promote a shared
42
agenda (Stone 1989 and 1993; Mossberger and Stoker 2001). Thus Stone called attention to
governing coalitions at the heart of local governing power. Stone understood urban regimes as
the “collaborative arrangements through which local governments and private actors assemble the
capacity to govern” (Stone 1993). Importantly, these “arrangements” may involve both formal
and informal ties between state and non-state actors. The formulation suggests that these ties are
often quite durable.
Though regime theory takes informal ties and informal arrangements seriously, it also
sees formal political institutions as significant elements of regimes. Public officials and political
institutions may have some autonomy or influence over governing agendas as a result of power
derived from their organic linkages to voters and other political groups. Political institutions can
also support regimes by helping secure the ties between business and government. For example,
developers are beholden to local decision- makers who may hold authority over zoning or
property tax determinations. Accordingly, institutions can either support or unsettle regimes
(though existing literature is more attentive to how institutions promote the durability of regimes
rather than regime change).
The regime model conceives of business or land interests (Elkin 1987) as having a
privileged position in the governing coalitions of city governments. This is because of the
limitations that public and elected officials face when trying to govern, limitations which stem
from the fundamental division between market and state within the U.S (Elkin 1987). State
agents need to capture through taxation the resources held by private actors. Therefore, in order
to govern, government must collaborate with and satisfy major business and land interests.
Economic elites or “place entrepreneurs” are therefore more dominant in local politics than other
social groups (a viewpoint which is emphasized by growth machine theory) (Logan and Molotch
43
1987; Molotch 1976). This view of the central role of private businesses or property developers
and “land interests” contrasts with pluralist approaches which might see political influence as “up
for grabs” and equally accessible to diverse social groups at any given moment (Molotch 1999).
At the same time, the urban regime approach does not assume the one-dimensional
domination of elite or business interests over politics but rather calls attention to the connections,
linkages, and cooperative arrangements between public officials and major private economic
interests. Urban regime analysis is appealing because it leaves open the substance or agenda of
those in power and does not presume dominance by certain elites or place entrepreneurs (as does
growth machine theory). Accordingly, scholars have typologized urban regimes based on various
criteria such as the balance between government, business and progressive groups or the character
of local governing agendas (Elkin 1987; Fainstein and Fainstein 1983; Kantor and Savitch 1993
and 1997; Stone 1993). Urban regime analyses have also shown that not all localities are able to
orchestrate effective development regimes, since governing coalitions may not coalesce enough
to achieve given agendas. In other words, urban regimes can evolve into non-regimes or “antiregimes” (Castells 1983; DeLeon 1992; Yates 1977).
Despite the theoretical potential (and empirical evidence) that there are diverse types of
urban regimes, growth regimes—one type of regime—are the best understood and apparently the
most empirically prevalent. Growth regimes promote economic growth and the development of
land and place above other goals. Growth regimes are ubiquitous and strikingly persistent, at
least in a U.S. context. Also, growth agendas appear to be particularly resilient even in the face
of challengers. Research often finds that growth agendas dominate in localities and that the core
insights of growth machine theory hold (Jonas and Wilson 1999; Logan, Whaley and Crowder
1997; Molotch 1993). Despite the emergence of anti-growth coalitions as well as forms of
44
growth regulation, “the growth machine system remains durable, sustained in manifold ways
through the mutual reinforcement of political, cultural, and economic dynamics” (Molotch 1993:
49). The comprehensive review by Logan, Whaley, and Crowder show that growth coalitions
influence local politics more than other coalitions; there is apparently “limited variation in the
degree to which pro-growth regimes dominate localities” (1997).
However, research suggests that some community efforts to challenge elitist growth
agendas can be successful. Yet these approaches suggest that communities are successful to the
extent they access the same forms of financial and political capital that make growth
entrepreneurs and their allies so dominant over governing agendas. Research suggests that potent
challengers to growth coalitions come predominantly from communities where there are high
levels of education, income, and professional occupation (Fainstein and Hirst 1997; Logan,
Whaley, and Crowder 1997).
The “Culture” of Urban Regimes What then are the best alternative sources of leverage over development? What forces
and forms of “capital” can compete with the close working relationships amongst government
and public officials, relationships that systematically drive the intensification of land use? And
are some forms of influence more readily accessible to local communities and residents?
If we theoretically hone in on the symbolic elements of regimes, it may be possible to see
alternative possibilities for public influence or control over development. However, as Jonas and
Wilson note, cultural frames or “significations” are often an overlooked element of urban regimes
(and in particular growth regimes) (1999). This thesis builds on such instincts that urban studies
should take up the important job of critically examining the cultural frameworks that propel
patterns of growth.
45
Key critiques of urban regime theory indeed center on its failure to treat issues of
“culture”—or “non-material forces”—with analytical rigor. Critics have chided the implicitly
materialist and rational choice core of Stone’s original approach and the idea that urban
development regimes govern and build because they find ways to solve collective action
problems through side-payments (Lauria 1997a). Other critics have challenged Stone’s regime
approach for its failure to adequately incorporate attention to social phenomena that are not
“economic in nature,” such as expressions of group identity and processes of inter-group
boundary negotiation and ethnic or racial formation (Bailey 1999; Horan 2002; Reed 1988).
Several authors agree that attention should be paid to ‘framing agendas’ or discursively generated
concepts about the desired ends of urban development (Davies 2002 and 2003; Imbroscio 1998;
Stone 2004). Even Stone himself acknowledges that his past work incorrectly downplayed how
significant a governing coalition’s ideas or “big purpose” (2004) can be; he implies that more
attention needs to be paid to cultural frameworks that help governing coalitions to maintain
cohesion, achieve aims, and carry out agendas. Such criticisms motivate scholars who focus on
the cultural features of regimes.
Regimes necessarily involve a shared “vision” or a “hegemonic project,” which link up
with prevailing discourses and in turn structure politics (Bailey 1999; DeLeon 1992). The culture
of regimes helps to frame or “signify” the meaning of growth or land. Such meanings promote
certain ideologies and “set the agenda” for politics and development (Logan and Molotch 198;
Molotch 1993). Some topics are a part of dominant discourse and others are outside of policy
agendas (Lukes 2005; Molotch 1993).
Growth regimes, for example, need to “convince people of the importance of growth”
(Jonas and Wilson 1999: 8). They use what Molotch terms a “key ideological prop” or the “claim
46
that growth ‘makes jobs’” (1976: 320). Logan and Molotch similarly refer to the idea of “value
free growth” and how it dominates public agendas and discourses. Growth regimes, in other
words, are held together by an “ideological structure that naturalizes growth goals as a
background assumption of civic life” (Molotch 1999). In other words, “people come to
understand the world of growth—its prospects, possibilities, who gains, who loses—through
significations rather than by interacting with a ‘brute reality’ ” (Jonas and Wilson 1999). Growth
regimes are driven by the pursuit of profit by private interests, but they succeed by propagating
signs and symbols that frame land development as a public good.
For example, Bristow discusses how “regional competitiveness” has become a
“‘hegemonic discourse’ within public policy circles in developed countries” (Bristow 2005). She
explores how policy documents “tend to present [regional competitiveness] as an entirely
unproblematic term and, moreover, as an unambiguously beneficial attribute of an economy”
(2005: 285). This is linked to the “sedimentation of the idea that places are equivalent to
corporations” (Bristow 2005: 287). To the extent that this taken for granted concept influences
policy, which it arguably does, this is a powerful instance in which cultural frames shape real
politics of development. Zukin similarly highlights how cultural frames become persuasive in
markets and particularly in locales seeking to market their ‘authenticity,’ historical significance,
or desirability as a tourism destination (1997).
Molotch also highlights forms of “cultural capital” that place entrepreneurs use to secure
their influence over growth (1993). Developers have access to “cultural power” through the
media, but they also employ more subtle forms of cultural capital, such as repertoires of
“niceness” “or a “kind of cultural capital consisting of appropriate gestures, mannerisms, and
architectural tastes that generate reciprocal respect” (1993: 34). Developers and entrepreneurs
47
use this cultural capital to generate political good will and to persuade political agencies and
public officials to sign off on growth plans. Accordingly, different regimes should valorize
different cultural forms or “cultural capital.”
Shaping the cultural categories through which places are perceived can have dramatic
consequences for social lives and can translate into economic returns: “We in the older capitalist
countries live, in short, in a symbolic economy, where the production of symbols is intimately
connected both to the production of jobs and the production of space” (Zukin 1997). But how
much are the dominant symbols disproportionately shaped by dominant social groups? Zukin
suggests that dominant groups typically have a monopoly on the cultural symbols that “frame”
spaces:
. . . we can think of power in cities as the power to impose a vision on space. Those who
impose the vision ‘frame’ space much as museums frame art historical canons by
favouring some representations over others. We cannot take it for granted that powerful
people and institutions have an absolute power to frame space—but most times, the
building of cities favours their interests over others. Interesting questions arise when the
built environment of urban spaces either fails to favour the framing proposed by
dominant groups, or when political or cultural strategies slowly alter an existing
landscape of power. (1997: 226)
Nevertheless, Zukin also asserts that we should not assume or “take it for granted” that powerful
people have an absolute power to frame space. We should look at alternative framings and at
situations in which the symbolic construction of spaces does not favor elites (or even situations in
which the landscape of significations about growth is changing). This thesis engages with such
questions and looks at theoretically provocative research sites: the places where alternative
frames of land, what I term “place narratives,” have effectively combated those promulgated by
dominant groups. While systems may be stacked against communities—and particularly low
status groups within them—the unexpected triumphs of the relatively powerless may be
normatively and analytically instructive.
48
Urban regimes are thus not only coalitions. They are also symbolic systems or “regimes
of representation” (Short 1999). Regimes are fundamentally constituted by discourses, meanings,
or ideas about development and place. They are held together by institutions in the broad
sociological or cultural sense as the frames, scripts, narratives, or repertoires which both
constrain and animate social and political processes. But who is in a position to leverage such
institutions? And who is in a position to shape the cultural frameworks that drive regimes?
Democratization as Embedding or Constraining Urban Markets Conceptualizing Urban Justice? Theories of urban justice pick up on the insights of urban political economy and offer a
normative spin. Injustice is understood as the subordination of social meanings about land to the
pursuit of profit. How then could we conceptualize democratization over land development?
How would it be possible to differentiate a more just locale from a less just locale? In the most
basic sense, democratization, or urban justice, involves asserting the “social function of land”
over its significance as a commodity (Purcell 2008: 96). Thus, democratization of development
appears to the extent that property rights, real-estate market transactions, and accumulation
strategies are subjected to social rights and communal claims. It should also exist to the extent
that residents and local communities are privileged over those that control land and capital, and to
the extent that local communities have meaningful access to public officials with control over
spatial decisions.
The metaphor of embeddedness (Polanyi 2001 (1944)) is apt if dramatic. Without a
degree of constraint that comes from social meanings, markets can ravage people and societies.
Constraining the destructiveness of markets may mean ensuring humane labor practices or
49
providing welfare supports for the elderly and infirm. In the case of land, it means ensuring that
land cannot be bought and sold freely when it tramples social goods: goods such as
neighborhoods in which to live and play, historical sites deemed crucial to cultural survival, or
basic housing required for physical survival.
Democratization could also be seen as the political inclusion of new groups in political
processes as well as the expansion of governance arenas subject to popular consultation. This is
what Dryzek conceptualizes as expanding the “franchise” and the “scope” of democracy (Dryzek
1996). Charles Tilly, a standard bearer in the literature, similarly defines democratization as “a
regime’s moves toward greater categorical regularity, breadth, equality, binding consultation, and
protection” (2004: 128). 6 For this dissertation, a study of democratization in a given field or
realm, i.e. land-development, Tilly’s criteria of breadth, equality and consultation are most
relevant. For Tilly, “breadth” refers to the inclusion of “most or all subjects,” and “equality”
means all categories of people should be able to participate in politics (free of legal exclusion). 7
Finally, Tilly refers to the responsiveness of government to public input or the “collective
consultation of subjects.”
In the same vein, participatory and deliberative approaches that move beyond formal
definitions of democracy could be relevant to conceptualizing urban justice. Such approaches
argue that direct participation in governance as well as deliberation over important social and
political goals can deepen democracy and even help make policy and re-distributional outcomes
more equitable—especially when diverse actors are involved (Avritzer 2002; Cohen and Arato
1992; Habermas 1989; Heller 2000). Expanding participation is akin to widening the “scope” or
6
Tilly acknowledges that all regimes fall short of this standard—but we can conceptualize movements
toward these criteria as democratization and speak of actually existing “partial democracies”.
7
He asserts that democracies do not require perfect material equality amongst subjects, but that politics and
policy-making should be relatively insulated from material inequities (2004: 134).
50
array of policies subjected to public input. Of course, participation is not a panacea: even
participatory processes that are “inclusive” at face value may smuggle in more subtle forms of
exclusion. Power and inequality may distort deliberative and communicative practices (Foucault
1984 and 2000), for example, when certain cultural styles or forms of speaking are devalued
(Fraser 1997; Healey 1997; Young 1990). Deliberation and participation may also be inauthentic
or shallow and thus ill-equipped to meaningfully threaten dominant interests (Purcell 2008). 8
Nevertheless, multiplied opportunities for public deliberation and participation, however
imperfect, move us further along the yardstick of justice.
Lefebvre imagined that popular participation in decision making processes could create
alternatives to capitalism and its spatial exclusions. One axis in Lefebvre’s “right to the city” is
the participation of diverse members of the public in decision making over space (Fernandes
2007; Purcell 2008). Moreover, other key works on democratization and the pursuit of “justice”
in a specifically urban sense—i.e. as concerned with urban and spatial processes—also emphasize
expansion of participation (Clavel 1986; Fernandes 2007; Harvey 1996; Mitchell 2003; Purcell
2008).
Axes of Inclusion: Recognition and/or Redistribution? Scholars of justice however, have noted tensions between political inclusion on economic
or class terms versus political inclusion based on recognition of group status or group difference.
In other words, there may be multiple axes of inclusion in the political processes that shape
spaces. Political theorist Nancy Fraser, for example, makes a distinction between claims for
redistribution and recognition (1997). Claims for recognition are most apparent, she explains, in
a post-socialist world (Fraser 1997). These claims are typically asserted by “identity
8
Purcell for examples cites efforts to “appear more democratic” as a move to resolve the instabilities—or
threats to political legitimacy—contained in neoliberal economies (Purcell 2008: 28).
51
movements,” and, as many scholars have noted, are characteristic of “new social movements”
that advocate for improvements in the status of identity groups as opposed to so-called “old social
movements,” centered on labor rights and economic redistribution (Touraine 1981 and 1985).
Fraser questions whether claims for recognition necessarily come at the expense of claims for
redistribution (see also Harvey 1996).
Questions about the tradeoffs between empowerment based on redistribution versus
empowerment based on recognition can be explored by case studies like those of this dissertation.
If there are multiple axes of inclusion in urban processes, then do some forms of popular
empowerment come at the expense of others? If new laws and cultural sensibilities forwarded by
the Native Hawaiian Movement—a movement which has arguably pushed for “recognition”—
have empowered certain culturally identified groups, what does this then imply for the inclusion
of other local residents in urban politics?
The above ideas suggest a set of normative and analytical benchmarks by which urban
political processes can be adjudicated. We can use these benchmarks to assess the degree to
which development processes in Hawai‘i have been “democratized.”
Pathways Toward Democratization and Urban Development: Institutions and “Culture” At the core of urban political-economic theory then is the idea that economic and political forces
often trump social meanings (and thus, in normative terms, leads to a lack of urban justice or
democracy). This is especially evident in growth regimes. So what are the ways in which to
challenge the dominance of growth agendas? What are the avenues through which the treatment
of place can be democratized? Below I explore how institutions and cultural forms can promote
52
the democratization of development and the inclusion of diverse social groups in political
processes of land development.
Perhaps most importantly, institutions and the broader cultural context make tools
(Swidler 1986) and opportunities available for certain players to wield in development
contestations. The tools provided by given historical or cultural contexts are not necessarily
linked to formal political power or economic resources. However, many of these tools are up for
grabs. Accordingly, institutional (or cultural) contexts and opportunities do not determine the
course of action, but they suggest certain political possibilities (Lamont and Small 2008).
Institutionalisms and the Context of Empowerment? What role do institutions play in perpetuating the systematic exclusions of development—and the
consistent privileging of exchange values over use values? Regime theory suggests that
institutions support the dominance of public officials and private interests over growth. But could
political institutions instead enable greater public control over development? And if so, under
what conditions could they equalize the playing field?
This dissertation investigates ways that political institutions invite important forms of
public control, or even attenuate the ties between business and government. I examine formal
political institutions like laws and regulations, and their associated authorities (like state
agencies), as well as institutions in a broad cultural sense. Formal political institutions could
enable broader public participation in processes of development. However, the existing urban
literature is ambiguous about the consequences of seemingly progressive laws for enabling public
involvement. A cultural viewpoint also suggests that laws and institutions can work by creating
categories of recognized political actors. This political recognition may trump other forms of
53
capital. Overall, by highlighting the power and possibilities created by institutions, I hold open
the theoretical possibility of significant influence by non-elite social groups over spatial
outcomes.
To begin investigating these issues, I draw from the growing and multi-faceted
literatures on new institutionalism from sociology and political science (Evans et al 1985; Hall
and Taylor 1996; March and Olsen 1984; Nee 1998; Peters 1996; Thelen 1999) as well as specific
conceptual tools from cultural sociology. Scholars offer wide ranging definitions of institutions
defining them as formal political institutions, rules or procedures, and norms, as well as cultural
forms like codes, schemas, ideas or scripts available in a given context (Hall and Taylor 1996).
Historical institutionalists have identified the impacts of institutions in a range of policy arenas
(e.g. Esping-Anderson 1990; Hall and Soskice 2001; Lieberman 2001; Pierson 2001;Skocpol
1992;Skocpol et al 2000;Thelen 1999 and 2004). Institutionalism in sociology is most developed
in organization studies (e.g. Dimaggio and Powell 1983). I draw from the basic idea in
institutionalism that individual and group action—and even identities—are conditioned by
surrounding institutions.
A Legal Means to Urban Democratization? Formal political institutions like laws could theoretically promote political inclusion in
land development processes or encourage the prioritization of social rights over property rights
(Feagin 1998; Mitchell 2003). Fernandes argues that the “legal-political order” can create the
conditions necessary for redressing the “exclusionary nature of urban development processes”
(2007: 202 and 208). Rights are not just about the formalities of liberal democracy or “negative
rights” often associated with neoliberalization or marketization. Rights can also be positive or
54
collective; they can enforce “collective political claims that groups make on a wider society”
(Purcell 2008).
Also, legal opportunities and protections may serve as “weapons of the weak” (Scott
1985). They can be useful for marginalized residents who are able to “creatively exploit legal
opportunities and protections to press their claims” (Purcell 2008: 99). Examples include zoning
codes and land-use laws that require public consultation or public hearings—laws which are
prevalent in Hawai‘i as will be detailed in Chapter 4. Another newly celebrated example is
Brazil’s 2001 City Statute which codifies the social primacy of private property (Fernandes
2007). Brazil’s City Statute stipulates that all property shall serve a “socio-environmental
function” irreducible to “individual or state interests” (Fernandes 2007: 211). This statute
directly contrasts with liberal legal traditions that define property “almost exclusively as a
commodity” (Fernandes 2007: 209) and renders the right to private property paramount.
Additionally, it is possible that legal frameworks can push organizations, corporations,
and public officials to better prioritize social or public goals. Culturalist legal scholars stress how
organizations respond to the cultural forms embodied in and propagated by regulations.
Cultural approaches emphasize organizations’ subtle but profound responsiveness to
legal ideals, norms, forms, and categories. And whereas the materialist perspective sees
law as shaping organizational behavior by creating incentives and penalties, the cultural
perspective suggests that organizations adopt certain structures and practices because the
socio-legal environment constructs those structures and practices as proper, responsible,
legitimate, and natural (Edelman and Suchman 1997).
This perspective blurs the boundaries between laws as formal institutions and laws as broader
cultural codes or frameworks. The idea is that through multiple causal pathways legal regulations
can theoretically attenuate private interests or public-private arrangements that drive the pursuit
of land development at the expense of social goals.
55
However, legal codification may only take justice so far; the “legality” or the social
translation of law (Edelman and Stryker 2005) may fall far short of the democratic potential
contained within the written law. The powerful may be just as able as, if not more likely than,
under-resourced communities to “creatively exploit” legal systems (Purcell 2008). Moreover,
classic insights suggest that subordinate groups are most effective when they use unruly or
unconventional tactics like mass protest rather than formal and routinized politics or extended
engagement with legal systems (Piven and Cloward 1979). Indeed, a legal order asserting
cultural rights over property markets may be a necessary but not sufficient condition of expanding
use values, social meanings, and participation in urban processes.
The (relatively thin) growth control literature is illustrative. This literature shows that the
formal presence of laws does not necessarily create more just urban processes. Studies of growth
control have considered the impact of laws and rules on urban development (such as zoning and
building restrictions). These studies often show the unintended consequences of regulation.
Warner and Molotch as well as Logan and Zhou suggest that real-world politics activate and
translate formal regulations in unexpected ways. Logan and Zhou demonstrate that growth
controls do not limit building and population densities as they are usually intended (1989).
Warner and Molotch investigate political processes to show how development elites often
maneuver around growth regulations to subtly dominate local land-use agendas despite the
presence of seemingly progressive laws (1995 and 2000).
Institutionalism in Urban Studies The view of institutions as providing sets of tools—that may be effectively used by
under-privileged actors—departs significantly from certain treatments of institutions in the urban
literature. This viewpoint, for example, departs most from scholars who care about land
56
regulation to the extent that it directly impacts supply and demand in real-estate markets
(Babcock and Bosselman 1973; Fischel 1990; Glaeser and Ward 2009). The institutionalist
perspective also goes beyond accounts that categorize growth regulations without looking at the
resulting political processes. 9 Finally, new institutionalist insights offer an alternative to the view
of political institutions as primarily important for incentivizing elite behaviors in property
markets (e.g. Lewis 1996). Overall, some urban scholars argue that urban analyses have not yet
sufficiently adopted the insights of new institutionalism (Healey 1997; Lowndes 2001; Rast
2007). I build on the work of scholars who argue that borrowing tools and concepts from the
literature on institutionalism can support richer empirical accounting of land-development
processes.
“Culture as Institutions” Policies can be shaped by dominant frameworks and can in turn construct or perpetuate
cultural categories (Lamont and Small 2008; Lieberman 2001; Steensland 2006). Accordingly,
an additional way that institutions can democratize or widen inclusion in processes of
development is by creating new cultural categories or by reinforcing existing categories (ibid).
This view of institutions and policy is linked to what Lamont and Small term “institutions as
culture” (2008). Lamont and Small assert that institutions are a “culture-related analytical
device” and think of institutions as “schematic, discursive and institutional mechanisms” that lead
to policy outcomes. Institutions can shape and perpetuate cultural categories or boundaries
“through feedback or loop effects.” The result is that certain schema and boundaries “become
institutionalized, that is largely taken for granted and embedded in policies, in informal
organization, and in cultural practices” (Lamont and Small 2008: 89). These can be thought of as
“society-wide cultural representations.” Lamont and Small give examples of representations
9
This would follow more directly in an “old institutionalism” tradition.
57
about groups such as African-Americans, Welfare recipients, or unwed mothers. However, their
insights about the policy importance of institutionally defined cultural categories can just as
easily apply to other objects (in this case, the phenomenon of land development).
Similarly, other scholars refer to “codes” (Alexander 1989) which can mark off
politically salient categories or communities. These are the symbolic forms or “collective
representations in the public sphere” that can demarcate social categories or boundaries of
“inclusion and exclusion” (Alexander 1989; Baiocchi 2006: 287-289). Codes can also shape the
“motivations of actors” (Alexander 1989; Baiocchi 2006). Codes stand in for more outdated
notions of political culture (e.g. Verba and Almond 1963), and they are “if not national in scope,
at least specific to places, and relatively enduring” (Baiocchi 2006: 285). Alexander’s idea is
that codes “structure” civil society by demarcating political communities, providing fuel to
criticize political foes, or motivating action to eschew people and practices deemed unsavory or
‘profane’ (Alexander 1989; Baiocchi 2006). Baiocchi extends this idea in a way that is apt for
this study. He suggests that in any given social or political situation there may be distinct
“dominant,” “residual,” or “emergent” codes (2006). In other words, Baiocchi highlights how
dominant codes and categories can be mutable in a way that may promote the political inclusion
of newly demarcated social groups.
Cultural Tools: Sources of Empowerment? Cultural sociology offers an arsenal of specific concepts that I suggest are relevant to
understanding urban regimes as the cultural or institutional milieu that mediates development
processes. 10 As a result, conceptual devices from cultural sociology can help researchers focus
10
Cutting edge research has moved beyond static notions of culture as “deep values” or worldviews to
instead conceptualize culture as interpretive or cognitive schema such as repertoires, frames, narratives and
58
more precisely on the levels at which cultural forms exist as well as the actors who wield (or are
influenced by) them. Below I explore a subset of these cultural forms including frames, cultural
capital, and narratives (and specifically what I term “place narratives”) which could potentially
promote the democratization of land development as defined above. These concepts hone in on
various tools or opportunities that local residents in otherwise under resourced communities could
use to impact development. These concepts help link questions about growth politics to cultural
analysis. However, only a few scholars of urban politics have seriously engaged cultural
sociology and explored how cultural tools can be used by local communities against the powerful
socio-economic and political hierarchies that usually shape land use. 11
Frames “Frames” refer to categories of perception through which certain features of an
empirically thick reality become salient or “symbolically important” (Benford and Snow 2000;
Small 2002; Snow and Benford 1988). Frames can accordingly help set policy agendas by
denoting which issues are up for debate and which are simply not on the agenda (Lukes 2005).
For example, growth regimes promote frames which construe growth as providing wide public
benefits like jobs, tax revenue, and “progress.” Logan and Molotch point out that views of
growth are often “taken for granted” and they therefore powerfully shape how political actors and
members of the public perceive growth and thus often (perhaps unwittingly) support the private
interests of developers and “place entrepreneurs” (1987). But if frames are categories of
perception, then they could be more mutable than sticky or durable socio-economic hierarchies or
patterns of land and capital ownership. Social movement scholars have developed such ideas
boundaries (Benford and Snow 2000; Lamont and Small 2008; Sewell 2005; Snow and Benford 1988;
Swidler 1986).
11
As an exception, Gotham has also examined the independent effects of ‘culture’ on urban development;
he has shown that neighborhoods become symbolically racialized or perceived through racial frameworks
in a way that perpetuates residential segregation (2002).
59
and examined how social movements achieve political and social change by asserting new frames
or by couching their interests in terms of frames that resonate or “align” with the frames of those
they are trying to influence (Snow and Benford 1988).
Cultural Capital If frames or institutions often shape social relations and create political opportunities
from the ‘top down,’ then cultural capital is something that can be used by actors working from
the ‘bottom up.’ First formulated by Bourdieu (1984), cultural capital refers to the
“institutionalized, i.e. widely shared, high status cultural signals” that can demarcate social
groups and lead to exclusion or social hierarchies (Lamont and Lareau 1988: 56). Since the
original formation, the concept of cultural capital has been extended by other social scientists as
being not just about “high status” forms like art (Lamont 1992), but also as practices, skills or
habits that elicit rewards or advantages from dominant institutions like schools and government
agencies (Lareau 2004). Scholars suggest that “various types of capital operate in different
environments” and that different cultural forms and signals have currencies in different domains
(Carter 2003 and 2005).
In this thesis, the institutions of interest that grant rewards or advantages are directly
linked to land use. These include agencies discussed below like the State Land Use Commission,
county councils, county planning commissions, and island burial councils. These institutions,
according to existing theories, should valorize certain forms of cultural capital; groups should
reap advantages from these authorities to the extent that they express and cultivate the relevant
cultural capital. Attending to the role of cultural capital deepens our understanding of the
processes through which such institutions make decisions and either grant or deny benefits to
public and private actors.
60
However, there are certain limitations of the concept of cultural capital which make it
unclear how it can be successfully translated to an arena like land development. In existing
formulations, cultural capital has a somewhat tautological definition: if it serves certain ends, or
demarcates “high status,” then it should be defined as capital. Bourdieu conceptualized cultural
capital as relatively durable; though its forms and substance might change, it is durably linked to
shared likes and dislikes or habits of dominant classes. Therefore, one limitation of Bourdieu’s
formulation is that it offers little room for flexibility, agency, or social change since by definition,
marginalized groups lack access to cultural capital. However, as other scholars have shown nondominant groups can cultivate forms of cultural capital which may allow them to gain benefits in
specific contexts (Lamont 2000; Carter 2003 and 2005). This thesis investigates the forms of
cultural capital that are effectively deployed in local land-use institutions. Such capital may in
fact be delinked from other forms of political or economic advantage.
Narratives Narratives are another cultural form that may have political consequences in the realm of
land development. Like frames, they render certain aspects of social reality, as well as individual
and collective histories, salient or meaningful. Narrative denotes the process through which
frames get constructed and consolidated; narrative refers to the stories that people tell and use to
understand their lives and construct their identities (Somers 1992; Small 2002 and 2004).
Through narratives, people can link themselves to some groups and histories, or distance
themselves from others. Narratives may also be highly individualized. In my case studies, many
people articulated narratives linked to place, nation, history, and collective identities.
Pioneering research has adapted the concept of narrative to inform urban analysis (Small
2002 and 2004). Small coined the term “neighborhood narrative frames,” referring to categories
61
through which community members symbolically interpret place, or the categories that “highlight
specific aspects of the neighborhood that render it symbolically important” (2002: 20). He
argues that “neighborhood narrative frames” influence levels of social capital in a Puerto Rican
enclave of Boston (Small 2002 and 2004). Similarly, what Molotch calls an “ideological prop” of
growth machines could also be termed a “growth narrative:” a “story” or account about growth
and its purported consequences.
I build from this emerging research to consider the form and consequences of what I term
place narratives. Place narratives are just like Small’s notion of neighborhood narrative frames,
but they may revolve around places more generically. They may include non-residential places
(i.e. not just neighborhoods) imbued with cultural or historical significance. In Hawai‘i, for
example, some Native Hawaiians use place narratives to link their own identities and histories to
places and lands where they may not live or even frequent. Place narratives can link personal and
collective histories to specific geographic sites or even “land” or ‘āina in general. Place
narratives may therefore shape political action by promoting solidarity and cohesiveness in
communities fighting urban development projects or trying to assert their own land-use
preferences. Place narratives may also persuade publics and political elites to treat certain lands
in certain ways. Alternatively, place narratives may not significantly shape urban outcomes,
acting like superstructure to more fundamental material forces. A qualitative open-ended
approach allows for these many possibilities and is appropriate for theory development in this
growing area of research.
Overall, this line of thinking derived from cultural sociology suggests that urban regimes
have the potential to be systematically altered by new ideas, cultural frameworks, narratives, or
cultural capital asserted by communities and social movements. Cultural scholarship points to
arenas and resources that are not necessarily linked to political-economic hierarchies. Social
62
groups—even relatively marginalized groups—may be especially equipped to challenge the terms
and discourses of symbolic systems or lifeworlds (Habermas 1989). In other words, symbolic
systems may be more readily contested than systems of political-economic inequality or
domination. Hence a core theoretical question explored in this thesis is how much the articulation
and diffusion of alternative place narratives—or alternative “urban meanings” such as those I
identify in my case studies—can throw a growth regime off kilter. Examining real-estate
development in terms of institutional frameworks and the diversity of cultural forms central to
urban regimes draws attention to the nimble and ongoing efforts of conflicting actors who
appropriate and re-appropriate the cultural forms and institutional openings constructed and
privileged by the existing regime.
Institutional and Regime Change Over Time Conceptualizing Regime Change Scholars have criticized urban regime theory for its failure to adequately treat the issue of
regime change and have noted the need for further research on the question of how regimes
evolve over time, how regime change or succession occurs, and how (or whether) ideas, frames,
and collective identities foment such changes (Harding 1994; Orr and Stoker 1994; Rast 2007).
Urban regime theory sets a high bar when it comes to marking regime shift. By definition,
regimes are sticky, durable, and resistant to the threats which inevitably arise within them (Stone
1989 and 2004). How then should we identify regime change? This is another major analytical
puzzle of this dissertation.
Stone posits several mechanisms through which regimes persist—the most important of
which are the “arrangements” or coalitions between political and economic actors and the
63
“selective incentives” that are distributed to regime partners (1989; 1993). These selective
incentives include political or economic power. By extension, if selective incentives are no longer
available, then the regime should get in trouble. Moreover, political institutions play a role in
congealing patterns of political-economic cooperation while also dividing the spoils which keep
regimes intact. However, the latest iterations of urban regime theory posit that an array of social,
political and economic structures and processes drive urban regime reproduction and disruption
(Orr and Stoker 1994). For example, Stone hypothesizes that the emergence of a new regime can
arise from new ideas or new agenda frames, but only when enforced by social networks, political
institutions, and coalitions (2004).
Recognizing Regime Change According to the above conceptualization of regimes, regime change should involve
major alterations in any of the following key components: economic conditions, political players,
formal political institutions, or the basis of the arrangements or “selective incentives” which keep
regimes together. Such shifts would bring about transformation in the power and possibilities for
influence over what matters in a given system. And in Hawai‘i, land almost always matters most
(Cooper & Daws 1990; Kana‘iaupuni & Malone 2006; Ritte & Sawyer 1978).
The urban literature offers several examples of what may be termed regime change.
First, several scholars have touched on the fundamental alterations of local politics stemming
from global economic integration and the related restructuring of the United States economy from
an industrial to a post-industrial economy (Brenner 2004; Fainstein and Fainstein 1983; Logan
and Swanstrom 1990; Peterson 1981; Sassen 1991; Savitch and Kantor 2002). Global economic
integration and restructuring creates new pressures on localities to “compete” for capital
investment, and these pressures can create hierarchies of places on the global scale (Logan and
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Molotch 1987; Sassen 1991). Global integration and restructuring can also empower specific
economic actors or introduce new (often cosmopolitan actors) that may have an impact on the
local scene; economic integration can both create and destroy sources of private wealth or capital.
Brenner also suggests that global economic changes have prompted the “re-scaling” of local or
regional politics (2004). He provides examples of the devolution of political authority to regional
or local governments, a process which he links to globalization and the transition to post-fordism.
Other scholars similarly argue that globalization has prompted the weakening of nation states,
which in turn empowers local governments (see Castells 1996 for a review and refutation of this).
These top-down changes could significantly impact local governing environments. They could
shift the character and quality of political power and hence local processes of land development.
Another form of top-down change may be particular to domestic contexts. Examples
from the U.S. include federal initiatives which have impacted local policy environments such as
urban renewal, the war on poverty, community action programs, and equal protection laws
(Fainstein and Fainstein 1983; Mollenkopf 1983). Such changes may alter political institutions
and may also encourage new local policy efforts. Federal environmental protection laws may
also be another regulatory shift with significant consequences for urban politics (Pearlman 2010;
Espeland 1998). 12
Finally, other changes to the core components of regimes may come from the bottom up,
such as the emergence of new political actors like neighborhood organizations and social
movements (Deleon 1992; Castells 1983; Fainstein and Hirst 1995). Sometimes such changes are
spurred by population growth or immigration. However, demographic change or social pluralism
12
Though case studies (e.g. Pincetl 1999) show how Environmental Protection law (such as the
requirements for EISs, or the protection of endangered species) may not necessarily pose a threat to growth
interests or private corporations hoping to intensify land uses for profit.
65
does not always translate into political pluralism (Judge 1995) nor does it necessarily promote
regime change.
Finally, some authors mark periods in local politics by elections. Thus, some studies
have focused on the terms of mayors or governors, such as Kucinich in Cleveland, that appear to
signify a fundamental shift in local politics (e.g. Swanstrom 1985; Clavel 1986). However, often
the motivations and agendas of elected local leaders fizzle out with their departure (or even while
they are still in office). While elections and specific rules may have significant policy and social
implications, they do not necessarily signal fundamental regime change.
What about the nature, pace, and timing of regime change? Scholars from political
science and historical sociology emphasize how significant change can occur in either punctuated
or more subtle ways through gradual evolution or time. For example, scholars point to processes
of institutional reproduction like positive policy “feedback effects” (Pierson 2000) or path
dependence (Mahoney 2000a and 2002). Theoretically then, regimes may change abruptly with
relatively singular events, or they may evolve through gradual evolution (Thelen 1999 and 2004;
Pierson 2000; Mahoney 2000a and 2002).
I borrow the idea of “layering” (Thelen 2004) to describe institutional changes that have
occurred in Hawai‘i. “Institutional layering,” according to Thelen, “involves the grafting of new
elements onto an otherwise stable institutional framework.” She explains that, “such
amendments…can alter the overall trajectory of an institution’s development” (Thelen 2004: 35).
Thelen argues that subtle and incremental changes can accumulate over time into significant
institutional transformation (2004: xiii). She contrasts this perspective with “punctuated
equilibrium” approaches, which suggest that institutions remain stable for long periods up until
66
“critical junctures” when they become malleable and can be radically changed in a short period
(2004: 35).
Changing the Culture of Regimes? Adopting a less materialist perspective allows for the theoretical possibility that regime
continuation, as well as regime disruption, could have multiple catalysts. There is a bias in the
literature toward looking at the economic and political bases of power and regime stasis and
reproduction (or disruption). Hence, I investigate how and whether targeting the institutional and
cultural features of regimes can consequentially alter the politics of growth. An urban regime
approach is attractive because it has several moving parts and adopts the best of varying traditions
of political analysis (institutionalism, pluralism, and urban political economy) (Judge 1995). But
with so many moving parts, it can be hard to focus in on what really matters. How much causal
significance should be attributed to the institutional and cultural components of any given
regime?
One possibility is that shifts in culture and institutions can be just as significant as shifts
in the character and potency of collective actors or the economic bases of a locality. Accordingly,
shocks or alterations to ideas or institutions might have ripple effects in a regime even if there are
not fundamental political-economic changes. The alternative is that political-economic forces will
always trump ideational or cultural changes. My case studies are attentive to these possibilities.
However, they do suggest that cultural and institutional features of regimes have some autonomy,
at least part of the time. Otherwise, the outcomes at Lā‘au, Hōkūli‘a, and Kaka‘ako would have
differed (and come out in favor of rich developers with high-placed political allies).
Bailey provides the most compelling discussion of regime change as responsive to
cultural innovation and the demands for cultural recognition by specific identity groups (1999).
67
Bailey traces how the gay and lesbian movement of San Francisco “embedded” its “deep agenda”
and desire for status into the San Francisco polity. Bailey sees evidence of this in several sources:
1) changing language used by political officials to discuss family structure and domestic
partnerships; 2) new state agencies charged with addressing gay populations; and 3) the visibility
of elected gay and lesbian officials (1999). Similarly other authors have noted variations in
localities or regimes in terms of other facets of identities (see, for example, Reed on black urban
regimes (1988) or Appleton on gender regimes (1995)).
The emergence of the Hawaiian Movement and its associated cultural frameworks and
ideologies (which can and have been adopted even by non-Native Hawaiians) is an important
parallel to Bailey’s account of gay and lesbian politics in San Francisco. The Hawaiian
Movement involves a rising identity group which has aimed to “embed” (Bailey 1999) new ideas,
discourses, and rights provisions into the existing political and social system. Have Native
Hawaiians had as much impact on Hawai‘i’s land development regime as Bailey suggests gay and
lesbian political organizing has had on governance in San Francisco? This dissertation
investigates a specific angle of this larger question.
Conclusion Particularly in the U.S., growth agendas often rule—but not always. Case studies of distinctive or
exceptional cases, such as those I explore in this thesis, can elucidate the possibilities (and
consequences) of diverse forms of public influence over development. The empirical puzzles of
this dissertation motivate my attention to cultural and institutional forms which may create
democratic opportunities. While institutions in Hawai‘i have a particular character, discussed at
length in Chapter 4, my findings invite scholarship on other locales to examine how institutions
condition land processes in dynamic and contingent ways.
68
This thesis represents an effort to conceptualize land development as shaped by
institutions. I have argued for an institutional and cultural perspective on land development and
asserted that the possibilities for the democratization of spatial processes are delimited by given
development regimes. I have highlighted central concepts, like frames, narratives, cultural
capital, and cultural categories encoded by political institutions, which help make sense of the
thick empirics of my case studies. But just how much can institutions (formal political
institutions or “institutions as culture”) and other cultural tools do to empower local residents in
contestations over land use? This is a key theoretical question that these case studies are in a
position to elaborate.
Overall, this dissertation empiricizes abstract notions of urban justice touched upon in
this chapter and adds to our relatively slim catalog of progressive urban case studies. However,
as I aim to show in future chapters, Hawai‘i’s increasingly democratized postcolonial regime is
flexible. It does not close off negotiation and maneuvering. In other words, the tools provided by
the given institutional or cultural context are relatively “up for grabs” and their usage may bring
contingent development outcomes.
Chapter 3. Research Methods and Data Introduction and Overview of Research Design In this chapter I offer an overview of the data I collected as well as the analytical strategies I
employed. I also reflect on methodological challenges including ethnographic access,
positionality, and ethics. This project takes a qualitative approach, a tack designed to probe for
empirical richness and the full range of processes relevant to land development. I sought to look
beyond policies and outcomes toward the real politics of each case study.
As mentioned in the previous chapter, this project explores three controversial
development projects to identify how community members successfully or unsuccessfully halted
or slowed urban projects, or obtained significant concessions from developers. I focused on landuse regulations, social movement organizing, and assertions of “place narratives”—factors that I
hypothesized were important in enabling or blocking successful community influence in the
context of the current regime. I also looked for alternative explanations discussed below.
Case Selection: Contested Sites I selected two sites that exhibited the surprising outcome of successful community influence over
development and a third site for contrast. The decision to focus on a small number of
development projects—rather than a systematic review of regional or statewide trends—involved
tradeoffs. However, I decided to prioritize depth rather than breadth and chose a narrow project
specific focus.
69
70
Also, this characterization upon which I based site selection became troubled during the
course of research, and I became aware that what some local residents saw as “wins” others saw
as grave disappointments. Outcomes seemed more a mix of success and failure than I originally
anticipated. This required me to hone in on specific groups within communities and how those
factions had either achieved significant or minor influence over the selected development
projects.
Selection of Research Sites To identify potential case studies, I drew upon secondary sources and informal interviews
with local residents, scholars, and land-use experts including planners and attorneys.
I also drew
upon knowledge acquired through prior research experience in the state. In pre-dissertation
fieldwork, I regularly attended State Land-Use Commission hearings and reviewed local media
sources to familiarize myself with contemporary issues.
I had a range of criteria in mind as I looked for specific development projects to study. 13
I sought diversity in terms of county jurisdiction and region, in order to use each project as a
window into development processes occurring throughout the state. I focused on clear instances
of “tourism urbanization” (Mullins 1991) to capture conflicts characteristic of such projects.
Also, I chose projects that, taken together, had engaged with the all of the major regulatory
institutions relevant to land-development in the state. Finally, I determined it would be useful to
choose projects that had reached at least a provisional point resolution so that I could characterize
the outcomes. 14 In the end, I identified projects that were sizable in acreage and significant in
13
I considered other cases, including the Hamakua Coast (a former sugar plantation region experiencing
residential turnover and what many see as gentrification) and resort residential development at Turtle Bay
on the north shore of O‘ahu.
14
I thank Professor Patricia Steinhoff for this suggestion and for her help thinking about closure or end
points relevant to each case study.
71
terms of proposed impacts on the built and natural environment. Accordingly, all of the projects
studied were highly controversial.
Conversations with regional experts allowed me to contextualize the cases (the
development projects studied) and assess the degree to which they were representative. Such
conversations suggested that the project sites I chose were representative of development
dynamics occurring in each region. And while they were notable for their scale and controversial
character—and potentially even their outcomes—they paralleled other proposed projects and
development trends in the state. I determined they were appropriate diagnostics or strategic
research sites because they would show in a magnified way dynamics occurring elsewhere and
reveal potential sources of community strength.
Lā‘au I first learned of the controversy at Lā‘au Point on community television in Honolulu,
where I saw a locally produced account of protest. I was struck by the vigor of the opposition and
the usage of Hawaiian language and symbols. Indeed, this video was an appeal for political
support to audiences from other islands. I later learned that the innovative use of media was a
distinctive feature of politics associated with the proposed development. The proposed
development at Lā‘au was part of a larger master land use plan for Moloka‘i Properties Limited
(MPL), known locally as “Moloka‘i Ranch.” This major landowner eventually dropped plans to
develop a luxury residential enclave on the pristine southwest coast of the island.
Ethnographic Access on Moloka‘i Moloka‘i residents identify their home as the “last Hawaiian island,” and island residents
boast a long history of staunch resistance to tourism development. For these reasons, I was
cautious about studying a community that so fiercely guarded its heritage. I also wondered
72
whether my class and Caucasian or haole identity would inhibit ethnographic access. Also, in the
aftermath of the controversy over the proposed development at Lā‘au Point, would be developer
and land owner of the property at Lā‘au, Moloka‘i Ranch—also the largest employer on the rural
island without many sources of employment—had shut down its operations in 2008 and laid off
120 community members. Local residents as well as public officials were shocked by the Ranch
closure, and it was widely seen as a tragedy. Governor Lingle convened an emergency task force.
The ripple effects were profound in a place with a population of 7,400 with extended familial and
social ties.
I went on early scouting trips before seeking out formal interviews. I returned later to
conduct formal interviews nearly a year after the ranch closing. I believe this was an opportune
time to conduct research, as the emotions and fears associated with the ranch closure had settled
yet the contestations over Lā‘au had taken place recently enough that memories were fresh.
Visible reminders of the tussle over the development project remained, such as “anti-Lā‘au”
protest signs which lined the main Moloka‘i road way.
To ease entry into the tight knit rural community, I sought help from a land-use expert
and part-time local resident as well as two other personal contacts with roots in different island
communities. I was implored to interview people on ‘both sides’ of the issue. The land-use
expert felt that if people knew I was talking to residents with differing perspectives, then they
would be comfortable talking to me and that there was little risk of doing harm. These three
individuals personally introduced me to local residents, island leaders, and activists. I also
generated new contacts and networks by introducing myself to people, participating in local
island events, and “cold-calling” individuals whose names I had identified in newspaper sources.
This facilitated my access to the range of data sources discussed below.
73
Hōkūli‘a Early in the research process, my attention was drawn to the controversial Hōkūli‘a
project in the agricultural region of South Kona. The developer of this luxury residential gated
compound had been forced to drastically alter development plans and give significant community
concessions after nearly a decade of legal battles. This was the most legally and politically
complex of the cases and also the largest in terms of project area and expected impacts.
I began to see Hōkūli‘a as a test of agricultural and cultural protection law. Many
derided it for its “multi-million dollar” farm houses—an appellation that came from developers’
attempts to conform to building restrictions on state-designated agricultural lands. The site was
also a useful diagnostic on state land-use law and the growing assertion of political authority by
counties, because the project had dealt with complex litigation and many different state and
county regulatory bodies. 15 As the research progressed, I began to see this as the central case
study of the thesis, because it could illustrate many key features of the emerging postcolonial
regime. I therefore dedicated significant research effort to understanding its history and
collected more data for this case than for the others.
West Beach Once I decided to study Lā‘au and Hōkūli‘a , I began to seek out a comparative negative
case. The West Beach project seemed to embody what Lā‘au could have become had it
proceeded as planned: the first urban node in an undeveloped coastal region near a Hawaiian
population center in an under-resourced area. The West Beach 16 project became a major resort
complex, and developers radically altered the coastline and fabricated white-sand beaches—
actualizing major parts of the original development plans. Also, West Beach was sizeable in
15
16
I thank David Callies and Lee Sichter for suggesting this case study.
Now called “Ko Olina”
74
acreage and scale. Though the project had been initiated in 1977, at a much earlier point in time
than the other projects, it was still unfolding and expanding. 17
Other Features of the Research Sites All sites of this study were targeted for development by landowners and developers
beginning 10-15 years ago, with the exception of the West Beach project which was initiated in
the late 1970s. Studying these sites allowed me to investigate the unfolding and contested
processes in recent history that have both enabled and thwarted tourism urbanization.
Furthermore, each site has reached closure; that is, significant land-use changes and development
plans have either been implemented or definitively abandoned for the foreseeable future. All
three projects are located in areas with high native Hawaiian populations and are adjacent to low
to middle income populations. All of the cases involved major developers with international
corporate linkages and transnational financial backing.
These cases varied in terms of their complexity. It became clear that the Hōkūli‘a case
study required sustained investment of time and resources because of its complexity. For
example, developers were required to obtain over 30 major and minor permits and permissions
(including re-districting and re-zoning) and take part in associated public hearings. Developers
commissioned the production of literally thousands of pages of archaeological and cultural
analysis, and the major lawsuit generated thousands of lengthy legal documents.
The following table (3.1) provides an overview of each project site and its key features.
17
For example, Walt Disney Corporation is developing a hotel in the resort area. Nevertheless, my
research focused on earlier stages of development which turned the former sugar lands into a resort node.
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Table 3.1. Research Sites and Key Characteristics
Project
West Beach
Island
O‘ahu
County
Honolulu
Regional
Project
Community
Population
Type
Concerns
Coastal
luxury
residential
enclave &
HotelResort site
Majority
Hawaiian;
Mostly lower
income
Lā‘au Pt.
Moloka‘i
Maui
Majority
Hawaiian;
Mostly lower
income
Hōkūli‘a
Hawai‘i
(The “Big
Island”)
Hawai‘i
Multi-ethnic,
Many
Hawaiians
Mixed income
(uneven by
neighborhood)
Dates
Outcome
Cultural impacts;
Public access;
Environmental
impacts; Threat to
rural/agricultural
lifestyle
19771987
Minor
Community
Influence
Coastal
luxury
residential
enclave
Cultural impacts;
Public access;
Environmental
impacts; Threat to
rural/agricultural
lifestyle
20022008
Major
Community
Influence
Coastal
luxury
residential
enclave
Cultural impacts;
Public access;
Environmental
impacts; Threat to
rural/agricultural
lifestyle
1993ongoi
ng
Major
Community
Influence
Selecting Cases on the Dependent Variable In this research project, selecting cases based on the dependent variable is an appropriate
research strategy. However, many scholars may instinctively question this choice as it runs
counter to the logic of correlation or “standard variable analysis” (Mahoney 2003; Ragin 1997).
In correlation analysis, cases should not be selected for inclusion in a study sample based on
outcomes. The goal is to discover average effects over a representative sample and to identify
covariates associated with outcomes of interest.
By contrast, I draw upon alternative yet well-established qualitative research traditions
from comparative historical analysis, including “process tracing” and structured comparisons.
76
Process tracing involves identifying the processes or steps that lead to noteworthy outcomes
(George and Bennett 2005). Typically, researchers select cases with theoretically intriguing
outcomes and trace backwards to unveil the conditions and processes which led to the significant
outcome. Incorporating design principles from comparative historical methods led me to include
the West Beach, a case with an alternative outcome, for analytical leverage. This case was
chosen according to the method of agreement/disagreement (Skocpol and Somers 1980; Mahoney
2000b) since it shared many features of Lā‘au and Hōkūli‘a , though it took place in a different
historical moment and proceeded with limited community influence (see table 3.1). I further
discuss these analytical approaches below.
Data This dissertation relied upon a range of qualitative data sources, primarily personal interviews and
documentary sources. I also drew upon additional data sources where available. For each of the
cases, I tailored data collection to the substance of the case and data availability. I also varied
interview recruitment strategies. Overall, I triangulated sources to gain a complete picture of
each case and to maximize validity. Data was collected between 2008 and 2009 (and predissertation fieldwork was conducted during 2007).
Personal Interviews I conducted in-depth semi-structured interviews with developers, current and former
residents, activists, public officials, planners, and other experts or observers. I sought to
interview key respondents with a privileged view into some aspect of the development or
surrounding community. I asked respondents about the course of events, pivotal moments,
77
community perceptions, and influential actors. I also drew upon unstructured and casual
conversations with experts or key informants (these conversations were not recorded).
Interviews were conducted in various locations, according to what was convenient for
respondents. The most common location was the respondents’ place of work or residence, or
other public places such as local coffee shops. On average, interviews lasted one to one and a
half hours. Some were notably longer (a couple lasted closer to four hours). I obtained formal
written consent from all respondents prior to the interviews. I also asked permission to digitally
voice record each interview, although some respondents preferred not to be recorded. In these
cases extensive interview notes were taken. Most interviews that were recorded were transcribed
in full or in part. The research protocol was reviewed by Brown University’s Institutional
Review Board and was deemed exempt.
Pseudonyms and Names used in Text All the identities of the individuals I interviewed have been anonymized. In the text, I
use pseudonyms (first names only) for interview respondents. Where it would not reveal their
identity, I try to provide some basic information about respondents. In this dissertation, I
occasionally use the real names of prominent individuals using information gleaned only from
media sources or public records. In these cases I use real names, first and last (and after
introducing them for the first time, I refer to them by last name e.g. Jimmy Medeiros is referred
to as Medeiros, Richard Frye as Frye). To reiterate, I never use real names to denote individuals
I interviewed, nor do I disclose the identities of individuals discussed during the course of
interviews.
78
Interview Recruitment I recruited respondents using strategic and snowball sampling. Personal introductions to
many respondents (from other respondents or personal and professional contacts) helped secure
access to both elites as well as community members. I identified some potential respondents
from public records and newspaper clips. I also canvassed local scholars, planners, and
development experts to identify additional names and solicit introductions to possible
interviewees. Once I started interviews, I asked each respondent to refer me to others with similar
or opposing points of view. Therefore, snowball samples or strings of references were initiated
from different sources to ensure a diverse interview sample.
I employed slightly different selection and recruitment strategies for each research site.
For example, in Moloka‘i I determined to talk to people familiar with the “pro-Plan” perspective
as well as those familiar with the “anti-Lā‘au” (or anti-Plan) perspective. I also knew it would be
important to speak to those with expertise about the project’s review by the State Land Use
Commission as well as the views and strategy of the developer. Because Hōkūli‘a involved a
larger population and went farther in the development process, I needed interviews with people
knowledgeable about a range of issues including the local Hawaiian communities, lineal
descendants, major landowners, legal processes, etc.
In total, I interviewed 85 individuals (including 14 interviews that focused on Kaka‘ako).
The following tables show the counts and categories of respondents interviewed about each case.
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Table 3.2 Interview Respondents for Each Case
Lā‘au / Moloka‘i: Total 20
Lā‘au Interview Respondent types *
Number
Development (Pro-Plan) Advocates
7
Anti-Development Activists
7
Other Experts
2
Residents
4
Public Officials
4
*not all categories are mutually exclusive
Hōkūli‘a : Total 45
Hōkūli‘a Interview Respondent types *
Number
Development advocates
6
Anti-Development Activists
5
Other Experts
10
Residents /Neighbors
13
Public Officials
5
Archaeologists
4
Lineal Descendants
4
*not all categories are mutually exclusive
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West Beach: Total 6
West Beach Interview Respondent types *
Number
Anti-Development Activists
1
Other Experts
5
*not all categories are mutually exclusive
Documentary Sources Data was also drawn from public records and other documentary sources, primarily
newspapers along with other secondary sources. The public records were used primarily to trace
the progression of the proposed projects through the “entitlement process”—the process of
securing the permits and legal permission to pursue development plans. I also used records of
public input and public testimony to gauge which actors were engaging with the formal
regulatory process and what they were expressing.
Public records were collected from the Circuit Court, the Hawai‘i County Council, the
Hawai‘i County Planning Commission, the State Land Use Commission, the City of Honolulu
Archives, the Hawai‘i State Archives, the State Historic Preservation Division (SHPD), and other
state libraries. Different records were relevant for different cases. Land Use Commission files
were most relevant to the Lā‘au and West Beach cases. Most records related to Hōkūli‘a were
located in Hawai‘i County and SHPD offices (both the central SHPD office and the Hawai‘i
County branch office).
Though public records are required to be available by law, in practice access to some
records was difficult to coordinate and often required me to adopt organizational strategies to
facilitate document review. For example, I was overwhelmed by dozens of file boxes containing
81
relevant records at the County of Hawai‘i planning office. I adopted a strategy of skimming
every document and then taking notes or copying the most telling records. I also paid special
attention to testimony from public hearings and the deliberations of decision makers. Where
possible, I triangulated these data with interview data and newspaper records in order to hone in
on moments that seemed pivotal or indicative of important processes. Also, access to Burial
Council minutes and the complete SHPD records was difficult, in part due to personnel shortages,
recent personnel changes, and the recent relocation of key offices. SHPD has also been cited by
the state auditor for failure to properly to file records.
Additional Data Sources and Strategies I utilized several additional data sources, which varied by research site. Informal
discussions with community members initiated in a range of public places supplemented
interviews. Detailed field notes of such conversations were recorded and analyzed.
I relied on informal discussions to fill out my understanding of the Lā‘au case more than I
did in other places. This is because I had access to discussion with local residents in people’s
homes and in other local gathering places, as is particular to Moloka‘i culture. In general, I
found local residents in casual settings more willing to talk to me on Moloka‘i —a place where
nearly every local resident readily recognized me as an outsider—than in other locations. Data
saturation was achieved in Moloka‘i earlier than in the Hōkūli‘a case, and for this reason I
conducted more interviews for the Hōkūli‘a case. On Moloka‘i there was also extensive video
footage of community protest and public participation in legal processes available.
For West Beach, the oldest of the cases, I relied primarily upon newspaper sources, video
footage, and interviews with a small set of key respondents (mostly general experts on the case).
Access to the developer was more difficult to obtain and many key actors were difficult to track
down. For this case, I also collected the full sample of news clippings from the Honolulu City
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Archives about West Beach/Ko Olina (spanning the period 1977-2003). I relied more on these
documentary sources than on interviews because it was difficult to locate actors and recruit
respondents who had been active during the late 1970s to the mid 1980s. 18
I supplemented these data sources with media accounts for all the cases. Each project
attracted significant attention in local media, which provided helpful records of events and slices
of community sentiment as expressed in editorials and letters.
Analytical Method Qualitative Approaches I employed three forms of qualitative analysis: process tracing to identify sequences of
social and political events which led to community success; structured comparisons across cases
to identify necessary and/or sufficient conditions and parallel processes enabling or thwarting the
observed outcomes; and open-ended inductive analysis of community discourse to identify codes
and themes representing perceptions of each development project.
Through process tracing, I identified sequences of events and pivotal moments that led to
community influence in each case. I did this partly by asking residents about important or pivotal
moments. I looked at other moments, such as political decision-making moments, major public
relations events, and community reactions, etc. Process tracing involves asking the counter
factual question: “could the outcome of interest have occurred if this had not happened, or had
18
By contrast, I engaged in participant observation in community meetings about Kaka‘ako. I heard
varying accounts of the defeated controversial development project, and I also learned about how different
people imagined the future of Kaka‘ako Makai. I also consulted the full sample of newspaper clippings
about Kaka‘ako from the City of Honolulu Archives as well as the complete file on Kaka‘ako Makai from
the Hawai‘i Community Development Authority archives. I also examined legislative records in the
Hawai‘i State Archives to gain insight into the bill which outlawed the proposed oceanfront housing
project.
83
happened differently”—what Feagin, Orum and Sjoberg call analytic induction (1991). I also
searched for parallels in types and sequences of processes across the research sites (see
Rueschemeyer et al 1992).
The structured comparison of cases follows Mills’ “most similar systems logic” (Skocpol
and Somers 1980; Mahoney 2000b). Because each case is located within one political and
economic system (the state of Hawai‘i), I was able to isolate crucial differences and similarities
between cases while controlling for other background characteristics. Coupled with process
tracing, this research design allowed me to discover if community members took different
pathways to similar outcomes.
I analyzed interview data in order to identify processes as well as the codes, discourses,
and narratives through which development projects were interpreted. To make sense of
interview data, I employed coding and analytical memoing. I began with a short list of codes or
themes generated through preliminary research, and then I reviewed interview transcripts,
recordings, or notes where interviews were not recorded. I then inductively identified additional
codes through open-ended review of interview data. I used these codes to track themes across
interviews. I also used analytical memos to identify and interpret thematic patterns I saw across
interviews and cases, and to lay out causal sequences. This analytic process was facilitated by the
software NVivo. I used a similar process to make sense of data gathered from newspapers, video
footage, and research notes recording observations and informal discussions.
Alternative Explanations and Validity Throughout the analyses I looked for evidence supporting alternative explanations—aside
from land-use regulations and place narratives—of apparent community success. One important
alternative explanation is that elite actions and resources determined the outcomes. Examples
include changes in the structure of elite social and political ties, or changes in elite access to
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financial or political resources. Another major alternative explanation is that community
resources such as income or political ties made the difference, rather than engagement with
political institutions or the articulation of compelling scripts, place narratives, or cultural
frameworks.
Another alternative explanation is that behind-the-scenes political negotiations prompted
the observed outcomes. I expected that such data would not be shared freely during interviews
nor would it be captured in the public records. This is linked to concerns about validity or
whether the data I accessed accurately reflected real political events. Interviews and informal
discussions provided the best sources of data about unofficial or off the record political
negotiations. I was often surprised by how forthcoming many respondents were. In general, I
relied upon triangulation and often used public records or media sources to verify stories provided
during interviews. Particularly with the Hōkūli‘a case, there were many rumors and allegations
of illegality and corruption regarding the developers, politicians, and even the plaintiffs opposing
the project. I looked for points of commonality between interviews and public records.
I anticipated another threat to validity in advance: the potential that community members
would be reluctant to share their views about development or to reveal local protest strategies to
an outsider. For this reason, I focused pre-dissertation research trips on establishing relationships
with people who could facilitate entry into close-knit rural communities. As mentioned, I also
built upon pre-existing personal and professional ties. This is an appropriate strategy for research
in Hawai‘i, a state in which many people are embedded in overlapping familial, school-based,
personal, and professional ties, and a place where many argue that it’s not about ‘what you know,
but who you know.’ My previous training in Hawaiian language, as well as my familiarity with
local cultural reference points and vernaculars, facilitated access and rapport with interviewees of
varying backgrounds. Deep case knowledge and local cultural literacy were particularly
85
important given the highly contested and culturally sensitive character of debates about land in
Hawai‘i. Finally, I expected that interviewees might have difficulty recalling past events. Again,
I employed triangulation of data sources to mitigate this kind of bias in interview data.
Positionality and Negotiating “Local” Often when I requested interviews with people, or when people were making
introductions on my behalf, I emphasized my familiarity with land-development and the fact I
had been born and raised in Hawai‘i. I emphasized my local roots and tried to show acculturation
to local and Hawaiian issues and cultural references, even though I was Caucasian and affiliated
with Brown University. Many people explained that they felt comfortable talking to me because I
was from Hawai‘i. At the same time, I reminded people that, since I was from Honolulu, I was
an outsider to their particular communities. I hoped this would solicit fuller accounts of the
development projects and community issues.
Nevertheless, I have no doubt that my Caucasian identity as well as my educational
background occasionally distanced me from interviewees. One local family echoed what other
respondents may have been thinking, “Oh you went to Punahou (High School) and Brown?
Those places are only for the rich.” Being from Honolulu—seen as highly urbanized compared
to the rural regions of my research sites—along with my white or haole identity, likely limited
rapport and comfort in some cases. Nevertheless I was surprised by the candor displayed by the
respondents from every local ethnic group and from varying educational and socio-economic
backgrounds. I believe that relying wherever possible on personal introductions facilitated this
rapport.
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Reflections and Challenges In this study, potential gaps exist where I had limited ability to “study up”—to study elites such
as developers and land owners. I also suspected that developers would not necessarily be
forthcoming about their interests and past actions. I attempted various strategies to address this
challenge. Where possible, I sought introductions to elites through personal and professional
contacts. I believe this gave me credibility and enhanced people’s willingness to share their time.
This strategy proved useful for the Hōkūli‘a case study and enabled my access to knowledgeable
insiders and company elites.
However, in many cases, I did not have introductions and ‘cold-called’ potential
respondents. Efforts to reach the developer of the West Beach project in this manner were
unsuccessful. Also, contact was not possible with the owners of Moloka‘i Ranch, since the
company had closed for business in the state by the time of my research, and MPL officials had
returned to headquarters in other countries. I therefore relied on reports of former employees
including mid-level managers.
Another empirical and methodological challenge arose in understanding the perspectives
of the so called “silent majority.” This term came up regularly with regard to Hōkūli‘a and
Lā‘au, and it referred to the large number of residents who did not take a vocal or public stand
either for or against the project. Both project opponents and proponents claimed to speak for the
silent majority, as did certain public officials. I realized that those who were silent may have
helped propel the observed outcomes—failure to intervene can be consequential. Therefore, I
aimed to pay attention to both inaction and silences, which are often less obvious from the record
of events. I gained a better sense of broad community opinion—and a clearer sense of who
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stayed out of the action—by talking to general experts and local residents who were neither
strongly for nor against the development projects.
Navigating Sympathies I came to the research project with expectations, sympathies, and what some might
consider “normative biases.” I began research predisposed to trust and value the interests and
positions of communities or non-elites. I also suspected that the developers had been exploitive
or even unlawful (given the media accounts I had heard). Nevertheless, I tried to remain open to
alternative points of view, and in every case I eventually recognized alternative “heroes” and
“villains,” and alternative winners and losers—realizations that challenged my initial
expectations.
The research gradually revealed the difficult trade-offs involved with the proposed
developments. I realized that some of the developers and their associates aimed to be more
ethical and publicly minded than I originally assumed. In particular, spending time with Hōkūli‘a
workers, staff, and community supporters led me to be more sympathetic to the challenges facing
developers attempting to act with fairness while still achieving basic fiscal soundness.
Interviewing members of communities with strongly divergent perspectives also loosened
my pre-conceptions. For example, as I completed interviews about Lā‘au, I encountered strongly
opposing sentiments. Stories which emerged during interviews were emotion-filled (and
occasionally tearful) and rooted in profound concern regarding Moloka‘i ’s future. I would
empathize with the strong feelings and disappointments expressed from one point of view and
then find myself feeling just as strongly about a radically opposing point of view. After feeling
deeply unsettled and confused (and almost as if I had a split personality), I eventually accepted
varying points of view as “social facts” rather than as “right” or “wrong” . I also realized that
88
such community fractures were a notable consequence of land-development politics in the current
regime.
Ethical Questions I also grappled with certain ethical questions. First, I felt concerned about whether it was
appropriate for me to directly investigate Hawaiian cultural rights or write about Hawaiian issues
as a non-Native Hawaiian. Also, to the extent that my research revealed local disagreements and
allegations of corruption, I did not want to bring these issues to light in a way that would damage
communities or ‘air their dirty laundry.’
Also, in some cases I worried about prompting people to relive difficult events. A couple
of individuals declined requests for interviews, perhaps for these reasons. Furthermore, I
wondered whether I would be revealing privileged knowledge or strategies used by communities
to contest development—valuable resources which should perhaps be protected. One local
activist looked at me skeptically when he learned about my research interests and said, half
seriously and half jokingly, “don’t tell anyone what we’re up to.” Another respondent explained
that he had learned so much valuable knowledge through activism that could be used strategically
in other areas. He mused out loud whether he just wanted to “put it all out there” for anyone to
take. Others encouraged me to share their hard-earned lessons—“it’s a mo‘olelo (story) that
needs to be told” one local resident implored. Developers and their supporters were also often
motivated to share their stories, often to correct public perceptions and to highlight their
honorable intentions.
On Moloka‘i, the recent experience of painful community division particularly colored
interview experiences. For example, one respondent explained that his co-workers were strongly
opposed to the development and so he did not want to conduct an interview within ear shot.
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Another respondent contacted me after our interview and shared that it had been difficult for her
to relive the events of the prior year, yet she still felt the story should be told accurately and
include perspectives like hers.
To address these ethical quandaries, I made it clear during the consent process and
introduction to the interview that respondents should not share any more than they felt
comfortable. I also reminded respondents of this during interviews, especially when they
expressed misgivings. Some interviewees shared sensitive material anyway, but they typically
asked that I turn off my recording devices and keep the sensitive information private. While I do
not report these data, such information informed my sensibility as a researcher and occasionally
pointed me toward less sensitive publicly available sources (such as newspaper accounts and
public records).
Chapter 4. The Context of Land Development: Hawai‘i’s Evolving Regimes and Institutions Introduction After beginning with a brief overview of three historical periods or regimes, this chapter serves
two primary purposes. First, it describes three major regimes or periods in turn: the territorialplantation regime, the tourism-growth regime, and the emergent postcolonial regime. I review
the basic political-economic conditions and institutional features of each regime. I consider each
subsequent shift in regime a form of democratization of land development as both have led to
new ways of embedding the monetization or marketization of land in social goals. Second, at the
end of this chapter, I include a section with necessary background about the political institutions
structuring land use for the case studies discussed in later chapters. This section offers a fairly
straight forward review of important land laws and authorities.
Overview of Regime Change in Hawai‘i The first shift I note in Hawai‘i—from the territorial-plantation regime to the tourismgrowth regime—involved events that historians and local observers know as the “Democratic
Revolution.” To spark this so-called revolution, the Democratic Party in 1954 took control of the
Territorial Legislature and ousted the Republican Party from its majority status. The break from
the past was clear in terms of formal political power, new economic opportunities, and new
institutions. All of Hawai‘i’s major historians see this as a marked turn in Hawai‘i’s political,
social, and economic trajectory (Cooper and Daws 1990; Fuchs 1961; Coffman 1973 and 2003;
90
91
Kent 1993). The hegemony of the new growth regime held tight through class-alliances,
corporatist accommodation of labor, and a persuasive discourse or narrative that landdevelopment could create wealth, jobs, opportunity, and a promising “New Hawai‘i” (Kent
1993).
The second shift I identify, from the tourism-growth regime to the postcolonial regime, is
less obvious in part because it is not associated with a relatively clear and punctuated set of
political events (like the “Democratic Revolution”). Rather, the second regime shift I identify has
emerged more gradually over time. I argue that it has occurred through slow consciousness
building and institutional evolution, as well as the emergence of new collective actors. Key
historical moments are indicators of this regime change including the mass protests in 1993
commemorating the overthrow of the Hawaiian Monarchy; the protests against Bishop Estate
(and high ranking Democratic Party members in the early 1990s); two significant supreme court
rulings in 1995 (PASH 19 ) and 2000 (Ka Pa‘akai) 20 and related state legislation in 2000; 21 as well
as other changes in the legal-political context of development reviewed in the second part of this
chapter.
One major force propelling this second regime shift has been the rise of the Hawaiian
Movement. As this Movement has pushed for Native Hawaiian political self-determination and
cultural recognition, it has also gradually altered the legal and political frameworks which shape
land development. Cultural frameworks like aloha ‘āina have inched into the mainstream,
providing narratives and cultural frameworks that compete with developmentalist scripts. At the
same time, legal action and political activism linked to the Hawaiian Movement have added new
19
Public Access Shoreline Hawai‘i v. Hawai‘i County Planning Commission (“PASH”)
Ka Pa‘akai O Ka ‘āina v. Land Use Commission (“Ka Pa‘akai”)
21
There are a number of other significant court cases that also demonstrate cultural and legal changes that I
see as a regime shift. These include cases like Pele Defense Fund v. Paty or cases regarding water rights.
(see Asam 2006; Panarella 1998; Haia 2009 for further discussion)
20
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layers to Hawai‘i’s regulatory framework and gradually but determinedly institutionalized new
checks on the commodification of land.
Other actors and events have contributed to the gradual unraveling of the previously
hegemonic tourism-growth regime. Environmentalist groups have also helped elect more “greenminded” representatives and have supported political and legal action challenging the
commodification of land. Moreover, the in-migration of relatively affluent outsiders, many of
whom who have moved to Hawai‘i for its prized beauty and rural-agricultural landscapes, have
also joined the forces (sometimes as part of uneasy allies with contentious Native Hawaiians) that
have increasingly troubled Hawai‘i’s growth regime. Taken together, these represent what I see
as an emergent regime that increasingly accommodates Hawaiian, environmental, and lifestyle
concerns and that challenges a capitalist or job-oriented logic of land development.
The definitive chroniclers of Hawai‘i during the tourism-growth regime (a period they
termed the “Democratic Years”) Cooper and Daws, saw harbingers of a new order on the
Horizon. 22 But mostly their account highlighted the resilience and all-encompassing nature of the
tourism growth agenda as well as the ubiquitous influence of its primary beneficiaries. However,
Cooper and Daws wondered if what they saw as two major political and demographic trends
facing the state—the rise of the Hawaiian Movement and the growing population of affluent
Caucasians—might trouble development politics (1990).
The secondary authors I rely on all agree that the rising Hawaiian Movement has been
one of the most important modern political events in Hawai‘i (Cayetano 2009; Coffman 1973 and
2003; Cooper and Daws 1990). However, none take the step of questioning whether the
22
Cooper and Daws referred to this period as the “Democratic Years” to refer to dominance of the
Democratic Party. They mark this period as beginning roughly around the time of statehood in 1959 up
until 1985, the time they completed the research for their book.
93
arrangements governing land use have fundamentally changed because of the movement. And no
mainstream scholarship on Hawai‘i of which I am aware has systematically made the case that a
new form of land politics has supplanted the former status quo. In this dissertation I investigate
this possibility by offering a review of morphing institutions and by providing a close look at the
empirical details of contested urbanization through the case studies that follow in later chapters.
Below I also give an accounting of new layers of institutions, added in part through efforts of the
Hawaiian Movement. Such changes provide evidence of regime change.
There are other hints in contemporary writing on Hawai‘i which support the idea that
land and growth politics have entered a new era. For example, chroniclers of the controversy in
Hawai‘i over the Super Ferry, a high speed ferry project which was ultimately killed due to
protest and EIS requirements, assert that there are now new sources of “people power” (Paik and
Mander 2008). Also, very recently, a small handful of journalists have noted parallel dynamics
across development controversies (such as the Super Ferry, Hōkūli‘a, and the fight over the
proposed expansion of the Turtle Bay resort near O‘ahu’s north shore); these commentators have
suggested that something systematically different is afoot in terms of community tolerance for
development (e.g. Dayton 2007a).
Interviews with experts provided mixed support for the hypothesis that the tourismgrowth regime is waning. Some planners (whom I cite in case studies) suggested that the
“paradigms” have changed when it comes to ideas and practices of land development in Hawai‘i.
At the same time, other key respondents suggested that ‘business-as-usual’ continues to prevail,
and they expressed skepticism about whether the beneficiaries of land development have changed
or whether the Hawaiian Movement has had any systemic impact on growth politics.
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A note on data sources is called for before proceeding. My discussion of the first two
regimes, the territorial-plantation regime and the tourism-growth regime, rely entirely on
secondary sources. I draw from the small set of widely recognized experts on Hawaiian History:
Lawrence Fuchs and Gavan Daws as well as noted political journalists George Cooper and Tom
Coffman. I also rely on firsthand political accounts provided by former Governor Ben Cayetano,
who was first elected to office in the state legislature in the early 1970s. My task is made easier
by the limited number of expert sources on modern Hawaiian History. I only report on trends and
themes on which these scholars agree. The key difference amongst them is their normative
interpretation of the years following the Democratic Revolution. Cooper and Daws’s work—a
network analysis of business and political ties—highlights the narrowness and the corruption of
these years. Coffman, on the other hand, sees the tourism-growth regime in more generous terms
as broadly inclusive despite its limitations. Cayetano similarly argued that corruption and selfinterest amongst Democrats was more the exception rather than the rule (2009).
Background to the Territorial Period American and European businessmen began to see the promise of Hawai‘i’s white gold—
sugar—in the early 1800s. By the mid-1800s sugar cultivated in massive plantations dominated
the Hawaiian economy: the state would produce and export nearly 3 million pounds annually by
1860 (Fuchs 1961). Plantation interests helped push for the establishment of Western-style
private land ownership in the Great Māhele or “Great Dividing” of 1848, which divided formerly
communal lands into private parcels. Hawaiian lands were carved up and divided amongst 250
reigning chiefs (who were given fee simple title to one third of Hawaiian Lands). Most of the
remaining lands became Government lands and the King’s “Crown lands”. In 1850, foreigners
were granted permission to own land (Fuchs 1961). This upended the agriculturally-based semi-
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feudal system and alienated most common Hawaiians from lands in a local form of primitive
accumulation. 23
Once land was privatized, foreign European or American businessmen proved adept at
acquiring and consolidating large parcels. When they did not buy land cheaply from chiefs, sugar
plantation owners secured cheap long-term leases from the Kingdom Government in the most
fertile areas of the islands (Fuchs 1961: 19). In this way, the Māhele left a legacy of major landowning estates. Powerful land-owners such as the Bishop Estate would hold great influence well
into the 21st century (by statehood its land assets were valued at $10 billion). By the end of the
1800s, four-fifths of Hawaiian lands were owned by Caucasians or haoles (Fuchs 1961: 31).
Concentrated control over land in turn created concentrated power. By 1909, haole
corporations controlled half of all privately owned land in Hawai‘i, and the remaining lands were
divided between private haole landowners and Bishop Estate (who each held one-sixth of lands).
The remaining one-sixth of lands were controlled by Hawaiians, Part-Hawaiians and Asians
(Fuchs 1961: 253). The “planter” class (Daws 1968) resisted any efforts that would have created
small landholders, including policies to enable “homesteading” by providing plots to small
farmers (Fuchs 1961). There were virtually no small independent farmers, with some exceptions
in the Kona Coffee region and particularly in South Kona.
Immigration completed the picture by providing a steady stream of cheap labor. Waves
of Chinese were recruited in the mid-1800s followed by Japanese and Filipinos (in the largest
23
The Kuleana Act of 1850 tried to cushion commoners. In this Act, commoners who lived off of the land
and cultivated agriculture could file claims for small parcels. In practice, less than 1% of lands were
claimed by commoners (less than 30,000 acres out of 4 million acres) (Fuchs 1961: 16). The Kuleana Act
also secured the rights of “native tenants” to gather and hunt within their ahupua’a, a political land unit, to
provide for their own subsistence. This law would later become part of the 1978 Constitution of the State
of Hawaii, and would be used by modern Hawaiians to exercise influence over land-development. (Garcia
2003; Asam 2006).
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numbers), often working as indentured ‘contract’ laborers. Pockets of Portuguese, Puerto Ricans,
Koreans and other Europeans were also recruited to work the fields (though typically whites like
Portuguese were given positions higher in the labor hierarchy as lunas or overseers). Some
commentators likened Hawai‘i of the 1800s to the post-civil war South where contract labor
predominated (Fuchs 1961). Planters practiced ethnic divide and rule in order to repress labor.
They reinforced ethnic divisions and created ethnic labor hierarchies (Fuchs 1961; Daws 1968)
The Caucasians of Hawai‘i certainly had racial preoccupations, as they viewed
immigrants from Asia as permanent “aliens” and both Asians and Hawaiians as “naturally
inferior” others. Whites felt destined to rule and most probably believed in white racial
supremacy, though they did not ‘flaunt’ such views and lived with a contradictory tolerance for
miscegenation and racial mixing with Native Hawaiians (Fuchs 1961; Daws 1968). Racism was
kept a “quiet affair” for fear of angering Tokyo policy-makers holding the levers of immigration,
and later Hawaiian voters (Fuchs 1961: 50).
The Territorial­plantation Regime In 1898, the U.S. Congress annexed Hawai‘i, making it a U.S. territory through the Organic Act.
Despite earlier disagreements about the merits of “Americanization” 24 , the plantation elites
supported Hawai‘i’s annexation to the United States because sugar profits depended on full
access to U.S. markets (Fuchs 1961; Daws 1968). Plantation owners had lobbied Washington to
restrict voting rights (through Jim Crow-like property restrictions that would have excluded
Hawaiians from the polls). They feared being at the mercy of natives. Nevertheless, the Organic
Act required universal suffrage. In practice, voting rights did little to offset the planters’
24
Due to some fears that joining the U.S. would restrict the free flows of immigrant labor (vs. those who
hoped to stem the “yellow peril” by “Americanizing” Asian immigrants. (Fuchs 1961: 35).
97
dominance. Meanwhile, Hawai‘i’s last Queen, Lili‘uokalani, under house arrest, mourned in
black for her lost Kingdom.
During the Territorial period, a politically, socially and economically unified inner haole
(Caucasian) elite or planter class was the most influential collective actor in Hawai‘i’s polity, and
the sole economic elite. This class sought to continue realizing profits through the sugar trade via
cheap access to land and labor, and favorable trade relations with the U.S. continent. There was
virtually no middle class to speak of (in the sense of small land holders or businessmen)—with
the exception of a growing business and commerce oriented Chinese population working and
residing primarily in Honolulu (Fuchs 1961: 37). Despite comprising a small minority, the
plantation elites maintained their political and economic domination over the Territory of Hawai‘i
well into the 1940s.
Economic Elites: the Planter Class At this time, sugar was “King” and the haole elite tightly held control over nearly all of
the land, capital and economic power in the islands. The five largest plantation-related businesses
or “factors” (the so-called Big Five) controlled credit and capital from their Honolulu
headquarters on Merchant Street. “Factors” facilitated the transport of supplies and sugar, and
they supplied the sugar planters and processors with various forms of capital (financial capital,
machinery, etc.). Factors thus become central to the entire plantation economy. Despite the
presence of a formal democracy, scholars refer to this period as decidedly oligarchic (Fuchs 1961;
Coffman 2003; Cooper and Daws 1990; Kent 1993). As the most respected historian of Hawai‘i
Lawrence Fuchs notes: “Rarely were political, economic, and social controls simultaneously
enforced as in Hawai‘i.” During the Territorial Period, “Hawai‘i’s oligarchy skillfully and
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meticulously spun its web of control over the Islands’ politics, labor, land, and economic
institutions, without fundamental challenge” (Fuchs 1961: 152).
They shared power and resources within their small cadre. They were adept at
maintaining local control and cooperating amongst themselves. They were connected through
friendship, school ties, club-memberships and intermarriage. They also constructed a unified
identity with a shared sense of racial superiority (Fuchs 1961; Kent 1993). They coordinated
their political and economic activities through a powerful Hawai‘i Sugar Planters Association
(HSPA) and learned to lobby effectively in Washington. They interacted with players from the
‘metropole’ when necessary, primarily to maintain privileged trade relations with the continent or
to persuade U.S. leaders to appoint a favored territorial governor (Kent 1993). They fiercely and
successfully held local control over their trade (Kent 1993).
Few economic niches existed outside of the plantation economy during the Territorial
period. Some descendants of immigrants became involved in commerce in urban areas of
Honolulu—most Chinese had left the plantations for small commerce in Honolulu (Fuchs 1961;
Daws 1968). In other parts of the islands, there were occasional opportunities for non-elites to
become small proprietors or small farmers, often through leasehold. However, these groups had
yet to form a unified political identity. 25
Government: The Republican Party and the Planter Class The social cohesion of the “Planter Class” enabled them to coordinate political control,
despite being in the minority of voters. The planters forwarded their own economic interests
through the Republican Party which dominated the three major institutions of Territorial
25
Some former sugar areas were turned into pineapple plantations in the mid-1800s (including parts of
Central O‘ahu, West Moloka‘i, etc.).
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Government established by the Organic Act: the Territorial legislature (chosen by popular vote),
the Territorial delegate to the U.S. Congress (determined by popular vote) the Territorial
Governor (who would be appointed by the U.S. president for four year terms) (Fuchs 1961).
The wealthy also had a disproportionate influence on voting, which enabled the
Republican Party to dominate legislative and congressional elections. Plantation bosses practiced
coercion and intimidated their workers and families into voting for the Republicans of their
choice. Plantations still operated like fiefdoms. Workers feared their bosses and were
completely dependent upon them for wages, and access to basic provisions through plantation
stores, even housing. (Fuchs 1961; Daws 1968). The plantation elites also heavily funded
“worthy” Republican candidates (sometimes even breaking federal campaign funding laws)
(Daws 1968: 313). Alternatively, the Democratic Party was plagued by fragmentation and
candidates had little political or financial support. In this time period, eight out of 10 men elected
to the legislature were Republicans (Daws 1968: 313)—often with direct ties or employment
experience in the sugar industry. Economic inequality effectively limited political democracy.
Annexation created a legacy of political centralization unique to the 50th state, and partly
epitomized by a powerful governorship (Fuchs 1961: 155). Appointed by the President of the
U.S., the territorial Governor controlled hundreds of appointments, and numerous services and
political functions typically under the jurisdiction of local governments were controlled by the
governor. He also held significant power over legislative appropriations (Fuchs 1961; Coffman
2003). Planters persuaded Washington to appoint sympathetic governors. Each governor
appointed during the forty-year Territorial period was a man who had held administrative or
policy positions within one of the Sugar plantations, its factors, or subsidiaries (Fuchs 1961:
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155). Kent argues that centralized government helped the planters, who were able to easily
dominate the governor (1993).
Challengers: Hawaiian Voters Universal manhood suffrage did give native Hawaiians some leverage since they formed
the majority of voters upon admission to the U.S. in 1898 and a plurality of voters until 1938
(Fuchs 1961: 161). This was partly because immigrants lacked the right to vote, and Asian
immigrants were not allowed to naturalize according to U.S. law. Hawaiians shared a collective
preference for Hawaiian representatives and a sense of allegiance to their largely displaced ali‘i—
the reigning chiefs. This presented a problem for the haole oligarchs, who saw themselves as
divided from Hawaiians by race, culture and skin color (although they practiced paternalism and
even inter-marriage). (Fuchs 1961; Daws 1968; Coffman 2003)
To neutralize potential Hawaiian resistance to the rule of the Republican Party,
plantation elites forged an unlikely (and unequal) partnership with a beloved native Prince, Jonah
Kuhio, former heir to the Hawaiian throne. Voters sent Kuhio (showing unquestioning
allegiance of subjects to a former monarch) as the delegate to Congress for the next 20 years
where he toed the Republican party-line. Historians describe Kuhio as a semi-tragic figure: he
longed for a stature and nobility lost with the end of the monarchy; in pursuit of glory, he
reluctantly pawned himself to the oligarchs, perhaps doing his best to gain Hawaiian political
power despite the circumstances (Coffman 2003). Republicans also secured electoral support
from Hawaiians through an extensive patronage system which rewarded many thousands of
Hawaiians with government positions. (For example, by 1932, Hawaiians and part-Hawaiians
accounted for only 15% of the population but held approximately one-third of public-service
jobs) (Fuchs 1961: 162). In part through Kuhio’s help, local counties were created in the 1905.
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Kuhio and others hoped that counties would be more autonomous from the Honolulu-based
planter and business class. The power of the local counties has evolved into the 21st century, and
current land politics are shaped by contests between county and state authority (discussed more
below).
Challengers: Organized Labor Organized labor would eventually challenge the iron rule of planters; Labor leaders and
workers eventually created a powerful labor movement—arguably the strongest in U.S. History
(Jung 2006; Beechert 1985). Strikes in 1909 and 1920s stoked the emergence of a working class
identity. However, early strikes succumbed to racial divisions; divisions carefully cultivated by
plantation bosses over the decades (Jung 2006). Yet labor leaders persevered and urged workers
to unify by class regardless of ethnic differences. The International Long shore and Warehouse
Union (ILWU) of the CIO successfully organized first dock workers, then industrial plantation
laborers involved in sugar (and pineapple), and later growing numbers of agricultural workers.
Protection by the National Labor Relations Act of 1935, and a 1945 act which extended
organizing rights to agricultural workers, stymied the labor repression so prevalent in other
plantation societies such as Latin America (see Rueschemeyer et al 1992). In industry-wide
strikes during the 1940s, the ILWU demonstrated its strength. Between 1944 and 1947, ILWU
membership increased from 900 to 30,000, and the Union organized laborers in the two major
plantation industries (sugar and pineapple) as well as dockworkers (Fuchs 1961: 357). The most
dramatic strike occurred in 1949, lasted 178 days and halted all shipping to Hawai‘i. Given its
dependence on shipping, industry in Hawai‘i was crippled (Fuchs 1961: 360).
World War II was a time of transition and during this period the second generation of
Japanese in Hawai‘i came of age (now, they were citizens). Several members of this second
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generation (known as Nisei) would lead Hawai‘i into the end of the 20th century. Nisei from
Hawai‘i who served in the War gained access to education and loans through GI bills. These
Nisei would return after the war, with expanded worldliness and a strong sense of civic
entitlement, hoping to push Hawai‘i to fulfill the promise of American democracy and ideals
(Coffman 2003). Many would lead Hawai‘i and take up top political positions after statehood in
1959. Americans of Japanese Ancestry (AJA) were now the single largest ethnic group in
Hawai‘i; many were newly empowered with expanded access to public education.
The Tourism­growth regime Organized labor, working class Japanese and other ethnic groups, as well as an emergent middle
class, sparked the rise of the Democratic Party in 1954 and successfully loosened the grip of
oligarchy, and propelled regime change. This regime change is clear in that a new political
party, backed by new collective actors, gained formal political power. This change in political
power led to changes in political institutions as well. Finally, change in political power begat
more economic changes and a shifted “vision” of Hawai‘i. The new regime developed around
tourism and real-estate development, which gradually displaced plantation agriculture as the
foundation of Hawai‘i’s economy. Regime change in this case meets all of the criteria outlined
above. [It did not necessarily create socio-economic opportunity for all of Hawai‘i’s working
classes, though residents of Japanese and Asian ancestry did rise as a group as well]. This regime
operated like a classic growth machine, a situation in which political and business elites, as well
as empowered collective actors like organized labor, cooperate to promote the economic
development of place and accrue wealth (Molotch 1976).
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Given the importance of labor, this regime can also be conceptualized as a form of labor
corporatism. Schmitter (1974) defines corporatism as “a system of interest representation” in
which a select set of groups are,
…recognized or licensed (if not created) by the state and granted a deliberate
representational monopoly within their respective categories in exchange for observing
certain controls on their selection of leaders and articulation of demands and supports”
(1974: 93-94).
Organized labor in Hawai‘i certainly had a privileged position and “representational monopoly”
in terms of negotiation with government, in exchange for relative labor quiescence. 26 However,
unlike certain European Corporatist systems (e.g. Switzerland and the Netherlands), the
bargaining position of labor was not enshrined by formal laws, but rather by informal political
arrangements.
Moreover, the regime faced challenges from within but successfully mitigated them—for
the most part. Nevertheless, overtime, challengers would gain in power (building from the grass
roots). Also, the institutions established to placate internal challenges—most significantly the
State Land Use law—would create internal contradictions—that would, as I see it, eventually
propel a kind of unraveling of the regime. In other words, growing discontent and new
institutions would create a wedge of possibility that future political groups would exploit.
The Democratic Revolution of 1954 and the Democratic Agenda In 1954, a coalition of those holding “cumulative bitterness” toward the oligarchy rallied
around the Democratic Party (Fuchs 1961). This included the two biggest voting racial groups in
the Hawaiians (who historically had voted Republican but increasingly tilted Democratic) and the
Japanese (especially the politically active Nisei veterans in the 442nd club). Organized Labor and
26
For a time the ILWU specifically held this monopoly, though later other unions would compete with
ILWU and gain more of a foothold.
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liberal democrats (including liberal haoles) and smaller groups like Chinese, then a relatively
middle-class group, as well as Filipinos (then still closest to the plantations) also supported
Democrats. These groups voted the Democrats into the majority of the Territorial legislature.
Overall, most non-haoles leaned Democrat by the 1950s, largely as a result of conscious efforts
by party leaders to appeal to all races. These groups saw the Democratic Party as the vehicle to
achieve their long oppressed aspirations and end racialized exclusion (Fuchs 1961: 318-322;
Daws 1968).
The 1954 election, also known as the “Democratic Revolution,” offered a negation of
Hawai‘i’s plantation society and ousted the plantation-interest dominated Republican Party from
rule. Democrats would soon dominate all branches of the territorial (and later state) government.
The Democrats and their allies sought to create new opportunities for excluded groups by
reshaping Hawai‘i’s economy via promotion of real-estate development and tourism. I term this,
therefore, a tourism-growth regime. Hawai‘i became the 50th state in 1959 and re-invented itself
as a premier tourism destination.
In the late 1950s and 1960s, the Democratic Party advanced broadly inclusive socialdemocratic policies. They began by increasing spending on public education, social assistance,
working-class housing, workmen’s compensation and unemployment compensation, and by
raising the minimum wage (Fuchs 1961: 327). Later they showed that Hawai‘i was a pioneering
welfare-state by passing the nation’s first mandatory employer-provided health care plan in 1964
(Coffman 2003; Fuchs 1961; Cooper and Daws 1990).
Two additional programs distinguished the Democrats: 1) the commitment to creating
job opportunities, and 2) land-reform and the goal of breaking up the big landed-estates. From
the beginning, the Democratic Party pushed for land-tax reform and land use planning to achieve
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these programmatic goals. Tax reform removed tax benefits from agriculture and prodded
commercial/urban development, as tax laws encouraged land owners to either put land in
“productive use” or sell to private developers. It was no longer economically viable to let large
estates remain fallow (Fuchs 1961: 335). In 1961 the Land Use Commission was awarded
overarching power over the usage of land throughout the state, a crucial political institution
discussed at length below. 27
Despite these policies, land ownership remained highly concentrated. Land grew in value
ensuring the economic and political import of major land-owners. What was new, however, was
that landowners were given incentives to develop large parcels in partnership with an emerging
middle class. Although elites still held access to local capital and controlled local banks, middle
classes began to seek new forms of capital, found new banks, and cultivate partnerships with
investors and developers from outside of Hawai‘i. This was a new age of international and
cosmopolitan involvement in Hawai‘i real-estate. The oligarchs remained powerful, but now at
least had to share power. (Kent 1993; Cooper and Daws 1990)
Organized Labor and the ILWU During this time period, organized labor and principally the ILWU had emerged as a
major power broker. Through tough discipline and decades of (sometimes violent) confrontation
with plantation oligarchs, the ILWU had organized most of the industrial laborers in Hawai‘i.
The ILWU support for the Democratic Party was pivotal. The union consistently backed
27
The Hawaii Land Reform act was passed in 1967 by the state legislature to break up the concentrated
ownership of land (On O‘ahu for example, 22 landowners owned 72% of fee simple titles.) The act
required large landowners to allow some of their lessees to buy the fee simple title of the land under their
houses. Also, this act gave the state of Hawai‘i the authority to condemn private lands in order to sell such
lands to lessees. Bishop Estate (the largest landowner in Hawaii) challenged the law, but the law was
upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1983. Over 14,600 families reportedly bought land under their
houses after the passage of this law. (Gordon 2006). This is the only instance of land reform in the United
States. (see also La Croix 1995).
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urbanization and real-estate development while pushing for high wages and benefits. The local
ILWU head, the charismatic, discipline-minded and “dictatorial” Jack Hall, was highly suspicious
of threats to fast-paced urban growth (Coffman 2003; Fuchs 1961). Labor leaders only wanted to
ally with Democrats who would execute their interest faithfully. John A. Burns and ruling
Democrats would choose to ally with the powerful ILWU, which often meant bowing to union
demands and their “autocratic” (Fuchs 1961) politics and tactics. By the late 1950s, ILWU
endorsement meant electoral success (Fuchs 1961: 342; Kent 1993: 133).
The Ruling Democratic Party During this time, government was dominated by the Democratic Party and a powerful
centralized governor. John Burns chaired the Democratic Party from 1952-1974 and served as
governor from 1962-1974. The so-called “Burns Consensus” (Coffman 1973) unified the key
power blocs in the islands and included business/land interests, organized labor, and state
government (Coffman 1973; Fuchs 1961; Cooper and Daws 1990). All of these groups worked
together to promote real-estate and tourism development.
The Burns’ Consensus thus involved class-compromise in return for relative labor
quiescence. The ILWU enjoyed significant power during the Burns administration and controlled
several key political appointments (to agencies like the LUC discussed below). ILWU
endorsement of a candidate on the neighbor islands (outside of Honolulu) was particularly
decisive; this meant the ILWU practically commanded control of the State House of
Representatives (Fuchs 1961). Organized labor and associated members of construction and realestate industries donated heavily (and often secretively) to Democratic Party insiders and Burns
in particular (Coffman 1973).
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The system kept many workers happy enough with their lot. Hawai‘i’s sugar and
pineapple plantation workers, considered industrial workers according to a ruling from the
National Labor Relations Board were amongst the highest paid industrialized workers in the
country (Coffman 1973). Unions also expanded their influence and assiduously organized the
growing tourism and service sectors, as well as the public sector. Burns cultivated rapprochement
between development interests and big land owners (Coffman 1973). Developers depended on
the willingness of land owners to open their lands to them (King and Roth 2006). This
willingness became more widespread with tax reform and as land-owning estates saw the promise
of profits that could flow from urbanizing agricultural lands.
Burns’ electoral successes also depended upon AJAs (Americans of Japanese ancestry)
and other ethnic groups who felt great loyalty to Burns, who spoke pidgin and touted his working
class hard-scrabble background in a tough part of Honolulu, an upbringing worlds away from the
haole elite (Coffman 1973; King and Roth 2006). Japanese Americans were the largest single
ethnic group in Hawai‘i and notoriously loyal to Burns (King and Roth 2006). AJAs established
their presence in civil service and public education, and grew increasingly powerful in business
and politics (King and Roth 2006). Burns also assiduously cultivated a Hawaiian-Japanese
alliance, by courting growing numbers of Hawaiians and including part Hawaiians in his inner
circle, rewarding them with important positions of power (Coffman 2003). He carefully backed
candidates of every ethnic group, always pushing for racially balanced election slates (Coffman
2003).
Some Challengers within the Regime: the Seeds of Regime Change Like other regimes, this one was not without some controversy. Challengers to the
commercialization of land for tourism and real-estate development tried to upset key features of
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the regime, but the system (or regime) as a whole held tight. Nevertheless, challenges did
establish some institutions which would later create political opportunities for the Hawaiian
Movement and other challengers of the growth agenda.
Many actors vied to divide up the spoils from lucrative development. Real-estate was
booming after statehood, from 1959 up until the 1970s. Land values had increased by as much as
1,000 to 2,000 times in some cases (King and Roth 2006: 53). While the Burns Consensus created
opportunities for those long-excluded from the Plantation Oligarchy, it also had contradictions
and limitations. Coffman (paraphrasing Gill) ultimately characterized the new “Democratic”
order as a shift from an old “closed society” to a “new closed society” (Coffman 1973: 51).
Critics argued that Burns’ tourism-growth benefitted narrow interests and empowered handpicked leaders from business, labor, and state government along with prominent “local Asian”
developers (Cooper and Daws 1990). Tremendous profits flowed to major landowners,
developers and their partners, but apparently not always for the greater good.
Also, while the Democratic Revolution widened access to political power and created
social and economic opportunity, it arguably benefited some groups more than others. Some
scholars see a pattern of ethnically stratified mobility which disproportionately benefitted
Americans of Japanese ancestry (AJAs) and other ‘local Asians’, like those of Chinese Ancestry,
bringing them squarely into the middle class (Okamura 1998 and 2008). Many saw the majority
of Hawaiians and Filipinos being left behind, even though Burns and his allies obsessively
cultivated leaders of every major racial group. 28 Cooper and Daws go so far as to suggest that
eventually the line dividing business/economic interests and politics was virtually non-existent
28
This is clear in the executive branch: Governors representing each of Hawaii’s major ethnic groups
succeeded Burns: Ariyoshi of Japanese Ancestry, followed by Waihe‘e of Hawaiian Ancestry, and then
Ben Cayetano of Filipino Ancestry. During Burns’s rule, individuals from each of these major ethnic
groups served as leaders in the legislature.
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(1990). The development industry, the Democratic Party, and major landowners like the Bishop
Estate were virtually indistinguishable from each other (King and Roth 2006). Regulatory
agencies were “captured” by private interests. Political appointments came as rewards for
Democratic Party loyalty and campaign donations (King and Roth 2006; Cooper and Daws 1990).
The ties between the largest landowner, Bishop Estate, and the Democratic Party
leadership were notoriously corrupt (King and Roth 2006; Cooper and Daws 1990; Coffman
1973). Bishop Estate was both the largest land owner as well as a charitable trust founded to
benefit Hawaiian children and orphans (which owned one-ninth of all land in Hawai‘i by
statehood) (King and Roth 2006). However, state investigations during the early 1990s revealed
the Trust’s long and sordid history of serving private interests rather than Trust beneficiaries
(Native Hawaiian children). Investment decisions by the Estate were revealed to be the result of
personal connections, private interests, and suspect ties to Democratic Party insiders (King and
Roth 2006; Daws and Nā Leo 2009).
Political insiders and challengers from the broader public soon became uneasy with the
Burns hegemony and with fast growth (Coffman 1973; Cooper and Daws 1990; Fuchs 1961).
Progressive liberals such as state representatives Tom Gill and Vincent Esposito did not always
toe the Burns’ party line. Gill almost defeated Burns in the 1970 gubernatorial primary;
denouncing the idea that “the interests of business and the state and the union (ILWU) were one”
(Coffman 1973: 58). Gill and his allies condemned the ubiquitous real-estate deal-making and
pushed for more regulatory transparency (Fuchs 1961).
The State Land Use Law: An Institutional Wedge
One response to fast-paced urbanization and apparent corruption was the State Land Use
law established in 1961. Liberal Democrats (joined by Tom Gill) championed this law as a way
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to protect agriculture and channel urbanization. This law established the first statewide land use
zoning measure in the United States and was nicknamed the “Greenbelt Law.” It continues to
significantly shape land use today. One express goal of the original statute was to preserve
agricultural lands and open space in Hawai‘i and prevent un-regulated urban sprawl—or as
written in the original statute, to “protect the state’s dwindling supply of prime agricultural land
and prevent scattered urban subdivisions” (Lowry 1980). To that end, the law classified lands
into four state land use districts: agricultural, urban, rural, and conservation. Agricultural and
rural lands could be considered “holding zones” given lower rates of tax assessment (Lowry
1980). These districts persist until today and much development involves political efforts to
redraw districts. The Land Use law set parameters for “allowable uses” in each of the four
districts. But it is more than any other modern-day zoning ordinance because it gives the State
Land Use Commission (LUC)—the authority charged with managing the law—“a larger direct
role in allocating land among alternative uses than is available (by other public agencies) in any
other American state.” The Land Use law essentially determines the “quantity” and “location”
and “spatial limit” of growth (Lowry 1980: 96).
District Boundaries were drawn in 1964 and the large majority of lands fell into the
Agricultural district. A relatively small percentage was designated as part of the Urban District.
Figure 4.1 shows the relative breakdown by district of state lands in 1964 and 2005.
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Figure 4.1 State Land Use Districts 1964 and 2005
State Land‐Use
Districts 1964
Urban 3%
Agricultural
52%
Conservation
45%
Total acres:
4,104,800 State Land‐Use
Districts 2005
Agricultural
47%
Urban 5%
Conservation
48%
Total acres:
4,101,518
Source: DBEDT 2007 (State of Hawai‘i Databook)
112
At least some of the law’s architects and subsequent commentators viewed the law as a
rational planning tool, necessary given post-statehood urbanization and population growth.
Lowry, calls the law a reasonable response to “conditions unique to the fiftieth state: a relatively
small land mass, concentrated ownership of land, and a history of centralized government”
(1980).
However, while liberal democrats and environmentalists praised the law, the literature
suggests that the law nevertheless served the dominant growth interests of the time. Coffman
describes the law as a strange compromise between an increasingly liberal faction of Hawai‘i’s
Democratic Party, the growing environmental movement, and the local titans of a plantation
industry (1973). Accordingly, the law is a key example of the regime responding to and
placating challengers—while still persisting. Elite brokering drew the state land district
boundaries: As Coffman explains, in typical Hawai‘i fashion, the boundaries were drawn in a
closed door session of the Honolulu Pacific Club, a private gentleman’s club in the heart of
Honolulu (2003). This is just one piece of evidence that the law was not designed with broad
public interest in mind. The law also provided new tax shelters for agricultural lands—a partial
corrective to the tax reform of the 1950s which had penalized large landowners who kept their
lands open or in agricultural usage. Hence, land-owning elites had material motivation to
support the law.
The law, at the same time, served the Democratic Party. For one, it allowed the
Democratic Party to maintain centralized control over real-estate and to distribute key
opportunities as favors. Indeed, Gill and others criticized the way that the LUC adjudicated land
redistricting. Gill and others demanded more transparency and accountability in decision-making
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and LUC appointments and expressed concern that the LUC had become an instrument for
speculative land investment for hand-picked friends of the Party (Coffman 1973: 144). Cooper
and Daws also showed that direct financial conflict of interest was a systematic characteristic of
the state LUC (Coffman 1973; Cooper and Daws 1990). Early on, organized labor was
practically guaranteed a seat at the table—and historically at least certain commissioners seats
have been given to representatives of the ILWU. Thus, the core factions at the center of the
tourism-growth regime literally had a place at the table of the LUC. Nevertheless, since its
creation, the LUC proceedings have become a locus of political controversy and many groups left
out of its original formulation have used it to alter development.
Kōkua and “People Power” Other challengers to the tourism-growth regime’s agenda emerged in the wake of
evictions to clear the way for real-estate development and suburbanization. Displaced
communities and became outraged. This fostered a new social movement sensibility and the
articulation of “local” and working class justice expressed in land-based protests.
Environmentalists and working class ethnic groups, who organized under the banner Kōkua
(meaning “help or cooperation”), protested land development. These groups felt dispossessed by
rampant urbanization and excluded from profits flowing from tourism and land-development.
They advocated slower growth, more density and affordable housing, and they protested against
urban sprawl. For example, the movement against suburbanization of East Honolulu in Kalama
Valley was termed Kōkua Kalama, and eventually Kōkua Hawai‘i (King and Roth 2006).
Attempted evictions in Honolulu’s Chinatown, on Windward O‘ahu, and on Kauai provoked
more outcry and organized protest. (Cooper and Daws 1990; King and Roth 2006; Trask and
Greevy 2004)
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By 1978, Burns’ Lieutenant Governor George Ariyoshi had taken over as Governor.
Public surveys showed that many state residents were concerned about quality of life. While they
welcomed the new wealth created by economic growth and tourism, they also expressed
“ambivalence” about the fast pace of growth (Cayetano 2009: 161; Coffman 2003). Most
residents supported the tourism economy in general, but they did not want to see more hotels on
their particular island (Cayetano 2009: 162; Coffman 2003). Polls also showed the public’s
concern about environmental destruction and its growing “disillusionment with established
institutions” (Coffman 2003: 52). An example of an attempted response to such public concern is
that the Honolulu City Council considered a (failed) moratorium on high-rise building in 1976
(Cayetano 2009).
Ariyoshi adopted a somewhat cautious approach to real-estate development and
urbanization: he tried to balance growth and urban planning in sometimes contradictory actions
(by for example promoting comprehensive state planning and land banking along with backing
the building of major highways) (Coffman 2003; Cayetano 2009).
Some communities
protesting land-development sometimes managed to secure wins. (Famous examples include the
protection of traditional kalo farms and water rights in Waiāhole-Waikāne). However, the terms
of dispute and the tools available for underdogs hoping to stop or influence urban development
would be different in later years during the postcolonial regime. Perhaps the situation under
Ariyoshi could be characterized as an increasingly sophisticated growth regime—one that was
effectively adapting to rumblings of discontent.
Transition to a postcolonial regime Three major clues suggest to me the presence of a new regime: new political actors, new
institutions, and new cultural frameworks or sensibilities. First, new and changed political actors:
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into the 1980s and 90s, politicized Native Hawaiians have fought to regain and modernize
political rights lost during the American takeover. In addition to the rise of Native Hawaiian
power, growing environmental sensibility and the influx of relatively affluent Caucasian
newcomers to the islands have helped create this new regime. New affluent Caucasians, often
with environmental sensibilities, have entered into politics (particularly when it comes to land
development and urbanization). This has soured local actors on urbanization and growth in
interesting ways. Even groups of people generally sympathetic to urban development express
concern at the prospect of population growth, demographic change, and more intervention by
outsiders. Also, the ILWU no longer holds singular sway over politics. Organized labor
(especially unions for public employees) still holds an important place in local politics, and
Hawai‘i holds the highest rates of union membership in the nation according to the Bureau of
Labor Statistics. However, organized labor apparently can no longer dictate policy or the fate of
any given development project. Finally, while the Democratic Party still dominates, there is
evidence of more political competition. The Democratic Party, while still dominant, does not
singularly rule. The first Republican Governor since 1960 was elected in 2002. The two most
recent governors of Hawai‘i Ben Cayetano and Linda Lingle helped back policies that would
nurture technology and science industries within the state as alternatives to a tourism/real-estate
dependent economy but these policies have had limited success.
Second, litigation and protest—often in response to specific land-controversies—have
layered new provisions on key political institutions. Chief among these include laws protecting
Native Hawaiian burials and traditional and customary gathering rights. These create new legal
restrictions on property and development and allow many more points for public input. Counties
increasingly assert autonomy and power over economic development and land in their
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jurisdictions. These legal changes empower new publics and also privilege Native Hawaiians
with specific legal standing to intervene in land conflicts.
Finally, (though less concrete), the Hawaiian Movement and the presence of
environmentalists have shifted cultural frameworks and inserted new sensibilities or narratives
about land into the public arena. These sentiments are not only relevant to Native Hawaiians and
their own collective identities or practices; they are broad articulations about the meaning of land.
Such narratives oppose the commodification of land in a way that can be supported by all groups
regardless of ethnic identity.
The Hawaiian Movement First, I discuss the most important apparent new actor in the regime: the Hawaiian Movement.
As touched on in chapter 1, in the 1970s, Native Hawaiians nurtured a new political and cultural
consciousness, reclaimed traditions from the past and began to politically organize, which
sparked what is known as the “Hawaiian Renaissance.” Hawaiian language and arts, such as
Hula, flourished. Expression of cultural pride also coincided with political organizing and
assertions of native indigenous claims over land and calls for political-sovereignty and native
self-determination. (Coffman 2003; Cayetano 2009; Cooper and Daws 1990; Trask 1994a and
1994b)
A Hawaiian renaissance grew into a Native Hawaiian Movement that eventually
forwarded Hawaiian claims over land and pushed to create laws and political institutions that
would fundamentally contradict the tourism-growth regime. Native Hawaiians had held hands
with other local groups to protect the evictions that came with urbanization throughout the
islands. But increasingly, they voiced a distinctive native Hawaiian or Kanaka Maoli identity and
117
identified rights over land linked to their unique historical situation and political status. Cries for
social justice linked to the rights of working class “Local People” shifted to claims rooted in a
distinctive Kanaka Maoli history and political status (Trask 1994a). Like other “new social
movements,” the Hawaiian Movement focused on “identity” issues and demands for social status
as opposed to the economic demands of “old social movements” typified by labor movements
(Touraine 1981 and 1985). The Hawaiian Movement also asserts claims against what is seen as
modern colonial occupation by the U.S. (Trask and Greevy 2004; Trask 1994a and 1994b;
Blaisdell and Mokuau1994).
Because it asserts demands for political self-determination as well as cultural recognition,
I see the Hawaiian Movement as a fundamentally postcolonial movement. Moreover, since I
believe this movement has had the biggest role in propelling a shift away from the tourismgrowth regime, I term the new regime a “postcolonial regime.” I also use this terminology to
draw parallels with other types of situations including post-corporatist, postmodern, or postfordist situations. All of these “posts” are marked by the rise of newly diverse political actors,
often with non-economic demands.
The Constitutional Convention of 1978: Affirming Legal Pluralism and Establishing New Authorities Native Hawaiians and other challenges to the tourism-growth regime also had a big
impact on institutions at the State Constitutional Convention of 1978. This event redrew
Hawai‘i’s legal framework and created new political institution. Key interest groups who came
with differing agendas included public labor union delegates, ‘establishment’ Democrats, and
Hawaiian activists (Cayetano 2009). The Convention proposed 34 amendments, all of which were
ratified by public vote. This convention was seen as a triumph for Native Hawaiian interests and
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environmentalists (Coffman 2003; Cayetano 2009). Delegates to the convention rode a wave of
discontentment with the Burns-style tourism-growth regime and the growing Hawaiian
Movement.
New leaders in the growing Hawaiian Movement became constitutional delegates and
formed the Native Hawaiian committee, marking “the transition of the Hawaiian Renaissance
from issues of culture and history to self-governance and politics” (Cayetano 2009: 183). The
Native Hawaiian Committee of the Constitutional Convention asserted key intentions: to
“preserve the small remaining vestiges of a quickly disappearing culture [by providing] a legal
means…to recognize and reaffirm native Hawaiian rights” (Committee proceedings from
Constitutional Convention cited by Bellati 2004).
Interestingly, the Hawaiian committee drew inspiration from Hawaiian Kingdom law.
The original statehood constitutions had stipulated that Hawaiian Kingdom Law would persist,
except when it was supplanted by the U.S. or Hawaiian Constitutions (and its principles of
common law). Using this exception clause, the committee asserted that provisions from the
Kuleana Act of 1850 still held sway. They succeeded in re-affirming and establishing provisions
of this act into the constitutions. Most notably was the affirmation of native Hawaiian rights as
“ahupua’a” tenants to access lands for traditional and customary practices, including the
gathering of materials for subsistence. (This will be further discussed below).
The Hawaiian Committee passed five amendments that gave Native Hawaiians in future
years a stronger voice influencing land development. One highly influential amendment
established the Office of Hawaiian Affairs, a state agency. Other constitutional amendments
would be the basis of litigation in the 1990s with important impacts on property rights and landdevelopment (Belatti 2004). For one, the Native Hawaiian Committee enshrined Act 7:7 which
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codified the new rights that had been guaranteed in the earlier Kingdom Kuleana Act of 1850—
enacted before Hawai‘i was a state and dating back to the original creation of private property
during the Great Māhele (Asam 2006). Article XII of section 7 affirmed traditional and
customary rights, which would then be clarified and tested through subsequent case law. The
Article states:
The state reaffirms and shall protect all rights, customarily and traditionally exercised for
subsistence, cultural and religious purposes and possessed by ahupua’a tenants who are
descendants of native Hawaiians who inhabited the Hawaiian islands prior to 1778,
subject to the right of the State to regulate such rights” (Panarella 1998 citing Hawai‘i
State Constitution).
Associated statutes also reaffirm these rights. The Hawai‘i Revised Statutes (HRS) 7-1,
which directly adapted the Kuleana Act of 1850, additionally stipulates that native tenants are
permitted to retain gathering rights. Also, HRS 1-1 affirms the right of Hawaiians to gather items
not specifically enumerated in HRS 7-1, if a pattern of usage can be demonstrated (Panarella
1998 citing HRS 1-1). Overall, these laws “obligate the State to protect customary and traditional
rights normally associated with tenancy in an ahupua‘a. (Constitution, cited in Bellati 2004)
OHA: The Office of Hawaiian Affairs Not only did the constitution enforce a legal framework that would protect Native
Hawaiian traditional and customary practices, but it also established another political entity: a
state agency charged with ‘watch dogging’ these rights. The Office of Hawaiian Affairs (OHA)
is charged with protecting Native Hawaiian rights and promoting Native Hawaiian well-being.
OHA has become a key intervener in land-use and water-use decisions since 1987 and sees itself
partially as a watchdog agency working to ensure that other agencies fulfill their statutory
responsibilities (such as those enumerated in HRS 7-7 and 7-1 discussed above).
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Hawaiians as a population, along with specific Hawaiian civic groups, have gained some
structural power through the OHA and other changes in the legal system. For example, OHA has
gained access to greater shares of state funds and used these funds to support Native Hawaiian
health, education, and social welfare as well as self-determination and political organizing. OHA
also funds the Native Hawaiian Legal Corporation which has clarified Hawaiian rights and also
modified property law through litigation (Cayetano 2009).
An Empowered Hawaiian Movement Since the 1970s, the strength of the broad and multi-faceted Hawaiian Movement has
grown. New Hawaiian agencies have gained some access to land and capital, and Native
Hawaiian political and civic associations have also shown the ability to influence the legislative
process and public opinion (Cayetano 2009; Belatti 2004). There is a large and growing number
of political and civic organizations (Cayetano 2009)—some called sovereignty organizations—
with growing and established political capacity.
Thus, while Hawaiians as a population still find themselves disproportionately at the
bottom of the social hierarchy in terms of education, income, poverty, and homeownership (Haas
1998; Okamura 2008), a set of Hawaiian collective actors exerts significant power. And perhaps
more importantly, Native Hawaiians of varying backgrounds and from various communities have
shown the ability to organize mass protest and exert public pressure in a way that has influenced
legislative outcomes, public awareness, and the actions of private land-owners and corporations.
Illustrations of such Hawaiian political capacity include the protest events surrounding
the 100 year anniversary in 1993 of the overthrow of Queen Lili‘uokalani (partially orchestrated
by Ka Lāhui Hawai‘i). During this event, 16,000 people marched through downtown Honolulu.
Many other mass protests during the last 10 years have taken place over desecration of Hawaiian
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Burials, traditional and customary rights, and most recently the fate of the ceded lands trust (King
and Roth 2006; Coffman 2003; Cayetano 2009).
Moreover, protests led by Native Hawaiians
against the Bishop Estate during the early 1990s are particularly indicative of a regime break.
Affiliates of Kamehameha Schools publicly decried the policies of Bishop Estate / Kamehameha
schools. Protests and a well-publicized political march prompted state agencies to investigate.
Ultimately this led to an overhaul of the investment policies of the largest landowner in Hawai‘i
(and at the time the largest Trust in the U.S.) (King and Roth 2006). Scores of Hawaiians
educated at Kamehameha schools ultimately severed many political alliances between
Democratic Party insiders and this major landowner (King and Roth 2006; Daws and Nā Leo
2009).
Traditional and Customary rights: Layering New Cultural Protections Since the 1990s, two landmark court cases have codified and clarified legal pluralism,
building on the constitutional amendments and statutes derived from the 1978 Constitutional
Convention: PASH and Ka Pa’akai. These cases layer new provisions onto the existing landcode and EIS process. They also construct new privileged publics: Native Hawaiians who can
prove a history of traditional and customary practice or those legally recognized as lineal or
cultural descendants of specific regions or properties.
These legally-recognized groups
accordingly have new influence in the land-development process.
The PASH ruling of 1995 came out of a controversy in a part of Kona called Kohanaiki.
Many residents of the Kona area used Kohanaiki for recreation, surfing, and cultural activities
like subsistence fishing and gathering. In the 1980s, a Japanese company, Nansay Hawai‘i,
proposed to build a large resort, with an 800-room hotel and marina, at Kohanaiki on 450 acres
directly abutting the coast. Local residents and users of the Kohanaiki area were outraged.
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Protesters flooded the planning commission hearings when Nansay requested a Special
Management Area permit from the Hawai‘i County Planning Commission (Bellati 2004).
Project critics saw the proposed development as a potential form of cultural death or
destruction (Nā Maka 1991). Members of a family descended from the area, the Pai family or
‘ohana, had for generations made use of unique ecological features of the area—the anchialine
ponds which house ‘ōpae ‘ula (a native species of tiny red shrimp) used for traditional net
throwing and to catch ‘ōpelu (a native mackerel). Members of the Pai ‘ohana allied with local
environmentalists. Under the banner of Public Access Shoreline Hawai‘i (PASH), cultural
practitioners, local environmentalists, and others who cared about the fate of Kohanaiki legally
challenged the development and asserted that the Nansay project would threaten environmental
resources and the traditional gathering and fishing practices of the Pai ‘Ohana. However, PASH
interests and claims were sidelined during the county permitting and zoning process. PASH
plaintiffs appealed to the Hawai‘i Supreme Court and prevailed: the court affirmed their standing
and also clarified the state’s (and county’s) obligation to consider the unique claims asserted by
PASH and the Pai family.
More specifically, the ruling of the Hawai‘i Supreme Court in PASH v. Hawai‘i Planning
Commission, “PASH”, clarified article XII , Section 7of the Constitution, an article based on
centuries-old rights of ahupua’a tenants (Bellati 2004; Asam 2006). The PASH ruling affirmed
that Native Hawaiians—regardless of their historic residence—held the right to enter property
that was partially developed in order to exercise traditional “gathering, cultural and religious
purposes.” The ruling clearly stated that: “the State is obligated to protect the reasonable
exercise of customarily and traditionally exercised rights of Hawaiians.” PASH also required
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future developments (and state and county permitting agencies) to consider and protect such
rights. Panarella summarizes:
The Hawai‘i Supreme Court’s decision in PASH effectively elevates the rights of
Native Hawaiians to gather in traditional and customary ways to the same level of legal
importance as the most basic and fundamental concepts in Western property law .. . The
contours of native Hawaiian history create wrinkles and bumps where the fit between
the Western system and the native practices is threatened (Panarella 1998).
Nansay was sent back to Hawai‘i County to again request the needed permits. The project went
bankrupt after the legal haggling, and the Japanese owner eventually lost “millions of dollars”
(Dayton 2003). This is a powerful instance of social and cultural meanings curbing the
commodification of land.
The PASH case sparked fear in the development community. Fears that land-title would
be hard to clear and that land-title insurance might be withheld ran wild: a local developer
explained “Developers and land owners will have to spend more money to get certainty on land
ownership and some will not be able to get title insurance…It’s a serious issue”(Kamhis 1996).
Articles bemoaned the undermining of western-style property rights. Another developer cited by
Kamhis said: “It scares me, frankly. It’s an unsettling issue…I’m willing to guess that more
people will not continue with their projects and won’t develop their property” (Kamhis 1996).
It is not then surprising that following the PASH ruling, a series of legislative attempts
took place to qualify and curtail the implications of PASH. Proposed bills would have limited
access and required Hawaiian cultural practitioners to be certified. A strong response by
practitioners, including kumu hula (hula masters), partially staved off such bills: a 24 hour vigil
led by dancers provoked lawmakers to reject one proposed statute. Durbin describes the dramatic
confrontation:
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The dancing and drumming so unnerved the legislators that the two co-chairs of the state
senate Committee on Water, Land, and Hawaiian Affairs tore up their bill in a dramatic
public display (Durbin 1998).
PASH also set the stage for another Supreme Court ruling in 2000, Ka Pa‘akai o Ka
‘Āina vs. Land Use Commission (“Ka Pa‘akai”), which mandated that agencies charged with
granting development rights (and related rezoning and permits like DBAs or SMA permits)
protect the traditional and customary practices of Native Hawaiians. The Ka Pa‘akai case also
emerged when a group of cultural descendants and cultural practitioners from the Ka‘ūpūlehu
area of North Kona tried to intervene in the expansion of the Four Seasons resort. Native
Hawaiian descendants (and other environmentalists) wanted their unique claims to be heard
during the EIS process, undergone in conjunction with the developer’s petition to the LUC for a
DBA. But yet, the EIS only contained one page describing the project area as a
“barren…wasteland” and stated that only 25% of the land area could be considered culturally
valuable (Garcia 2003: 31). The Supreme Court thus ruled that the LUC had “failed to
discharge its statutory and constitutional obligations to preserve and protect Native Hawaiian
rights” (Garcia 2003: 33) and that the LUC had inappropriately “delegated” its duty to protect
Native Hawaiian customary and traditional practices to the developer (Garcia 2003); such an EIS
was unacceptable. Ka Pa‘akai thus affirmed the State’s constitutional mandate to protect Native
Hawaiian practices. An implication is that all agencies are required by law to consider the
potential impacts of any development project on traditional and customary rights. This was
further codified by Act 50 of the Hawai‘i State Legislature.
Additional Cultural Protections: Cultural Impact Statements Act 50, enacted by the state legislature in 2000, builds on the spirit of PASH and Ka
Pa‘akai and clarifies that state agencies hold the distinct authority and responsibility to protect
Hawaiian cultural rights and practices that may be affected by land-development. It also formally
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layers new requirements on the EIS law. Act 50 requires state agencies considering landdevelopment permits and proposed changes to the state land use code to assess cultural and
social 29 as well as environmental impacts, including impacts to Native Hawaiian traditional and
customary practices (including gathering natural resources and food, religious and spiritual
practices, etc.). Act 50 stipulates:
The legislature finds that there is a need to clarify that the preparation of environmental
assessments or environmental impact statements should identify and address effects on
Hawai‘i’s culture, and traditional and customary rights. . .
The legislature also finds that Articles IX and XII of the state constitution, other state
laws, and the courts of the State impose on government agencies a duty to promote and
protect cultural beliefs, practices, and resources of native Hawaiians as well as other
ethnic groups (Section 1. Act 50).
In short, Act 50 requires that cultural and social impact assessments be included in EIS’s. The
EIS process—a key part of both county and state-level decision-making—thus becomes one point
at which Native Hawaiian rights are adjudicated. This further consolidated cultural practitioners
as “privileged publics” and secured them an important position in land use contestation.
Moreover, this law opens new areas of contestation and negotiation in the land use entitlement
process. New questions generated by the law, such as how to assess and categorize cultural
meanings, create gray areas and multiply contestations over land use. Also, PASH, Ka Pa‘akai
and Act 50 created new guidelines for legal standing. This is important for the land development
process more generally because legal standing can extend its significance beyond the courtroom
or contested case hearing; legal standing can carry broader power because it holds the potential of
a lawsuit. In the terms of this dissertation, these legal changes created new institutional or
29
Act 50 also requires agencies to assess and protect social impacts on other ethnic groups, in addition to
Native Hawaiians (Bellati 2004).
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cultural categories and thus constructed newly politicized groups of actors (but also new arenas of
potential political contestation).
Burial Sites Program In 1990, in response to activism in the Hawaiian community, the state established new
protections for Native Hawaiian burials and also established Burial Councils, which were granted
authority to make decisions about what to do with bones on private property. As mentioned in
Chapter 1, ancestral remains or iwi kupuna hold great cultural and religious significance for many
Native Hawaiians. For centuries, Hawaiians buried their ancestors in many types of places.
Burial practices and locations differed by region and by the rank of the deceased. Some ancestral
remains were covered by stacked stones, others may have been buried without any markers (often
in sand dunes). The remains of high chiefs were often hidden in secret locations in order to
protect the spiritual power of their remains As a result, ancestral bones can be “found almost
anywhere in Hawai‘i.” This poses a significant problem for urban development in all parts of the
state since any real-estate project risks uncovering or disturbing burials, which are now protected
by state law. (SHPD Burial Sites Program 2009).
The construction of a Ritz Carlton in Honokahua Maui brought sadness and sparked
political organizing that would lead to the codification of Burial Sites protection law in 1990.
Native Hawaiians describe the episode with great sadness. During construction, over 1,000
ancestral remains were removed, despite protests from community members. This was an
important reference point in the Hawaiian Movement and the linked effort to raise attention to the
destruction of bones. The burial desecration brought both “kaumaha” (heaviness) as well as
“aokanaka” (enlightenment). The major advocacy group working on issues of bones and
repatriation, Hui Malama I Nā Kupuna O Hawai‘i Nei, emerged out of the experienced tragedy at
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Honokahua to become a leader. The outcry at Honokahua also mimicked outcry popping up in
other areas of the state. Hui Malama and others would increasingly articulate the cultural
significance of bones, and many developments have since been protested on grounds of
desecration. (Hui Malama 2009)
Eventually, construction at the Ritz Carlton was halted after extensive protest and a 24hour vigil at the state capitol. Governor John Waihe‘e worked with Hui Malama and developers
to forge a settlement that would rebury the disinterred bones and relocate the hotel inland (Hui
Malama 2009). Soon after, that Hawai‘i state legislature amended Hawai‘i Chapter 6E to
establish clear guidelines for the treatment of burials (and to prevent catastrophes like
Honokahua). Hawai‘i’s burial laws were also patterned after the federal Native American Graves
and Repatration Act. The new burial laws established Island Burial Councils, deliberative bodies
who are given the authority to determine in consultation with cultural/lineal descendants the
proper treatment of burial sites on a given property (for example, they determine whether burials
should be left in place and protected or relocated). Burial Councils are composed, by statute,
mostly of Native Hawaiians, but Burial Councils must also have one representative each of
developers and large landowners. The authority of Burial Councils (and Chapter 6E) applies to
bones that are discovered in the planning process (through, for example, archaeological reviews)
as well as also bones that are discovered “inadvertently” (i.e. during the course of construction).
Developers may have to significantly revise construction plans in order to respect the authority of
Burial Councils and the traditions and beliefs protected therein (Liu 2009).
Evidence suggests that awareness of the significance of ancestral remains has infiltrated
broader public discourse while becoming codified into law. In all of the development projects
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studied, I saw attentiveness on the part of public officials and developers to the issues of
desecration.
+++
An Overview of Current Rules and Regulations: Background for Case Studies The remaining section provides an overview of key rules and regulations currently governing
land use. These regulations mandate and create various public agencies and decision-making
bodies; together, I consider these the formal political institutions that condition land development.
This background information is necessary for understanding the case studies of the future
chapters.
Introduction to Regulatory Institutions Contemporary political institutions have complex and varied roots. They build upon and
codify laws from as far back as the Hawaiian Kingdom period of the 1800s. The subsequent
Plantation-territorial regime secured high levels of political centralization and a strong
governorship, which persist. Challengers in this period, however, carved out space for local
county jurisdictions. County governments have since been imbued with new legal authority, and
local populations continue to push for greater county autonomy. Bargaining and political action
during the Tourism-growth regime constructed new legal frameworks over land: most
importantly the state Land Use law. They have persisted and evolved. Subsequent political
activity, chiefly around Native Hawaiian and cultural concerns, inserted new ideas and regulatory
tools into the legal system during the 1978 Constitutional Convention and during the 1990s and
2000s with the political and legislative action discussed above. Finally, federal environmental
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protection and historic preservation law has also inspired the re-patterning of state regulatory
processes from the top down.
I deem three sets of regulation most consequential for contemporary land development.
First, and arguably the most important, is the State Land Use law. This law restricts land use and
shapes the “spatial limits of growth” (Lowry 1980) for all lands in the state; it also dictates how
state agencies and local county governments are to manage land. Second, is county governance,
and county-level authorities, some of which are outlined by the State Land Use law and others by
federal coastal zone provisions. I also touch upon how Hawai‘i’s Environmental Impact Law
added new provisions and layered new processes into County and State-level land use authorities.
Third and finally, I discuss a constellation of additional laws related to cultural and historical
preservation. These include laws about historic preservation, Native Hawaiian traditional and
customary rights, and burial protection. Many of these are distinctive of the postcolonial regime.
Hawai‘i’s land use regulatory context is dynamic and the regulatory field has evolved
over time through “institutional layering” (Thelen 2004). It is shaped by specific conflicts over
land as well as political organizing and negotiation between the power brokers of a given regime.
The regulatory field has been shaped by localized outcry over specific development projects; that
have triggered legal action which have in turn redrawn the regulatory field. Political contestation
and the layering of increasingly complex (and sometimes contradictory provisions) have resulted
in a complex and dense regulatory environment.
Figure 4.2 below offers an illustration and overview of the land use regulatory field.
What is immediately clear is the high level of regulatory density and the high number of
regulatory agencies with official control over land use and permitting processes. As the case
studies and discussion below illustrate, this creates areas of legal ambiguity. In other instances,
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gaps in written statutes also result in legal ambiguity. Overall, Hawai‘i’s land use regulatory field
is characterized by three qualities. First, property law and the land use regulatory system in
Hawai‘i is rife with legal ambiguity (Edelman 1992). Second, and related, the state exhibits high
levels of regulatory density. State and County level laws both dictate land use. This creates
competing jurisdictions and invites conflict over land in multiple arenas and at multiple levels.
Finally, the regulatory context is shaped by what legal scholars term legal pluralism (Merry
1988). This means that multiple legal traditions shape existing rules. In Hawai‘i’s case, legal
principles derived from Hawaiian Kingdom law co-exist uneasily with American property laws.
Legal pluralism was affirmed in the state constitution and given teeth by cases like PASH and Ka
Pa‘akai.
Legal institutions set several parameters for development. First, they construct venues or
important arenas of conflict; these include the creation of formal openings, as well as alternative
(informal) arenas of conflict. Second they construct privileged publics in that they define specific
actors and publics who are then empowered to act as interveners in the development process.
Third, and similarly, they demarcate diverse and contested forms of authority or capital.
Authority is held both by formal decision-makers, but also by experts that are empowered and
construed with consultative or evaluative power. These forms of authority include privileged
knowledges and classification systems. These become the currencies of conflict. Formal
authority is linked to less formal capital (i.e. cultural capital [Bourdieu 1984]), such as planning
knowledge, or strategies and practices that have proved effective as forms persuasion within
political institutions. Examples include public relations savvy and strategies or performative
techniques for engaging regulatory agencies. Fourth and finally, institutions structure the
sequence or the processes of development and they define the steps required to develop land.
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They may also suggest the particular order of steps and where and the potential impact of
interventions based on timing or order of intervention.
In the discussion below, I highlight the formal venues created by key political
institutions, including opportunities for public input. I also identify forms of authority, including
decision-makers and the sequences or processes of decision-making. Where possible, I also
identify privileged publics—agencies and groups imbued with consultative power or privileged
legal standing. The other consequences of the institutions listed above are further discussed in
subsequent chapters. This is because some institutional implications, such as the complex
negotiation of expert knowledge and the proliferation of informal venues of conflict, are most
apparent in the thick empirical details of case studies.
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Figure 4.2. Overlapping Jurisdictions: Schematic of Land Use Districts and Management
Areas with Relevant State, County, and Federal Authorities
Source: Belt Collins Hawai‘i, Ltd.
ƒ
DLNR (Department of Land and Natural Resources): charged with issuing land use permits in the
State Conservation District—which includes shoreline areas, watershed/mountainous areas, and other
ecologically sensitive regions). DLNR along with the DOT (State department of transportation, also
oversee ocean resources).
ƒ
ACE (Army Core of Engineers); FWS (Fish and Wildlife Service); NMFS (National Marine
Fisheries Service): charged with regulating uses of navigable waters
ƒ
County Planning Departments: charged with Managing Special Management Areas—from
shoreline to a designated inland boundary. Counties also play a role in managing the Urban and
Agricultural State Land use Districts, in conformity with State laws and cooperation with the State
Planning Office and DOH (Department of Health). They implement County General Plans (or other
special Plan Areas) which further divide up all lands into county-zones and delimit parcel size, or
subdivision requirements.
ƒ
SLUC (State Land Use Commission): has authority over lands in the state agricultural land use
District (though pro-forma approval given in deference to county governments for parcels of less than
15 acres).
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Land Use Law: Procedures and Authority (DBAs, etc.) As explained above the state Land Use Law placed all lands into one of four state land
use districts. District boundaries are hotly contested and shaped by politics; they also create the
contested commodity of urban land. Urban uses are often situated on the coast plain of the
islands. Therefore, given the predominance of relatively mountainous terrain, there is a relatively
small amount of acreage in the urban district. Most mountain and ridge areas were set aside as
conservation lands to protect watershed. The Urban district was also limited for political reasons,
as discussed above; this is because the Land Use law gave certain tax benefits to agricultural
lands. The scarcity of lands suitable for urban uses, and the restrictions of the State Land Use
law, makes land in the urban land-use district a rare and precious commodity.
State land use district boundaries are not set in stone. They can be changed on a parcel
by parcel basis through review by the State Land Use Commission (LUC), a 9-member body
appointed by the Governor. The LUC holds the power to adjudicate petitions submitted by
landowners to “amend” or change a given district boundary. 30 For example, an owner of a parcel
lying within the agricultural district could request that the LUC reclassify her lands as part of the
urban district through what is officially called a District Boundary Amendment (or DBA). This
would allow her to “up-zone” her lands and would liberalize certain building restrictions and
allow for more dense commercial use. Counties have the authority to issue district boundary
amendments on their own without consultation by the LUC (for parcels less than 15 acres). In
practice, redistricting (or rezoning) occurs in a piecemeal fashion.
“Up-zoning” into the urban district also increases the market value of a land parcel.
Land investors (and speculators) can make a profit even without making any material changes to
30
Up until 1975, the Land Use Commission itself could revise district boundaries based on a mandated five
year review (Lowry 1980).
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the land. This invites speculation and creates incentives for land-owners to up-zone and later
segment (or sub-divide) and re-sell lands for prices several times greater than the purchasing
price.
The Land Use law thus confers power on a state agency whose decisions have significant
market implications.
Commissioners rule by majority to either enact or deny a DBA petition and may draw
upon a staff report by the executive officer summarizing the project and reviewing its merits. The
Law stipulates that Commissioners should utilize five main criteria in determining whether or not
to grant DBAs. In practice, however, there are so many criteria (some of which are competing)
that commissioners seem to have reasonable freedom to make decisions as they see fit. As
discussed in the previous chapter, land use appointments have been hot political commodities.
During the peak of the Burns’ Consensus, critics argued that LUC decisions were often
influenced by corruption and financial conflict of interest. In practice, at least one or two
commissioners are appointed to represent organized labor (though this is not required by the law).
Since 1961, the LUC has permitted several thousands of acres to be redistricted; most often from
the agricultural to the urban district. Still several hundreds of acres have been shifted into the
conservation district. (As shown above in Figure 4.1)
Public Input and the LUC Over subsequent decades, a series of legislative and legal actions would clarify the
decision-making procedures of the LUC and the criteria for public input. In 1974, a Supreme
Court case prompted legislative reforms of the commission procedures (Lowry 1980). This
shifted the decision-making process and required the commission to follow “contested case
procedures”—or a quasi judicial review process with formal rules outlined by the state
Administrative Procedures Act (ibid).
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Discussion and public participation in the LUC is accordingly constrained by several
procedural restrictions. For example, “full participation” in commission hearings regarding land
use DBAs is restricted to legal “parties” (Lowry 1980; Frankel 1997). Members of the public are
welcome to give testimony for a restricted amount of time, but only “parties” or those with
specific and direct interests in the lands in question are permitted extensive engagement and the
right to question facts, present expert testimony, etc. A “party” to an LUC decision—a group or
individual given legal standing—includes those who can prove that “they will be directly affected
by the proposed change” (Lowry 1980: 116; Frankel 1997).
Numerous state agencies are required to participate in the LUC review process: the
petitioner, the State Department of Planning, the County Planning Departments, and the State
Historic Preservation Division are automatically “parties” to the contested case hearing (Lowry
1980: 115-116 citing SS HRS 205-4 (e) 2. Groups have sued the LUC for the right to be treated
as “parties.” There continues to be regular negotiation and dispute about which parties deserve
legal standing in front of the LUC.
Agricultural Lands and Legal Ambiguity The State Land Use law’s restrictions on the agricultural district have created legal
ambiguity. In addition, market forces conflict with the state’s legal protections on agricultural
land, and push law and development practice in a way that exacerbates legal ambiguity. This
legal ambiguity importantly shapes the political processes of land development (evident in the
Hōkūli‘a case study discussed in future chapters).
The Land Use law echoes a broader commitment to agriculture enshrined by Hawai‘i’s
State Constitution. The Constitution of Hawai‘i (last modified in 1978) asserts that agriculture
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shall be a permanent feature of the state’s economy. 31 The protection of agriculture is a nod to
Hawai‘i’s unique history (and one way to conserve the economic basis of power for those at the
top of Hawai‘i’s plantation economy during the constitutional convention). In turn, a host of
associated state-level statutes support and protect potential farm lands and water resources.
Various state and county tax policies also provide incentives for agricultural protection.
Legal protections on agriculture—including those stipulated by the Land Use law—
fundamentally conflict with market forces, a conflict that has deepened with the decline of
industrial agriculture in Hawai‘i. Beginning in the 1980s and 1990s, major sugar operations
began to shut down leaving vast acreages of open land. These lands have been targeted by realestate investors and speculators throughout the world hoping to turn former plantation lands into
tourist destinations and residential projects.
The majority of lands still fall within the agricultural boundary or state district. As
illustrated in figure 3, “Agricultural” lands currently make up over 40% of the state’s total land
area. When lands were originally divided up, all forest and watershed areas were designated as
part of the conservation district and all of the existing urban areas were designated as part of the
urban district. The remaining lands were lumped together as part of the agricultural district,
whether or not such land were under agricultural cultivation. Only after this original division of
lands was the relatively ambiguous category of the rural district (to demarcate plantation camp
areas) added to the land use law. This, the agricultural land is literally a “catch all” or leftover
31
AGRICULTURAL LANDS “Section 3. The State shall conserve and protect agricultural lands, promote diversified
agriculture, increase agricultural self-sufficiency and assure the availability of agriculturally suitable lands. The
legislature shall provide standards and criteria to accomplish the foregoing. Lands identified by the State as important
agricultural lands needed to fulfill the purposes above shall not be reclassified by the State or rezoned by its political
subdivisions without meeting the standards and criteria established by the legislature and approved by a two-thirds
vote of the body responsible for the reclassification or rezoning action. (Hawai‘i State Constitution)
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category. The majority of agricultural district lands are on Hawai‘i Island—which in acreage has
more area than the other islands combined. As corporate agriculture in the form of sugar cane
and pineapple have abandoned the island, this Land Use law has become delinked from current
economic practice and economic demand. The law’s limitations on land use in the agricultural
district act like the lid on a pressure-cooker. The fact that the agricultural district was a “catchall” category exacerbated potential conflicts and legal ambiguity. This created the potential for
controversy that is now coming to fruition.
Additional wrinkles complicate the classification system. Agricultural lands are in turn
graded on a scale of soil quality from A to E (A marking prime lands). A and B lands therefore
come with more oversight and restrictions at both state and county levels. However, the criteria
upon which the quality of agricultural lands is graded has been in dispute. (In the past, the grade
of soil has been a central criterion, and recently new systems for identifying and protecting
“important agricultural lands” have emerged but have not yet been codified) (Callies 1994;
Frankel 1997). For example, an individual hoping to reclassify an area from agricultural into the
urban district might argue that the lands in question are not prime agricultural lands, and that little
would be lost by their re-classification.
By contrast, many argue that there is more to agricultural land quality than soil-type
including type of climate and also suitability for the growing of specific crops (coffee for
example thrives under different conditions than sugar). Recently, a flurry of legal and judicial
activity has swirled around debates trying to identify and set aside the most significant
agricultural lands in Hawai‘i. The state legislature recently enacted a statue that would designate
certain lands as Prime Agricultural Lands (based on the guidance of counties).
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To date, the Land Use law prevents the building of any structure that is not directly
associated to farming; any house built must be legally defined as a “farm dwelling.” The meaning
of the farm dwelling requirement, however, is highly debated. Expert informants interviewed for
this thesis fault the LUC for failing to offer broad clarification about farm dwelling requirements
and about which agricultural lands are most deserving of protection from urban development.
This is a source of significant legal ambiguity. In the face of market pressures and political
maneuvering, some county governments have classified million dollar mansions as “farm
dwellings.” Such ongoing practices create more pressures on the law and further blur its terms
and categories.
Authority over Conservation Land Different agencies have authority of lands in the State Conservation District. The Board
of Land and Natural Resources (BLNR) the governing body of the Department of Land and
Natural Resources (DLNR) (another state agency) holds principal authority over Conservation
lands. Conservation lands include forest and watershed zones, beaches, important open spaces,
recreation areas, parklands, and historic areas, etc. Overall, permitted uses on conservation lands
are highly restricted. However, the BLNR can grant special permits to allow “exceptional uses.”
(Lowry 1980).
Current County Governance: Regulatory Density The State Land Use law sets up a relationship between the State and the County regarding land
use. The state is divided into four major counties (and an additional unique fifth county), which
is the lowest level of local government. The four major counties are the City and County of
Honolulu (or the entire island of O‘ahu); Kaua‘i County; Hawai‘i County (the entire Hawai‘i
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Island or ‘Big Island’); and Maui County (made up of three different islands: Maui, Lanai and
Molokai). Kalawao County is a very tiny jurisdiction on the island of Moloka‘i; it encompasses
the Kalaupapa peninsula, a settlement colony established for Hansen’s disease patients in the
1800s. County regulations create a patchwork of land zones and permitted uses overlaid with the
state land use district boundaries. County governments are obligated to administer the State Land
Use law, though they exercise sole authority over lands in the state urban district. For example,
even if an area is zoned as part of the state urban district, county ordinances can still require such
lands to remain committed to non-urban uses and low-density construction (Frankel 1997; Callies
1994).
Counties have additional independent regulatory powers which extend to all types of state
land districts. County ordinances offer finer-grained land use restrictions, including the minimum
size of parcels (or sub-divisions), and more specific allowed uses: for example, urban areas
might be parceled into sites designated for resort, commercial or industrial development, or may
be targeted for high-density/small lot residences or medium density residences. County
ordinances determine density and parcel size in agricultural areas as well; Counties may permit
sub-dividing in the agricultural area to create lot sizes anywhere from 1 to 50 acres (or more).
Counties create their own General Plans which denote county level zones—finer grained
zones than state districts (though these must conform to provisions of the state Land Use law).
Each county has its own procedures for updating County General Plans and for soliciting
community input. Typically land owners can petition counties on a case by case basis for both
re-zoning and sub-division approval. Decisions are typically made drawing upon public input
and public hearings. County Planning Commissions typically preside over special management
area (SMA) permits, discussed more below (except for in Honolulu, where the County Council
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has authority over SMA permits). Interviews with land use experts suggested that county
governments have increasingly asserted their autonomy over land use in recent years. This leads
to political tension between state and county authorities and negotiations over political turf.
Conflicting interpretations of the law also beget more legal ambiguity.
Coastal Zone Management and County Special Management Area Permits The Coastal Zone Management (CZM) Program has also empowered counties to exert
significant authority over coastal areas—lands that hold great interest for tourism/real-estate
development. The State of Hawai‘i CZM law was established in 1977 to implement the national
CZM act of 1972 (HRS 205 A). The CZM grants each of the four counties authority over
specific coastal regions, or specifically defined “Special Management Areas” which extend inland
from the shoreline (boundaries may include areas from 100 yards to several miles inland from the
shoreline) (DBEDT). Any project with potential impacts in a Special Management Area (SMA)
or any work statutorily defined as development (see Hawai‘i Revised Statutes 205A) requires a
SMA permit issued by counties, in addition to any other permits.
Major projects in SMAs, e.g. those with construction costs of over $125,000 or with
significant potential impacts, require SMA “Major” permits, which in turn require public
hearings. Applicants may also be required to submit Environmental Impact Statements. Other
state, federal, and county agencies are invited to give input in the permitting process, as are
interested parties and adjoining land owners. Public hearings are conducted and then the
Planning Commission (or designated body, such as the City Council in Honolulu) makes a
decision (DBEDT)—again often in contested case hearings.
Each county in turn has different procedures for granting re-zoning approvals, subdivision approvals and SMAs. Typically, members of the County Council (the local legislative
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body) hold control in consultation with county planning departments, including county staff and
appointed commissioners. County mayors often hold great influence over these local governing
bodies. For example, in Hawai‘i County, Planning Commissioners hold sole authority over
SMA permits. The planning department conducts public hearings and then decides whether or
not to issue the permits. By contrast, rezoning decisions in Hawai‘i County involve the Planning
Commission in a consultative role, but are ultimately ruled on by the County Council.
Permits are only to be issued if they comply with the requirements and goals of CZM
and, often in order to comply, major mitigations must be implemented. Mitigations often include
shoreline setbacks, preservation of historical sites, securing of public access to the shoreline,
building height restrictions, etc. The statute states that developments shall not be approved if
they have adverse ecological impacts. SMAs can only be approved for projects that also conform
to County General Plans and zoning ordinances. Amendments to county plans and county zoning
may be sought concurrently with SMA permits.
Overview: State vs. County Authority One result of the division of labor between the state and counties is that land is caught in a multilayered matrix of political authority, or what one interview respondent called a “two step tango.”
This creates gaps and the potential for conflicts, and establishes multiple arenas of contestation,
which were especially apparent in the Hōkūli’a case study discussed below.
Lowry explains that the LUC, for example, does not supplant the power of local
government. Rather it “adds an additional level of land use control to existing local controls”
(Lowry 1980: 98). Thus, a DBA by the LUC is “merely the first step in a maze of regulatory
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authority that stands between private initiation of a development proposal and ultimate change in
a land unit’s use” (Lowry 1980: 98).
Moreover, land development in practice, as condoned by county governments, can appear
to be at odds with the State Land Use law. In some cases, the state and county level agencies
disagree about what is permitted by law (particularly clear again in the case of Hōkūli’a). Thus,
the two-level nature of Hawai‘i’s land use regulatory system creates challenges when it comes to
the interpretation of existing laws and the implementation of regulations. It also creates
opportunities for certain groups to exert their influence and promote their goals, sometimes at the
expense of other groups.
Hawai‘i’s Environmental Law: Institutional Layering While certain state-level political institutions emerged from the ground-up out of local political
action, others are patterned from the top down. Federal legislation like the National
Environmental Protection Act (NEPA) inspired Hawai‘i’s State Environmental Protection or “EIS
law.” This provides an important example of institutional layering in which state implementation
of federal legislation layered new provisions into the State Land Use law. NEPA dictated
environmental review processes for any project on federal lands. In response, the state of
Hawai‘i enacted in 1975 (and later revised) a similarly patterned environmental protection law
that would govern all lands, private and public, within the state and require, under certain
conditions, a similar environmental review process.
The requirement for Environmental Impact Assessments has been incorporated into State
and County level permitting and redistricting or re-zoning processes. Hawai‘i Chapter 343 details
several “triggers” for the preparation of Environmental Impact Assessments (EIAs) as well as the
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preparation of a full-blown Environmental Impact Statement (EIS) (a much more complex and
elaborate process). In general, in all cases in which significant impacts are anticipated, state or
county agencies must require developers to complete EIS’s which act as the baseline document
and must be approved prior to the submission of a petition for any major land-use change (for
example, for petitions for District Boundary Amendments, Special Management Areas, countylevel re-zoning or subdivision approval, or other major building permits).
For example, when an EIS is triggered by state law, a developer or landowner requesting
a district boundary amendment by the State Land Use Commission (LUC) must first prepare an
EIS which must be ruled acceptable. EIS preparation is a time-consuming process with highly
technical and cumbersome requirements for notifying the public and responding to public input.
In major projects, dozens of consultants may be hired to prepare the EIS documentation, and
these consultants may in turn hire dozens of scientific experts and social scientists. EIS’s can
take a long time to complete—on average up to one year and at the cost of $500,000-$1 million
(and more for especially large projects).
The EIS preparation process itself is an area rife with political conflict and negotiation.
Often lengthy battles take place over the terms of EISs. Opponents to the project can challenge
the EIS on any number of technical grounds. Moreover, often there is extensive contestation
about whether a given project “triggers” chapter 343 and requires either an Environmental
Assessment (EA) or an Environmental Impact Statement (EIS). Later political organizing,
resulting in Act 50 and the Ka Pa‘akai ruling discussed above, added yet additional layers to this
important regulatory framework by requiring that EIS’s also consider cultural impacts.
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Historic Preservation Code and State Historic Preservation Division (SHPD) Chapter 6E (discussed above which governs the treatment of ancient burials) also imbues
Hawai‘i’s State Historic Preservation Division (SHPD), a branch of the Department of Land and
Natural Resources (DLNR), with distinctive authorities. Archaeological staff with SHPD provide
secondary review and input for all county and state rezoning, redistricting, and issuing of building
permits for projects with potential impacts on historic sites. Staff knowledge is thus constructed
as a form of important (and often contested) expertise by historic preservation law.
States and counties must consult SHPD prior to approving projects that could have
effects on historic sites. In practice, DLNR staff review Archaeological Inventory Surveys
submitted by the developers, and the staff either approve or disapprove of them. SHPD also
reviews EISs and assesses impacts to historical sites along with proposed mitigation measures.
The developer then submits an “archaeological mitigation plan” which details the steps to be
taken and delimits which sites will be preserved, which may be destroyed with or without
documentation or “data recovery”. The historical review process typically occurs in consultation
with staff archaeologists and the developer, as well as the developers’ agents. The head of SHPD
has the authority to approve plans. Like the cultural impact law, this part of the historic
preservation code multiplies the arenas of conflict and controversy in the land-development
process. Staff and privately hired archaeologists are deemed experts and their knowledge is
elevated in political importance. This is likely compounded by the fact that up until the late
1990s, SHPD lacked formal operating criteria (as per the Hawai‘i Administrative rules). In the
absence of formal administrative rules, agency officials state that draft rules were treated as
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formal rules. Other observers, however, contend that without these rules, there were no formal
scientific guidelines upon which a given archaeological project might be evaluated.
To summarize, Table 4.1 provides an overview of each of the laws discussed in this
chapter and notes the relevant authorities and decision-making processes established by each set
of laws.
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Table 4.1 Overview of Land use Regulatory Field
Law
State Land Use Law
Purpose
-Creates four State Land
use Districts:
Agricultural, Urban,
Conservation and Rural
Authoritative Agency (decision making process)
-State Land Use Commission (SLUC) reviews and
determines District Boundary Amendments
(contested case hearing)
-Board of Natural Resources issues special permits
for Conservation Areas
(contested case hearing)
-Changes in zoning and County General Plans
done by County agencies (often Council in
consultation with County Planning Commission)
(contested case hearing or legislative hearing)
County Laws: County
Zoning Ordinance and
County General Plans
-Further determines
allowed land uses in
County areas.
Special Management
Area Law
-Determines guidelines
for shoreline areas
-Requires SMA permits
for development in
shoreline areas
-Planning Commissions or County bodies decide
on SMA permits according to Coastal Zone
Management Act
(contested case hearing or legislative hearing for
Honolulu City Council)
Environmental Impact
Statement Law (with
required Cultural Impact
Assessment)
-When triggered (by
major developments)
Developer must prepare
EIS
-Developers announce intention to prepare EIS
through Department of Health (Office of
Environmental Quality Control). Developers
solicit input from interested parties and prepare
draft EIS including CIS. Interested parties and
publics invited to comment. All comments must
be responded to and the developer submits final
EIS.
-Permitting State or
County agencies must
assess EIS before making
decisions
State Historic
Preservation: Burial
Law
State Historic
Preservation: Other
Historic and
archaeological sites
-Guidelines for activities
that might impact known
or unknown burial sites
-Guidelines for activities
that might impact
historical, archaeological,
or other significant sites
-Reviewing agency (SLUC, County Council or
Planning Commission) determines if EIS is
acceptable. EIS is considered along with petition
for land use change.
-requires that State and County agencies consult
with and gain approval of State Historic
Preservation Division Burial Staff
(Review and inter-agency consultation)
-Burial Councils of Kanaka Maoli given authority
to determine treatment in consultation with
descendants of known burials and burials
discovered inadvertently during construction
(Public meetings and council deliberation)
-Requires that State and County agencies consult
with and gain approval of State Historic
Preservation Division
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Conclusion Historical Regime Change Over the century, many would argue that Hawai‘i has partly fulfilled the promise of
American democracy. The singular hold of the Caucasian elite on power during the 1900s
evolved into a competitive political system in which groups of all races and economic
backgrounds have had a say in electoral politics. Rising middle classes, in negotiation with still
powerful elites, helped to construct a unique institutional framework that would also shape land
development.
Three sets of collective actors have risen during this modern history: organized
labor; working class ethnic (non-white) descendants of immigrants, and native Hawaiians. In
partnership with the Democratic Party, laborers and the non-white descendants of immigrants
became Hawai‘i’s leaders in the second half of the 20th century and grew into a thriving middleclass, all while reforming the state’s economy and creating one of the nation’s marquee socialdemocratic policies.
In this story, Native Hawaiians are both the victims and the heroes. The near decimation
of their population and what many see as the tragic overthrow of the queen, as well as the loss of
their political autonomy and loss of their government lands as a result of annexation, have been
devastating blows. Yet the late 20th century has seen the rise of a powerful Hawaiian social
movement that is one of the most consequential collective actors in the local polity. This social
movement has helped to establish new political institutions and legal frameworks, most notably
through its involvement in the constitutional convention of 1978 and through political action and
litigation discussed in the next chapter. These political institutions significantly restructured
land-development in Hawai‘i and ensured certain Hawaiians a place at the table.
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The progressive tendencies of the tourism-growth regime reached many but not all. This
regime begat tensions and some of those ‘left behind’ sparked new political organizing and
helped to foster a Hawaiian movement. Hawai‘i still has to make sense of its dark history of
disenfranchisement and conquest of Native Hawaiians. Finally, the tools and opportunities made
available in the new postcolonial regime do not empower communities or marginalized groups in
straightforward ways. On the contrary, they make outcomes more contingent and change the
nature of the real-estate game and, in this way, provide contested and complicated new forms of
control over land.
Reflections on Regime Change as Institutional Change When I first contacted a planning consultant of the Hōkūli‘a development project and
told him of my research interests in land regulation, he said there was one crucial point to
remember: “The legal and regulatory framework was changing around the project.” The above
discussion offers a taste of the maze of evolving regulatory frameworks Hōkūli‘a developers—
and the other developers in each of my case studies—were forced to navigate. It points to areas
of legal ambiguity, regulatory density, and legal pluralism that characterize the current regulatory
field as a whole.
Are the institutions discussed above sufficient evidence of regime change? Are they
more than formal policies on the books that get circumvented by developers? What is the “real
political situation” (Logan and Zhou 1989) amidst the thick, ambiguous legal regulations—many
of which in spirit seem to promote the decommodification or de-marketizing of property? The
case studies allow an opportunity to investigate this question. They suggest that the institutions
do shape the real politics of development in complex ways. On balance, as I aim to show in future
chapters, I think they illustrate significant unraveling of the tourism-growth regime.
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Most significantly, the cultural and institutional innovations of the last 15 years represent
systemic change which empowers new actors and widens the sources of influence available over
land development.
I do not see this regime shift as finished or complete; indeed the land-use
conflicts and development processes I observed ‘on the ground’ in my case studies reveal the
tensions and contradictions which characterize the unraveling of the previous growth regime.
Also, classic forms of power stand as powerful foes; money, land ownership, and formal political
position still talk. Yet new institutional and cultural frameworks trouble the exploitation of land
for profit and have complicated the game of real-estate development. In the end, Hōkūli’a, which
started the development process in the 1980s and is still struggling to completion as of 2009, was
caught in the transition between the tourism-growth regime and the emerging postcolonial
regime.
Key actors in Hawai‘i’s evolving political regimes have left their mark on political
institutions that structure land-development. For example, leftist democrats and
environmentalists helped established the Land Use law, which was later modified by
environmental legislation and politicized Native Hawaiians. Political action has also been shaped
by existing institutions, as challengers have strategically worked to stretch and modify existing
laws. Throughout the time periods I trace, challengers have injected new conditions and
provisions in land use laws by engaging in the legislative process and by bringing forward
litigation. In the process, they have added layers to Hawai‘i’s ever-evolving land-use regulatory
field. These changes have empowered new voices and actors. Institutional evolution, through
layering, has also constructed new venues for contestation, demarcated privileged publics, and
defined new forms of authority and privileged knowledge.
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In one sense, the evolution of land-use regulation in Hawai‘i can be characterized as
democratization. Political organizing since the mid-1900s has brought Hawai‘i from an
oligarchic plantation system to a system in which social-democratic, environmental, culture and
lifestyle concerns matter. However, this democratization has come with contradictions; it creates
uncertainty and multiplies areas of legal ambiguity; it also constructs new forms of exclusivity
and new limitations to popular influence over development. In the following chapters, I trace
these contradictions in detail and also further explore the specific ways that the current historical
moment—and its political institutions—structure land development.
Conceptualizing Urban Regime Change? To persist, a regime must successfully placate challengers. Yet, theory and existing
empirical scholarship suggest that the cards are likely stacked against change (or particularly
change away from “growth regimes.”) However, in Hawai‘i, the efforts to placate some internal
challengers may have partially led to the tourism-growth regime’s undoing. Power brokers in the
tourism-growth regime created new institutions, which in turn created internal contradictions or
institutional wedges, that future political challengers could exploit. A historical view allows us to
see this change over time. This is a mechanism of regime change that has not been explicitly
identified in the existing urban regime literature.
Also, in the case of Hawai‘i, apparent regime change involved the emergence of newly
politicized actors. These actors begat what I see as a regime change by “scaling up”—linking to a
broader movement, embedding local place narratives in the concepts and ideas of the broader
Hawaiian Movement, and also using litigation and political action to create systemic change.
Thus, a shift away from tourism-growth dynamics is evident in changes in institutions, the rise of
new political actors, and the growing salience of place narratives that pose discursive challenges
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to the once hegemonic discourse of growth. The case studies in the following chapters provide an
opportunity to investigate further what the implications of these broader systemic changes have
been.
Chapter 5.
The West Beach Project: Land Development on the Edge of the Tourism‐Growth Regime The Final Defeat of West Beach Opponents After project critics had fought for nearly ten years against the West Beach Project, the largest
luxury resort ever planned in Hawai‘i to date, their final defeat took place in 1987 in an unlikely
location: the Daihonzan Chozen-ji Zen dojo temple of Kalihi Valley, Honolulu. A spiritual
retreat and a place where prominent locals sought spiritual guidance and Zen discipline from
Archbishop Roshi Tenshin Tanouye, the dojo, located nearly 40 miles east from the controversial
development project, seemed a neutral locale for deal-making. The black limousines of Japanese
millionaires, leaders of the largest construction company in Japan, pulled up in the dojo’s parking
lot next to weathered pick-up trucks owned by “young disenfranchised” activists-turnedfarmers—Native Hawaiians from the Wai‘anae grass roots. In an unusual union, groups from
decidedly different worlds met at the dojo to settle their differences about West Beach.
These activists, led by Eric Enos and Puanani Burgess of the umbrella community
organization called the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee, had helped initiate three
separate lawsuits against West Beach Estates (the general development partners of the West
Beach project). Each lawsuit had failed, yet the activists planned still another appeal of the latest
legal decision with the purpose of hassling the developers and delaying the project. The activists
knew, however, that their last remaining lawsuit was unlikely to prevail. West Beach Estates had
secured the necessary permits and investment and was now ready to proceed with construction.
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Even though the developers had secured project approvals, underworld allies of the
developers had used strong-arm tactics against Enos and Burgess’s group of holdouts. A member
of the group explained, “there were threats to one of our members. Night kine’ threats, calls,
saying, ‘You better lay off. . . You're gon get it!’.” Local power brokers learned of these threats
and intervened by orchestrating the meetings that culminated in the deal-making at the Zen dojo
in order to neutralize any further controversy over the project.
Archbishop Tenouye facilitated what would be called the Aloha Agreement in which
Enos and Burgess, representatives of the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee, agreed to
withdraw all pending litigation in exchange for $375,000 from West Beach Estates that would go
toward alternative community development on the Wai‘anae Coast. Enos and Burgess were
excoriated by local communities for “selling out”. Bill, a well-established local land law expert
and close observer of the case explained: “I think it was an artificial forced resolution of an issue
that never really addressed the sustainability of these kinds of projects. It was a quick fix to a
situation that’s not sustainable” (Bill). Bill was referring to the economic and environmental
sustainability of the project from a community perspective; the project’s ability to provide a
steady supply of living wage jobs.
By contrast, Archbishop Tenouye and other observers praised the agreement as a
symbolic cultural compromise. Tenouye reportedly explained that he served as a “translator” of
“cultural values” between “Japanese developers and Hawaiian activists” (Burris 1987).
Regarding the “two sides” he reportedly said that, “they actually had much in common including
a respect for nature, for their ancestors and for a harmonious relationship.” He went on to say that
Japanese investors hoped to cooperate and that, “by no means did they have any intention of
coming to Hawai‘i and muscling people” (Burris 1987). Prominent Native Hawaiian business
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and political leader Kenneth Brown explained to local reporters: “What you are seeing here is a
very encouraging symptom of a new symbiotic relationship between the primal culture and the
Western culture” (ibid). Governor John Waihe‘e also supported the final stages of the agreement.
Whereas in the past, business and political leaders had spoken of West Beach only as an
economic engine, now they sought to justify it on cultural terms; these leaders realized how
important it was to make a show of respect for a ragtag group of local farmers and the host
culture for which they spoke.
Importantly, in comparison to the $2 billion budgeted for the project, the $375,000 won
by the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee was a drop in the bucket. The amount given to
community causes also seems slight in light of the future sale price of land and condominiums at
West Beach: West Beach Estates would sell prime land parcels for an average of $3 million per
acre and condominiums, of approximately 1,000 square feet in size, for between $1 and $3
million (Wiles 1990 and 1994). Understandably then, community members saw the events at
West Beach as a defeat, but they vowed to continue the struggle.
Introduction The case study discussed in this chapter illustrates how development processes worked during the
tourism-growth regime. The West Beach development was initiated in 1977 on the cusp of a
regime shift—from a tourism-growth regime to a postcolonial regime. Powerful actors lined up
to support the project, including labor organizations and public officials who forwarded a
narrative that urban development at West Beach would provide economic benefits and jobs. The
legitimacy of the project was rooted in the economic needs of the region.
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Despite this widespread support, the project architects had to push the project through the
regulatory system that existed at the time. This created venues for the layering of conditions
upon the project. It also empowered organized labor and constrained the participation of other
groups, as will be discussed below. West Beach project ultimately came to fruition, though it had
to meet (at least on paper) several stipulated conditions. Those opposing the project largely failed
to halt the project or realize many of their demands.
Activists fighting the West Beach Project challenged the narrative that rendered land
development as a driver of coveted economic growth and jobs. They asserted a desire to protect
cultural practices, environment, and a rural lifestyle. However, critics of the West Beach
development did not yet have the legal or broad cultural backing for the kinds of grievances they
were forwarding. They were pushing the boundaries of what the law provided, expanding the
existing venues of contestation, jockeying to be recognized as privileged interveners, and making
arguments that would later be enshrined in Hawai‘i Supreme Court decisions. Cultural,
environmental, and lifestyle claims were not well-received by many decision-makers or members
of the public at large, and these kinds of concerns lacked the legal and institutional backing they
would later have. Since the time of West Beach, Hawai‘i’s regulatory environment has evolved.
Also, a new consciousness has emerged that complicates the narrative of economic growth as
justification for development. Cultural, environmental, and lifestyle concerns have greater
legitimacy and political salience in the current postcolonial regime.
In this chapter I additionally argue that negotiations over West Beach scaled up and
helped to forge the current regime. Voices like those of the West Beach critics would gain
momentum and greater recognition. Legal action against West Beach was eventually replicated
and became precedent; the litigation against West Beach also demonstrated how even losing legal
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battles could constrain powerful developers and get their attention. Also, members of the
Wai‘anae community learned tools and tactics from their experience, and they acquired at least
some financial resources to build their civic capacity. In this sense West Beach was, for its
staunch opponents, a lost battle but a step forward in a broader war—a “war of position”
(Gramsci 1971)—for Native Hawaiian cultural claims, environmental concerns, and community
empowerment.
Overview of West Beach Project In this section I provide a brief overview of the West Beach development project proposal and
argue that, on balance, the project outcome largely matched the developers’ goals. I also sketch a
picture of the project context. In a later section of this chapter I will provide a more detailed
chronological account of the development processes.
Envisioned Resort Complex West Beach was envisioned as a massive resort complex on approximately 830 acres
(later reduced to 640 acres) of sugar cane land on the western coast of O‘ahu, in what is known
locally as the Ewa region (Tune 1977c). In terms of size and project area, it would nearly equal
Waikiki, the famous tourism hub; like Waikiki, West Beach was intended to be the site of hotels,
condominiums, golf courses, and visitor amenities.
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Figure 5.1 Island of O‘ahu (City and County of Honolulu) Census Designated Places, and
Other Sites of Interest
Ewa
District
West Beach Project “Ko Olina”
Honolulu
Pearl Harbor
Waikiki
Source: Modified from Office of Planning and Department of Business, Economic
Development and Tourism, State of Hawai‘i
A warm sunny and relatively dry environment dominates the Ewa coast of O‘ahu.
Archaeological evidence shows that the proposed project site housed some of the earliest Native
Hawaiian habitation—the location of ancient populations who survived the drought-prone region
(Smith 1989). Campbell Estate, a major landowner, acquired the lands in the 1800s and, along
with other large holdings in central and western O‘ahu, placed them under sugar cultivation. In
the 1970s and 1980s, Campbell Estate pursued industrial and commercial uses near West Beach:
the Estate built an industrial park and created a deep draft harbor adjacent to the project site. At
the time of the West Beach project proposal, first articulated in the late 1970s, the acres targeted
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for resort-building were located in the state agricultural land-use district and were partially
cultivated with sugar. Despite limits to public access in the area, families of the region continued
decades-old traditions of fishing and gathering of seafood and limu, seaweed, along the West
Beach coastline for subsistence.
Local real-estate developer Herbert Horita (and his company Horita Development Co.),
had been given the rights by Campbell Estate to develop their large parcel at West Beach. Born
in Hawai‘i and of Japanese Ancestry, Horita came from humble immigrant roots. During the
building boom of the post-statehood era, he became a local real-estate development mogul. For
West Beach, Horita forged a partnership with KSG, a subsidiary of one of Japan’s largest
construction companies, Kumagai Gumi. Such international investment in local real-estate and
tourism development—particularly by Japanese corporations—was a growing trend during the
post statehood era (Cooper and Daws 1990; Kent 1993).
Horita and his partners sought to construct 10 hotel sites to create an estimated 8,000
hotel rooms; 300 acres of residential parcels for an expected 3-5,200 condominiums; a 44 acre
marina; a shopping center; and an 18-hole golf course, along with other commercial and
recreational amenities (see figure 5.2 below). The developers promised that the project would
directly create nearly 6,000 new resort jobs and indirectly create thousands of jobs for the
surrounding region. (Horita promised that resort construction would generate about 2,000 new
jobs and that, once completed, the resort complex would be expected to employ 6,300 people.
Horita also promised that an additional 7,000 related jobs would be created through “auxiliary
developments” associated with the resort, bringing the total of promised jobs up to 14,000)
(Mayer 1982; Matsunaga 1982; Watanabe 1983). The developers also intended to blast through
the natural reef-fringed coast to create four artificial lagoons or beach coves. By the late 1980s,
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West Beach Estates had realized much of its vision: the resort complex had begun to take form,
hotel sites had been purchased for millions of dollars, and the land had been readied for the
construction of hotels, timeshares, and residential enclaves that would be built in the years to
come. Most importantly, city/county, state, and federal agencies had approved plans to create a
resort complex on a formerly agricultural slice of land.
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Figure 5.2. Sketch of Proposed West Beach Development (as of 1985)
Source: Mayer 1985
West Beach Project: Developers’ Success Development in West Beach, however, did not come easily. Horita faced a protracted
fight and grappled with many political contingencies; for more than twelve years West Beach
Estates navigated Hawai‘i’s web of land use regulations and played politics to obtain dozens of
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district and zoning amendments and permits from state, city 32 (the City and County of Honolulu)
and federal agencies. A contemporary reporter describes Horita and partners as having to
navigate “labyrinths of government approval, community endorsements, financing, construction
and sales” (Maneki 1979). Opponents rose and fell along the way, and Horita and his backers
were forced to negotiate and offer concessions. State and city agencies required Horita to alter
his development plans, and officials imposed dozens of conditions on the project. 33 Horita faced
opposition from activists, local residents, organized environmental groups, and some elected
officials. Several lawsuits were brought against the developers and against the agencies
condoning the project. Ground-breaking at West Beach took place much later than expected, and
the Japanese financial crisis of the mid-1990s led to capital shortages that significantly delayed
hotel, condominium, and marina construction (Bakutis 1998).
An environmentalist working in Wai‘anae described the project as a tragic trampling of
the interests and values of the local community. Others think of it as epitomizing the worst of
exclusive tourism urbanization: development that benefits elites at the expense of vulnerable
local residents. Some local residents see the project as anathema to Hawaiian values recalling the
example of a Native Hawaiian fisherman, whose family had frequented the area for generations,
who was “chased off lands” of the luxury resort enclave when he tried to access traditional
fishing grounds (Vickers 1994). Another environmental activist explained that the big gates and
guard shacks lying at the entrance of West Beach (now called Ko Olina) symbolize the spirit of
the project as an exclusive playground. Kalei, a lifelong resident and community leader,
32
The City and County of Honolulu encompasses the entire island of O‘ahu and is the local governing
jurisdiction. Thus, throughout the text references to city or county agencies refer to those of the City and
County of Honolulu.
33
Through the 1990s and 2000s there have been legal disputes about whether current owners of West
Beach, now called Ko Olina, have fulfilled their obligations.
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explained in an interview that the development went ahead “really without the whole permission
of the community.”
I argue that Horita’s project ultimately succeeded because of the powerful consensus
backing the project; key groups, including organized labor, the Campbell Estate, and investors
from Japan wielded the financial capital and political position to guide the project to fruition. A
seductive narrative also helped “sell” the project to members of the public and their
representatives by touting job creation and tax revenues expected from the tourism development.
The promise of jobs was especially compelling during the late 1970s and early 1980s because of
relatively high levels of unemployment within the state and region in which West Beach is
located. The leaders of powerful unions, the ILWU and AFL-CIO, particularly championed the
West Beach project as an important source of potential employment.
The case also appears to be, on balance, the result of a failure of local opposition to
effectively exploit the political opportunities provided by the regulatory context. Project critics
faced (and fought against) various attempts to exclude them from public consultation mandated
by land-use laws, such as public hearings and semi-judicial proceedings. Project opponents and
proponents subtly (and not so subtly) fought over the boundaries of inclusion in political
processes of development.
Moreover, there was a mismatch between the timing and character of protest and the
institutional venues for public input. Some significant criticisms of the West Beach project were
articulated vociferously by well-mobilized groups in the wrong venues and at points in time that
were less pivotal than others for shaping development outcomes. Project opposition thus may
have suffered due to a mismatch between mobilization and institutional venues (or political
opportunity). This case study accordingly demonstrates how formal political opportunities for
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public input do not straightforwardly translate into real opportunities for political influence over
land development. Also, this case shows that Hawai‘i’s regulatory system—which, even at the
time of the West Beach project was relatively complex and multi-layered—invites political
contestation over the boundaries of inclusion in participatory processes. The case of West Beach
strikingly contrasts with the case of the controversial Lā‘au Point development project of
Moloka‘i, discussed at length in Chapter 6. Moloka‘i residents possessed forms of agency and
cultural capital which allowed them to make the most of political opportunities; they also
benefitted from an evolved institutional context with pivotal and powerful venues for popular
participation in land-use decision-making.
Project Context: Ewa Urbanization West Beach was part of the broader controversial push for urbanization in the Ewa region
and leeward coast. In the mid-1970s, planners and public officials faced an important set of
choices about O‘ahu’s growth trajectory—population and land-values had skyrocketed and
organized labor, major landowners (including Campbell Estate), and Democratic Party leaders
were pushing for more land development and urbanization throughout the state. Some of these
actors eyed the vast “Ewa” or agricultural leeward plain for future growth—lands that had been in
sugar cultivation. Campbell Estate also advocated for urbanization and the creation of a “second
city” in Ewa at Kapolei and offered city and state agencies lucrative deals on Estate lands.
City and state leaders, as well as their associated planners, articulated two opposing
strategies, with some supporting urbanization and residential development into the Ewa region
and others, including then Governor George Ariyoshi, arguing for greater residential and
commercial density instead in the urban core of Honolulu. State planners, with the Department of
Planning and Economic Development and the Department of Agriculture, generally expressed
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reservations about the urbanization of the Ewa area and objected specifically to the proposed
resort at West Beach for several reasons: they argued that 1) the project prematurely targeted the
leeward coast for tourism expansion (and that such a designation should wait until a
comprehensive state tourism study was completed); 2) the project would take lands out of
agricultural usage; 3) the number of new jobs and tax revenues created by the project would not
be as high as promised and might not offset costs incurred by the state and city for infrastructure;
and 4) the project might cause ecological damage and threaten water supplies in the dry region.
By contrast, city planners with the City Department of General Planning (at least during the late
1970s under the Fasi administration) supported resort expansion on the Leeward coast and
suggested that the resort was sufficiently compatible with the then existing O‘ahu General Plan.
(Kato 1977a; Tune 1977a; Tune 1977c; Bakutis and Kato 1977)
After years of political maneuvering, public debate, and consultation with experts, the
backers of urbanization in Ewa prevailed. In 1982, during a mandated review of the O‘ahu
General Plan—the official planning framework for the City and County of Honolulu –the
Honolulu City Council affirmed plans to urbanize the Ewa region. The Plan also demarcated the
West Beach area as a resort site and thus laid the groundwork for the required City and County
permits and rezoning approvals that developers would receive in the following years (Mayer
1982; Matsunaga 1982). Contemporary news sources call the West Beach plan the “first step
toward massive urbanization on the leeward coast” (Kato 1977b).
The West Beach plan also followed a major construction project that radically altered the
ocean system in Wai‘anae: the dredging of a deep draft harbor at Barber’s Point or Kalaeloa.
Opponents pointed out negative effects, such as how dredging destroyed underwater cap stones
that held O‘ahu’s fresh water aquifers intact. Critics felt the harbor was unnecessary, given the
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existing large naval Pearl Harbor and commercial Honolulu Harbor only a few miles down coast,
and they suspected that the hundreds of acres of coral yield would directly profit Campbell Estate
who could sell the material for construction and industrial uses 34 .
Gateway of a Native Hawaiian and Under­resourced Region West Beach lies at the gateway of the predominantly Native Hawaiian Wai‘anae region.
The community possessed, and still possesses, a sense of strong solidarity but also
disenfranchisement. This is the most Hawaiian part of O‘ahu and also the most under-resourced,
with high poverty and high unemployment. During the time period of the proposed construction,
unemployment in the region was estimated to be at 15% (Kato 1977a). Just a few years later,
unemployment rates within the construction industry were reportedly as high as 30% (Mayer
1982). While the Wai‘anae coast has been off the tourist maps, it is the home of deeply rooted
Hawaiian cultural practices, long-established Hawaiian families, and tight-knit residential
communities. As one community activist, Mike Kahikina, explained, Wai‘anae has many social
problems, but it also has many resources.
To me what makes Wai‘anae special is, I feel that, I call this the golden strip because of
the amount of Native Hawaiians that live and reside in this area . . . what makes it really
beautiful is that I feel that word aloha is still alive here. And I very much desire that
aloha. All people need to keep their self identity. It’s important for us to keep our
culture here because we’re losing it a lot. And with that…we’ll be keeping our people
alive. (Mike Kahikina cited in Nā Maka 1987)
While Kahikina praised the region and committed himself to building cultural pride in the
area, he and others featured in a 1987 video profile of Wai‘anae, which also documents
34
The documentary “West Beach Story” explains that the deep draft harbor was dredged using
approximately $120 million of construction funds appropriated by the U.S. Congress from the federal
budget, but that Campbell Estate would have access to the “tens of millions of cubic yards” of coral debris
and refuse dredged from the ocean that could be sold and used in construction. Experts depicted in the film
estimate that profits to Campbell would be $30 million. Images show vast acres of coral rock and coral
dust piled approximately three stories high. (Nā Maka 1987). However, for the most part the dredged
remains have been unused.
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opposition to the West Beach project, discussed numerous threats to the cultural identity and
economic survival of Wai‘anae residents. Another local resident, Georgette Meyer, described
Wai‘anae as the last refuge for relatively poor Hawaiians who have been evicted from lands
downtown and in East O‘ahu (Nā Maka 1987). Other local residents and fishermen spoke about a
palpable sense of disempowerment, knowing that major land owners and the military controlled
most of the land in Wai‘anae (a fact which is still relevant) (Nā Maka 1987).
Land Uses and Land Ownership in Wai‘anae At the time of the West Beach proposal, Wai‘anae was a largely agricultural region. It
was home to large acres of “diversified agriculture” as well as pig farmers, some of whom had
been evicted from other parts of O‘ahu as a result of suburbanization. Since the majority of acres
slated for development at West Beach were under sugar cultivation at the time (Staff, Honolulu
Advertiser 1977c), some objections to the project arose from those worried about the fate of the
sugar industry and associated jobs (Tune 1977a and 1977b). Large swaths of land in this area are
owned or controlled by federal and state agencies. The Department of Hawaiian Home Lands
(DHHL), which offers long-term low-cost land leases to Hawaiians of 50% or more blood
quantum, is a major landowner. The Department of Defense is also a major player in the region
and controls large valleys in the region, including Mākua valley where the U.S. Army practices
live-fire training.
Developer’s Approach: Promised Economic Benefits The West Beach Project was legitimized in economic terms. Numerous supporters stood behind
this logic or narrative of development. Developers and their allies brokered public support by
promising jobs, economic growth, and tax revenues that would benefit the public. Labor union
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leaders, public officials, and growth-oriented residents praised anticipated construction and hotel
jobs linked to the resort. The developers initially touted an expected $16 million in tax revenues
from the resort (Kato 1977a). Later, in the early 1980s, developers made even more optimistic
promises: Horita and partners claimed that tax revenues to the state and city would top $24.3
million. This tally included expected real property, excise, and unemployment taxes as well as
income taxes expected to be paid by future employees (Morse 1984). These promises were
highly persuasive because they were made in the context of a dependent state tourism economy
and a relatively impoverished region. However, West Beach Estates admitted in front of the LUC
that projections were not based on any formal economic feasibility study, and the developers
provided no guarantee that their projections would hold (Morse 1984).
Union leaders and members, business leaders, and public figures supported the project.
Bill, a land-use law expert, explained during an interview that prominent public figures, including
then Governor Waihe‘e, held pro-development beliefs or ideologies: “Their belief was this
development model . . . this sort of development [proposed at West Beach] is good” (Bill). An
editorial (by the editorial board) in the major Honolulu newspaper, the Honolulu Advertiser,
captures the sentiments of major segments of the population:
Since it was first planned, the $2 billion project has held out the promise of major
economic returns for west O‘ahu in the 21st century. Today, that potential is closer than
ever to being realized. After 1988, for instance, West Beach is expected to employ some
5,000 persons, and to generate millions of dollars in tax revenue for the county and state.
When completed - the first phase is set to be finished by 1995 - the project should boast
eight or more hotels, condominiums, 5,200 private residences, a yachting marina, golf
course, parks and a commercial area . . .
. . . Leeward O‘ahu will not be the only beneficiary of this ambitious resort. From all
indications, Ko Olina will rival the other well-planned luxury developments that already
dot the Neighbor Islands. In so doing, the project should become an integral part of the
state's tourism future in the 21st century, and a key to Hawai‘i's goal to boost its visitor
industry. (Twigg-Smith et al 1986)
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Some supporters such as Mayor Eileen Anderson and ILWU leaders, however, were fair-weather
friends and bartered political support for economic concessions from West Beach developers, as
described below.
The project’s location at the gateway of Wai‘anae shaped the politics of the development
in complicated ways. Hawaiian issues and needs undergirded both support and opposition to the
project. Poverty and high rates of unemployment made the promise of construction and
working-class job opportunities compelling, even while many residents of the area recognized
just how limiting (and sometimes demeaning) jobs serving wealthy visitors might be. Much was
made of the proximity of the resort to this working class region: for the first time, it was argued,
this project would create an important source of jobs near to Wai‘anae, which was relatively cutoff from other employment centers (Kato 1977b). Several community associations, such as the
Makakilo community association, the Pearl City Neighborhood Board, the Ewa Beach
Community Organization, and the Ewa Beach Neighborhood board supported the project.
Moreover, several labor unions involved in construction, including ironworkers, plasterers,
carpenters, masons, and operating engineers, amongst others, backed the West Beach
development (Tune 1977a). These supporters offered public testimony in front of relevant state,
city, and federal agencies and also expressed their opinions in newspaper editorials.
The Case Against West Beach: Culture, Environment, and Lifestyle Linking Cultural, Environmental, and Agricultural Concerns The West Beach developers’ narrative of urban growth for economic benefit and job
creation was countered by the voices of a select few who voiced alternative views of the lands
near the project site. These views drew from narratives of Hawaiian values and practices as well
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as narratives about the ecological richness and rural lifestyle of the region. Signs carried by local
residents during heated public hearings of the early 1980s captured some of these narratives or
slogans around which residents rallied: “No Waikiki Wai‘anae;” “Keep Country Country;”
“Local control for Local Needs” (Dingeman 1984a and 1984b). Place narratives articulated a
link between Hawaiian identities, rural lifestyles, ecological sustainability, and the unique natural
resources of the West Beach site; West Beach lands were conceptualized as a source of ecological
and cultural wealth rather than commercial wealth.
In the late 1970s, during the developers’ earliest efforts to win regulatory approval, two
organized community groups spearheaded criticism of the project because of expected “loss of
lifestyle and damage to the environment” (Staff , Honolulu Star Bulletin 1977). The Ewa Beach
Ali‘i’s, an athletic club, protested the project in front of the LUC: they objected to the
developers’ failure to complete a thorough EIS and to adequately consider impacts on water
supplies. The club also feared the form of urbanization the West Beach project might bring to the
Wai‘anae coast. The environmental organization, Life of the Land, also protested against the
resort due to expected adverse ecological impacts. Moreover, the Life of the Land objected to the
processes of decision-making (especially with regards to the LUC), discussed more below (Tune
1977b and 1977c; Kato 1977c). Reports mention a third group, the Shoreline Protection Alliance,
which offered testimony in front of the LUC and advocated for protection of the shoreline (Staff,
Honolulu Advertiser 1977a and 1977b).
Later, two other groups of local residents coalesced to object to the massive resort
project: the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee and Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina
(“young/youthful stewards of the land” 35 ). These groups appear to have been particularly vocal
during public hearings held during the early and mid 1980s as part of the City and County
35
See glossary for full definition of aloha ‘āina.
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rezoning and planning process for West Beach and as part of the Land Use Commission’s second
review of the developers’ DBA petition. Part of a growing Hawaiian renaissance, these groups
argued against West Beach largely on environmental and cultural terms: in defense of traditional
Native Hawaiian gathering practices, the rural-agricultural lifestyle of Wai‘anae, and the
ecological resources of the area. Georgette Meyers spoke in a 1983 hearing on behalf of Nā
‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina and asserted that the group did not want “a second Waikiki.” She and her
group opposed the West Beach project “because of the impact it will have on the culture and
economy” (Memminger 1983).
Miki—an early member of the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee—described the
protests against West Beach in the context of the deep draft harbor and a personal awakening he
and others experienced during the 1960 and 70s after educating themselves about Hawaiian
history. As he explained to me, he, and a group of “disenfranchised,” “pissed off” “young
activists with long hair” who were part of a larger Hawaiian Renaissance began to perceive ties
between big land owners, the military, the government, and Hawaiian poverty. These community
members rejected the narrative of promised economic growth resulting from development.
Instead, they saw the opposition to the West Beach project as a struggle against inequality, the
disenfranchisement of Native Hawaiians from land, and the destruction of native ecosystems and
food systems. Some of these activists had cut their teeth in an earlier battle over the Barber’s
Point deep draft harbor. Others had begun to rejuvenate Hawaiian subsistence farming practices
by reclaiming access to water and government lands. Through taro farm demonstration projects
and youth leadership programs, these local residents turned activists aimed to promote economic
independence and health amongst Native Hawaiian residents of the Wai‘anae area through
cultural empowerment and indigenous fishing and farming practices. These young activists drew
inspiration from local movements in other parts of the state—other progenitors of the broader
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Native Hawaiian Movement—including the fight to protect taro farming on the other side of the
island in Waiāhole-Waikāne.
Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina (young/youthful stewards of the land 36 ) and the Wai‘anae Land
Use Concerns Committee argued that the West Beach project would disturb cultural and
recreational uses of the lands and waters near the proposed resort site. They specifically
highlighted subsistence fishing practices and limu (seaweed) gathering (Dingeman 1984b). Many
other project critics echoed the two organized groups fearing that a distinctively (Hawaiian/rural)
“lifestyle” would be supplanted by the new resort center. Agricultural opportunities and
Hawaiian empowerment and survival were linked:
If they continue building, if they continue coming this way towards Wai‘anae , it’d be
kind of frightening for us as Hawaiians that have Homestead 37 , because pretty soon you
gon’ be squeezed out from your own environment that you feel so comfortable in.
(Kaipo Moses from Nā Maka 1987).
A local farmer, Harold Levy, expressed concern that West Beach would threaten
agriculture by exploiting water resources and raising land-prices. Speaking from his farm he
explained:
Whenever they put in high density hotel or condominiums type developments, the water
usage increases dramatically… I understand he [Horita] is also going to build luxury
homes on the mauka [mountainside] portions…with this increased urbanization, no doubt
the water usage will go up . . . There’s no way that we can farm without water. It’s one
of our major problems . . . I really think we need to preserve the farm lands out here in
Wai‘anae . (Harold Levy from Nā Maka 1987)
Another local farmer, Glenn Imaoka, who moved his farm to Wai‘anae after being
displaced by a high-end residential subdivision in Kaneohe, explained his view: “With West
36
See glossary for full definition of aloha ‘āina.
Quote refers to Hawaiian Homestead lands, lands set aside for those of 50% of more Native Hawaiian
ancestry. Large portions of the Waianae district are designated as Hawaiian Homestead lands. The
Department of Hawaiian Homelands issues nearly cost-free long-term leases to these lands.
37
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Beach you’re gonna have more population and pretty soon the farmers gonna have to move out”
(Nā Maka 1987).
Another local resident, Mr. Aipa, also expressed his concerns about water and the future
of farming: “West Beach is gonna be like Waikiki. I’m scared of that because of water. I really
harp on water, because I cannot get ‘em now, so what’s gonna happen to my kids. Cause I’m
looking at three generations down the road.” (Aipa from Nā Maka 1987). During LUC hearings,
the Ewa Beach Ali‘i’s, Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina, and the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee
also expressed fears that the project would siphon water away from local farmers (Dingeman
1984b; Tune 1977b).
Ecological Damage Several complaints against the project focused on negative environmental impacts. News
sources called the dispute over West Beach a “confrontation” between “environmentalists and
developers” (Tune 1977c). Opponents to the West Beach project, like well-known community
organizer John Kelly and Life of the Land, stipulated that building at West Beach, and especially
the carving of artificial lagoons, would hurt local ecosystems and fishing practices (Nā Maka
1987). Eric Enos, another community leader and farmer, explained:
[The area is] probably the most prime reef on O‘ahu in size, quality of reef, type of fish.
It is an ice box…it’s probably one of the richest places in terms of fish population, reef
development on O‘ahu. This area has a rich population of honu (sea turtles). If you dive
out here you’ll see caves are just filled with ‘em . . .
And there’s also the limu (seaweed) that the honu eats…as you’re looking at that papa
over there, that reef, over there is lipepe, kohu, all the varieties [of seaweed], you got it.
Very important, as you know, to the Hawaiians’ diet. If you look at the Hawaiians’
statistics for health, it’s one of the poorest and a lot of that is linked directly to our lack of
traditional diets. . fish and limu has been those things, once it’s taken away from us, we
get filled with all of those pathologies and sickness, that impact on our families. This has
fed people for thousands of years. (Enos from Nā Maka 1987)
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These are clear examples of how local residents asserted narratives linking lands to Hawaiian
practices, histories, and wellbeing, as well as locally rooted ecological sensibilities, in a rejection
of the narrative of land development for growth and jobs.
Rejecting Tourism Jobs Finally, several project critics directly challenged the West Beach project’s key selling
point—that ample and meaningful jobs would be supplied to the people of the Ewa and Wai‘anae
region. Protesters from Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina doubted that the promised jobs would end up
benefitting Native Hawaiians of Wai‘anae: “We know damn well that we won’t get the jobs”
asserted one angry resident in a 1983 public hearing (Memminger 1983). Local residents debated
during public meetings whether economic benefits would trickle down. “Some get the gravy,
while we get the crumbs,” said one skeptical attendee (Kato 1984). Other project critics resented
the idea that local residents should do menial service work in hotels and condominiums; debates
during a public hearing in 1984 had to do with “toilet cleaning.” Local residents said they wanted
their children to have more than jobs cleaning toilets for wealthy outsiders (Reyes 1984).
Meyers spoke out, as reported in a local newspaper:
We support our workers and we want our children to have better jobs. Our children don't
want to scrub toilets for the tourists. It's really a shame for some to think we'd lower
ourselves to that. (Reyes 1984)
Similarly, Kalei recalled feeling skeptical about the alluring promise of jobs: “They are promising
you jobs, but is that the kind of jobs that you really want?” (Kalei). Other meeting attendees
reportedly differed with Meyers and voiced a longing for the job opportunities that would be
provided by the resort (Dingeman 1984a; Reyes 1984). Reports and interviews suggest that those
who were dubious of the promise of employment offered by West Beach Developers were up
against the “hard hats”—the rank and file of physical laborers, many of whom hailed from the
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working class Wai‘anae. Records of public meetings thus reveal clashes between place
narratives held by local residents.
Local Wai‘anae residents resented that the project would serve the rich rather than the
local people: “They’re gonna evict our people. It’s obvious that it’s gonna benefit the rich and
the foreigners. . . Our people don’t live in [this] kind of home” (Georgette Meyers from Nā Maka
1987). Local resident Ray Catania captured the same sentiment:
Herbert Horita is promising our people heaven and earth …but all of us here know that
the lowest paying jobs in Hawai‘i [are] in the tourist industry, and with more tourism
coming down into this community of ours…everything is gonna come up…Gon’ get all
these rich people, so all the stores and everything else gon’ be catering to them. So all
the low wages that we gon’ be making in these hotels gon’ mean nothing ‘cause we
cannot pay the bills with this kine chicken feet pay that they gon’ be giving us. (Ray
Catania from Nā Maka 1987)
Overall, there was significant skepticism about the project and fears about the growing impact of
tourism in a region beyond the established visitor center of Waikiki.
Protesting Exclusion from Political Processes Some community outcry over the West Beach project focused on concerns that members
of the public were being excluded from the regulatory approval process. Most notably, Life of
the Land and the Ewa Beach Ali‘i’s appealed the original LUC decision of 1977 on grounds that
the process was flawed. The Ewa Beach Ali‘i’s argued that the EIS completed by West Beach
Partners as part of their petition to the LUC had not been comprehensive. Life of the Land
argued that it had been unlawfully excluded from full participation in the semi-judicial hearing
and the organization therefore asked the Hawai‘i Supreme Court to appeal the LUC decision (Life
of the Land ultimately prevailed in this lawsuit) (Advertiser Staff 1977a). Finally, news sources
cite outcry about the timing and location of LUC and City and County public meetings. One
group of Wai‘anae residents protested when the LUC refused to conduct a hearing in the
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Nānākuli area, thus likely making it more difficult for certain residents to voice their concerns
(Tune 1977b). Later, significant outcry occurred over the timing of a Planning Commission
hearing, which was scheduled right after Christmas and with limited public notice. Memminger
reports that “hundreds of residents” were upset upon learning of the inconvenient hearing date
(1983). Representatives of Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina claimed that thousands of disgruntled local
residents were thus blocked from voicing their grievances (Memminger 1983).
These examples show that formal requirements for public input do not always translate
into broad public inclusion in political processes. Indeed, in such a “labyrinthine” political
process, with so many potential venues for popular participation, many battles take place over
procedures as well as the boundaries of inclusion in decision-making.
Burials Kept Quiet While project critics expressed concern about threats to Wai‘anae’s agricultural lifestyle
and traditional gathering practices, ancient Hawaiian burials on site were apparently not a major
flashpoint. Though there is some evidence that a concern over “archaeological sites” emerged
during public meetings—as asserted by Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina and the Wai‘anae Land Use
Concerns Committee in the 1984 LUC hearing (Dingeman 1984b)—most newspaper coverage
did not mention public concerns over Native Hawaiian burials. 38
Robert, a community leader, explained to me that burials were found during the early
phases of development but, because there was little public outcry and a lack of legal protection
for the bones, the burials were displaced or destroyed.
38
The Army Corps of Engineers also consulted with the state of Hawai‘i historic preservation officer and
the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation about permits related to the marina and lagoon building, in
large part because the project was part of the Barber’s Point region—an area eligible for inclusion in the
National Register of Historic Places (Staff, Honolulu Advertiser 1979).
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There were burials that were found in the early development [of West Beach].
Unfortunately we weren't at a stage where we had laws on the books at the time, or had
the publicity or had the understanding . . . and unfortunately a few burials were actually
moved for the development. (Robert)
Indeed, one news article indicates that the construction destroyed the “oldest site of human
settlement in Hawai‘i” including at least seven burial sites (Smith 1989). Reportedly, the
destruction occurred according to agreements made between the developer, community groups,
and the State of Hawai‘i (assumedly as part of the Aloha Agreement) (Smith 1989).
Robert draws a contrast with the status of burial laws as well as the awareness of the
cultural significance of burials during the West Beach controversy as compared to today; during
contestations over West Beach, place narratives linking Hawaiian rights and burial protections
had not yet become as widely recognized or legitimated as they are now. Developers were able
to do with burials what they wished, and what they did was largely kept quiet.
Question: So was there a lot of upset in the community at that time, or was there a
lot of awareness that burials had been moved?
No. It wasn't really known. It was kind of kept quiet. Today that would not happen.
Today I'd be down there picketing . . .we know how to call national press conferences.
You don't want that, cause it's gonna cost you a lot of money just to build your reputation
back up again. (Robert)
Overall, then, much of the public discourse surrounding the project did not deal directly with the
rights of cultural and lineal descendants of the project site and any claims such groups might have
to protect ancestral burials. This provides significant evidence of regime change. In the current
development context both laws and understanding—as well as community savvy, empowerment,
and facility using the media—place burial issues on the agenda of almost every major
development. This is because both the institutional and cultural context of land development has
shifted since the late 1970s.
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The Silent Majority? Public records and interview respondents suggested that there was a “silent majority” of
people who did not speak out about the project. How did they really feel? And if some were
against the project, why did they not act? Local residents who may have objected to the project
may have felt that their voices would make no difference. Kalei described to me how she and
others were struck by the description of the anticipated environmental impacts. But they felt
disempowered in the face of the dramatic land-use changes proposed by the developers:
They explained [at the time of the proposal] these fans of sediment [would come] as a
result of it [the artificial lagoon construction]. It was enough to scare, I think, a lot of
people about really what we consider now to be quality of life kinds of issues. But at the
time, it was rousing to know that they were going to do that bad of environmental harm.
But, really, we had no control over it. We had no voice over it. (Kalei)
Kalei described a love for her community, but she also described a sense of
disenfranchisement—disenfranchisement that may have prompted silence about West Beach
amongst certain local residents. She connected disenfranchisement to a failure to make
“informed decisions” or the “right amount of noise” about the project.
When West Beach happened . . . I remember I didn’t need much convincing [to oppose
the project], I think because of what we experienced on a day-to-day basis knowing that
we’re mostly Native Hawaiian growing up on [Hawaiian] Homestead [lands] and
knowing that we didn’t have all of the things that other schools had and that other
communities had and feeling even at that age a sense of injustice. . .
Sometimes, to our detriment, we didn’t quite make the informed decisions, the right
amount of noise, and be really advocates for the community. On one hand you had the
sense that you were part of this community and you were raised by it, but on the other
hand you felt disenfranchised. (Kalei)
While Kalei ultimately spoke out against the project, others feeling caught in the same
contradictions may have chosen silence. She explained that her father was a “construction
worker . . . a heavy equipment operator who worked his butt off from 9-5 every single day.” But,
she went on, he was also a fisherman: “On Saturdays and Sundays, and evenings he would go and
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throw net or surround net…or go dive.” He would take their family to fish off of the entire coast,
including in front of the West Beach area, “not big catches, enough for our family, but it was
really important.” Though her father never spoke out directly against the project, Kalei believed
the project would bring more harm than good. She had her fisherman father in mind—a man
likely caught in the contradictions of development versus subsistence and cultural practices—
when she picketed against West Beach.
Miki, an activist at the time, believed that construction workers like Kalei’s father may
have agreed with the activists’ objections at heart, but could not come out against the project
because they were “stuck” with the economic opportunities at hand and couldn’t conceive of
alternatives:
Well, we're a minority of voice. But I think we was the majority in feeling. I think a lot of
people, when we asked a question, people started... I mean people knew it in their gut,
just that they were stuck. What I said was you got to look for alternatives. (Miki)
Moreover, Bill explains how project advocates tried to discredit activists by accusing them of
trying to take away needed jobs. Support for the project was pitted as a choice of jobs over
cultural preservation. Bill calls this a “prevailing method” for pushing the agenda of urban
development—promoting the discourse of jobs and growth.
They tried to indirectly attack the advocates for cultural preservation as being against
jobs, stopping progress and making it difficult for Hawaiians to survive in the community
because they can’t get jobs. Assuming of course that was the only route that there is to
achieving the betterment of the conditions of the people that are there. You gotta take our
jobs or not at all. So therefore why are you complaining about our jobs, you don’t have
any jobs to offer these guys, so you have to take our jobs. Which is the prevailing
method of most developers over the past 30 years. (Bill)
This suggests that the battle over West Beach involved a battle between competing place
narratives; those caught in the clash of place narratives may have chosen silence and thus quiet
acceptance of the push for land development. If members of the ‘silent majority’ had pushed
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harder against the project—if they had more sense of empowerment, economic opportunity, or
ability to prioritize culture, environment and lifestyle over a discourse of economic growth—
perhaps the project outcome would have differed.
Also, by contrast, in the current regime, Native Hawaiian identity, instead of creating a
sense of disenfranchisement, may provide new tools and sources of empowerment to shape (or
thwart) land development. Also, the narratives of development in the broader public arena have
shifted to better favor cultural preservation and the rights of Native Hawaiians or officially
recognized “cultural descendants” of specific sites.
Chronology of a Lost Battle: Development Processes In this section I offer a partial chronology of the development and entitlement process (the
process of officially gaining permission to develop). Regulations created contingency as well as
opportunities for negotiations. Yet the boundaries of participation in these negotiations were
contested; legal and political standing was disputed. Negotiations within and alongside the
formal venues established by the regulatory system eventually loaded the project with conditions
and forced the developer to offer many concessions to appease the concerns of state and city
officials. Newspapers describe the presence of opponents at every step of the West Beach
developers’ attempt to win the right to develop.
Seeking Permission to Build: Navigating Regulations and Gaining Support from Politicians and Labor On what proved to be a long journey in pursuit of permission to build, West Beach
Partners first turned to the Land Use Commission (LUC) to seek a state land use district change
from “agricultural” to “urban.” After nearly a dozen meetings over several months, the LUC
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approved a District Boundary Amendment in 1977 with several conditions, including reduced
residential and hotel density (2,000 residential units instead of 3,000; 9 hotels instead of 10
hotels), a reduced project area (from 830 acres to 640 acres), and a 90 foot set-back of hotel and
residential building from the coastline (Kato 1977c). Other conditions included those already
promised by the developer, such as right of way to the coast, jobs, a boat launch ramp, and
“protection of archaeological sites and flora and fauna” (Tune 1977b). Numerous additional
zoning and permitting hurdles faced the developer. As an overview, Table 5.1 below provides a
list of regulatory bodies whose approval of the development was required.
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Table 5.1 Timeline of Approvals Granted to West Beach Development Project
ƒ
1977-State Land Use Commission: grants petition for District Boundary
Amendment from agricultural state land district to the urban district. (Following a
lawsuit by Life of the Land, this decision was vacated in a 1981 Supreme Court
ruling, which held that the LUC had made a procedural error in refusing to grant Life
of the Land standing. The second petition to the LUC for a DBA was made and
passed in 1985).
ƒ
1981-Army Corps of Engineers accepts Environmental Impact Statement to create
man-made lagoons.
ƒ
1982-City and County of Honolulu reviews O‘ahu General Plan and affirms the West
Beach should be resort site (and Ewa target of secondary urban growth). West Beach
developers alter master plan in 1983 to conform to C&C of Honolulu General Plan.
ƒ
1984-City and County Planning Commission advises City Council to approve
facilities for West Beach project and provide infrastructure support for project
(including sewer, water wells, roads, storm drains, bus stops, elementary school,
etc.). City Council Planning and Zoning Committee gives final approval to West
Beach project
ƒ
1985-State Land Use Commission pursuant to the court vacating the original
decision, the LUC hears the petition for a second time and unanimously passes a
District Boundary Amendment. (LUC places approximately 10-12 additional
conditions on the project).
ƒ
1986-City and County Council passes Final Zoning Approval and rezones lands from
C&C agricultural zone to zones for residential and hotel use (and accepts
developers’ pledge of $9 million to be given to the City for affordable housing in lieu
of setting aside 10% of residential units for low and moderate income residents).
Ordinance signed by Mayor Frank Fasi.
ƒ
State Board of Land and Natural Resources grants permissions for lagoons to be
built.
ƒ
City and County of Honolulu grants Special Management Area permit for
construction in coastal area.
ƒ
Army Corps of Engineers grants permits for creation of artificial lagoons
ƒ
Groundbreaking and Development Construction Begins.
ƒ
1987-“Aloha Agreement” is passed.
1989-1990s and ongoing: City and County issues Building Permits (required for all
physical structures, including condos, visitor center, hotels, etc.).
Source: Author’s compilation from Honolulu Advertiser and Honolulu Star Bulletin
ƒ
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During the first LUC proceedings in 1977, the agency made controversial procedural
rulings that restricted public input. The LUC refused to move the public hearings to Wai‘anae or
Nānākuli, making it more difficult for residents of the region to offer their testimony. In
response, approximately 30 residents, primarily from Nānākuli and Wai‘anae, walked out of a
LUC meeting in protest (Tune 1977c). The LUC also restricted full participation by Life of the
Land by refusing to grant the environmental organization legal standing. Life of the Land sued,
arguing they should have been a party to the contested case. Four years after the original
rezoning, they won their suit which vacated the LUC decision (which would require West Beach
Estates to re-petition the LUC in the future) (Staff, Honolulu Advertiser 1977a).
Meanwhile, the developer Horita began the process of securing permissions (including
rezoning) from the City and County of Honolulu as well as the Army Corps of Engineers (since
the Corps held authority over the lagoon construction). In 1980, the developer’s Environmental
Impact Statement regarding the man-made lagoon was accepted. Both the city and the Army
Corps required public hearings about the merits of the project prior to granting their approval.
During these public hearings and in other public meetings designed to broker public
support—some held at school cafeterias up and down the Wai‘anae coast—hundreds of
opponents and supporters of the project clashed and passionately raised their concerns (Tune
1977c). Project backers stressed the positive economic returns that would come from the project,
and “hard hats” made a show of public support. Miki explained that scores of union workers
would be bussed out in shows of support for the project, and news report suggested that AFL-CIO
leaders distributed pro-West Beach signs and hats for meeting attendees.
Following the original LUC ruling, many negotiations took place during the early 1980s
regarding the stance of the City and County on the project. City and county rezoning—to allow
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resort usage instead of agricultural land-use—at the West Beach project site was contingent upon
revisions to the O‘ahu General Plan, the planning framework for the entire island of O‘ahu.
Public hearings were held in 1982 as part of the mandated regular 5 year review of the General
Plan. Newspapers reported public outcry regarding the West Beach project and the associated
urbanization of the leeward coast and Ewa plain.
The revisions to the General Plan that would solidify plans to urbanize Ewa, and which
would support resort development, faced other political challenges. For example, Mayor Eileen
Anderson, unlike her predecessor Frank Fasi, threatened to erase plans for a resort node at the
West Beach site and thus block West Beach Partners from obtaining the needed City and County
of Honolulu re-zoning. When Horita promised more affordable housing, greater contributions to
county infrastructure, provisions for public access, and greater setbacks from the ocean, Anderson
relented and the County Council allowed urbanization to move forward. Later, in 1984, the City
and County Planning Commission and Council would host several public hearings—in which
many residents spoke out “emotionally” against the project (Dingeman 1984a and 1984b)—to
determine how much Horita and his partners would contribute to infrastructure (like water,
sewage, school facilities, etc.) at the project site. Ultimately, after these heated meetings, the
Honolulu Planning Commission approved the infrastructure plans in 1984, and in 1986 the City
Council agreed to the necessary rezoning.
Interestingly, newspapers describe the relatively strong, vocal, and “emotional” presence
of West Beach project critics at these public hearings of 1984 and 1986 held by the Planning
Commission and City Council. As already indicated, at this time, the Wai‘anae Land Use
Concerns Committee and the Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina became a significant part of the public
dialogue. Reports suggest that these groups were particularly vocal and well-organized during
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the 1984 Planning Commission hearing—a public hearing that was designed to “sort out details”
of the project. Nearly 100 people issued a “barrage of verbal ammunition” on planning
commissioners (Memminger 1983). This is significant because this particular public hearing was
only about specific issues related to project infrastructure, since, at that time, the approval of
West Beach was already essentially guaranteed (Reyes 1984; Dingeman 1984). Organized and
disgruntled community members asserted themselves in venues that were less consequential than
others and arguably at a point in time that was a bit “too late.” We might think of this as a
mismatch between community opposition and participatory venue.
Also, despite being active in the mid 1980s, Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina and the Wai‘anae
Land Use Concerns Committee were not reported to have been involved in the original 1977
LUC hearing. This raises additional questions about the timing of community intervention. Had
these two groups joined with Life of the Land and the Ewa Beach Ali‘i’s, might they have been
more successful in shaping or thwarting the development? Perhaps, by contrast, the supporters
of the West Beach project made more effective use of the most consequential venues; indeed,
reporters describe several public hearings (including portions of the 1985 LUC hearing) in which
“by far” most testimony was in favor of the development project (Morse 1984).
Unions also bartered their support for the West Beach project in exchange for
concessions, and union interests were well-represented on the LUC board. For example, AFLCIO leaders, who indicated that they spoke for nearly 20,000 members, vigorously backed the
project during the late 1970s and early 1980s (Mayer 1982). Union leaders argued the project
could ameliorate the nearly 30% unemployment rate in the construction industry (Mayer 1982).
However, in 1984, when the project was up for review by city agencies, AFL-CIO publicly
withdrew support and only later reinstated their backing for West Beach when the developer
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offered formal guarantees that local laborers would be hired first (Manuel 1984). Also, the
ILWU had important leverage over the project through the Eddie Tangen, an ILWU official and
the chairman of the LUC at the time of the LUC 1977 hearing (Tangen was called by Cooper and
Daws one of the most powerful LUC officials of the “Democratic Years”) (Cooper and Daws
1990). Tangen publicly stated what he saw as “minimum” conditions of LUC approval for the
West Beach project: that jobs would be preferentially given to residents of Wai‘anae and
Waipahu and that the developer would have to cooperate with federal, state, and county job
training programs (Woo 1977). LUC records also show numerous letters and testimony from
union leaders and members supporting the project.
In 1986, the State Board of Land and Natural Resources and the Army Corps of
Engineers approved permits to allow the construction of four artificial lagoons and a boat marina
that would be blasted out of the rocky coastline, despite opposition expressed in public hearings.
The city also signed off on the other permits required for coastal zone activity. The project was
again heard by the Land Use Commission around this time, and once again the LUC gave its
approval and issued the needed DBA in 1985 after approximately a year of hearings. But the
activists continued their legal battle.
After this second LUC decision, the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee, led by
Eric Enos, filed two lawsuits to block the redistricting of the lands from the state agricultural to
the state urban district (Smith 1989). Enos’s organization and his legal counsel, the Native
Hawaiian Legal Corporation, argued that the developer had not sufficiently accounted for the
project’s impact on Native Hawaiian gathering and fishing practices. This argument
foreshadowed claims that would be later codified in 2000 with the Cultural Impact Assessment
Act and the PASH Hawai‘i Supreme Court decision of 1995 (discussed in Chapter 4). Several
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noted archaeologists concurred and argued that the environmental impact statements prepared
were inadequate (Smith 1989).
Three years of litigation followed, but the suit was eventually dismissed. Enos, along
with the Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns Committee, threatened to appeal the decision. Though
these challenges legally failed, they slowed down the entitlement process and caused costly
delays of parcel sales and construction. As suggested in the opening of this chapter, during this
time period community activists faced anonymous threats; extra-legal tactics and coercion were
part of the game.
Development Critics: Protest and Pioneering Legal Challenges Throughout the entitlement process, project opponents attempted to organize local
residents in the adjacent communities of Nānākuli, Wai‘anae, and Mā‘ili. Small groups of
passionate residents stood on the roadside with signs protesting the proposals. Kalei described
community meetings in the houses of elders or extended families.
However, the most potent challenges to the project came in lawsuits mentioned above,
which pushed for more inclusion in LUC decision-making as well as a fuller accounting of the
social and environmental impacts of the proposed development. Yet, the fact that many of the
legal claims made by critics of the West Beach project were not yet clearly codified by law
limited the potency of such claims. Legal expert Bill explains:
West Beach [took place] before a lot of the major cases. So we were making these claims
that were substantively the same as what these later Supreme Court decisions said. But
without it having been said before, we were just making the claim based on unknown
law. . . This was an 1988/or 1989 decision. Most of the big decisions came out in the
1990s [e.g. the PASH supreme court ruling]. (Bill)
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Since cultural rights were not as clearly backed by the force of law, and the privileged legal
standing of cultural practitioners was more ambiguous, public officials and developers could
dismiss cultural concerns. Bill goes on to explain.
. . . In their [the developers’] minds, it would be nice to have Hawaiian cultural concerns
but they’re irrelevant. But they don’t have any kind of standing to stop a project. They
were trying to just kind of sweep us under the rug. And until those later Supreme Court
decisions came out, that was the prevailing attitude. . . “Oh thank you for the information
but we’re gonna approve this anyway.” (Bill)
The claims made during the time of the lawsuit were also not backed by broader legitimacy or
public understanding. Cultural concerns, Bill explains, did not have the salience they do now that
“people understand.”
Question: Would you say there was less receptivity to those types of [cultural]
claims at that point in time?
I think there was and there still is. . . . It’s better now. I think people understand those
kinds of concerns after many many cases of litigation dealing with cultural preservation
concerns. But that was one of the big starting points about land use regulators not
concerning themselves with constitutionally-required requirements (Bill).
Miki describes how activists pushed the existing limits of the law and raised every legal
challenge that was possible at the time. Eventually, though, the activists had lost on every count
and there was nothing to do but to threaten yet another lawsuit—a form of legal harassment:
Yeah, what happened was that we were slowly losing the battle because there were too
many economic factors. But we just stood to our ground. I think the point came when we
. . . lost all the challenges. But there was one last challenge. It was a weak challenge.
And you know, they were already breaking ground. . . No way we was goin’ to win. But
we were going to just hang in there, and then just be in, you know. . .. And they know
that we can just drag it out. . . Yeah. Harass them… (Miki).
The opponents to the West Beach project learned that even a losing battle could push developers
to provide at least some concessions to critics and community members—but likely not as many
concessions as would have been accessible during a later time period. The West Beach project
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thus clearly differs from development projects initiated during later time periods in terms of the
legal and cultural context of development.
West Beach Construction and Impacts West Beach broke ground in 1986. This section gives a brief overview of the West Beach project
since then. The resort, now known as Ko Olina, has slowly grown into a luxury enclave, though
it does not approach the scale and density of Horita’s original vision. Also, the project has
continued to remain controversial.
Soon after Horita secured all the necessary zoning changes and permits, West Beach
Partners broke ground and began selling parcels. The project name was changed from West
Beach to Ko Olina, meaning a place for “fulfillment of joy,” a name chosen by developers to
“reflect the area’s ancient Hawaiian name” (Harpham 1986). In 1989, the first hotel sites were
bought by a Japanese company: 37 acres were purchased by Town Development Co. for $110
million, or a price of approximately $3 million per acre (Wiles 1989). Town Development then
purchased two additional parcels of 25 acres for $75 million. However, by the early 1990s
development stalled largely due to the financial crisis in Japan. Only one hotel of the ten
originally planned had been opened by then—the approximately 400 room Ihilani resort, spa, and
golf course, built by a subsidiary of Japan Airlines, opened in 1993. In addition to the Ihiliani
hotel, only one condominium project and the four lagoons had been completed as of 1998. The
other planned hotel projects stalled during the early 1990s due to lack of financing; Horita had
difficulty selling residential acres and financing a master plan for the residential communities that
were intended to surround the hotel sites along the coast and lagoons (Bakutis 1998; Wiles 1994).
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Ko Olina After Horita In 1998, a new owner, Ko Olina Partners, LLC, purchased the undeveloped acreage and
tried to revive the project. Jeff Stone and Kevin Showe became co-managers of the project and
promised to jumpstart the development by building 3,000 housing units, the marina, and a town
center (Bakutis 1998). Stone and partners spearheaded the development of the other hotel sites
and there are now timeshares, condos, a restaurant site, and residential enclaves within Ko Olina.
Ko Olina continues to grow and evolve: new residential subdivisions are being marketed, and the
Disney Corporation has begun planning for a hotel on one of the coastline hotel sites. 39
Project Impacts The project has had significant impacts. Kalei described the magnitude of the impacts to
the ocean ecology that came with the bulldozing to create the artificial ocean lagoons.
It took a long time for those lagoons eventually to be made and eventually for the impacts
to be felt on our coast, but I think that there have definitely been impacts. . . I think it was
very detrimental to us as a community.
I remember my grandmother telling me stories about the ‘anae [fish] and that it would
migrate from Ewa all the way out where it was rich in limu [seaweed] and then migrate
down the coast to Keawa’ula and then up and down the coast. Without that migration, I
think a lot of the fishery died out. . .
An archaeologist with the Office of Hawaiian Affairs in the mid 1980s lamented the
loss of some of the oldest archaeological evidence of human habitation in the islands (human
bones and housing materials that date to 75 AD) (Smith 1989). Robert echoes this claim,
39
The fact that Disney is currently building at West Beach allowed me to gain some insight into how norms
of developer/community engagement have shifted since the early days of the West Beach project.
Community leaders I interviewed had been engaging in discussions with Disney and could draw contrasts
between how West Beach developers engaged community members during the 1980s versus how the
Disney hotel developers have recently been engaging community members. This prompted Robert to
explain that what was done with burials found during previous construction at West Beach (i.e. that they
were disposed of without consultation with descendants) would never happen now. I see this as further
evidence of regime change.
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arguing that the historical knowledge embodied in the archaeology of the area has been
permanently lost.
I can tell you that the entire area from Pu‘uloa (Pearl Harbor) all the way to Nānākuli
because it was lowlands, coral, flat, [and] water-challenged had a unique Hawaiian
presence there, because people had to deal with that environment. And unfortunately
because the archaeology has been done piecemeal as they've developed all the way from
Pearl Harbor to this side, we'll never get a complete picture of how efficient that system
was. This dry land—very unique. Farming in sink holes. Those kinds of things, you
don't see that anymore. And we've lost that . . . (Robert)
Many local residents feel a deep sense of cultural and historical loss that has come from resort
construction.
Disputes Over Public Access Since the four lagoons have been completed, there has been controversy over public
access. City officials, local residents, fishermen, and environmental groups have protested
against Ko Olina’s failure to comply with conditions stipulated in the original LUC DBA
(Editorial Staff, Honolulu Advertiser 1996a and 1996b; Sawamoto 1994). West Beach is guarded
by gates, and public beach access is under high surveillance.
A local resident—whose father
and grandfather had been fishing in the waters near Ko Olina since the early 1900s—described an
encounter between his father and a security guard at the gates of Ko Olina:
I remember that day, when we drove up to the entrance to the Ko Olina area and the
security guard said, ‘You can't fish here anymore.’ I remember the look of
disappointment on my father's face and the pain on the security guard's face as my father
explained that he had been fishing the area for more than three decades. (Sawamoto
1994)
Even shoreline access for recreation is difficult. City officials and environmental organizations
(including the Sierra club and Life of the Land) pressed Ko Olina developers for public access
during the mid 1990s, in 1996, finally all of the four lagoons were opened to public access
(Editorial Staff, Honolulu Advertiser 1996a and 1996b). Yet, there are limited parking spaces—a
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situation which effectively limits public access to the lagoons (there are a total of 210 parking
spaces, which are often filled on weekends) (Bakutis 1999). Residents have repeatedly
complained about the long list of rules that restrict public use of the lagoon beaches. Such
restrictions are parodied in an editorial cartoon shown in Figure 5.3.
Figure 5.3. Parody of Restrictions on Public Use of Ocean and Coastal Resources at Ko
Olina Resort
Source: (Corky 1999) Honolulu Star Bulletin, August 13, 1999
The private marina, with some 270 boat slips and accommodation for vessels of up to 150
feet, was opened in 1999. Later in 2000, Marriott Vacation Club International announced plans
to spend nearly $600 million on a new vacation timeshare project on 28 acres of undeveloped
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oceanfront land (Lynch 2000). In 2004, Ko Olina closed down a boat ramp, allegedly in
violation of the 1985 LUC DBA conditions. A group of fisherman along with the environmental
organization Envirowatch urged the Land Use Commission to require Ko Olina to provide access
to an operational boat launch for local boaters.
During my interview with Kalei, she, like others, grappled with how to make sense of the
project and how to understand its legacy. She voiced frustration at still feeling like her
community was being left out of major decision-making about Ko Olina, even now during the
2000s.
Evidence of Regime Change
When experts and residents whom I interviewed reflected on West Beach from the perspective of
the current historical moment, several indicators of regime change became clear. First, there is a
contemporary legal framework that contrasts with the framework of real-estate development
during the late-1970s and early-1980s. Second, community members have gained skills and
learned over time how to manipulate the regulatory framework. In addition, developers now
approach communities more cautiously.
Losing the Battle but Advancing the War For project critics, West Beach was a lost battle but a step forward in a broader war. Reflecting
on the episode, Miki struck a triumphant and determined tone.
And for us, it was you know, okay, we lost a battle. We're going to lay down our swords,
our spears because we lost a battle, but we'll never lose the war. We're going to keep
fighting. We're going to come up again. We're going to fight at another point, at another
point, at another point because our concerns have not been addressed. We know that in
twenty years from now, there will be high unemployment. We know that people cannot
afford [luxury houses]. We know that this resort is going to be... some people are going to
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get jobs but the land is going to go. We know that's going to happen. We're no
fools.(Miki)
Kalei also expressed defiance and said she is determined not to see the same outcome occur
again. She has dedicated her adult life to community organizing in the Wai‘anae region in
response to the disenfranchisement she perceived at West Beach:
When they were telling us about West Beach . . . I really felt that they shouldn’t do it. . .
But then growing up in the community later on and then seeing the impacts of those
decisions made by my kupuna [elders/grandparents] and my mākua [parents] [to allow
West Beach], and not being happy . ..
And that really set the tone basically of what I wanted to do with my life, which is really
the idea that where we come from is where we should be empowered and where we
should continue to be empowered no matter what we do or what level of the community
we’re at. Whether we’re the politicians, or if we’re just the homeless person on the
beach. We should all be able to have some kind of informed consent about things that
happen at that level. And that’s really been part of why I do what I do now. (Kalei)
People like Kalei and Miki have continued their work to push for alternatives to tourism
urbanization on the Wai‘anae coast. The settlement money from the Aloha Agreement, however
small in comparison to the developers’ profits, did seed community enrichment projects that still
thrive.
Setting a Legal Precedent Political movements like the fight at West Beach would foster (or at least parallel) other
episodes of contention that would change the legal framework of real-estate development in
Hawai‘i. Opposition to West Beach—particularly as expressed by Nā ‘Ōpio Aloha ‘Āina and the
Wai‘anae Land Use Concerns during the 1985 LUC hearings—involved claims that Hawaiian
gathering traditions and cultural access rights would be harmed. But, as discussed in Chapter 4,
at the time of the fight, many of the laws and agencies which now exist to protect and support
such rights did not yet exist. The legal team and the individual plaintiffs involved in the West
Beach controversy went on to fight similar development projects (for example, Native Hawaiian
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Legal Corporation and Angel Pilago were involved in later cases that reached the Supreme
Court). Contention at West Beach and elsewhere in the state would provoke the codification of
Hawaiian rights and lead to laws mandating fuller accounting of the social and environmental
impacts of development. Other struggles, such as the fight against suburban sprawl on Windward
O‘ahu, made similar claims and would also catalyze changes in public consciousness along with
an altered legal framework.
Although it was arguably a defeat of many community interests, West Beach also
demonstrated how the relatively powerless could use litigation as a “weapon of the weak” (Scott
1985) to hinder and delay land development and alarm elites. Even a potentially losing circuit
court appeal was enough to get the attention of the Kumagai Gumi executives and political elites.
Greater Community Power There is also ample evidence of what I characterize as regime change in the form of
expanded community power in Wai‘anae. Local residents display expanded capacity to engage
meaningfully in the development process; they show greater comfort and facility with existing
regulations; and, overall, they have access to more community leverage over major issues like
burial rights, public access to the shoreline, and historical and natural resources.
This was illustrated by Robert, who gave numerous examples of how respect for cultural
issues has shaped recent development projects on the Wai‘anae coast. Developers now do
extensive community outreach to anticipate and mitigate community concerns and grievances
associated with culture:
Have developers reacted to the demand by Native Hawaiians to honor Native Hawaiian
culture [or rights]? Absolutely. You have developers like the Board of Water supply
come out to the community long before projects are drawn out anticipating possible
impacts on burial or cultural sites and then trying to work on scenarios on policies with
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the community ahead of time, if this happens what should we do, rather than be reactive
at the time. (Robert)
Robert elaborated on the example of the Board of Water Supply who came to the Wai‘anae area
for a significant development project. The Board made sure to plan for community access to a
historical heiau (ancient place of worship) on the project site, knowing that otherwise they would
“lose their ‘ōkoles [buttocks] in court” as well as “significant sums of money” (Robert).
Robert also cited many lessons that had been learned throughout the past during
confrontations over West Beach, the deep draft harbor, and live-fire training by the U.S. military
in Mākua valley. These lessons add up to a form of social and cultural capital or savvy in using
the tools of the regulatory system.
The community has gotten a lot smarter in how to read environmental impact statements,
how to impact the planning and zoning process in the city as well as in the state, the land
use commission. (Robert)
Robert also spoke of other lessons learned, like the need to be specific when agreements are
made with developers about public land use and shoreline access.
We learned from that battle at West Beach . . . we learned that you look at unilateral
agreements as they're being negotiated [with real-estate developers] and you make sure
that the specifics are in there. That's a very valuable thing for any community that is
going through any kind of development process. Very very important. I can't stress that
enough. (Robert)
Robert emphasized that the community had learned how to use the “tools” of the legal
system as well as the media. In discussing controversies and disputes with the military’s use of
Mākua valley, he explained how the community went to court and won important concessions,
“we know how to use the court system” (Robert). He also estimates that the U. S. Army has
spent at least a million dollars on public relations in the last two or three years, more evidence of
just how important community sympathy is in the current regime.
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In this quote Robert sums up the cumulative lessons that have been learned over time by
the Wai‘anae community:
Question: So you would say that the Deep Draft Harbor was the first big thing, and
since then it’s been a series of battles over time?
Yeah, that's caused us to learn as a community to learn and evolve as a community how
to maintain our culture, our community integrity. That's how I would put it. And use the
tools that are available, and use all branches of the system, the judiciary, the
administrative branch, as well as the legislative . . . branches . . . [the community also]
recognizes how to use the media.
Young people ask me and I tell em, you gotta learn how to play the game. You gotta
know the rules of the game and you gotta know it better than your opponent . . . (Robert,
emphasis added)
Shifting the Discourse of Real­Estate Development from the Top If regime change was propelled by the actions of grassroots community members, the
case of West Beach also hints at additional mechanisms connecting protest to broader regime
change at the level of discourse. The quotes at the beginning of this chapter (about the Aloha
Agreement) show that elites were publicly using a new language for discussing the benefits of
urban development; they were singing the praises of a symbolic cultural compromise. This marks
a clear narrative shift away from the justification of development based only on its supposed
economic returns.
The Aloha Agreement illustrates how powerful actors adjudicated competing discourses
over development and likely contributed to regime change. Kenneth Brown, Archbishop
Tanouye, and Governor Waihe‘e, for example, realized the narrative of urbanization for
economic growth was insufficient and that its legitimacy was being called into question. This
was because the fight over West Beach was not just about which concessions were fair and to
whom the jobs should go, but it was also about reconciling development with competing cultural
practices and frameworks (which asserted the import of Hawaiian issues, lifestyle and
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environment). The language of elites like Brown—who spoke glowingly of “a new symbiotic
relationship between the primal culture and the Western culture” (Burris 1987)—shows an
attempt to change the discourse of growth and legitimize real-estate development on other terms.
The Aloha Agreement suggests a movement beyond economic bartering and the associated
narrative of the tourism-growth regime.
This is significant because while cultural sociology often notes the presence of schema or
broad scripts that shape politics, as discussed in Chapter 2, it is often unclear how these scripts
become established or altered. This case study suggests that changing discourses or narratives of
urban growth are propelled by political action and the words and deeds of elites responding to
public pressure and regime challengers.
Conclusion In this chapter I have conveyed some of the dynamics of real-estate development during the
tourism-growth regime, as illustrated in the case of West Beach. During the tourism-growth
regime, a narrative of urban development in support of economic growth and job creation
prevailed. Legal and regulatory frameworks, and existing power blocs, supported this narrative.
The regulatory system supported the narrative by providing public officials and organized labor
leverage to layer conditions upon the developer, exact economic concessions, and change the
character of the planned resort. Those who opposed the basic premise of the project and pushed
for the resort to be more sensitive to culture, environment and lifestyle were largely defeated.
Overall, this case study suggests that there is a complex interplay between structure and
agency in real-estate development. Structural constraints, such as legal or regulatory frameworks
and dominant narratives, shape real-estate development. However, agents, such as critics of the
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West Beach project, push back against these structures. And in Hawai‘i, these agents eventually
catalyzed regime change by both challenging and re-structuring (or literally re-writing) the
narratives and legal frameworks that condition urban development. Also, the case illustrates the
complex ways in which Hawai‘i’s political institutions mediate the politics of development and
invite disputes over processes and boundaries of inclusion in land-use decisions.
Chapter 6. Democracy in Action?: The Defeat of the Proposed Development at Lā‘au Point For me [the defeat of the proposed development at Lā‘au]—it’s encouraging. The key
issue here is, “Can a local community control its destiny?” That's really what we want to
see. We don’t want to see outside interests constantly telling communities how they
should behave or how they should live.
Sam 40 , Moloka‘i Resident
If we lose this fight, there’s nothing left to fight for in Hawai‘i. If we win, it says the
community gets to decide its future.
Walter Ritte (Hawaiian Rights Advocate) (Cerizo 2006)
Everybody thinks that we’re such a democratic island: we’re not by a long shot . . .
Candy, Moloka‘i Resident
Introduction In this chapter I discuss how a group of local residents in a rural, predominantly Hawaiian, and
under-resourced island led a striking defeat of a powerful land owner’s land development plans at
Lā‘au Point. I conceptualize this case as a successful intervention in development by one faction
of a local community, despite the financial might of Moloka‘i Properties Limited (MPL), and its
allies in high places.
This case shows how the relatively powerless can draw upon cultural resources and land
use regulations in order to assert influence over development. Community members employed
40
This is a pseudonym. When only first names are given in this chapter, they are pseudonyms. I use full
names (e.g. Walter Ritte) if I have acquired information about prominent individuals from public sources.
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place narratives and cultural frames, which helped congeal local opposition to luxury
development and also resonated with key public decision-makers. Also, community members
strategically asserted themselves during State Land Use Commission hearings and other public
meetings. These efforts and tactics proved persuasive. Also, the current regulatory regime
shifted negotiation to the arena of public relations—the realm of the “lifeworld” (Habermas
1989)—in which the capital of finance and formal political position does not necessarily prevail.
Hawai‘i’s regulatory system clearly helped equalize the playing field of development in this
situation.
This case study also lends insight into additional ways that development processes work
in the current postcolonial regime. Land owner and would-be developer MPL, also known as
Moloka‘i Ranch, initiated a new style of community engagement: the company invited extensive
dialogue with local residents and involved community members in a collaborative land-use
planning process. I view this campaign for community support as a decidedly defensive posture.
Also, local community members used the new legal requirements of the current regime, such as
cultural impact assessments, as an effective tool for intervening in development. However, one
consequence of this shift is that the development process generated painful community fractures.
This case study also suggests that, within the current regime, the discourse that land
should be developed for the sake of economic benefits is no longer hegemonic (or at least not
singularly hegemonic). For example, project-backers construed the proposed development as part
of a broader master plan for their private large landholdings on the island, a plan which was
praised for promoting cultural, lifestyle, and environmental concerns. The plan, and associated
projects, did promise some job creation, which was compelling to many local residents.
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However, land owners and their allies also prominently promoted the development in terms of the
land and cultural resources that would be preserved.
Finally, I contextualize the Lā‘au development controversy in a brief history of land
contention on Moloka‘i . Lā‘au activists drew upon a rich historical legacy that provided both
cultural and political tools for their victory over Lā‘au. Also, activists on Moloka‘i had innovated
place narratives during other previous local land controversies. The homegrown narratives of
these activists and other local communities have induced change in the broader development
regime, nurturing a paradigm shift locally that has diffused through the state.
Overview of the Project and Outcome: A Narrow Community Win In this section I provide a summary of the project, the land owner, the proposal, and the outcome.
I give a fuller discussion of the processes of development in a later section.
Lā‘au Point lies at the tip of Moloka‘i’s pristine southwestern coast—a remote rural area
of the most remote rural island in Hawai‘i. Moloka‘i is known for being off the beaten path, and
its residents are proud that their night sky is not littered with the lights of buildings and
commerce. People boast of not having a single stoplight on the island, no building taller than a
palm tree, and no shopping malls. The dry western coast lies on the edge of vast open acres of
formerly active ranch lands on Moloka‘i’s West End. There are no roads to Lā‘au, nor is there
infrastructure like water, sewage, or electricity. Some local residents know Lā‘au Point because
they have boated or hiked to the Point, perhaps to gather food. Yet many locals have never been
to the place. Fisherman prize the waters off of Lā‘au for its ample marine resources—due to its
proximity to Penguin Banks, one of the best fishing areas in the state (McGregor 2006; Ullman
2006).
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Figure 6.1 shows the location of Lā‘au Point, the proposed development site and other
places mentioned in this chapter.
Figure 6.1 Island of Moloka‘i Census Designated Places and Other Sites of Interest
Davianna McGregor, a well-respected cultural historian and the author of the cultural
impact assessment 41 commissioned by MPL in support efforts to develop Lā‘au, sums up the
significance of the site:
The Lā‘au area is generally regarded as a special place of spiritual mana and power.
Community participants and key informants spoke of specific burials, fishing ko‘a
[shrines], and heiau [places of worship] . . The overall spiritual quality of the Lā‘au area
41
As explained in Chapter 4, since 2000, Environmental Impact Statements (EISs) in Hawai‘i are required
by law to include cultural impact statements. The EIS for Lau was required as part of various applications
to state and county agencies for permission to develop.
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as a wahi pana [sacred place] and wahi kapu [forbidden place] cannot be quantified and
deserves recognition and respect (2006).
The lands at Lā‘au Point, and most of the vast acres that make up Moloka‘i’s West End
are owned by Moloka‘i Ranch, which has had a tumultuous relationship with local residents over
its decades of existence. MPL owns a staggering 65,000 acres, approximately 40% of the island’s
land mass. These lands were held by Hawaiian royalty and operated as a ranch until 1897, when
Bernice Pauahi Bishop, the last descendant of the Kamehameha dynasty, sold the lands to the
American Sugar Company, owned by Honolulu businessmen. This company cultivated sugar
until over-pumping led to the salinization of water supplies in the early 1900s. At this point, the
ranch reverted to livestock and active ranching. A few years later, beginning in the 1920s, land
owners started cultivating pineapple, which required less water. Eventually the lands were sold to
a series of different American and international corporations and land trusts, who collectively
shut down Moloka‘i’s pineapple plantations by the late 1980s. In 1987, Brierly Investments
became the primary owner of 52,000 acres of ranch lands, though not Lā‘au Point. In 2001
Brierly acquired additional holdings, including the Lā‘au Point parcel and an area called
Kaluako‘i, which contained a shut-down hotel and golf club formerly operated by Sheraton
(Williams 2006; Moloka‘i Community Plan 2001). The Kaluako‘i Hotel, built in the 1970s, had
been shuttered since 2000. Asian shareholders took control of Brierly and moved its base of
operations to Singapore. Moloka‘i Ranch became part of Singapore-based BIL International—a
multinational company that owns several major hotel chains worldwide. BIL is itself a subsidiary
of Hong Kong-based Guoco Leisure, a conglomerate with billions of dollars in assets.
Figure 6.2 shows the location of MPL holdings on the West End of Moloka‘i. The map
also depicts the Kaluako‘i resort area, as well as the locations of Hawaiian Homelands (controlled
by DHHL or the Department of Hawaiian Homelands), which abut MPL property.
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Figure 6.2 Moloka‘i Ranch Property and other Sites of Interest
Source: Community-Based Master Land Use Plan (2005)
Brierly’s corporate ownership invited controversy with local residents. MPL began
active tourism development in the 1980s and 1990s. During this period, the company established
token tourism enterprises on Ranch lands, including a 40-unit “Beach Village” at Kaupoa. Other
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unsuccessful attempts at tourism development generated fierce public opposition—as will be
discussed further below.
Then, in 2002, a newly appointed CEO of MPL—Peter Nicholas—arrived on Moloka‘i
on a mission to turn over a new leaf in MPL’s business operations and community relations. With
his arrival began MPL’s formal efforts to develop Lā‘au Point. Nicholas initiated a series of
public meetings and asked the community to help him draw up a master plan for MPL’s vast
holdings. During these meetings, residents came up with an extensive “wish list.” Their wish list
would eventually be integrated into what was formally titled the Community-Based Master Land
Use Plan for Moloka‘i Ranch, referred to locally and in this chapter as simply “the Plan.” The
Plan was designed to govern all of the privately held ranch lands, and it aimed to reconcile the
competing goals of local residents and Moloka‘i Ranch.
Besides community outreach, Nicholas also had business viability in mind. MPL
operations had reportedly been incurring an estimated $4.5 million annual operating deficit
(Nicholas talked about an even higher rate of loss, a total of $40 million in the seven years prior
to his arrival.) Nicholas insisted that, for the sake of the long-term stability of MPL, the
“bleeding had to be stopped,” and explained to Moloka‘i residents and the local media that
creating a luxury residential development at Lā‘au Point would stem the losses. The company
had initially hoped to subdivide and redistrict approximately 600 acres at Lā‘au Point—
contingent on regulatory approval—creating 200 parcels of between one and two acres each.
These lots would be marketed as part of an ultra-exclusive enclave of part-time residences for the
super rich. This goal was incorporated into the Plan. However, no resident of Moloka‘i liked the
idea of the residential luxury enclave on the island (according to a community study
commissioned after the Plan was completed and the development at Lā‘au was formally
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proposed) (McGregor 2006). Thus, to placate local residents, Nicholas expressed a willingness
to adhere to the Plan, with its many goodies for the community—the most significant of which
involved giving up corporate control of approximately 54,000 acres of MPL land—in return for
community support of the Lā‘au project. Nicholas also promised in the Plan to reopen the
Kaluako‘i hotel and resort to provide coveted jobs for residents—another important concession
requested in the planning process by community members. The Plan would be the salve to offset
the damage to Lā‘au Point.
Local residents faced a difficult decision. Ultimately, two factions emerged: one group
supported the Plan and were willing to accept Lā‘au as a big compromise, and another rejected
building at Lā‘au at any cost. After years of public meetings, protests, attempts to generate
support for the Plan, and ample “dirty politics” (as one respondent put it), the Lā‘au development
was effectively defeated before the Hawai‘i State Land Use Commission in 2007, when
commissioners made a motion not to accept MPL’s Environmental Impact Statement (at which
point MPL withdrew its formal petition to the LUC). MPL halted all forward movement on
Lā‘au and took the further radical step of closing down its other business operations, including a
guest lodge, the Kaupoa Beach Village, a movie theatre, and the remaining cattle ranching, which
had provided jobs for nearly 130 island residents. This chapter probes deeper into the story I
have sketched here and engages the question: what allowed a group of grassroots activists and
youths to successfully oppose a multi-billion-dollar company and defeat its proposed
development plans?
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Project Context Before attempting to answer this question, I provide in this section an overview of the project
context, including basic demographics of the island. This is meant to offer some understanding
for what is at stake in the development of Lā‘au.
Moloka‘i is a decidedly rural community, and it is home to approximately 7,400 residents
(Current Population Survey 2008). Moloka‘i has experienced small increases in population
during the last decades as compared to the rest of the state—showing increases of about 10% per
decade since the 1970s as compared to other islands, which have seen population jumps of 2060% in the last decades. (Census 2000).
Moloka‘i is also known for high concentrations of Native Hawaiians: 61% of
individuals identify as Native Hawaiian as compared to 20% statewide (Census 2000). About
25,000 acres in central Moloka‘i are designated as Hawaiian Homelands, where native Hawaiians
of 50% blood quantum are granted rights to virtually cost-free long-term land leases.
Predominantly Filipino immigrants, along with some Japanese, settled the so-called West End
beginning in the 1920s, drawn by the labor needs of pineapple plantations, and some Filipino
migration to the island continues today (Williams 2006). 42 Currently, major ethnic groups
residing on Moloka‘i include whites, Japanese, and Filipinos.
By typical demographic measures, Moloka‘i also shows extensive poverty, high
unemployment, high usage of state-provided social assistance, and low educational attainment.
Only one-third of island residents are in the labor pool, and the unemployment rate on the island,
42
Exact population counts of individuals of Filipino, Japanese, and white ancestry are difficult to obtain
given that Census tabulations combine Moloka‘i with Maui County, which includes not only Moloka‘i, but
also the islands of Maui and Lana‘i. Island-specific tabulations are suppressed because of the small sample
size.
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prior to the Ranch shut-down in 2008, was 7% as compared to 3% statewide. 43 The addition of
120 unemployed residents due to layoffs associated with the Ranch closing bumped the island
unemployment rate to an estimated 12%. The 2000 census revealed a poverty rate of
approximately twice the state as a whole (approximately 20% of persons were under the poverty
line on Moloka‘i as opposed to 10% for the state as a whole) (Census 2000). The Moloka‘i
Enterprise Community cites rates of food stamp use at approximately 20% of the population, and
education at no more than a high school level for a similar proportion (USDA 2009).
Amid this relatively widespread poverty, people in Moloka‘i share a deep passion for
protecting what they know is precious and rare: a rural lifestyle and a distinctively “Hawaiian”
intimate relationship to the land. Local families take pride in their deep roots, and many boast
long Moloka‘i-based genealogies. Sometimes this is a source of subtle distinction or even tension
with Native Hawaiian residents who may not have Moloka‘i ancestry. This came across subtly
during interviews. “Well, she’s not really from here,” Cassie said of an activist of Hawaiian
ancestry involved in local politics. Those with deep Moloka‘i family history often framed their
desire to placate the Ranch management and open the Kaluako‘i hotel in terms of allowing sixthor seventh-generation Moloka‘i residents to continue to survive on the island.
Beyond this relatively subtle distinction, there are other, sharper boundaries that shape
social relations: distinction between locals and newcomers, and distinctions between Hawaiians
and non-Hawaiians. Relative newcomers who have moved to Moloka‘i from out of state—
typically affluent Caucasians from the U.S. continent—are seen as the most culturally “other” and
are often resented for diluting the island’s character. Some long-term haole families, however, do
have honorary local status. Also, there is an emerging generational divide. Young adults, many
43
In 1999 the unemployment rate was as high as 15.9% in the wake of plantation closings (but decreased
during the following years.
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of them born and raised on Moloka‘i , are anxious to assume their position as community leaders.
This generational tension emerged during the fight over Lā‘au, as many of these youth came out
strongly against the Plan and Lā‘au, as discussed more below.
What Was at Stake? What Harm Could Lā‘au Development Bring? People on Moloka‘i , and throughout the state, think of this place as “the last Hawaiian
island.” They are referring not only to population counts but also to a way of life. What does this
designation mean? As Maile explained—and many interview subjects demonstrated through
their actions and during casual conversations—Moloka‘i is a place where children walk the land
with their grandparents. People know their ancestral lands, their fishing grounds, their mountain
ridges, and the histories behind them. They have an intimate relationship with land: they fish,
hunt, and cultivate (see also Akutagawa 2008u; Matsuoka et al 1994; McGregor 2007; McGregor
2006).
Historically, lands in Hawai‘i were divided into political and agricultural units known as
ahupua’a, slices of land which contained diverse natural resources upon which communities
could subsist. Throughout the rest of the state, many Native Hawaiians no longer have personal
connections to their ancestral ahupua’a, in large part because these land-sections have been
urbanized or because the family has been estranged from the lands. Yet in Moloka‘i , many
residents still have cultural links to their family ahupua’a. They may reside near it or return to it
regularly for gathering or fishing.
The narrative of Moloka‘i as “‘āina momona, ” mentioned in Chapter 1, also underscores
the reciprocity between people and land. Moloka‘i ‘āina momona refers literally to the fat of the
land. It represents the idea that Moloka‘i people prosper and thrive with the island’s abundant
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fishing grounds and the richness of its plants and foods (Akutagawa 2008; McGregor 2006; Ritte
and Sawyer 1978).
Most local residents view Moloka‘i as rural, Hawaiian, and tight-knit—in stark contrast
to those who would construct the island into a luxury destination. On the island, people have few
employment opportunities, but lots of time for family. Mark, a young man from a family that has
lived on Moloka‘i for generations, talked about moving home after a time in Honolulu to have
“all of this”: what he sees as social and cultural richness money can’t buy. He doesn’t need to
pay for a babysitter, because he knows that any one of his scores of cousins will be happy to help.
People on Moloka‘i appreciate that “everyone knows everyone,” that people adopt a slow pace,
and that extended families or ‘ohana take care of one another.
Shannon, a Native Hawaiian and member of a large local family, described this
sentiment. She was also a former employee of the Ranch and a Plan supporter.
I think the one thing that is clear is that all of us here on the island love our lifestyle. We
all can agree on that. We’re thankful for what we have. We recognize all the benefits
that we have, you know. Letting our kids run around on the street. The simple things.
Still having fish in our ocean, you know. Those, those things are consistent and are true
for every single person who makes Moloka‘i their home. . . The part I think that differs
between everybody is “What do we do from here to the future?” (Shannon)
Tony, a local farmer, offers a similar outlook:
This community has long defined what they wanted: a rural community. They wanted a
rural lifestyle. . . I can know my neighbor forever . . . the kids are free to run around . . .
the limu or the seaweed is always there for harvesting. (Tony)
Given that no other island boasts such a high proportion of Native Hawaiians, it makes
sense that people feel Moloka‘i’s “Hawaiian” character is something to defend. Local residents I
spoke to felt that their ability to afford land and houses is precarious; they expressed a palpable
fear of being displaced. The threat is not just an influx of outsiders, but the high rates of outmigration of Native Hawaiians from the state of Hawai‘i. Koa spoke to me from the home of his
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grandmother, a matriarch with dozens of local grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As he
looked from her humble lānai (porch) he said, “You see, this is a million-dollar view.” He fears
that if luxury housing, like the sort proposed at Lā‘au, builds up around her home, the family will
be squeezed out.
Cali, a middle-aged Caucasian woman, sang Moloka‘i’s praises. She spoke of
widespread fear—paralleling what I heard from several others during interviews and casual
conversations—of how “two hundred millionaires” (brought by development at Lā‘au) would tear
at the island’s social fabric.
The value of this island is to really maintain our cultural place in the world; our
perspective and the balance of resources. . . . You give up stuff for the quality of life here.
If you come from an outsider’s perspective, then you want a 7-Eleven [convenience
store] on the corner. That’s what people with my perspective fear: these outsiders who
come. . . Some of them have a different perspective of what we need to live on this
island. They’re going to demand things that we don’t have. We don’t want a 7-Eleven on
the corner. (Cali)
In particular, as the Hawaiian Movement has taken hold throughout the state, Moloka‘i’s
“Hawaiianness” has become a symbol that reflects the political and cultural aspirations of Native
Hawaiians elsewhere. McGregor terms it a “cultural kīpuka,” or one of the rare places where
Hawaiian cultural practices survive (2007). Narratives of the Hawaiian Movement, offered by
leaders like Haunani Kay Trask, consider Moloka‘i and its assertion of aloha ‘āina and Hawaiian
activism—discussed more below—a central part of the story of broader Hawaiian empowerment
(Trask & Greevy 2004, Trask 1994a and 1994b).
History and Background: Land Conflicts on Moloka‘i Moloka‘i has avoided the population growth, urbanization, and high levels of tourismdevelopment so prevalent throughout the state not by chance, but through high levels of activism.
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The history of land-use activism discussed in this section shapes such conflicts today and has also
had ripple effects throughout the state.
While the sunny Kona coast and Waikiki became the nodes of tourism-urbanization
beginning in the 1970s, sparking a development craze that touched almost every part of the state,
Moloka‘i held its ground. A movement took form on Moloka‘i that completely rejected tourism
development and all it stood for. Young Native Hawaiian men and women asserted aloha ‘āina,
a land-use ethic that describes a familial relationship to the land—a view of land as an ancestor,
or elder family member, who must be nurtured and who will in turn nourish its caretakers (Ritte
and Sawyer 1978).
This ethic was a rallying cry in the fight during the early 1970s to reclaim the island of
Kaho‘olawe—an island near Moloka‘i (see Map 7.1) — from control by the U.S. Military. The
entire island of Kaho‘olawe had been designated as a military reservation and used since 1941 as
a bombing target by the U.S. Navy (Morales 1984). Young activists from Moloka‘i claimed the
identity of aloha ‘āina, and they devoted themselves to saving Kaho’olawe. Kaho’olawe became
a powerful metaphor for the plight of native Hawaiians: it had barely survived occupation and
bombing, and activists saw the island as a suffering older brother. They staged illegal
occupations and risked their lives to save it while Moloka‘i provided the staging grounds. Two
beloved sons of the tight-knit Moloka‘i community disappeared during one occupation.
Eventually, a group known as Protect Kaho’olawe Ohana (PKO) helped convinced the U.S.
government to halt bombing and return the island to the control of the State of Hawai‘i in 1993
(Morales 1984; Ritte and Sawyer 1978). PKO’s movement had ripple effects. Even in current
land fights, activists explicitly reference and draw upon the protest tactics of occupation used in
the Kaho‘olawe struggle.
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The Ranch As Foe: Controversial Tourism Projects During the 1980s and 90s, the people of Moloka‘i squared off in a number of other
battles on the East and West Ends of Moloka‘i and spawned several improbable successes, either
defeating or altering planned tourism and residential developments (see also Akutagawa 2008).
Many struggles involved Moloka‘i Ranch’s efforts to develop hotel and condominium sites in the
West End, beginning with Brierly’s ownership in the 1980s and a corporate strategy to turn the
Ranch into an “adventure attraction” (Williams 2006) Residents clashed against Moloka‘i
Ranch’s plans, which would require them to “use millions of gallons of the island’s precious and
sole water resource,” in the words of island leader and veteran activist Collette Machado (2005).
Residents feared water, environmental, and cultural impacts from projects proposed by the
Ranch. These proposed projects included a 375-room hotel at Kaiaka Rock (a site of a heiau, or
temple, and a place used in ancient times to train ocean navigators), a 150-unit condominium at
Kawākiu (the site of ancient Hawaiian villages), the Highlands Golf Course at Nā‘iwa (traditional
Makahiki—an ancient Hawaiian annual festival—grounds), and the Waiola Well and Pipeline as
new ways to tap into the island’s water supply (Machado 2005). Machado recounts the history of
these fights: “The Ranch set itself apart from the rest of us on Moloka‘i and selfishly sought to
develop all of its lands no matter how it would impact the island and her people. We fought the
Ranch at every step and won” (Akutagawa 2008; Machado 2005; Morales 1984).
Leaders in these struggles were sometimes revered as heroes, but were also occasionally
vilified for ostensibly blocking economic progress. MPL’s proposed luxury resort development
at Kaiaka Rock particularly pitted activists concerned about impacts on a sacred cultural site
against local residents in favor of the project because of jobs it was expected to bring. Activists
were castigated for blocking progress and job creation.
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Over the years, island leaders pooled skills and exerted influence from different positions
to confront the Ranch. Land-use experts I interviewed from other parts of the state recognize that
activists on Moloka‘i have unique skills developed during land-use struggles from the 1970s to
the early 2000s. In the course of past struggles, a “dream team,” of activists emerged, including,
amongst others, Collette Machado, quoted above, and Walter Ritte who would be key to the
Lā‘au Point conflict. Machado is an activist from Moloka‘i who established herself in state
politics as a former Land Use Commissioner, Hawaiian Homelands Commissioner, and at the
time of this study, a Trustee of the Office of Hawaiian Affairs. Another local grassroots activist,
Walter Ritte, is widely recognized as a “sheer genius,” as one of his friends put it, in leading
protests and asserting his message mainstream media. Ritte was one of a handful of young adults
who had bravely occupied Kaho‘olawe in the 1970s, risking arrest and even death from
unexploded ordinance. In the years after the occupation of Kaho‘olawe, community leaders like
Ritte and Machado formed a dynamic force as “warriors” and defenders of Moloka‘i. I highlight
these two individuals because they publicly, and vociferously, disagreed with each other when it
came to Lā‘au. Many media accounts of Lā‘au and the Plan recounted the unprecedented split in
their “dream team.” To make matters even more interesting, Machado and Ritte’s children’s
generation, young adults now in their twenties and thirties, aim to carry on their legacy, but also
challenge it in several ways. Moloka‘i residents drew from the well of past experience to fight
Lā‘au, but they also innovated in important ways.
Young adults have been involved in recent local controversies in addition to Lā‘au.
Several expressed pride in “stopping the cruise ships” from landing on Moloka‘i. They refer to a
2003 episode in which a large Holland America cruise liner attempted to land on Moloka‘i and
failed amidst a community blockade and also poor weather conditions. Also, several have been
involved in the fight against the proposed genetic modification of taro, or kalo, by Monsanto,
215
another large employer on Moloka‘i. Kalo is a traditional subsistence food with great cultural
significance for Hawaiians (see glossary definitions of kalo and Hāloa and discussion of Hāloa
below).
Some residents frame battles with the Ranch, and various struggles against residential
development on the East End from the 1970s to today, as a total rejection of a tourism-service
economy. This is summed up well by local farmer Tony:
Basically, the world consists of two basic models: service-based or production-based. . .
basically two tracks. From very early on, the community has said, we choose, we like to
be production-based, but the rest of the state chose service-based. (Tony)
This is a point of view I heard primarily from individuals directly involved in agricultural
activity, e.g. Homesteaders, subsistence farmers, and other small commercial farmers. However,
other individuals I spoke to, even those staunchly against development at Lā‘au, explained that
they were not against all tourism or urban development. Most residents do seem to agree that
development should not threaten culturally sacred sites, and that it should have limited
environmental and social impacts.
Moloka‘i’s land battles—and especially the Protect Kaho’olawe movement—are seen as
having sparked the Hawaiian movement. Its modern leaders are seen as role models throughout
the state and Hawaiian Diaspora, and their commitment to aloha ‘āina reverberates. Moloka‘i
“veterans” are heroized in historical accounts, songs, poems, and accounts of the Hawaiian
movement (Cayetano 2009; Coffman 2003; Machado 2005; McGregor 2007; Trask & Greevy
2004; Trask 1994a and 1994b). Opponents of development at Lā‘au saw themselves as part of
this broader Hawaiian movement.
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Organizing for Federal Funding The people of Moloka‘i also boast a strong record coordinating for community grants.
Several community leaders drew together to solicit and successfully obtain in 1999 an Enterprise
Community, or EC, grant from the U.S. Department of Agriculture. EC grants are part of a
federal program to boost economic development in under-resourced rural areas. The grant funded
sixteen major community projects, to be implemented over ten years. A nonprofit organization
called the Moloka‘i EC, also known as Ke ‘Aupuni Lōkāhi or KAL-MEC, was established to
administer this grant. KAL-MEC was a formal partner in establishing the Plan with Moloka‘i
Ranch and formally adopted the Plan as one of its official projects in 2004. This organization and
its board of directors, democratically elected by island residents, were drawn into bitter fights
over the Plan and development at Lā‘au. Anti-Lā‘au activists resented many board members for
partnering with the Ranch.
Fights Over Water Water animates debates over urban development on Moloka‘i. Water takes on distinct
urgency for those Hawaiian Homesteaders who live abutting Ranch lands in central Moloka‘i,
where water is scarce (refer to Figure 6.2 for location of DHHL lands). Hawaiian Homesteaders
have initiated a series of legal battles to secure their rights to waters collected on MPL lands and
other semi-public water wells. Homesteaders see their livelihood and basic legal rights to water as
depending on the same wells and pipes used by Moloka‘i Ranch, especially since all MPL
property lies in the arid West End. Any West End project must draw from wetter parts of the
island, including centrally located reservoirs and wells. Scientists and state water experts
(including the National Geological Service) do not agree on basic questions regarding how much
water is in Moloka‘i aquifers and how pumping or diversion will affect island water reserves.
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Many Homesteaders protested against the Lā‘au project because they feared the development
would further drain precious water supplies.
The Case for and against Lā‘au, and “the Plan” In this section, I describe in detail the making of the Master Land Use Plan, and I review the
arguments for and against the Plan and the associated residential development at Lā‘au. The Plan
and development was presented to the public by the land owner/developer and its high-powered
supporters as a major compromise with the community and an effort to appease cultural and
environmental concerns. For reference, Table 6.1 offers a timeline of key events discussed
through the remainder of this chapter.
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Table 6.1 Timeline of Proposed Development at Lā‘au Point and Master Land Use Plan
ƒ
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2002: Nicholas arrived on island as new CEO of MPL, aka Moloka‘i Ranch.
2004: Land use planning process initiated. Five committees (Environment, Culture, Economics,
Tourism, and Recreation) met for 100 days and solicited input in numerous public meetings. The
draft was then circulated to organizations and public. The Land Use Committee oversaw the
process.
ƒ
2005: Master Plan completed and accepted by vote of Land Use Committee (consisting of
community representatives)
ƒ
2006 (March): Moloka‘i Land Trust created by KAL-MEC, to receive anticipated donated lands.
ƒ
2006 (May): First “Save Lā‘au Point” meeting.
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2006: MPL submits DBA application to the LUC. LUC meeting and public hearing slated for 2007.
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2006: EIS Preparation Notice in anticipation of petition for State Land Use District Boundary
Amendment, Moloka‘i Community Plan Amendment, change in zoning by Maui County and
Moloka‘i Planning Commission, and “other necessary approvals.” Comment period for public from
June to July.
ƒ
2006 (October): Four-mile march to Lā‘au Point (approx. 300 supporters) and occupation of Point.
Called the third and largest major protest march in the history of Moloka‘i and the first to follow
traditional protocol, including traditional chant.
ƒ
2007 (November): Final EIS filed (after draft EIS and comment period ends in February).
ƒ
2007 (November 15-16): LUC hearings on Moloka‘i. MPL decides to withdraw EIS when LUC
threatens to reject EIS.
2007 (December): New EIS prepared, some Ranch layoffs announced.
ƒ
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2007 (August): Attorney General says contract for water should not be renewed without an
additional water-related EIS. Also, previous water uses were called into question by ruling by State
Commission on Water Resource Management.
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2008 (January): Hawai‘i Supreme Court denied Ranch a water permit, ruling that MPL violated
permit application process—they were late. (2001 water permits allowing Ranch water use ruled to
be no longer applicable).
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2008 (January 15): New draft EIS circulated by MPL (1,600 pages) public comment period until
Feb. 2008.
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2008 (February): Moloka‘i Planning Commission reviews new Final EIS (2,600 pages) and accepts
public testimony.
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2008 (March 24): Moloka‘i Ranch shuts down operations and lays off 120 employees. Operations
closed include 22-room Moloka‘i Ranch Guest Lodge, 40-unit Kaupoa Beach Village, Kaluako‘i
Golf Course, gas station, movie theater, Ranch operations.
Sources: Maui News; Honolulu Weekly; Moloka‘i Dispatch; Williams 2006; OEQC 2006
Making the Master Plan: Community Cooperation or Cooptation? Candy, a middle-aged island resident and staunch supporter of the Plan, offers a
sympathetic view of Peter Nicholas, the CEO of Moloka‘i Ranch. I quote Candy because she
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worked closely in the land-use planning process, and because she echoed the viewpoints of other
pro-Plan interviewees. Candy describes the genesis of the controversy over the Plan, which she
says arose because Nicholas was brought in as the “hired gun” to restructure the company.
You know when they come in parachuted from somewhere and that’s what was going to
happen: take a review of the books, lay off some people, and cut costs because that’s
what they’re good at. And that was Peter. But Peter looks at it and says, “Maybe there’s a
different way to do this. Maybe we don’t have to lay off people. (Candy)
The major challenge facing Nicholas, and any attempt to develop Ranch lands, was the record of
community animosity. Cali, a former company employee explains:
Anyways, he came in to stop the bleeding [the loss of money]. These other guys
[previous Ranch CEOs] had really pissed off the community. Peter walks into this
meeting and says, “Wow, why do they hate us so much?” (Cali).
Nicholas apparently realized that the old way of doing things would not work and that the Ranch
needed a new approach.
In order to turn around the company, with the help of Shannon, another former employee,
he began to reach out to people with a history of fighting the Ranch. They began a slow and
difficult dialogue, which Shannon and others described as historic.
Our first step was to put down names of people that we thought were going to be very
controversial on the other side. So we did. And that was the foundational block of all the
people who sat on the first land use committee in order to start deciding the plan. . . It
started off with, I mean, very, very, very bad. Like, you know, they wouldn’t talk to him,
so he would tell me things. I would tell them... Went like that for a few months and then
finally they sat down, the first six or so meetings was all about yelling, screaming, what
you’ve done, hurt feelings. After a while, they just all stuck to it and I got the privilege to
sit there and watch this whole thing from the beginning, and the day when they all sat
together . . . and started to talk was an amazing part of Moloka‘i history that very few
people, I think, know enough about.
And the first thing that Peter Nicholas did was ask us, what is it that makes people hate
Moloka‘i Ranch and me so much? They said, well, because the Ranch always comes up
with ideas . . . that the Ranch always comes up with these plans and goes and does all this
legal stuff before anybody knows about it and then just says “Here, this is what we’re
gonna do for your own well-being.” (Shannon)
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Nicholas also invited community leaders to meet with him one on one—what one company
insider called seductive “wining and dining,” seeing it as a form of manipulation. Soon after,
Nicholas formally initiated the planning process and invited community members to determine
the future of the Ranch’s 65,000 acres.
Depending upon the point of view, one could conceptualize the Plan as an elaborate
cooptation scheme or as a genuine effort to find common ground with staunch Ranch foes. At
first, many veteran activists were skeptical of Nicholas’s efforts at dialogue and collective
planning. At the same time, other leaders pointed out that this willingness to start a dialogue with
community members was “refreshing” and “laudable.” Cali describes how Nicholas eventually
won over those who were skeptical and “got them believing.”
To create the Plan, Nicholas hired planners and consultants and encouraged selected
community leaders to head committees and to host community meetings. As mentioned, KALMEC, the Moloka‘i EC organization, formally endorsed the planning process and become an
official partner in 2004. Approximately 1,000 local residents voiced their hopes for MPL lands
during over 100 days of meetings (McGregor 2007 and 2006). Special committees made up of
island leaders sifted through residents’ ideas and tried to come up with specific proposals related
to land, water, culture, and tourism. A Land Use Committee with select island residents chosen
by Nicholas and KAL-MEC to guide the process was charged with overseeing the process and
integrating the feedback from other planning committees. The large turnout at meetings shows
Moloka‘i people’s deep engagement with land and reflects their longstanding habit of civic
engagement.
Approximately two years after Nicholas initiated the planning process, the citizen
committees submitted their data to the Rocky Mountain Institute, an offshore consultant and
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expert in land trusts. Several months later, the institute unveiled the finalized Community Based
Master Land Use Plan to eagerly awaiting residents. One land committee member described the
anticipation and trepidation she and other members of the committee felt as they received the
document. These pages stood for deeply held hopes and values, and they emerged out of long
hours of impassioned debates by residents working for what they felt was a broader good. For
some veteran members of land-struggles, the document also represented the culmination of 30
years of militant activism. After so much involvement, it makes sense that committee members
would become highly invested in the Plan.
A summary of the key provisions of the Plan discussed here are provided in Table 6.2.
Figure 6.3 offers a depiction of land uses for Moloka‘i Ranch lands proposed by the Plan.
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Table 6.2 Goals of the Community-Based Master Land Use Plan for Moloka‘i Ranch and
Proposed Uses for ~65,000 Acres of Privately Owned Ranch Lands
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Lā‘au Point Residential-Rural Development: 613 acres to be redistricted from state
agriculture and conservation to rural district. 200 one- to two-acre rural-residential lots to
be built, with roads and infrastructure, and two beach parks. Revenue from lot sales to
cover $30-35 million for Kaluako‘i Hotel renovation and a $10 million donation for an
endowment to the Community Development Corp. A portion of future lot sales would
support operations of Moloka‘i Community Land Trust. Highly elaborate CC&Rs would
restrict environmental impacts in proposed residential community.
ƒ
Community Land Trust: 26,200 acres to be designated as prized “cultural and natural
resources.” Lands would be donated to and managed by Moloka‘i Community Land
Trust.
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Agricultural or Conservation Easements: 24,950 acres to be placed under agricultural
or conservation easements, to be managed by Moloka‘i Community Land Trust. MPL
would maintain ownership, but easements would limit allowed land uses.
ƒ
Lands for Affordable Housing: 1,300 acres near Kaunakakai conveyed to Moloka‘i
Community Development Corp. for future affordable housing (1,100 acres near
Kaunakakai and 200 acres near Kualapu‘u and Maunaloa).
ƒ
Subsistence Fishing Zone: 252 acres along coast to be reclassified to conservation and
designated for subsistence fishing.
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Hotel and Jobs: Renovate and reopen Kaluako‘i Hotel and Golf Course (with
anticipated 200 new local jobs).
Sources: Community-Based Master Land Plan 2005; Williams 2006
223
Figure 6.3 Proposed Land Uses in Community-Based Master Land Use Plan
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The Plan would govern all 65,000 acres of privately held MPL lands. Colored shading
on GIS renderings denoted areas that community members had deemed “cultural legacy lands”—
sacred places like the birthplace of hula. A concern for these historic places had animated many
past land use disputes. Other colors on the maps denoted areas that would be placed under trusts
and easements to limit future land uses. MPL would voluntarily relinquish future claims to
ownership and usage rights on approximately 74% of its holdings. MPL promised in the Plan
that 26,200 acres would be given away to local residents to form a land trust. The trust would be
governed by the Moloka‘i Community Land Trust, created in 2006 in anticipation of the
donation. An additional 24,950 acres was also to be placed under agricultural and conservation
easements, which would legally restrict Moloka‘i Ranch from any uses except for open space and
agricultural use. MPL would maintain title to these acres, but the easements would be managed
by the Community Land Trust. This trust was to be directed by a board of select island residents.
In addition, 1,300 acres would be donated to the Moloka‘i Community Development Corporation,
to be used in the future for affordable housing. The remaining acres, approximately
10,000,would continue to be owned and managed by MPL, some of which would fall under
additional easements (McGregor 2007 and 2006).
Hundreds of pages abounded with legal detail and laid out a complex contract between
MPL and the island residents. The strip at Lā‘au indicated a hoped-for residential development.
All of the rest of the lands were to be “saved” and the resources generated from the development
of Lā‘au would fund the community land trust and the renovation and reopening of the shut-down
Kaluako‘i Hotel. Islanders unanimously supported this goal, since reopening this modest and
already constructed hotel promised to create 100 new jobs. Even those most concerned with
lifestyle, culture, and the environment agreed that these jobs would be welcome. KAL-MEC, the
EC organization, also strongly advocated for the reopening of Kaluako‘i, which was consistent
225
with part of its original mission, to create jobs and economic development. In 2005, the Land
Use Committee and KAL-MEC board members—democratically elected representatives of island
residents—formally endorsed the Plan, and by association the development of Lā‘au, by a vote of
19 to 6. 44
Nicholas explained that Lā‘au would be the “financial driver” for the reopening of the
hotel and the funding of the Land Trust (including supporting future land management costs). In
exchange for relinquishing so much MPL property, Nicholas asked that local residents support
the company as it navigated the complex entitlement process required to redistrict, rezone, and
the Lā‘au Point area for transformation into luxury lots.
Developer on the Defensive: A New Style of Community Engagement What did the Plan mean to Moloka‘i Ranch or senior BIL management? It is harder to
know. Was it an elaborate attempt to neutralize long-time resisters and force through a lucrative
residential development? A sophisticated form of cooptation, or worse a completely false display
of community concern? An honest effort at making amends for past wrongs and pursuing a new
path of cooperation and public-private partnership? The last squeeze on a community and place
no longer profitable when it came to the business of owning and managing land?
Local residents with a historical view support the idea that this process was different, and
they allude to what I consider development processes characteristic of a new regime. I asked
what, if anything, was different about Lā‘au in terms of the developers’ strategy and the
community’s reaction. Tony and Gavin, veteran activists and local farmers, replied:
Gavin: What was offered this time was different, was that they offered…
44
This vote was extremely controversial, and many Lā‘au opponents argue that KAL-MEC members were
not responsive to the majority of their constituents.
226
Tony: Yeah, “[we’ll] give you whatever you want”…
Gavin: The land, you know. . . Not everything that you want, but basically, they were
saying that this gonna be the last development on the island and we’re going to buy your
favor by giving you this land, so….
Tony: The technique in the end part was really different. The earlier technique was shove
it down their throats. “We’re a ten billion–dollar company, nobody tells us what to do.”
So, I think it [the ultimate goal] never changed. It just took a different complexion. . .
“We’ll ask [the community] what they want. We’ll give them what they want, but then
we gotta get what we want. What we need is two hundred million [dollars].”
Taking Sides During the making of the Plan, community members began to split. Several interview
respondents explained that a pivotal moment occurred when veteran activist Walter Ritte decided
not to support the Plan. From this point in time, there would be two vocal sides. Cali told me that
other figures, too, gave credence to the anti-Lā‘au side, such as a revered cultural expert and
elder, or kupuna. After spending time on the land in prayerful reflection, Cali said, this kupuna
came out and told residents, “It’s not right.”
On the one hand were Plan supporters—those willing to compromise with the Ranch.
Though many of these community leaders were at first skeptical of Nicholas and the Ranch, they
ultimately concluded that the Plan represented a remarkable compromise and a promise of control
over lands unlike anything ever before within reach. They also suspected that no better deal
would come along in the future. In numerous places, OHA Trustee Collette Machado and others
who had “fought the Ranch at every step in the past,” called the Plan a “realistic solution to a
thirty-year struggle with Moloka‘i Ranch” (e.g. cited in Ullman 2006).
Expert observers pointed out that what this private land owner was willing to give back to
local residents was unprecedented in the state’s history. Several felt that they had learned to trust
Nicholas. Thus, a select group of community leaders—including some veteran activists—began
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to believe that the Ranch was offering a welcome proposal in good faith. They trusted that the
legal provisions of the Plan (including the Land Trust and easements) would in fact make Lā‘au
“one last development” on the West End, as promised by the Ranch.
Eventually, state political leaders voiced their support for the Plan, including the
powerful U.S. senator Daniel Inouye and Governor Linda Lingle. 45 The trustees of the Office of
Hawaiian Affairs (OHA) also endorsed the Plan, in a September 2005 resolution. OHA trustees
lauded the Plan’s promise to protect cultural and natural resources, traditional and customary
rights, subsistence practices, and water. Lā‘au opponents described OHA’s action as a major
stumbling block, and they showed up at OHA meetings to vigorously denounce Moloka‘i’s OHA
trustee, Collette Machado.
Others supported the Plan, sometimes more silently, as discussed more below. Dozens of
letters of support for the Plan were submitted to the LUC when the time came in 2007, including
letters from large numbers of Ranch workers and workers from another major company on
Moloka‘i, Monsanto.
“A Plan to Control Our Own Destiny” Supporters of the Plan expressed a deep desire to “control their own destiny” and saw the
Plan as a realistic means to this end. They also spoke of a deep yearning, as Native Hawaiians,
not to “become strangers in their own land.” Shannon echoed a refrain that came up among
interviewees who chose to advocate for the Plan as a way to direct development:
I supported the development, and I still support the development if it were ever to come
aboard because it offers us opportunity to direct our future . . . it wasn’t going to be
where we’re catching up or we’re being dragged along . . . but we had the opportunity to
45
This fact is especially significant in this case because the governor appoints all land use commissioners
(subject to approval by the Senate), authorities of the body that ultimately turned down the Lā‘au
Development proposal.
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create a totally new innovative project. . . We were gonna be the leaders of this. And not
just as a development project but as Hawaiians. . . on the activist side, they talked a lot
about warriors and about how they were warriors fighting for a cause. Well, I’m a
warrior too. I think that war, war has changed though over the generations, you know.
At one time, hand-to-hand combat was important. At another time, you know, marches
and protests were important. I thought that this time, I think that this time, is about
working together and innovative new ideas that move you forward without losing touch
of who you are. (Shannon)
Paul, a supporter of the Plan, for example, saw the issue in terms of power and money. A local
man of Japanese ancestry, with several generations of family in Moloka‘i, he explained that in his
lifetime he had observed that those who have money and land control land use: “That’s a
constant. I’ve seen it. Money rules. . .the richest people develop and control land.”
“One Last Development” The promised jobs were one selling point for the project, but not the most salient.
Supporters constantly reminded community members that according to the Plan, Lā‘au would be
“one last development” on the West End (Machado 2005). It was pitched as a grand compromise
to “protect legacy lands” and preserve the rural character of the West End. Defense was made in
dramatic terms: these historic places would be preserved “forever,” Ricki Cooke, a member of
the Community Land Trust with deep roots on Moloka‘i, explained: “The Land Trust is directly
linked to the plan that the Moloka‘i Ranch and the EC [EC organization, aka KAL-MEC] have
negotiated over the past couple years…what it means to me, if I drive from Kaunakakai to the
West End in 100 years, it will look the same. The 200 lots at Lā‘au Point, that’s the payoff”
(Simpson 2006).
The Anti­Lā‘au Faction On the other hand was a group that would take a strong stand against Lā‘au. Walter Ritte
was a key force in this group, and other young leaders joined the feud. A full-fledged anti-Lā‘au
mobilization emerged to protest the project’s anticipated negative impacts on environment,
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culture, agriculture, and lifestyle. In the end, those against the development at Lā‘au (and by
association the Plan) prevailed—at least in terms of their narrow goal of defeating residential
construction at Lā‘au.
As mentioned, the anti-Lā‘au efforts dismantled some old partnerships and forged new
ones. Some wealthy newcomers to the island—often Caucasian—joined hands with longtime
local residents to fight the project. Ironically, even activists who disliked what newcomers
represented embraced them as strategic allies. Observers called this hypocritical and selfish.
Many Hawaiian Homesteaders joined the anti-Lā‘au movement, often rallying around
water rights. However, some commentators believe that the scarcity of water was exaggerated by
movement leaders in order to inflame Homesteaders.
Many young adults, both Native Hawaiians and others, opposed Lā‘au. With a range of
professional and educational experiences, they offered expertise in land-use law, media, and
journalism—even comedy and outrageous (sometimes coarse) satire. Some held degrees from
prestigious universities. Others of this generation drew from homegrown knowledge and lifelong
immersion in cultural practice on Moloka‘i lands. These young people see themselves as the third
generation of activists, and they explicitly invoke the political lessons of their parents and
grandparents. They expressed a strong willingness to continue the fight of their elders rather than
compromising. They also rejected the pragmatism expressed by others, and vehemently voiced
disdain for high-end residential development. Many who originally took part in the planning
process attempted to argue for alternative uses of Lā‘au Point (such as using the site to generate
wind energy).
Local residents have sharply polarized views of these new activist youth. In kitchens of
local residents, I heard people suggest that they were “mouthpieces” for Walter Ritte. Two
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young leaders posted video skits online and on community television as the comedic “Hemowai
Brothers”: they used humor to skewer those deemed friends of the Ranch. Collette Machado, as
OHA Trustee, scolded these two youth leaders during an official meeting: “You wen’ show your
‘ōkole [rear end]! Shame on you!” Other community members expressed familial allegiance to
these youth but talked quietly about discomfort with such tactics. They hinted at dismay that
many young adults seemed only to know how to say “no”—to change, to development, to
outsiders. One Caucasian man, a twenty-year Moloka‘i resident and retiree originally from
California, was less forgiving: he called these youth “idle” “hooligans” looking for something to
do.
Sam , a middle-aged, Caucasian island resident, represents a contrasting positive view of
these young leaders:
What I see about the ‘ōpio [youth] is now, with all of the Hawaiian education . . . the
young people really have a sense of protocol, of the whole sense of the culture. Plus,
they’re more legally trained. . . . So, I see them coming with a whole new battle. I don’t
see them as being, as. . . more gutsy in the sense that maybe the older ones were, but that
doesn’t mean that they’re less effective. They’re using the new tools that are available.
And you know, it’s funny because you find so many Hawaiian families where a single
member has become either an attorney or serving some role intentionally in order to help
keep things in order. So, yeah, it’s just the next generation coming into place. (Sam,
emphasis added)
Sam’s comments support the notion that the new regime makes “new tools” available.
Accordingly, success in politics amid the new regime is enabled by cultural education and
passion as well as legal training. These are tools—which many youngsters of Moloka‘i deftly
wielded—that can prove persuasive in the legal system and amid the prevailing cultural
frameworks.
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Place Narratives and the Case Against Lā‘au: Lā‘au as Keiki Those against Lā‘au rejected compromise. The metaphor of land as family was a refrain.
This was linked to the narrative of land as keiki (child)—a place narrative that powerfully
countered the frame of development for jobs. When I queried interview respondents about why
they would reject such a “good deal,” they often responded with a rhetorical question. Mark
asked, “If you were asked to give up one child in exchange for another, what would you do?”
Steve Morgan, an activist and regular editorial contributor to the local newspaper,
dramatically captures this view of land:
The metaphor that I have heard on several occasions refers to Lā‘au as a child and the
brothers and sisters of this child being Ka’ana, Kawakiu, Naiwa [other culturally sacred
places], and the other lands that will supposedly be saved under the Moloka‘i Land Trust.
We are told that if we will sacrifice the child Lā‘au and allow her to be molested and
beaten to death, then we can keep the other children. . . To those who possess the
traditional knowledge of the kupuna [elders] the ‘āina [land] is ‘ohana [family] and this
is why such a tradeoff will never be acceptable (Morgan 2007a).
I heard this same metaphor in several interviews with individuals who opposed the development
at Lā‘au, and I also saw it expressed in several newspaper editorials. This metaphor was also
often linked to the narrative of aloha ‘āina. Below are two samples of this narrative gleaned from
published letters or editorials:
There is no way we could sacrifice Lā‘au Point in order to feed our family for a few days.
We have not inherited this ‘āina from our kupuna [elders], but we borrow it from our
mo’opuna [grandchildren]. (Pescaia 2006)
Never did we consider giving up part of the island for another part. Aloha ‘āina doesn’t
work that way; ‘āina cannot be compromised” (Mowat 2006).
A variation of this metaphor is the notion of ‘āina as an ancestor, or as others said, in
another shorthand version of the same idea, “Hāloa is our older brother” (that is, the older brother
of all humankind). Native Hawaiian oral traditions state that Wākea (mythical ancestor) gave
birth to the first human after creating the first kalo plant, which was named Hāloa. According to
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this story, Hāloa (and metaphorically kalo) is an older brother and should be honored as such.
Translated to the fight over Lā‘au, this means that there is no room for compromise with urban
development in cases that threaten nature or land as a source of cultural survival and sustenance.
Ritte explained, during a public discussion of food subsistence, that his activism against Lā‘au
and other prior development attempts was driven by this idea that Hāloa should always “come
first.” Though he was “sad” that people got laid off by Moloka‘i Ranch, he was still “glad they
[he and other activists] had saved Lā‘au.” He recounted his motives in opposing the project:
Hāloa is first. Job, house, college is second. As a cultural person, my kuleana
[responsibility] is to take care of Hāloa first . . . My kuleana is to protect Hāloa.
He explained that the “choice is easy,” and that when it is a question of money and development
versus nature, nature should always win. He offered the metaphor: “When taro is lost, it is lost
forever.” He reflected: “I’ve been fighting development for thirty years, every time it’s the
same thing...for thirty years...the promise of jobs and livelihoods...but [for me] nature, Hāloa, is
first” (Akaku 2007a)
Skepticism About the Plan With so much legal detail, there was confusion and disagreement about what the
implications of the Plan would be—confusion exacerbated by local lack of trust in the Ranch.
Opponents of the Plan expressed doubts that the easements would be binding for perpetuity.
Others feared that Moloka‘i Ranch would sell the lands, and that the promised restrictions on
construction (especially the CC&Rs—Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions on future parcels
at Lā‘au) would not withstand future legal scrutiny. Critics like Steve Morgan argued in the local
paper that Lā‘au would not likely be “one last development” as promised: he pointed out to the
public that several sites with the Ranch’s private holdings had already been redistricted and
rezoned for hotel and residential building (Morgan 2007a, 2007b, 2007c). Morgan argued that
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these additional sites dotted along the West End coast (in addition to the Lā‘au location, if it were
to be approved) would be legally ready for building. Other members of the Land Use Committee
pushed back, saying that these lands would be saved from development since they were slated to
be in the Land Trust. Morgan rebutted and argued that land trusts can have hotels if their leaders
so choose (Morgan 2007a, 2007b and 2007c).
Others grew suspicious of the planning process itself and suspected that it was a ploy.
Many did not trust the Ranch; some community members believed Ranch and community
interests were fundamentally at odds. Why compromise with such a powerful company—a
“partner” driven by economic interest? Walter Ritte powerfully asserted this point in a public
meeting:
Everyone praises compromise. But we cannot compromise. They’ve taken so much and
we have so little left . . . We are in no position to compromise . . . only when the playing
field is even, but it’s not. (Akaku 2007a).
One Ranch employee had ample reason to believe that Nicholas, the CEO of Moloka‘i Ranch,
had no intention of fulfilling the conditions expressed in the Plan. She recalled him saying
“Nobody knows what I have up my sleeve for the hotel.” Others on the outside came to this same
conclusion for other reasons. This employee described the plan as a form of manipulation:
He [Peter Nicholas, the CEO of MPL] is probably one of the greatest manipulators I’ve
watched in my life . . . He’s one of those, “You separate, you conquer, you divide and
conquer and you tell this person about this.” This is what he did in our community. . . .
He would say things like, “You get them so enticed, you get their hands in the cookie jar,
you get them to want it so badly that they’ll take the crumbs.” That’s a direct quote from
Peter. You entice the community to taste. … He played it like a chess game. . . . So he
got it out there and got them so enticed that they could see the cookies and their mouth is
drooling and if you could get their hand in the jar, and then they’re hungry enough you
give them crumbs, they’ll take them.
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Anti-Lā‘au leaders shared with me that they began to suspect that the Plan, and planning
process, was full of “lies” and “hidden agendas” (Maile and Mike). Some called it
“salesmanship” (ibid). Gavin and Tony expressed such sentiments:
Okay, that Plan was a joke. That Plan was a joke, because they knew what they wanted
to do . . . they asked everybody, what do you want, what do you want, what do you want
and you get everybody’s wants out of the way and you say, this is what we want. . . and
there was an agenda hidden all underneath, all along the way, and the agenda was water’s
going to be big, main factor. So let’s make sure we don’t talk about water. So, we spent
one year [planning]. . . and still [did] not talk about water. I mean it’s like, how can you
talk about development without talking about water on an island that is short of water?
(Gavin)
Their objective ultimately was to raise the value of the property. (Tony)
What would happen is they give away all the junk land to us. Their remaining land
becomes very, very valuable because all of a sudden, you took all this land off the market
and put it into conservation. (Gavin)
A Painful Divide As family members and political allies started to fall on opposite sides, some in support
of the Plan and others against, the pressure built. Community residents began to get wind that
Ranch employees were being rewarded for supporting the Plan. Suspicions arose that former
activists were somehow being “bought off” with promise of rewards offered in backroom
negotiations. Maile said she noticed the community being divided and asked herself, “Who went
set that up? Who does that really hurt?” This led her to be more and more skeptical of the Plan
and the Ranch.
The Ranch’s new approach to promoting development had the consequence of pitting
community members against each other. Everyone I spoke to expressed grave disappointment at
the divides and hurt generated by the Lā‘au controversy. Shannon explained that this
development involved unprecedented heartache. Activists not only had to target the developer,
they also had to “affect the hearts” and stand opposed to other community members:
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In the past, the fight, the [activists’] technique was more to drag out everything so that
your opponent runs out of money. . . This time, it was more about affecting the hearts. . .
The people here are so tightly connected and family-oriented that the one thing that sets
us apart from every other place in the state is our ability to function as a family. So, in
this instance, the one thing that was brought about by the activists’ fighting was that
people were starting to not be family.
Question: And that was new? You hadn’t seen that in other fights?
That was new. Never, ever. Never. This was the most heartbreaking and, and difficult
time I have ever seen or heard about in, in the history of Moloka‘i. (Shannon)
Cali also voiced a sentiment, which I heard repeatedly from others during interviews and
conversations:
It was sad because it created divisions within families and it hurt a lot of people. I really
believe that Peter [Nicholas] and his actions inflicted a lot of this. . . You can still feel it.
(Cali)
Candy also described the aftermath of the controversy:
So our community needs a tremendous amount of healing . . . You fragment the
community and it means that there’s a rift in families, there’s rift among friends, and
everybody’s civil when you see them on the street . . . But it’s there. It just sits there
because it’s hurtful. You’re reminded everyday and every time you turn around you’re
reminded by what happened in this community. . .My heart is sore and it’s going to take a
long time for that soreness to go away. (Candy)
This was one of the most palpable consequences of the development and arguably a
characteristic of development processes in a situation where the developer has a powerful need
for community buy-in.
Strategies and Tactics of Lā‘au Opposition The anti-Lā‘au movement drew upon well-established strategies and knowledge that had been
used in past fights with Moloka‘i Ranch. Movement members orchestrated protests, lobbied
state legislators, and appeared in mass to testify at public hearings. But this effort was distinctive
in many ways since it involved a new generation of activists, made extensive use of new video
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technologies, and drew upon new allies. Also, since the Ranch had pushed so hard for
community buy-in, the fight was brought home in new ways.
Repertoires of Contention: New and Old
Young adults and their elder allies borrowed strategies from the Kaho’olawe movement.
In 2006, they staged an occupation of Lā‘au Point (part of MPL private property) as the
culmination of the largest protest march in Moloka‘i history. Some hiked and some took boats
and canoes to the remote location. Young men hauled large logs to the beach in order to
construct a hālau—a temporary shelter made of natural materials.
Young leaders clutched small video cameras every step of the way. Their cameras were
present on their march to occupy Lā‘au and during formal public meetings as well. Interview
respondents on both sides called media “the New Weapon.” Community television crews, staffed
primarily by Lā‘au opponents along with other “guerilla filmmakers,” used cameras to hold
decision-makers accountable. They taped and aired films of public meetings and hearings on
community television, Web sites, and blogs. Young activists used airtime to sharply criticize and
skewer, often through satire or humor, other longtime residents who had decided to support the
Plan, public officials, and other community leaders. One young leader, Koa, talked about his
surprise that residents of the neighboring island, Maui, had been watching his videos on
community television and had become outraged at the prospect of developing Lā‘au. For a rural
community with one movie theatre, the drama of local politics aired on community TV was a
natural draw.
Warrior Frames The Lā‘au opposition also appropriated the metaphor of warfare; interview respondents
called themselves and their allies “warriors.” In this way they symbolically linked themselves to
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the movement to stop military bombing on Kaho’olawe, as well as other land struggles. Ritte’s
language is emblematic, and echoes the words of interview respondents, residents quoted in the
newspaper, and public meetings records:
We stopped the bombing of Kaho‘olawe, we stopped the cruise ships, and we will stop
gentlemen’s estates from going up at Lā‘au. (Ritte cited in Ullman 2006)
Another young leader, Hanohano Naehu, effectively drove home his point with a similar
narrative, which apparently resonated broadly among state residents and decision-makers.
During the occupation of Lā‘au Point he held a sign stating “This is War.” He explained, “I hold
this sign, not because I hate anyone, but because development is like bombs to me…This is for
my survival” (Naehu cited in Ullman 2006). Local residents like Naehu understood the Lā‘au
controversy as a struggle for life and death.
Lā‘au opponents adopted a “warrior” or confrontational stance even in public meetings—
which some respondents interpreted as threats of public humiliation or even physical violence.
Naehu stood up confidently before Moloka‘i Planning Commissioners during their early review
of the Ranch’s EIS for the Lā‘au development, and told them, “We know who you are. We will
watch what you do. And if you make the wrong choice, we will humiliate you. We will call you
Captain Cook” (paraphrased from video of MPC meeting). Naehu and others played up the
conflict between anti-Lā‘au opponents and others.
Proponents of the Plan, by contrast, bemoaned the environment of fear and threat; they
also disliked what several saw as reactionary language rather than thoughtful discourse. An
earlier act of vandalism on Ranch property—in which an anonymous activist shattered a water
pipe, an important artery in the Ranch’s irrigation system—became lore. “It could happen
again,” island residents murmured. Several interview respondents mentioned that a car of a
prominent Plan supporter had been vandalized or “keyed.” In a handful of KAL-MEC meetings
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about the Plan, local residents on opposite sides of the issue voiced so much anger at each other
that police were called. 46
Racial Tactics The subject of race animated discussions over Lā‘au in notable but often subtle ways.
Several interview respondents believed that Hawaiian activists, like Ritte, manipulated whites,
offering them token social graces—a warm hello, a local-style embrace or honi—for the first
time, in order to get their support. Meanwhile, Ranch officials reached out to the Papohaku
Homeowners Association, a relatively affluent community on the West End. As reported by
meeting attendee Cheryl Sakamoto, Nicholas and the general manager of the Ranch, John Sabas,
told the homeowners that “they [native Hawaiian anti-Lā‘au activists] don’t like you” and “they
don’t like your white face…they will sell you their [anti-Lā‘au] t-shirts, take your money, and
they don’t want you here” (Sakamoto 2007). Sakamoto went on to denounce this as a “verbal
bomb” and despicable “racial remark” (ibid).
Some Caucasians or new island residents refrained from public debate over Lā‘au, given
their “outsider status.” In a casual conversation, I asked a marine scientist who had lived on the
island for two years if she had weighed in on the Lā‘au controversy. She said, “Oh no, I’m told
they don’t want people like me involved.”
Some white residents I spoke to, both longtime residents and newcomers, did not look
favorably upon certain local native Hawaiians and anti-Lā‘au activists. Several spoke of “three
generations of welfare recipients,” alluding to the high levels of poverty and public assistance
among Native Hawaiians. Several people implied to me that Hawaiians just did not want to
46
Police officers were called to several heated public meetings of Ke Aupuni Lokahi. However, there is no
record of any physical violence having occurred during the community controversy over La’au.
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work. The Ranch’s approach to development sparked a battle with, as Tony put it, “a new
complexion.” Accordingly, it stoked complex racial and social tensions.
The Climax: the Land Use Commission This chapter argues that struggle over Lā‘au is a test of how communities can use a complex
land-use regulatory system to exercise influence. This section reviews how anti-Lā‘au activists
and other residents successfully persuaded Land Use Commissioners to view MPL’s plans
unfavorably. Opponents to Lā‘au succeeded by generating pressure from above and below—from
inside and outside the formal regulatory system. They fortified their grassroots base through
community events, sign-making, and opportunities to share music, food, video, and camaraderie.
They promoted solidarity among their ranks and used this to motivate many people to testify
against Lā‘au at the crucial public hearing. They strategically coordinated legally astute and also
passionate testimony in front of the LUC. They also reached out to a few allies within state
government who may have pulled levers through insider politics. Finally, they were able to use
powerful place narratives to counter advocates for the development, both within the grassroots
community and within regulatory bodies like the LUC.
The Entitlement and EIS Process In order to proceed, the Lā‘au development required several major approvals from four
different authorities: 1) a District Boundary Amendment (DBA) from the LUC; 2) a Special
Management Area permit from Maui County and the Moloka‘i Planning Commission (MPC),
given its proximity to the coast; 3) a change in the Moloka‘i Community Plan, also from Maui
County and the MPC; and 4) water-use permits from the State Commission on Water Resource
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Management. In association with these applications, MPL needed to prepare an Environmental
Impact Statement.
In November 2007 the State Land Use Commission met to assess MPL’s EIS for the
Lā‘au development. Public attendance at this meeting and the number of testifiers reached record
levels: approximately 200 people testified during nearly 17 hours of meetings on two days.
Ultimately, the Lā‘au development was killed when the commissioners moved to reject the
EIS 47 —even before most MPL supporters had the opportunity to state their case.
Review by the LUC The Ranch first approached the LUC for a District Boundary Amendment in 2006, at
which time they also began laying groundwork to obtain the other approvals. A DBA was needed
because most of the Ranch’s West End property is located in the state agricultural district, which
typically preempts urban or tourism/hotel usage. The rural-residential development at Lā‘au
would require shifting lands from the state agricultural district to the rural (or urban) district. One
state land expert, Andrew, explained that MPL believed the LUC would be a friendlier audience
than the notoriously anti-development Maui County and Moloka‘i Planning Commission.
As explained in Chapter Five, decision-making processes in the LUC follow a formal
quasi-judicial format. The public can comment in writing or during oral testimony before
47
After MPL withdrew its EIS from the LUC—in expectation of being formally rejected by
commissioners—the Lā‘au development faced additional obstacles. A Supreme Court ruling in 2008 and a
ruling by the Commission on Water Resource Management rescinded MPL’s existing water permits. Some
interview respondents believed that this was the final obstacle that led MPL to abandon its development
plans. Other experts, including those close to MPL leadership, suggested that water was not the reason
MPL backed out. These individuals explained that MPL felt confident it had enough water to proceed with
development at La‘au (including the possibility of desalinization of ocean water). This chapter does not
dwell on the legal details of various relevant water rulings because of the technicality involved. Also,
enough evidence suggests that the LUC meeting, discussed at length below, was the most decisive event
leading to MPL’s abandonment of development plans.
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commissioners (at no more than five minutes in length). To achieve a DBA, the LUC must
accept a land owner’s Environmental Impact Statement (EIS).
Moloka‘i Ranch’s CEO, Peter Nicholas, was quoted in the local paper saying that MPL’s
November 2007 EIS for Lā‘au was “the greatest EIS in the history of the state of Hawai‘i.” This
EIS was a massive 3,000-page document that had already incorporated responses to thousands of
community questions and comments made during the formal EIS drafting and preparation
process. By law the company must respond to each comment individually. This cost the
company time and resources and may have worked in the opponents’ favor—some interview
respondents likened this process to a filibuster. Indeed, land-use planners and government
officials I interviewed highlighted the comprehensiveness of the Cultural Impact Assessment,
completed pro bono by historian and professor of ethnic studies Davianna McGregor, as
mentioned above. The formidable and lengthy Master Land Use Plan was also submitted as part
of the EIS.
One company manager and another prominent official hinted to me that Moloka‘i Ranch
had assurances from inside political sources that the EIS, and DBA application for Lā‘au in
general, would be seen favorably by the LUC. Shannon refers obliquely to such political battles
going on “behind the scenes”; these may have even involved the Governor.
There were a lot of fighting and negative stuff going on behind the scenes, and then the
governor was getting blasted a lot and then Abbey [Mayer] 48 became, you know, the
Director [of State Planning] and so, if you ask me, the Ranch had every single
opportunity to go because every player was in place, from the governor, to the director of
state planning…
Question: To go, mean to move forward?
48
Director of Planning Abbey Mayer was a former Moloka‘i resident and was appointed to be the director
of State Planning in the midst of negotiations over Laau. He had previously served as the executive
director of Ke Aupuni Lokahi, and was a well-known supporter of the land-use Plan (and the Lā‘au
development).
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To move forward! To move forward with the plan! Everything. (Shannon)
Content of Testimony: “Educating” Land Use Commissioners Opponents to Lā‘au were extremely well prepared; many interviewees told me that Lā‘au
opponents had “done their homework.” From interviews it is also clear that local residents drew
upon extensive experience with EIS processes. I consider this experience, and the strategies
before the LUC discussed below, a form of cultural capital relevant in the current land
development regime.
Cali expressed a pride in their work that I heard in many voices. Across the board,
interviewees agreed that the “Save Lā‘au” faction was remarkably well prepared and thus
effective:
The community absolutely shined in my perspective that day. That was one of the
proudest moments on this island, because I felt that the people who testified that day and
asked questions had read the plan, had done their homework, and done their research.
And they brought in experts from the university, they questioned things like the water
and they questioned many things. . . . The community poked enough holes in it [the EIS].
(Cali)
Lā‘au opponents pressed their case on two levels: they brought up legal points that the
commissioners could use to reject the EIS, and they also conveyed powerful and overwhelming
passion and emotion, and shared the cultural and social significance of Lā‘au through place
narratives. Cali captures the rich texture of testimony; she highlights the efficacy of expert
testimony as well as the “powerful moments” in which “cultural” perspectives were raised:
Again, what I believe [is] the Land Use Commissioners came and listened. It was all day:
it started in the daytime and went into the nighttime. The daytime testifiers at the land use
meeting here were so well researched, and there was expert testimony. And there was
enough people who had done their homework and had brought points for enough
questions in the commissioner’s mind . . . [and then during] the nighttime came the
Moloka‘i community emphasizing cultural [issues]. There were kids and chanting and
very powerful moments. That wasn’t like the expert testimonies. This island came
together and created enough questions in those commissioners’ minds that they were
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prepared to go to vote [no] the next morning before Peter [Nicholas and the Ranch] had
an opportunity to present his side. (Cali)
Lā‘au opponents argued their position on multiple levels. They boldly expressed the
cultural significance of land as well as the emotion and indignation sparked by the prospect of
luxury residential development. Elders and youngsters alike felt so personally and emotionally
connected to the land that it emerged in the affect of their voices, in powerful facial expressions,
in tears and shouts. One challenge, in a formal venue like the LUC, was to channel this passion
in a way that made sense to decision-makers. The record suggests that testifiers conveyed
emotion and the cultural meaning of Lā‘au— the place narratives that connect the site to the
living histories and collective identities of local people. At the same time, testifiers strategically
employed legal language that commissioners could cling to.
Sam contrasts the emotion shared amongst those testifying against Lā‘au with the lack of
passion shown by supporters of the Plan. His view was that the “passion” tipped the balance in
favor of Lā‘au opponents.
And what we found... the other thing that constantly demonstrated itself was that those
who were in support of the Plan, their testimony was rarely... was nowhere near as
organized as ours were . . . it was rarely [that] you had an individual, outside of
[someone] working for the company [Ranch], who was speaking. And the passion wasn't
there. It never was. (Sam)
However, as several interview respondents pointed out, many residents may have been
fearful of speaking out in favor of the Plan for fear of being skewered in local media or even
faced with violence or vandalism. Candy explained,
People were paranoid. So in a small place, democracy goes out the window. So you
either have to say, “I don’t care and I’ll take the consequences,” which for some people
was vandalism and something else, because it did get violent. (Candy)
Indeed, the LUC meeting was surrounded by police-officers, some brought in from Maui,
because of anticipated violence (which never occurred).
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Paul also explained how racial differences may have motivated silence in front of the
LUC, or apparent lack of passion amongst Plan supporters: “Definitely race was an issue,” he
responded when I asked about whether race or ethnicity shaped the political process: “If you were
not a local Hawaiian, your status as the table was diminished.” He recalled moments where
activists had challenged haoles, Filipinos, and Japanese—even those with long histories in
Moloka‘i —and told them their opinions mattered less since they were “invited guests” in
Hawaiian lands.
What perhaps proved most persuasive is that activists couched their opposition in legal
language that could give commissioners a framework for rejecting the proposed EIS. For
example, “segmenting” became central to the anti-Lā‘au argument: activists argued repeatedly
that MPL was not being forthcoming about the cumulative impacts of the entire Plan and thus
could be faulted for “piecemealing,” and thus underestimating, impacts. This argument has
important legal precedent. Gavin calls the activists’ strategy “educating” the commissioners.
This meant using key terms commissioners would recognize as legally powerful, such as
“segmentation” and water rights.
There was so much education going on in regards to key words that the Commission
would recognize, such as segmentation. And if there’s enough people saying that we
should oppose this because it’s segmented and review issues like water, review issues
like… in order to redistrict, they gotta show that the land is not suited for agriculture. . . .
that it’s not a threat to agriculture. (Gavin)
Tony also explained the strategy:
You gotta give the commissioners also enough information to deny it. They set the rules,
I mean, they’re not gonna deny it because my parents have been going fishing over there
[for generations]. (Tony).
He contrasted this with appeals based on emotion. I asked if he thought commissioners were
moved to reject the EIS because of the outpouring of community passion:
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Question: I see, so you don’t think they’re moved by, because it was emotional?
Emotional can happen, but you gotta come with the facts. Emotion can be part of the
mix, but it cannot be a dominant part of it because it has to be something that the
commission can hang their hats on, the reason why they denied it. They cannot just deny
it because there’s a hundred people that cried because their parents are fishing over there.
. . . (Gavin)
Another example of the tactics used, based in part on past experience, was dividing up
the testimony to ensure that key arguments were covered.
Everyone would kind of break off and choose an issue and go after it. So I really tended
to go more after the land issues here. . . . We had different people work on distinct issues
that could disrupt the process. You know, very key, key issues. When we went through
what the guidelines were that they could really disrupt that, you know, definitely. . .
[segmentation] . . . .Yeah, we would have meetings, designate who was going to do what.
We would tend to do that. We would have... sit down and go okay, “Who’s going to do
what.” Take the responsibility for something, you know. Or break it down to groups.
(Sam)
It was deemed in advance, for example, that one testifier would give arguments about
endangered species, including the indigenous Hawaiian monk seal and a rare indigenous vine,
‘ihi‘ihilauakea. Still others would hit the issue of water directly. One testifier, Scarlett Ritte,
playfully defended monk seals. She wore a sign that said “seal expert”—joking about her own
lack of formal scientific credentials, yet at the same asserting expert knowledge backed by the
force of law (Dispatch Staff 2007a).
Persuasive Narratives in the LUC: Cultural Capital and Place Narratives Observers’ accounts and LUC records suggest that the narratives expressed by anti-Lā‘au
testifiers persuaded commissioners. Sam saw this, as did other expert respondents, as the
commissioners’ basic rejection of the view of development as primarily a beneficial source of
jobs and economic growth. He describes this as linked to a new prevailing “mentality” or belief
that urban growth and tourism development has gone “far enough.”
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You know, the surprise with the LUC was when some of the commissioners first started
talking. . . State Director [of Planning] Abby [Mayer] started talking. A couple of times
he started talking about, you know, the economics and the jobs . . . And one of the
commissioners goes, “Well, what I want to know is will this make the people of Moloka‘i
happy?” And he [Mayer] says, “How are you measuring happiness?” And I go, “This is
crazy. I’ve never heard a LUC commissioner talk like this before.” And I think what that
tells me is that Hawai‘i has gone so far, you know. We’ve gone so far. We’ve been so
pro-business, so pro-development that I think what you’re seeing is almost, even from
more conservative sectors you're seeing this like, “Wait a minute. There’s only so much
left. Moloka‘i is one of those few places left that’s still like the way it was when I grew
up like a little kid,” kind of mentality. So I think that’s part of the reaction . . We’ve
driven this thing far enough. (Sam)
Sam saw a shifted institutional framework, which I argue marks a departure from the logic of
development that drove the previous regime.
Records of the LUC meeting support this interpretation (at least as applied to some
commissioners). For example, Commissioner Contrades rebuked State Planning Director Mayer
when Mayer highlighted how important the promised jobs at Kaluako‘i would be, given Moloka‘i
’s relatively high unemployment and poverty. Contrades shot back that poverty measures did not
adequately capture what Moloka‘i people valued. (Akaku 2007b; Dispatch Staff 2007a and
2007b)
Commissioners’ comments and remarks, made during and after the public hearing,
suggest that they were impressed by the passion and preparation of the Lā‘au opposition. The
chairman of the LUC, Lisa Judge, commented to local reporters: “I believe they [the
commissioners] heard the concerns of the community and felt they [the Ranch] needed to do
more work . . . It was a very long day with very passionate testimony from a community that was
well prepared, and that addressed the issues in a very civil and gracious way” (cited in Dispatch
Staff 2007a and 2007b). Commissioner Contrades praised the community outpouring: “In the
three years that I have been on the commission, I have never before seen a hearing like this”
(Dispatch Staff 2007a).
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Creating a Spectacle Anti-Lā‘au organizers made other effective uses of cultural capital in the given
institutional context: they knew what to do to make a statement and create a spectacle. They
placed commissioners in the public spotlight by video-recording the events and promising to air it
on blogs and public television. They turned the LUC meeting into a cultural event and greeted
commissioners with lei, song, and hula dancing. Lā‘au opponents came out by the hundreds,
wearing red-shirts in a visible show of force—observers called them a “sea of red.” In many
ways anti-Lā‘au factions spoke to a larger audience by employing narratives resonant with the
Hawaiian Movement. They made it easy for people beyond Moloka‘i to grow indignant at the
prospect of another Waikiki on the “last Hawaiian island” and on “sacred grounds.”
One other technique that proved effective for anti Lā‘au protesters was to generate
pressure from within the political system. Protestors activated networks (again, likely developed
over years of community organizing and outreach) among powerful public officials such as
Senator Clayton Hee, who chairs the Senate Water and Land Use Committee (which approves
LUC appointments). Some suspect that Hee influenced the LUC process by putting pressure on
the LUC staff executive director to write a staff report that highlighted weaknesses of the EIS and
to create a procedural setting favorable to the Save Lā‘au faction—discussed more below
(Dispatch Staff 2007a and 2007b). Save Lā‘au activists also drew upon the expertise of top-notch
legal experts; Walter Ritte reportedly consulted with sympathetic law professors at the University
of Hawai‘i.
The LUC file is filled with petitions and counter petitions for and against the Plan. Many
“form” letters express favor for the Plan. Other letters take the form of authoritative legal
treatises or impassioned handwritten personal notes—expressing either favor or disdain for the
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Plan. Lā‘au opponents argued that Ranch workers and their families were effectively coerced
into supporting it. One company insider explained to me that Nicholas would publicize lists of
individual names of those who refused to support the Plan. A couple of respondents cited in the
local Dispatch newspaper confirm that they were pressured to attend meetings and wear “I
support the Plan” buttons (Dispatch Staff 2007a and 2007b).
Select members of the typically reticent island Filipino community—who make up large
proportions of Ranch and Monsanto employees—submitted letters in favor of the Plan. Fewer
Plan supporters, however, turned out to public meetings. They shied away from spectacle and
public broadcasting. Also, they did not seize upon the language and discourse of the Hawaiian
Movement as anti-Lā‘au organizers did.
Water as a Flashpoint Water was one primary reason the commissioners stated they were rejecting the EIS. As
mentioned, Moloka‘i Homesteaders have fought many battles over access to water and feared
again that water rights, and their agricultural livelihoods, would be threatened with the new
development. Tony helped catalyze Homesteader opposition and generate new voices of Ranch
opposition:
In the Hawaiian homestead area and that’s where I come from and I was pushing,
educating these guys. That’s all the water they’re going to take, so we cannot let them
take our water. . . Maybe fifty something people testified [against the project]. (Tony)
Question: And these were people who are used to testifying or….?
Residents. No, a lot of them didn’t testify before. No it wasn’t activists. It was a lot of
new people and they were blown away. They were like completely blown away. . . I
spent all my time educating these guys on water. You cannot let them…and so at the
meetings, that’s our water! What are you talking about? That’s our water! . . . They
would come out with things like, well you cannot own the water. . . . So, so that became
a theme and then, the Hawaiian community as a whole saw that as, it would’ve been,
that’s Hawaiian water! What are you doing taking their water. The ones that supported
were the ones that either were gonna get jobs and some of them felt, or their family was
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working for Moloka‘i Ranch. . . . So, those we had, but the Hawaiian community as a
whole, maybe eighty-five, ninety percent support, I mean opposed the development.
(Tony)
The inflammation over water, however, may have been more reflective of effective political
organization than an underlying geological fact. Several respondents, such as Candy, expressed
the opinion that a small set of vocal residents had inflamed Hawaiians by making them believe
water would be stolen:
[Activists] started that thing: “No water to Lā‘au.” [They made people believe that]
somehow the water was going to get stolen from the Hawaiians because of Lā‘au. So
what you do is you pick the issues that are going to get people excited. It was water for
them [Hawaiian Homesteaders] and crowds for the haoles. (Candy)
Another environmental expert, echoed this claim: “They used water as an issue. In my
view, there is enough water.” As mentioned above, there is little scientific consensus about
exactly how scarce water is on Moloka‘i.
The Climax: Refusing the EIS On the morning of November 16th, the second day of the LUC meetings, two
commissioners moved to reject the EIS, saying it failed to detail key components like “water use,
CC&Rs, and how the Land Trust would operate.” Also, they said, it didn’t include adequate
information about the rebuilding of the hotel (an instance of “segmenting”). Ultimately other
commissioners agreed that the EIS was inadequate on “water treatment, water transmission,
segmentation of residential lots, electricity issues and potential environmental hazards to
Hawaiian monk seals” (Hamilton 2007a and 2007b). This was also supported by the staff report,
an assessment of the EIS submitted by the LUC executive director Anthony Ching (ibid).
Strikingly, the LUC rejected the EIS on the very terms that were emphasized by Save Lā‘au
factions.
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Manipulating (or Corrupting) the Regulatory Process? Several local residents explained to me that they doubted the result at the LUC was truly
“democratic.” Some believe that activists “manipulated” the process by working with the
executive director of the LUC. For example, critics explain that Ching moved to public hearing
location Ho‘olehua, a place where many Lā‘au opponents lived (especially Hawaiian
Homesteaders). Also, procedures appeared to give Lā‘au opponents more time to testify. Several
adult activists were able to take extra time by “speaking for” others who had signed up in advance
to give oral testimony (including children and absentees). As a result, certain individuals held the
floor for longer than their allotted five minutes. By contrast, staff members of the LUC
explained to me that the hearing process conformed to past practice. They also explained that
apparent procedural irregularities, such as holding the hearing in a new location, or not recording
minutes for the hearing, resulted from the extremely large public turnout.
Some interview respondents suggested to me that activists reached out to old friends
within the Land Use Commission itself, hoping to sway commissioners behind the scenes. (I
have found no definitive evidence of this). Candy recapitulates several complaints I heard from
local residents about the LUC public hearing:
That was the most botched hearing I ever heard in my life. . . I’m talking about a
government body who first manipulates the times of the people who give testimony, only
asks questions of those people who are for the Plan and not against the Plan, dragging in
children and saying, “They have a right to three minutes, too, so I want to take their three
minutes so I have twenty minutes.”
. . . I knew where my name was on the list and I was wondering . . . “Why is he [Senator
Hee] talking in front of me? He came later, why is he put in front of me?” I don’t care
what he is. You sign up, that’s when you talk. That’s supposed to be a semi-judicial
commission. So there was a lot of finagling going on. And we didn’t find out until later
just how bad it was. So the next day, ten minutes into the hearing, a hand goes up by one
of the commissioners, “I had enough. I don’t even need to hear the company’s plan. I
move we reject the environmental assessment for Lā‘au.”
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. . . It’s like going to court and saying we don’t need to hear from you because we’ve
heard enough. We can make the judgment. How can you make the judgment if you don’t
have the plan? And because of the questions that they asked, in my testimony, they never
read it. Now, a lot of commissioners don’t read the reports, but it means they weren’t
given good quality information or anything else. They did not realize that Lā‘au was part
of a bigger plan.
I came home and cried because I said it’s dead. The state of Hawai‘i has screwed up
because of people being paid off on a commission. (Candy)
Paul also put a cynical slant on the actions of the commissioners: “The commissioners
listened to the loudest voices. They don’t read the documents. They weren’t briefed.” Almost
all of the explicitly “pro-Plan” interview respondents shared similar viewpoints with me.
Moloka‘i After the Storm: Where it is Now Ranch Closure and Painful Layoffs MPL’s negative reception at the LUC ultimately led to a sequence of difficult events.
MPL revised their EIS but encountered new obstacles (such as water rulings—see footnote
above), and a hostile response to the new EIS by the Moloka‘i Planning Commission. In March
of 2008, shortly after preparing a second EIS, MPL closed its business operations. As a
consequence, 120 jobs disappeared from the island. Elders showed sadness in their eyes when
they talked about the fact that residents have since been forced to leave the island due to the
absence of jobs. State political leaders called this a devastating crisis. Some Moloka‘i residents
wondered out loud to me how they would survive. Others remarked that Moloka‘i Ranch had
“shown its true colors.” Yet others pointed out that the Ranch had kept its word and donated
1,600 acres of historically important land to the Community Land Trust, even after the Plan had
been effectively killed.
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Several events suggest that the anti-Lā‘au push has morphed into a new vision for
Moloka‘i as a model of sustainable development. For example, a set of Moloka‘i leaders,
including many youth who opposed the Plan and Lā‘au development, convened a sustainability
conference in the summer of 2009. Moreover, some local residents have held talks with wind
energy producer UPC and encouraged UPC to attempt to buy Ranch land. Finally, a nonprofit
umbrella organization, the Moloka‘i Service Community Council, has spearheaded efforts to
raise the money to “Buy The Ranch” for the Moloka‘i Land Trust.
Conclusion This chapter shows that land use regulations are not simple or static institutions. Nor are they
open for manipulation by only the most powerful. They can create openings and provide tools
for the less powerful—or those without wealth, land, or even formal political title. Gavin
summed up this sentiment when I asked him about the lessons offered by the Lā‘au development:
I think what it [the story of Lā‘au] offers is that no matter how big they are and how
strong, you can take them on. If you have the manpower and the people following and it
has to do also with the commitment of the people, willing to stake their claim. (Gavin)
Accordingly, this case study suggests that we should conceptualize land development as
shaped by distinct institutional contexts that provide tools and opportunities for specific actors to
influence land development. Legal precedents and privileged areas of the law—cultural
protections, endangered species, water rights—are tools that can be used by different factions of
communities. Even the financial capital of the parent company, the political pressure of powerful
politicians, the support of workers and other community members, and the leadership of wellrespected former activists was not enough to push the Plan through. In this case, the cultural
capital valorized by this unique context prevailed instead.
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Also, certain place narratives are compelling in the current regime. Narratives about jobs
and economic growth are less compelling among publics and decision-makers in the current
regime than narratives about culture, lifestyle, and environment. Legal expertise and persuasive
place narratives become cultural capital that community members can deploy. In turn, place
narratives and compelling frames can galvanize community activism and inure community
members to the seductive discourse of “land development for jobs.” Ritte and others had a
powerful antidote to the cultural frameworks promoting development for jobs, which I argue were
more hegemonic during earlier time periods: “āina as keiki,” “Hāloa first,” or “aloha ‘āina”
stood up well to the call for hotel jobs. These narratives resonated with decision-makers as
well—at least enough to stymie Ranch plans.
These narratives and frames were both local and more than local. They were expressed
about Lā‘au and its specific features as a unique place in the world, but they are also embedded in
bigger struggles for Hawaiian political rights, cultural practices, and the viability of agriculture.
Community members opposing Lā‘au achieved their goals through clever navigation of the
regulatory environment. Their victory may also be due to the multi-level salience of their
struggle. The Lā‘au mobilization, like the struggles at West Beach and Kaho‘olawe, may be
considered an “urban social movement” rooted in a unique geographic locale, but it also can be
seen as a seed in a bigger movement for justice (Castells 1983).
While the current regime provides tools to support community empowerment, these tools
are up for grabs and must be strategically and assiduously deployed. Peter Nicholas and MPL, in
the context of the new regime, adopted a defensive posture and aimed to work within the terms of
community members who valorized culture, agriculture, and lifestyle. While this provided
unprecedented chances for local residents to finally assert their ideas and interests—what I have
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termed democratization of development—it also moved hardball development politics into
families and neighborhoods in a distinctly disruptive way. Nicholas had to carefully cultivate the
support of community leaders in order to succeed in the new regime. However, this effort
sparked a vicious backlash and community members fought each other in ways they never had
before. Perhaps when community input is so valued, it becomes a target for manipulation;
community empowerment unwittingly multiplies, or exacerbates, community fractures. These
fractures can clearly be seen as well in the case study of the Hōkūli‘a development, which
follows.
Chapter 7. Entangled in an Unraveling Regime: The Stalemate at Hōkūli‘a ‘Ike is a practicing kahuna or priest. Members of her family have guarded sacred sites within part
of South Kona for a millennium. When we met together on a wind-swept day near the ocean, ‘Ike
exuded warmth and gregariousness. She embraced me readily with her ample arms. As we
talked, we looked across a bay to the sheltered ridges of Keopuka and Hokukano—the grounds of
the controversial luxury residential development project called “Hōkūli‘a.”
‘Ike, a middle aged adult, peppered her colorful stories with hearty laughter. But
beneath her playfulness ran currents of otherworldly wisdom. She spoke in messianic terms. My
skin prickled as she described the “spiritual warfare” of the Hōkūli‘a project and the pain of
ancestral burials “broken open” after centuries resting in peace.
When she first heard that Lyle Anderson, a millionaire developer from Arizona, along
with Japan Airlines (JAL) intended to build an ultra-luxury private golf community near
Hokukano, she said to herself: “Oh no, not in my backyard.” Despite this instinctive distaste, she
was not one to involve herself in politics.
As construction started, however, the families of hardened local men—many Native
Hawaiian —working bull-dozers and paving crews to lay the first cement ever to touch Hōkūli‘a
lands began to call her for help. They sought her for healing. “The houses would have so many
problems,” she recalled. “Kids were being attacked in their sleep” choked by chest-sitting ghosts
at night.
She explained about these spirits:
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A lot of times they’re pissed off because they’re being scattered…like bone meal. A
spirit that’s 700 years old…been resting all that time… and then being ripped out and
scattered out is the most disrespectful thing. They were extremely pissed.
The gravity of her words, the intensity of her expressions, conveyed a tangible spiritual
trauma that had touched families, cousins, neighbors and friends. Through her eyes, I saw
Hōkūli‘a as a battle of good and evil: the spiritual mana of community and history versus
“material bling bling;” or “true power versus force.” In the end, though, she saw the development
playing out on akua’s (God’s) terms. Look, she said, “it is falling like a stack of cards”. She
went on prophetically: “That’s a development that was never meant to be. They will continue to
have problems. . . The old bones shall always have the last say. That happens all the way across
Hawai‘i.”
+++
The Hōkūli‘a project, described in detail below, is a massive “rural-residential” gated
community on a relatively untouched coastal area of rural South Kona, on the Big Island of
Hawai‘i (or Hawai‘i island). Housing lots, and a handful of already-constructed homes, are worth
millions of dollars. These homes of millionaires also happen to be in an agricultural district (as
defined by the State Land Use law). Accordingly, until a circuit court intervened the homes were
considered by the developers—1250 Oceanside Partners—and the County of Hawai‘i to be “farm
dwellings.” At the center of the residential development lies an 18-hole Jack Nicklaus signature
golf course. The absurdity of million dollar farm houses was just one feature of the project which
piqued my interest in it.
Another motivation for the study was the drama and emotion evoked by the project,
hinted at above, as well as the fact that the project appeared to be stuck in limbo nearly two
decades after its inception. Oceanside Partners has spent approximately twenty years on
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planning and permitting the project, including ten years in construction. They have spent and also
garnered millions of dollars as a result of lot sales. Yet, at the current moment, the project is only
partially built. Years of protracted politicking and building did give Oceanside Partners time to
“develop” much of the 1,550 acre property, including clearing and grading the sloped volcanic
land, and installing infrastructure and roads. However, after a series of major political setbacks
(including court-ordered work-stoppages) investors seized management of the property from the
original developers. Decades of attempted building were stymied by legal and financial
challenges, as well as vehement community protest. The stalemates and stalls continue to this
day.
During the course of Hōkūli‘a’s evolution, community members of Kona—and their
elected representatives—have asserted their influence over the project in various ways. First,
community members and public officials shaped the project by expressing their wants during
public relations meetings, intervening in public hearings, and taking part in other (less public)
negotiations. In addition, local residents exerted control over the project through two lawsuits,
the second of which brought construction to a halt in 2000 and then again in 2003. The
settlement of the second major lawsuit placed many major conditions on the project and secured
millions of dollars in concessions to the community in the past decades. Local residents have
drawn upon multiple sources of leverage to stymie Hōkūli‘a developers and extract important
public benefits from them. Intriguingly, the early deal-making between the developers and
community revolved around terms more characteristic of the previous tourism-growth regime.
However, community members rallying around cultural, environmental, and lifestyle interests
became more assertive later in the development process and drew upon new resources and
leverage, which are more distinctive of the postcolonial regime.
other words, matured alongside of Hōkūli‘a.
The postcolonial regime, in
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While this case at first appeared to me as a striking “win” by community members, a
closer look revealed great complexity. Like the Lā‘au Point project, successes by some
community factions were seen as “losses” by others. In all of its years of tortured progress,
almost everyone involved with Hōkūli‘a has been scarred or embittered in some way or another.
Those who hate the project and what it stands for (exclusivity, luxury, cultural change, or
destruction), as well as project supporters (who see economic opportunity and progress in
Hōkūli‘a), have engaged in intense conflict and have become entangled in a complex political
web. Almost every actor with an interest in Hōkūli‘a has faced unintended or negative
consequences. This case thus shows just how much hard core politics—particularly in the thenemergent postcolonial regime—permeates development processes and the lives it touches. The
emergent regime invited not only new layers of democratic possibility but also new layers of
controversy and, as several respondents shared, new terrains of battle and conflict.
The story of the Hōkūli‘a development project vividly captures a deep and, for some,
irreconcilable conflict between land as a source of cultural meaning and land as a commodity.
This conflict plays out all over Hawai‘i and beyond. However, in a coveted destination like
South Kona, the conflict is exaggerated. Not everyone shares ‘Ike’s convictions. In fact, the
history of land development in Hawai‘i shows that, at least in real-time, cultural meanings or “the
bones” do not always prevail. In the case of Hōkūli‘a, people like ‘Ike, self-identified protectors
of history and cultural survival, partially prevailed. Below I attempt to reveal why.
Overview: Hōkūli‘a under the Emerging Postcolonial Regime While from one perspective the construction at Hōkūli‘a meant deep personal trauma, an
appalling threat to natural resources, or even a kind of “cultural death,” from another it
represented large profits, economic opportunity, and a chance for the broader public to gain
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access to needed infrastructure.
For a “silent majority” (Walden 2005) of Kona residents, it
represented ineluctable change, which they reluctantly supported, in an area that had seen many
social revolutions since Captain Cook anchored and then lost his life on these shores.
In the development process, the most salient features were two forms of basic social
conflict. The first conflict reflects class differences and the fundamental opposition between
communities and developers: community members sought broad public benefits, such as
economic opportunities and infrastructure improvements, in opposition to the developers’ need
for profit and investment return. The second deep conflict existed within local communities and
is a conflict between different social goals or worldviews, pitting those opposing the project for
cultural reasons—linked to their collective identity or history—against those in favor of the
project for economic or pragmatic reasons. 49 These oppositions are as stark and basic as black
and white. However, the institutions surrounding the development project channeled and
complicated these basic conflicts and multiplied differences; institutional conditions, like a prism,
helped split apart the basic class and cultural conflicts into many shades and forms.
The dynamics of Hōkūli‘a are characteristic of the current postcolonial regime and the
associated unraveling of the tourism-growth regime. Institutions empowered members of the
public to shape the character and form of the project and exact concessions from the developers.
The four plaintiffs and one organization who sued the developer, as well as other project
opponents expressing cultural and environmental concerns, had the power to influence—and even
temporarily shut down—the entire project. Also, the demands of Native Hawaiians with
historical links to Hōkūli‘a lands were taken seriously by public officials and developers. Cultural
49
Here I have in mind Native Hawaiians who opposed the project for cultural reasons. However, some
project opponents opposed the project primarily because of expected negative impacts to the natural
environment. This reflects another form of cultural conflict within communities based on attitude or
worldview—a position which can oppose pragmatically minded community members willing to negotiate
with the developer for economic concessions and other broad public benefits.
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and environmental laws empowered people like ‘Ike, who were trying to “speak for the bones,”
as well as environmentalists working to preserve natural resources and the rural character of the
area. Newcomers to Kona, many with environmentalist and anti-urbanization proclivities,
became a new force and formed tenuous alliances with cultural advocates. Moreover, Native
Hawaiian place narratives about Hōkūli‘a were compelling to broad publics and decision makers.
Overall, even relatively under-resourced communities accessed important sources of leverage
over development provided by the existing institutional context.
Yet new forms of power constituted by the current regime were not realizable in
straightforward ways. Community members drew power from new wrinkles in the regulatory
field. But land regulations multiplied the forms and venues of contestation. For example,
negotiation occurred in formal settings, such as public hearings, as well as informal arenas like
backrooms and community meetings. Also, the rise of new cultural frameworks did not
completely supplant the discourse of development for growth or broad public benefit. Thus, the
institutional field under the emerging postcolonial regime complicates the politics of
development.
While this case shows the democratic potential of the current regime, it also reveals its
contradictions. The developer’s vast financial resources were not sufficient to turn all of
Anderson’s vision into reality. However, resources did carry Oceanside Partners and its
investors quite far. When the developers were challenged by opponents wielding the legal,
political, and cultural tools provided by the current regime, not surprisingly, Oceanside Partners
fought back. The developer and its foes nimbly strategized through the regulatory system,
engaged in conflict in various venues, drew upon strategic knowledge, and leveraged privileged
publics. The codification and popular recognition of native rights empowered certain factions.
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However, developers attempted to co-opt or neutralize those forwarding widely legitimate
cultural narratives. This exacerbated fractures within the broader Kona community and the
Native Hawaiian community. Institutions created democratic opportunities, but they also invited
strategic action by the developer and other social groups.
The institutional field, or regime, created contingency and uncertainty. There was so
much contingency that early deals between the developer, community members, and public
officials became threatened. The developer exploited legal ambiguity and slid through the gray
areas of the multi-leveled legal field, but at the same time Oceanside Partners were partially a
victim of such ambiguity: the group invested millions of dollars based on guarantees provided by
the County of Hawai‘i, which state law later found illegal. For the Hōkūli‘a developers, it was a
bait and switch.
This chapter begins with a brief history of the project’s context and then moves on to a
discussion of Hōkūli‘a’s evolution. For a map of the project site and other places referenced in
this chapter see Figure 7.1.
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Figure 7.1 Island of Hawai‘i (County of Hawai‘i) Census Designated Places and Other Sites
of Interest
Kohala
North Kona
Hokuli’a
Project
South Kona
Kealakekua
Bay
Source: Modified from Office of Planning and Department of Business, Economic
Development and Tourism, State of Hawai‘i
In the last section of this chapter, I hone in on select issues related to Hawaiian culture. I
show how the codification of native rights comes with contradictions and unintended (sometimes
negative) consequences for communities and developers in the context of the unraveling tourismgrowth regime.
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Project Context: The Kona Region Pre and Post­Contact Kona Kona of ancient Hawai‘i was a population center, the seat of political power, and the site
of extensive agricultural cultivation. It is thought to have been one of the most densely
populated areas with as many as 20,000 residents during its peak (Hawai‘i County 2007).
Original Hawaiian inhabitants constructed the vast agricultural Kona Field System, a unique
complex of walls, irrigations systems, and interconnected fields that made use of the uniquely
fertile volcanic soils and distinctive rain patterns to cultivate diverse crops including taro and
sweet potato (Cultural Surveys Hawai‘i 1992). Hōkūli‘a lands show evidence of this history and
cradle highly significant cultural and historical sites including untold numbers of Native
Hawaiian burials.
Like the rest of Hawai‘i, South Kona felt the impact of foreigners, missionaries and
entrepreneurial American and European businessmen beginning in the early 1800s. One
foreigner who proved adept at amassing land in the new system of private tenure was Henry N.
Greenwell, who arrived in Hawai‘i from England just after 1850 and became a local landowner
and entrepreneur.
He raised oranges and sheep, and he reputedly ‘put Kona coffee on the map’
for the European market. He later established an extensive system of cattle ranches which by the
1920s occupied nearly 112,000 acres in North and South Kona (Cultural Surveys Hawai‘i 1992).
Most of the Hōkūli‘a lands had been owned by Greenwell descendants until Anderson acquired
the property in the early 1990s.
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Coffee and Agriculture Coffee has shaped the social ecologies of South Kona since it became the dominant crop
in the 1800s (unlike the rest of Hawai‘i, including other parts of the Big Island, where sugar
cultivation has historically prevailed). 50 The crop thrives in Kona’s unique conditions of volcanic
soil, rainfall, and hospitable high elevation. Coffee cultivation continues today, earning a fifteen
mile stretch of area between Kailua-Kona and Hōnaunau the nickname of the “coffee belt.”
Residents are proud of this agricultural history, which lives on, and the unique multi-ethnic
communities it has supported.
In the 1800s, major landowners hired immigrant field hands (usually of Japanese
ancestry). Kona coffee also provided immigrants opportunities to strike out on their own by
starting independent family farms on lands leased from large landowners (Kinro 2003; Fuchs
1961). Thereafter, first and second generation Japanese in Kona carved out a community and
worked together to subsist economically. They formed ethnic collectives, called kumi, as well as
credit unions and coffee processing cooperatives to pool resources and share labor (Kinro 2003;
Fuchs 1961). Strong Japanese communities (including kumis) still exist today.
Kona coffee survived into the 21st century by reinventing itself as a specialty product
(Kinro 2003). Marketing campaigns of the 1960s pitched the region’s bounty to the gourmet
coffee market. Some coffee history has morphed into “agro-tourism” (Kinro 2003). Historic
storefronts and coffee farms now welcome visitors as living museums. Meanwhile, newer
residents are helping to transform the coffee belt. New Kona residents from the U.S. continent
who have bought or leased small farms to grow coffee practice what some term “leisure
50
Ranching historically co-existed alongside coffee, and large ranches still operated throughout the broad
Kona region until many closed in the 1990s.
265
agriculture.” Many new residents came seeking refuge in the quiet rural lifestyle of Kona in the
last ten to thirty years.
Transitioning to Tourism and Population Growing Pains Kona’s sunny and temperate weather makes its lands highly desirable to tourists and
sojourners. The world renowned white sand beaches of North Kona and South Kohala caught the
eye of land entrepreneurs starting in the 1960s. At this time, state Democratic Party leaders
targeted the region for tourism development and funneled money into an airport and roads, while
encouraging private investment. Since then the resort, tourism, and real-estate economy has
become dominant in Kona, though tourism urbanization is clearest in North Kona and South
Kohala.
In the 1980s, increasing numbers of people came from outside the island to settle, retire,
or find leisure. The 90s and early 2000s saw particularly fast real-estate development and
population growth, as well as steeply increasing land values (Hawai‘i County 2007). Local
experts explained to me that Kona has recently shifted to an economy based on luxury housing,
vacation homes, and part-time residences, which could be termed a post-fordist form of tourism
development (Judd and Fainstein 1999).
For all of the Kona area, the population growth and tourism-residential development
during the 1990s came with growing pains and strains on infrastructural capacity. Respondents
to a County Development Plan (representing the input of over 800 local residents gathered in
public meetings during 2005 and 2006) voiced frustration at traffic and demands on countyinfrastructure. Many bemoaned what they perceive as “deterioration” in quality of life. As
elsewhere in the islands, population growth has sparked fear that Kona’s “unique lifestyle” will
266
change. It has also made many residents concerned about upward pressure on land and housing
prices. (County of Hawai‘i 2007).
North Kona vs. South Kona Kona is split into two planning jurisdictions of the County of Hawai‘i: North Kona and
South Kona. This divide is also an important symbolic boundary. North Kona has attracted more
population growth in the last three decades and has a larger share of residents than South Kona. 51
South Kona has grown at a slower pace, 52 and it maintains a rural-agricultural character, unlike
the North which is now dominated by tourism and resort development. Official county land-use
patterns show that, with the exception of Hōkūli‘a, no lands in South Kona are officially slated
for resort or major commercial usage. Several development experts explained that opposition to
Hōkūli‘a was sparked largely because it crossed the line into South Kona (most of the project site
lies just past the boundary between the North and South Kona districts). 53
Ethnicity and Economic Indicators Kona is a classic post-plantation/immigrant society with an ethnically diverse population.
Major ethnic/racial groups include Caucasians, Asians, and Native Hawaiians. Most Asian
residents are of Japanese ancestry, though there is a strong Filipino and Chinese presence and
small pockets of newer immigrants (typically Vietnamese or other Pacific Islanders). Many
people are of mixed-ancestry, particularly Native Hawaiians.
51
In 2005, the estimated population of North Kona was 31,900 and 10,700 for South Kona Together, North
and South Kona, as of 2000, accounted for approximately 25% of the Hawai‘i County Population, which
totaled 148,677 in 2000. Between 1980 and 1990 North Kona’s population boomed by more than 60%
(from 13,748 to 22, 284 in 1990). Growth tapered slightly in North Kona in the 1990s, increasing by
approximately 30% (to 28,543 by 2000). Current estimates suggest that annual population growth since
2000 has jumped back up to a rate of near 6% growth per year. (County of Hawai‘i 2008).
52
South Kona’s population increased about 30% from 1980-1990 (5,914 to 7, 658) and then an additional
12% during the 90s (to 8,589 by 2000). (County of Hawai‘i 2008).
53
This is partially explained by topography. South Kona has steep slopes that are not well-suited for
urbanization while North Kona has a coastal plain.
267
In South Kona, the district in which most of the Hōkūli‘a project is located,
approximately one third (34%) of residents identify as white (only). Approximately 15% of
South Kona’s population is of Japanese ancestry, and 44% of people in South Kona indicated that
they are at least partly Asian (County of Hawai‘i 2008). Finally, approximately one third of
residents (33%) in South Kona indicate that they are Hawaiian (or Pacific Islander). Per capita
income in South Kona is low compared to state-wide rates (DBEDT 1999). Also, as in the rest of
the state, economic burdens fall slightly more disproportionately on Native Hawaiians as is clear
in poverty and per-capita income rates (DBEDT 1999). 54 Moreover, there is significant
economic inequality present in Kona that cannot be seen in census statistics. Overcrowded
homes in disrepair inhabited by local families may sit next to pristine six-story estates owned by
investors or affluent newcomers. In other words, there is significant economic variation both
within and between neighborhoods throughout Kona.
Ethnicity, Class, and Views of Real­Estate Development The area’s racial composition is changing and boundaries of race and class continue to
evolve in complex ways, often in response to urban growth and migration. Ethnic differences
also sometimes translate into differing views about real-estate development. Many so-called
“newcomers” to Kona (in contrast to Native Hawaiian or local Asian residents with long Kona
histories) are middle to high-income whites. Some Caucasian newcomers bring with them a
liberal mentality and an environmental ethos, having moved to Kona to embrace a rural lifestyle.
Yet, some critics ridicule their desire to preserve paradise since they have only recently arrived.
Such dynamics emerged during contestations over Hōkūli‘a.
54
Hawaiians or those with part Hawaiian ancestry in South Kona show per-capita income of between $12,
266-16,626 per capita as compared to the area total of $19,373-$21, 634. The number of families and
individuals of Hawaiian ethnicity (alone or in combination) who are living in poverty exceeds that of any
other group in the region and economic burdens are clear in the case of per-capita income. (DBEDT 1999)
268
Some local residents of Caucasian ancestry, by contrast, have centuries-old ties to the
land—either as descendants of missionaries or those like Greenwell who arrived in the 1800s.
Many are still major landowners and local business leaders. I interviewed a handful of
individuals from such families, many of whom supported the idea of the Hōkūli‘a project, though
they did not actively promote or oppose it. While large landowners may benefit from increasing
land prices, they do not necessarily play a direct role in promoting land-development projects like
Hōkūli‘a.
Several interview respondents suggested to me that local Japanese residents of the Kona
region tend to be pragmatic when it comes to development (and therefore would have likely
supported the Hōkūli‘a project, if only reluctantly). There is little evidence in the public record of
the sentiments of the Kona Japanese community as a whole regarding the development project. I
interviewed three local business and community leaders of Japanese ancestry who explained that
they supported the project because of the promised road, and also because they thought the social
and environmental impacts of the development would be relatively contained. Many workingclass local families depend on the kind of jobs provided by construction at Hōkūli‘a. Local
residents with extended families or deep community ties may be reluctant to oppose construction
or real-estate development that would provide income to a cousin, neighbor, or longtime family
friend. Many such residents may have formed a “silent majority” supportive of the Hōkūli‘a
development.
Meanwhile, the Hawaiian Movement has taken various forms on the island of Hawai‘i.
Native Hawaiian organizations such as the Hawaiian Civic Clubs, as well as newer political
groups like the Kanaka Council, Pele Defense Fund, and Ka Lāhui, are locally rooted and
connected with state-wide organizations. Such groups have pushed for political recognition and
269
intervened in local land-related controversies. Members of these groups spoke out against the
Hōkūli‘a project, as seen in the public record. Others apparently played a role in protesting the
treatment of iwi kupuna at the Hōkūli‘a project site.
+++
The Hōkūli‘a Project: Political Processes of Development I turn now to an in-depth discussion of Hōkūli‘a’s processes of development. I begin with a brief
overview of the developer’s vision and intention. I then proceed chronologically through the
twists and turns that took the Hōkūli‘a project to where it is today. I conclude the section by
describing the current state of affairs. As I explain below, Hōkūli‘a is one of the largest single
land development projects ever attempted in the state of Hawai‘i. Its development process—and
the political and social reactions it evoked—are necessarily complex. I try to do justice to this
complexity while still highlighting critical moments and key legal issues This section assumes
some familiarity with Hawai‘i land-use law, background provided in Chapter 4. To supplement
this narrative, Figure 7.2 offers a chronological overview of many of the events touched on in this
section.
270
Figure 7.2 Basic Timeline of 1250 Oceanside Partners “Hōkūli‘a ” Development Project
1980s‐
1990s
•Land Acquisition
•Community Outreach‐‐Intensive Public relations (1990‐93)
•Oceanside Partners Corporation Formed (project then called "Villages at Hokukano")
•Development Planning, Archaeological Survey completed
•Draft EIS initiated
1993‐
1994
•First major county rezonings approved in 1994 to allow 1 acre agricultural lots for half of property. •Rezoning contested in Circuit Court, Court upholds rezoning
•More community meetings
1995‐
1996
•Oceanside reduces density, revises plan, changes name of project to "Hokuli'a"
•Second major county rezonings in 1996 approves rezoning of 1 acre agricultural lots for entire project ; includes rezoning to state urban district for 14.8 acres for member's lodge
1996‐
2000
•Hokuli'a acquires additional permits and invests in construction and planning
•Ground Breaks in 1999
•Lot Sales in 2000
2000‐
2006
•Litigation in 2000. Court issues injuction in 2002. Court rules project illegal in 2003 and orders work to stop. •Settlements attempted and fail, until 2006 settlement. 271
The Developer’s Vision Lyle Anderson—the lead developer of Hōkūli‘a or 1250 Oceanside Partners 55 —is known
as the father of private golf-course communities (Carlton 2005). The handful of Anderson
residential projects throughout the U.S. Southwest boast high-class luxury gated communities and
sell authentic culture along with access to signature golf courses. 56 Beginning in the 1980s,
Anderson laid groundwork to bring this development model to the slow-paced rural-agricultural
region of South Kona, Hawai‘i. He purchased (and leased) properties from old ranching families,
amassed approximately 1,500 acres of prime coastal land, and secured equity from Japan Airlines
(JAL) (and later the Bank of Scotland) to build an exclusive golf community and large scale
“residential and recreational subdivision.” 57 Development plans were formalized by the early
1990s. Oceanside Partners intended to construct a 1,440 parcel luxury residential community
with a private 27-hole golf course, a 100 room Members Lodge (for high-end visitor
accommodations), and an exclusive beach club. At first this project was called “Villages at
Hokukano”—a name which reflected the original ancient Hawaiian settlements on the coastline
of the project site. Later in 1996, after redrawing development plans, Oceanside Partners renamed the envisioned project “Hōkūli‘a” or “star of desire.” This significant shift in plans will be
discussed more below.
Hōkūli‘a would be the largest real-estate development by acreage ever built on the Big
Island. The property is situated on a slope directly overlooking the ocean and spans about two
55
Throughout the text I refer to the developers collectively as Hōkūli‘a or 1250 Oceanside Partners. I use
these names interchangeably.
56
http://www.lascampanas.com. (accessed 5/1/09). http://www.deserthighlandsscottsdale.com (accessed
5/1/09); (Carlton 2005; Magin 2008).
57
Anderson partnered with Japan Airlines (JAL) in 1990. JAL originally held 75% equity in the project,
which was reduced to 10% soon after Sept. 11, 2001 (Carlton 2005).
272
miles of shoreline several miles north of Kealakekua Bay. Bay waters are amongst the most
protected in the state, and state law requires them to remain in pristine “wilderness” condition.
The project held high stakes for developers. Anderson and partners had purchased the
property for a total of approximately $41.6 million (Carlton 2005). With the expected sale of
approximately 730 lots (between one and three acres), each costing between approximately
$650,000 to $2.5 million (Circuit Court 2003), Oceanside Partners stood to gross between
approximately $1-2 billion (or more) (Magin 2008). 58 Oceanside Partners targeted decidedly
high-end buyers. The developers pinpointed a target market with the following profile: “an
established Fortune 500 executive”; “has a net worth of $5 million plus;” is “an avid golfer;” is
“residential equity rich—owns homes in several destinations around the world;” and “owns a
current primary home in [the U.S.] West Coast or Japan” (Circuit Court 2003 citing Oceanside
Partners Marketing Plan 1/21/99).
The Lyle Anderson Development Company and JAL began submitting petitions to
government agencies in the early 1990s to gain permission to build. Between 1993 and 2003,
when it was shut down by court order, the Hōkūli‘a development project secured 39 major and
minor permits and “entitlements” (permissions like redistricting and rezoning) from the County
and State of Hawai‘i (please see Table 7.1 for complete list); most of these were sought at the
county level, and key entitlements involved discretion 59 by decision makers. Major permissions
included county-level rezoning, a change of the Hawai‘i County General Plan, and several
Special Management Area permits, as well as other construction permits.
58
Phase 2 lots were expected to retail at even higher values. Lots ranging from one to two acres were
priced between $2.5 million and $4.5 million (Magin 2008).
59
As opposed to what in legal terms is a ministerial decision or act, which do not involve judgment or
discretion
273
Table 7.1 List of Permits and Entitlements Secured by 1250 Oceanside Partners from 19932003 (and Other Key Events)
60
ƒ
1993-SMA Permit 345; Use Permit 115 Golf Course Use Permit issued by the County Planning
Commission.
ƒ
1994-Change of Zone, Ordinance 94-73. County Council approved change of zone for 684 acres
in the phase 1 mauka (upland) half or project from Ag 5a and unplanned to Ag 1a.
ƒ
Ordinance 94-73 was contested in Circuit Court by Pisicchio and Villa, but upheld. The
developer then modified its master plan and voluntarily reduced the overall density from
approximately 1,440 to 730 units. The entire property would be considered an “agricultural
subdivision” and all units would be considered “farm dwellings." 60
ƒ
1996-Change of Zone, Ordinances 96-7; 96-8. County Council approved change of zone for
phase 2 makai (coastal) half of project; Also, 96-8 replaces previous change of zoning for phase 1.
All of property is now zoned as Ag 1a.
ƒ
1996-SMA Permit 356 Special Management Area Permit approved by County Planning
Commission for phase 2 (makai portion).
ƒ
1996-Archaeological Inventory Report approved by State Historic Preservation Division (part of
the DLNR) after 4 years of review.
ƒ
1997-District Boundary Amendment, Ordinances 97-36; 97-35. County Council approves
redistricting of 14.8 acres for “Member's Lodge” from state agricultural land use district to state
urban land use district. County Council also amends the Hawai‘i County General Plan
accordingly.
ƒ
1998- Development Agreement between developer and County becomes law. Agreement
commits Oceanside Partners to build the Mamalahoa Bypass highway and a 140-acre public
Shoreline Park.
ƒ
1998-Kealakekua Water Source Agreement. Tentative Subdivision Approval (by County
Planning Commission).
ƒ
1999-Golf Course Grubbing Permit Issued by Department of Public Works; Golf Course Use
Permit issued; Declaration Concerning Flood Plan & Coastal Flood Hazard Area; various
plans approved, including Natural Resource Management; Water Monitoring; Solid Waste
Management Plans and Flood and Drainage Study.
ƒ
1999-Oceanside accepts reservations for lot sales; Construction begins.
ƒ
1999-Archaeological Data Recovery Plan and “Integrated Archaeology Mitigation Plan” (for
archaeological preservation, interpretation, and monitoring) approved by State Historic
Preservation Division (of DLNR)
Project records give slightly varying numbers of anticipated units (one source indicates that 1,540 units
were originally planned and that the density was reduced to 810 units).
274
ƒ
1999-Approval of Highway Bypass Alignment; Fair Share Payments provided to Count;
Phase 1 Final Subdivision Approval provided by County Planning Commission (finalizes that
conditions and terms of rezoning have been made, allows lots to be recorded).
ƒ
1999-Oceanside Partners Post bonds for $111 million posted, to assure completion of
infrastructure improvements promised to county.
ƒ
1999-CC&Rs, require each agricultural lot owner to maintain agricultural uses in compliance with
state & county law.
ƒ
1999-Golf Grading Permit; Subdivision Grubbing Permit issued by Department of Public
Works; NPDES permit (National Pollution Discharge Elimination System) administered by
Federal EPA and State Department of Health); Final Environmental Impact Statement for
bypass highway accepted; UIC permit Underground Injection Control, for water administered by
EPA.
ƒ
2000-Shoreline Park SMA Permit issued by County Planning Commission; CDUA Permit
Conservation District Conditional Use Application (administered by State Land Board);
Wastewater Treatment Plant SMA permit and Special Permit issued by County Planning
Commission.
ƒ
2000-Members’ Lodge SMA Permit; Bypass Highway SMA Permit issued by County Planning
Commission; Subdivision Grading Permit issued by Department of Public Works.
ƒ
2000-Phase 2 final subdivision approval by County Planning Commission.
ƒ
2002-Phase 3 final subdivision approval by County Planning Commission.
Source: 1250 Oceanside Partners
Making the Case for Development: Intensive Public Relations and Early Concessions As in the proposed development at Lā‘au, discussed in the previous chapter, Oceanside Partners
adopted a defensive posture in dealing with the community and local public officials. The
complexity of the entitlement process necessitated this. However, as will be shown, the
developer was not defensive enough when it came to pre-empting possible objections based on
culture, environment, or lifestyle. The developer, in other words, negotiated in terms of the
previous regime and ultimately did not bargain enough in the terms of the emergent postcolonial
regime.
275
Pre­emptive Public Relations Company leaders knew that whatever their course of action, they would be required to
make the case for the project in dozens of public hearings and therefore also in the sometimes
less-forgiving court of public opinion. In order to anticipate problems, they began an intensive
public relations campaign and protracted negotiations with public officials. The affability of
project CEO Richard “Dick” Frye and other project representatives like Gordon Leslie, a local
Native Hawaiian resident and former anti-development activist hired by Oceanside Partners, was
vital to the cause.
Company leaders curried favor amongst local residents by holding scores of public
relations meetings and tours of the property; they met directly with between 2,000 and 3,000
people. They hired members of local families, such as Leslie, to be consultants, in addition to
hiring top consulting and public relations firms. These consultants canvassed and mapped public
sentiment in order to help Oceanside navigate the regulatory system; likely they did this to
identify and neutralize potential opponents. During the early 1990s, local non-profit
organizations and human service agencies, like the Kona Community Hospital, received friendly
visits followed by gifts or donations from Frye. 61 Outreach was apparently designed to gauge
community sentiment, solicit suggestions for how the development should proceed, and generate
goodwill for the project.
Oceanside Partners and their local backers touted potential public benefits, such as tax
revenues and job income. They promised $8-10 million in personal income for Hawai‘i residents
and more than $8 million a year in county tax revenues (McNarie 2003). Of course, they also
touted the construction jobs the project would bring.
61
At one local non-profit I visited I found records of receipt of donation check from Oceanside Partners
for $2,000
276
Dick Frye, 62 often accompanied by Leslie, appeared in community meetings, at backyard
barbeques, and in public hearings. A developer consultant describes Frye: “He was a good golfer
and he was a fun guy to be around. And politicians like being around him and so it worked”
(Ben). Stan, another developer, paints this picture: “He was very personable. He didn't play the
big shot, he was able to communicate, and he had good people around him that gave him entree
into the [local community].”
Public relations and informal personal contact created “good will” (at least for a time):
Dick Frye used to go drink beer in these people's garages . . . Guys that live in South
Kona. Local people that he wanted to tell about the project. He'd go talk story with them
in their garage drinking beer or go have dinner at their houses. . . . (Ben).
One local business leader explains why Frye convinced him to ultimately support the project:
What changed my mind about Hōkūli‘a is back then. . . they were very good about going
out into the community and explaining what they were trying to do. Talking to people,
letting them know what the intent of Hōkūli‘a was and how they would observe all the
rules and regulations, provide beach access, create area for the general public, and at the
same time, taking care of all the artifacts, all the different historical things down there.
And they also said how they would like to partner with the community. They want to be a
part of the community and help the community grow in a proper way. And one of the first
things they did do in helping the community was that they put the traffic light right above
McDonalds [near the entrance to the gate community], and that was with the suggestion
of our CPO, community police officer, which is a very dangerous area because of the
traffic. (Duane)
Later in the interview, Duane talked about the county’s great need for police officers,
roads, and infrastructure, all of which would be paid for by local taxes. Recognizing that county
coffers on Hawai‘i Island are filled in significant part by taxes on resort and urban residential
development, he summed up his position: “Sometimes you gotta give up something to get
something back.” (Duane)
62
Following Frye, Honolulu banker Rick Humphreys took charge followed by John DeFries, the CEO in
charge of the development at the time of this research.
277
Negotiating Concessions While clearly part of a corporate strategy, the public relations campaign created
meaningful opportunities for public officials and communities to voice real concerns and
negotiate concessions.
Most of my interviews with Hōkūli‘a’s agents (including the developers’ consultants or
employees) offered the plan to create a shoreline park in the immediate coastal area—and leave it
remaining in the state conservation land district—as an example of a major concession in
response to public input. However, this concession is more complicated than meets the eye. Like
most shoreline in Hawai‘i, this area was highly protected (hence its location in overlapping
conservation zones). This place also holds a very dense collection of historic artifacts. It is
therefore unlikely that any state or county agencies would have allowed the developer to do any
substantial construction there. Moreover, Oceanside Partners would have had to go to the Board
of Land and Natural Resources to negotiate any increased impact in this sensitive zone. This
community “give-back” was thus only somewhat meaningful (and it was partially
showmanship). 63
Overall, early public feedback, as well as other less public negotiations, motivated
Oceanside Partners to make several promises to the public: 1) a promise to create the shoreline
park; 2) promises to protect the historic and archaeological features of the entire project site; and,
3) perhaps most importantly, the promise to build a five mile section of highway, “The
Mamalahoa Bypass,” worth nearly $55 million (Carlton 2005). County officials and local
63
Nevertheless, it should be stated that public access to the shoreline would be a change from previous
conditions. Prior to Oceanside’s construction, there were no roads to access the shoreline. With Hokuli‘a,
members of the public would have newfound access to the shoreline. Some respondents did however
explain that in the past some local residents accessed parts of the shoreline via coast or water since the
beach or coastline cannot be privately owned in Hawai‘i.
278
residents were desperate for this bypass, which would better connect rural South Kona to North
Kona with its higher density as well as jobs and schools (Dayton 2006a).
During the formal entitlement process, involving public hearings and consultation with
Hawai‘i County Council members and county planning staff, decision makers also loaded
numerous additional conditions onto the development, including provisions for worker housing,
environmental protections, county road improvements, and millions of dollars in fair share
assessments.
The Need for a Highway Here I elaborate on the highway bypass, which was a key wedge issue amongst local
residents. Back in the late 1980s, a local power broker was working with Lyle Anderson to help
him purchase the property for the Hōkūli‘a site. This power broker, as explained to me during an
interview, gauged political and public sentiment and realized that the project “would not fly”
without building a highway.
This is only one instance of the inside politics, the behind-the-scenes dealings between
the developer and local county power brokers, which characterized the early trajectory of
Hōkūli‘a’s development. However, such inside politicking did not satisfy a newly politicized
local community and newly empowered Native Hawaiians and environmentalists.
Hōkūli‘a’s promise of a bypass highway was highly compelling to many local residents
and their elected officials because of aggravating traffic (Dayton 2006a; Dayton 2007). Only one
major road runs along the coast from South Kona toward Kailua-Kona in the north. This creates
major traffic jams during peak commuting hours when people travel to and from jobs and
schools. Several expert observers commented to me that the highway became a “wedge issue;”
279
local people wanted the highway so badly that they were reluctant to oppose the Oceanside
developers who had promised to build it (e.g. Harold and Carol).
In my interpretation, Hōkūli‘a initially invested more resources and political capital in the
highway bypass than in the other concessions. As will become clear below, their efforts to deal
with archaeology, the agricultural character of the land, and the sensitive coastal area—as well as
issues important to Native Hawaiians like historic sites and burials—seemed more artifice, talk,
and strategic showmanship than substance. Indeed, the promise of a highway is a type of
concession arguably more characteristic of the tourism-growth regime. This promised “giveback” secured allies for the development in high and low places. However, other newly powerful
actors, backed by force of law and (some) public sympathy, would not all be satisfied with
infrastructure like the highway or other pragmatic/economic payoffs.
Selling the Project to the Hawaiian Community Oceanside’s public relations campaign also involved wooing the Native Hawaiian
residents of neighboring communities as well as prominent Hawaiian leaders of the Big Island.
Oceanside Partners convened regular meetings with members of native Hawaiian political
organizations, public representatives, recognized leaders, kupuna (elders), and individuals who
had been active in other lawsuits. However, later events would again suggest that the developer
did not do enough to address or placate concerns rooted in Hawaiian culture, history, or
identities—particularly issues related to ancient burials.
Another one of Oceanside Partners’ apparent (though ultimately misguided) attempts to
appease Native Hawaiian residents involved Gordon Leslie, the project consultant and sometime
“right hand man” of Frye, introduced above. Leslie was renowned in the area for “stopping
bulldozers” as an avid anti-development activist (Whitney 2001; Essoyan 2001). He was also a
280
state-recognized lineal descendant of the project site. Oceanside employed Leslie in multiple
capacities: he served as a cultural consultant, led construction crews and hiring, and served as a
spokesperson. While Leslie perhaps offered many valuable skills to the company, it also makes
sense that developers would have wanted to neutralize him.
Leslie spoke with a certain authority in various public venues—an authority rooted in his
reputation as a “pro-sovereign” 64 member of the Hawaiian Movement. Developers likely hoped
his voice would give them credibility when it came to issues of “culture” that were increasingly
salient in the early 1990s.
On the sovereign issue. . . I have been for the last fifty years pro-sovereign. . . By
being involved with this project, we wanted to see the community, the Hawaiian
community, the native community wanted to see that the project would not
eliminate any use of the land from the people. And we have urged and
maintained a rapport with the community to assure them that the entire
Conservation District will be open to the general public as a park. . .
For the last 22 years I have been an anti-development person, because we have
seen dramatic changes in North Kona. Our beaches, our oceanfront have been
removed from us. Those of us who have lived in Kona all our lives realize that
development is inevitable. Knowing this, we thought it would be most important
to be involved with a project and urge the developer to create open space for the
community. By doing that, we would like to realize all the natural archaeological
and historical sites that are presently being preserved in the Conservation Area
for the general public. (Leslie 1993: Testimony from Planning Commission,
County of Hawai‘i Hearing Transcript. October 27).
Leslie hired many of his relatives from the neighboring community, providing a valuable
source of jobs and economic opportunity. Leslie may indeed have served as a valuable conduit
between the local community and Oceanside Partners by encouraging the developers to hire
locals and by promoting “cultural sensitivity” (Whitney 2001). However, Leslie’s legitimacy as a
64
Here Leslie is using the language of the “Native Hawaiian Sovereignty Movement”—a movement that
asserts the political autonomy and sovereignty of indigenous Hawaiians (in contrast to what is seen as
ongoing colonial occupation). Some sovereignty activists and groups, e.g. Ka Lāhui, have been working
for various forms of political independence from the United States for Hawai‘i and Kanaka Maoli. I use
the broad term “The Hawaiian Movement” throughout this thesis, which includes such sovereignty efforts.
281
cultural spokesperson did not extend universally. Local media recounted public perceptions of
Leslie: some respondents saw him as a pawn of the developer; by contrast some observers saw
him as making a genuine and pragmatic partnership intended to advance Hawaiian interests and
protect cultural sites (Whitney 2001; Walden 2005 and 2006).
Another apparent attempt to assert cultural legitimacy occurred in the naming of the
development project. The project’s name, Hōkūli‘a, was invented by the developers. In contrast
to other place names of Hawai‘i, it is delinked from history. Likely, Oceanside Partners hope to
market the project as Hawaiian, perhaps in order to garner local acceptance as well as distinction
on the global real-estate market. But how deep did the “Hawaiianness” of the project go? Some
supporters in the community lauded the project’s “sensitivity” to the indigenous culture. Public
hearing transcripts show people praising the project’s concern for local values.
The developers thus made several efforts that appeared to be attempts at cultural
sensitivity. However, the postcolonial regime, emerging as the project got underway, demanded
more. As will be discussed below, the developer (inadvertently or not) initially bypassed the
authority of the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council. Residents and cultural leaders throughout the
state would also come to believe that Oceanside Partners flouted the archaeological review
process, a required step in any major development. Members of the public also believed the
project was desecrating ancestral bones and carelessly trampling historic Hawaiian sites. These
missteps cost the developer valuable credibility in key Hawaiian communities—a credibility that
was becoming increasingly crucial for any project’s political survival.
Dealing with Agricultural Law: A First Step, the 1994 County Ordinance The developers made several key choices in navigating the regulatory field, several of
which would come back to haunt them. The most consequential choices involved a key
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inconvenience for residential development: all of the Hōkūli‘a lands were located in the state
agricultural district and the county’s agricultural zone. 65 As explained in Chapter 4, these
overlapping classification systems legally limit lands to agricultural use. A commonsense
interpretation of the land use law (an interpretation later affirmed by the Circuit Court) would
assume that luxury housing did not belong in an agricultural zone. Often, planners and managers
hoping to build residential and resort developments on agricultural land seek DBAs to the urban
district from the State Land Use Commission. Yet in this case the developer and the County of
Hawai‘i apparently saw little contradiction between luxury housing and agriculture.
In what may have been a strategic choice, Oceanside Partners’ first formal application
went to the County of Hawai‘i. 66 Notably, Oceanside Partners pursued permission to build at the
county-level—a choice advised by county officials, which later caused massive financial losses
and legal delays. Another apparently strategic choice involved splitting the project into two
halves, with two different characters, and thus requiring different sets of permissions.
After promoting the project concept for several years, Frye made his first formal pitch to
the Hawai‘i County Planning Commission in 1993. He requested that the upland or mauka
portion be rezoned into the county’s Agriculture-1 category (from “unplanned” and Agriculture5). These designations denote the minimum lot size; for example, Ag-1 designation would allow
lands to be divided into one-acre parcels. Oceanside also requested a Special Management Area
(SMA) permit to construct a twenty-seven-acre golf course near the ocean. 67
65
With the exception of the coastal area, which is in the state conservation district. Hokuli‘a never made
major public efforts to develop this area.
66
Some commentators would not construe this as a choice while others would say that this amounted to
“avoiding the LUC and the seeking of a DBA.
67
Additional permits were required by the county and the state for management of potential erosion into
ocean waters and permissions to grade and grub the thousands of acres.
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Oceanside originally had different plans for the makai (or coastal) half of the project.
They hoped to create more density amongst these valuable oceanfront parcels. To do so, they
intended to seek a DBA from the Land Use Commission to shift those lands out of the state
agricultural district. This area would include a “Members Lodge,” a resort or urban usage with
high density, and thus a usage fitting within the state urban district.
The thrust of Frye’s pitch to commissioners was that community input had already
influenced Hōkūli‘a’s development plans.
Our project has been four years now in the planning process. Two of those years have
involved interaction with the community at all levels, whether it be at government level,
individuals, groups, agencies, clubs. Just about everyone that we could reach . . .
We have taken for tours on the property four or five hundred people, perhaps more, in the
past 18 to 24 months, evolving the plan with them from where we started. . .
Without question, the look of this master plan has changed considerably since we started .
. . .by far. In fact, we believe we've reached a point with the, with the master plan that
may perhaps be the finest residential community in all of Hawai‘i upon its completion.
(Frye 1993: Testimony from Planning Commission, County of Hawai‘i Hearing
Transcript. October 27. Emphasis added).
As with Peter Nicholas of Moloka‘i Ranch—who called his company’s EIS the “best in state
history”—Frye’s boasting would not prevent troubles at Hōkūli‘a.
Transcripts of Planning Commission and County Council hearings show that opponents
and proponents of the project spoke out (Hawai‘i County Council 1994-1995). Opponents talked
about the project as a threat to the viability of agriculture, and they objected to potential
inflationary pressure on land prices and to the exclusive and luxury nature of the development.
However, a county planner pointed out to me that the public presence at county meetings was
relatively limited, especially as compared to other controversial development projects. This
suggests that over the course of the project’s life, new forms of community power linked to the
emergent regime were mounting. As one example, public opposition sprouted led by a
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disgruntled coffee farmer, Nancy Pisicchio, who collected signatures from local residents.
Residents also expressed distaste for the project in the local media editorials (McNarie 2003).
By contrast, proponents discussed the job creation that would come with the project and
also praised its “cultural sensitivity.” However, the biggest selling point for the project appeared
to be the implicit promise of a road.
Despite the rumblings of protest, the Hawai‘i County Council passed the rezoning
ordinance (to Ag-1) 68 in a narrow vote of 5 to 4. Council members had received
recommendations from the County Planning Commission and considered input from numerous
public hearings. Transcripts show that a major pull for County Council members was Hōkūli‘a’s
promise to build the highway. (Hawai‘i County Council 1994-1995: see especially 4/26/94;
5/11/94; 6/15/94)).
Significant back room politics—what one former county council insider termed “real
politics”—determined the 1994 vote. Interviews, public documents, and newspaper records
suggest that partisan maneuvering behind the scenes shaped the votes. Apparently, the
Democratic mayor and Council chair wanted Hōkūli‘a to succeed. Perhaps they felt it would
satisfy their pro-development electoral base and meet the county’s need to build a highway.
Perhaps they were responding to direct pressure and campaign contributions made by the
developer. 69 Also, the Council was made up of Democrats hoping to oust the token Republican
member. Accordingly, the Democrats reportedly set up the votes to portray the one Republican
Council member, Keola Childs, as the swing vote. They wanted an aggrieved public to vote
68
Ordinance 94-73
Lawsuits uncovered that the developer contributed the maximum amount of money to key council
members (no unlawful contributions were discovered).
69
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Childs out of office, while still ensuring the project went through. 70 If this is true, public
opposition influenced the council, but in an indirect (or even cynical) manner. This would again
show a mismatch between community power and political action. Council members responded to
outcry with artifice and political staging; they allegedly “postured” opposition to Hōkūli‘a, while
secretly ensuring its success. Suspicion that such maneuverings were taking place further
inflamed a public increasingly skeptical about land development in general and Hōkūli‘a in
particular.
The 1994 ordinance set in motion much of what the Hōkūli‘a developer was able to do,
though rezoning from Ag 5 to Ag 1 may seem innocuous to some. This may have been a
deliberate attempt to “segment” the project to downplay potential cumulative impacts. This is one
tactic developers may have used to quell public opposition. 71
Early Missteps: Giving Culture, Archaeology, and Burials Short Shrift Interestingly, when the county voted (first in 1994) to create an ordinance allowing Hōkūli‘a to
proceed, the developers had not yet completed a satisfactory Archaeological Inventory Survey,
Mitigation Plan, and Burial Treatment Plan (plans required of every development project and
70
Council Member Bob Rosehill may have been part of the set up. He was known for voting pro-business
and pro-development. Yet in this case he voted against the project (perhaps to put pressure on Childs). In
another twist, Rosehill worked for Kamehameha Schools Bishop Estate, aka KS, which also happens to be
the largest landowner in Kona. KS may have in fact been a silent supporter of Hōkūli‘a (though there is no
definitive evidence of this). The investment branch of KS, Kamehameha Investment Corporation, owns a
Shopping Center at the terminus of the then proposed bypass highway. The highway could have funneled
traffic to the Keauhou Shopping Center and supported the commercial and investment goals of KS.
71
Interestingly, Lā‘au activists on Moloka‘i argued that the developer there was guilty of segmenting the
project. This became partial grounds for the Land Use Commission to reject the developers’
Environmental Impact Statement.
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which must meet the criteria of DLNR/SHPD; the Burial Treatment Plan must also be approved
by a vote of the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council). I interpret these oversights as the company’s
failure to adequately address the rules and cultural sensibilities of the new regime.
Also, SHPD (of the DLNR) was not directly consulted on the EIS or the rezoning
application submitted by Hōkūli‘a. The Hawai‘i County Council had approved Phase 1 of the
Hōkūli‘a project before historical review had been completed and approved by SHPD. The
director of SHPD expressed concern to the Director of the Hawai‘i County Planning Department
Virginia Goldstein.
In late September 1995, our office received copies of County Planning Commission
documents approving these applications [for the rezoning of Phase 1 and SMA permits].
We were concerned about these approvals, because our office was not asked to comment
on these applications. Our major concern is that historic preservation review of this
project is still ongoing and continued approval of development actions prior to
conclusion of review could have adverse impacts on extremely important historic sites in
this project area . . .
This project area contains extremely important historic sites. It is the last large area in
Central Kona where much of the prehistoric settlement ruins are still intact. (Hibbard
1995: Letter from Administrator of SHPD to Director of Hawai‘i County Planning
Commission. Emphasis added).
This is clear evidence that the historic review process was sidelined early in the project history.
Moreover, court records state that the Archaeology Branch of DLNR/SHPD, in violation
of statute, approved of proposed grubbing permits for the golf course in 1998, without informing
the Burial Council or Burial Sites Program (also part of DLNR/SHPD). SHPD also approved of
what is called an “interim preservation plan” (which outlines the archaeological features of a
development project that will be preserved, studied, or destroyed) again without notifying the
Burial Council or Burial Sites Program staff. Oceanside Partners sought permits for the golf
course before even submitting a Burial Treatment Plan, without disclosing that the site contained
burials, and without giving notice to lineal/cultural descendants. Court testimony reveals that this
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was highly unusual. Moreover, even the head of SHPD, Don Hibbard, also approved of
additional permits (for the grading and grubbing of other parts of the subdivision) before the
Hawai‘i Island Burial Council could approve of the plan for the treatment of burials on the project
site and before notifying the public (Circuit Court 2002c: 8-9).
Shoddy Archaeology? Further review would reveal that there were major holes in the archaeology completed in
support of the 1994 permissions. There were widely diverging opinions expressed by interview
respondents about the quality of the original Archaeological Inventory Survey (AIS) completed
by Hōkūli‘a consultants for the original rezoning and permit applications in 1994. This AIS was
the basis for all future archaeological work on the project. Several well-respected private
archaeologists familiar with the site told me directly that it was “shoddy” or low quality work.
Another explained that subsequent plans were flawed, and, to the extent that they built on this
original report, the future archaeological reports were a product of “garbage in, garbage out.”
However, current and former state officers never agreed that the original report was flawed; even
today they stand behind its quality.
Court documents give a metric for assessing the quality of the AIS: after construction at
the project site began, 200 additional historical sites (or 100-150 “multi-feature sites”) were
found—this was in addition to the original 408 sites identified by the AIS. Moreover, an
additional 40 “inadvertently” discovered burial sites, with the skeletal remains of at least 73
individuals, were discovered during the course of construction (i.e. when workers literally dug
into or stumbled upon bones). Yet the original AIS had only identified 31 burial sites. These
counts are striking and show that, according to what was known as of 2001, the original AIS had
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discovered less than half of the burial sites and two thirds of the historical sites (since that point in
time, more burials and sites have been discovered). (Circuit Court 2002c: 6-7).
Bones that had not been discovered during the AIS instead came up with the metal jaws
of bulldozers and heavy equipment. Upon learning of this, members of the public became
outraged. Moreover, the public was incensed upon learning of the treatment of bones by
professional archaeologists hired by Oceanside Partners (from Scientific Consulting Services).
Bones were transported by staff in a way that violated DLNR/SHPD protocal. Court documents
were explicit: archaeologists had transported the bones of a single human infant in a zip lock bag
(these bones had not been tested as per standard practice by the Burial Treatment Staff and had
been wrongly identified as non-human) (Circuit Court 2002c: 12).
Why might so many artifacts have been un-accounted for? One possibility is the difficult
conditions and extensive vegetation that existed on the site, which may have made surveying
difficult. Another is the project’s massive area. Finally, another possibility is that the
archaeologists were guilty of negligence. Archaeologists and their clients, developers, have some
incentive to minimize archaeological finds prior to construction. Whether by intention or through
deliberate under-funding of archaeology work, private archaeological firms often fail to find
important historic sites. Due to the features of state law, burial sites found in advance of
construction can often disrupt plans more than findings after construction. When remains are
discovered in advance of building, a developer must create plans in consultation with the Burial
Council, whereas “inadvertent discoveries” are treated on a case by case basis. Inadvertent
discoveries might stymie a particular part of a project but may not necessitate the redrawing of
complete plans.
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Indeed, court documents suggest that the shortcomings of the original AIS were linked to
the “pattern of conduct” that emerged between the DLNR, the County, and Oceanside Partners.
Court Findings suggest that this “pattern” “allowed for” 1) the “failure” to identify more burial
sites and historic sites; 2) the “compromise” of regulatory standards which allowed construction
to proceed before data could be collected and before burials could be protected by the Burial
Council; 3) the “failure to require timely identification of and notice to descendants” so that
descendants could protect their ancestral burials; 4) unauthorized approvals of plans and permits,
without the approval of the Burial Sites Program; and 5) the failure of DLNR/SHPD to impose
required sanctions upon Oceanside Partners for violating cultural protection law (Circuit Court
2002c: 14).
While these missteps provoked protest, deep cultural conflicts and poignant emotional
concerns would also be worked out in more technical terms: as part of legal and technical
debates during the multi-year trial about the adequacy of the development and archaeology
completed at Hōkūli‘a. There were thousands upon thousands of pages of technical reports
created to document the archaeology of the project site—pages nearly impossible for a lay person
to comprehend, as I learned from firsthand experience. Archaeological work was done piecemeal
and divided between several agencies. This begs the question: what happens to community
power and cultural conflict when its terms are subsumed under technical and legal expertise? One
possibility is that taking cultural conflict to the courts and ceding some of the debate to
professional archaeologists might both help and hinder communities seeking to assert community
power and cultural rights.
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Hawai‘i Island Burial Council The developers (along with SHPD/DLNR) also apparently side-stepped the Hawai‘i
Island Burial Council. A representative of Hōkūli‘a did not appear in front of the Burial Council
until 1999, just as ground was being broken. Consultants and leaders in the company explain that
they were advised they did not have to go before the Burial Council prior to that point in time.
However, court documents state that DLNR/SHPD informed Oceanside Partners about the “need
to obtain approval of its Burial Treatment Plan by a vote of the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council
prior to beginning construction” (Circuit Court 2002c: 6). Several project critics believed that
the developers deliberately bypassed the council and avoided notifying its members, as well as
cultural and lineal descendants, of potential damage to burials (Circuit Court 2002c).
Once the Burial Council got involved, after 1999, the council became particularly upset
about the number of bones being found. This put the developer on the defensive and made them
accountable to the council and to the growing number of state-recognized cultural and lineal
descendants of the project site. For five years, representatives of Hōkūli‘a had to appear before
the Burial Council every month (during regular council meetings). In response to pressure from
within the Burial Council, a project manager promised that no building would occur over the
entire length of any lava tubes (which often contain burials) that might be within the property. 72
This is a radical concession, given that individual lava tubes may extend underground for several
miles. This shows just how much the developers needed to assuage those concerned with the
protection of burials.
72
Later, when the Burial Council became involved in figuring out how to deal with “inadvertent
discoveries” of human remains, there were disputes about what kind of treatment or re-patriation would be
called for. Claimants harbored differing views about what was appropriate. For example, one family
recognized early on as a claimant felt that the development gave her more access to her ancestors, and that
she felt confident that the site was being respected. This individual strongly praised the new Native
Hawaiian CEO, John DeFries, who is recognized as a lineal descendant of the development site.
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Ben cast a critical light on the Burial Council and also highlighted its standing and
stature:
I think he (Lyle Anderson) was a serious victim of the change in sensitivity to cultural
remains as well because the Burial Council became a stronger and a completely
uncontrolled force in the entitlement process. (Ben)
Indeed, the growing stature of the Burial Council is one indicator of the shifting regime in which
Hōkūli‘a was caught.
Infiltrating (or Corrupting?) State Cultural Agencies Court documents demonstrated a “pattern of conduct” between Oceanside Parters and
DLNR/SHPD that led to failures in the agency’s “overseeing that the constitution and laws [were]
being followed on this [the Hōkūli‘a] project” (Circuit Court 2002c: 15). Hōkūli‘a provided
favors to state agents and arguably corrupted SHPD, the agency charged with enforcing the rights
of cultural and lineal descendants. 73 Developers targeted potential sources of cultural power, but
their efforts were not enough to pre-empt future opposition.
Court documents show how “green,” in one interviewee’s words (i.e., money and
corruption), influenced the recognition of descendants (Clifford). “Irregularities” in the
recognition of descendants and the related granting of permission to enter Hōkūli‘a suggests that
there was corruption in the background (descendants were supposed to be on a list which would
allow them access to the project site through the secured gates). One recognized descendant was
refused access, but yet employees who were his relatives and who had not petitioned for state
recognition of their status were unexplainably on the list of recognized descendants.
73
Cultural and lineal descent is ratified by SHPD. If individuals hope to be recognized as interested parties
by the Burial Council, or if they seek access to partially undeveloped private property in order to engage in
traditional practices, or honor ancestors, they must have their descent and ancestral status verified by a state
officer.
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Additionally, court findings show “financial influence and improper socializing with
SHPD regulator Kala‘au Wahilani and his girlfriend” (Circuit Court 2002c); specifically, the
former president of Oceanside 1250 Partners gave a $1,000 check to Wahilani for the church at
which he served as a pastor. This state official had not reported such gifts, which was a violation
of state ethics laws (Circuit Court 2002c; Hurley 2002; Thompson 2002; Kua 2002; Arakawa
2002). Wahilani also “drank beer” with Oceanside Vice President and stated during testimony
that he “worked for the developer” (Circuit Court 2002c). Also, Oceanside Partners sponsored
the canoe club of Wahilani’s girlfriend (Circuit Court 2002c). A former SHPD officer explained:
And one of the things that really was difficult—when I was working at SHPD, we did
have one of our staff who was assigned to oversee [burial issues on the island of Hawai‘i]
. . . He was a really good Hawaiian man who had a really hard life . . . the people who
were overseeing Hōkūli‘a basically saw a weak spot in the state. And they wined and
dined him, and they just kind of in and got him to make decisions and do things to
facilitate the development, which ultimately came out and became a catalyst for a lot of
the lawsuits and what erupted in court.
I mean… he had a very rough bringing up. . . They saw that and took advantage of it, of
his wanting to be somebody and they wined and dined him, they empowered him: “As
part of the project, you are helping us. We need you to do this for us, do that for us…By
the way, here is some money for your church.” . . . [they told him] “We will take care of
you” and all these promises and things, and he bought right into it. He just bought right
into it. (Koa)
The power of SHPD gave this individual a new opportunity to “be somebody.” However, as a
result, he was targeted and seduced into violating state law.
Moreover, the authority of SHPD (including staff charged with administratively
supporting the Burial Council) was clearly compromised by a lack of resources and capacity.
Strikingly, at the time of the re-zoning process (and through much of the Hōkūli‘a construction)
this SHPD office on Hawai‘i Island only had one person (and at times even less) in charge of
supervising and enforcing compliance with historical preservation and burial protection laws
(where some several hundreds of development projects may have been going on at any given
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time).
Court Findings of Fact clearly establish that Hōkūli‘a was “one of the largest projects
SHPD has ever been involved” and that “SHPD and other state agencies lack the ‘manpower’ and
resources to adequately supervise the project” (Circuit Court 2002c: 5).
Evidence also suggests that the developers sought to bypass SHPD’s and the Burial
Council’s authority by seeking influence from the Governor. Typically the director of the State
Historic Preservation Division does not get involved with review, instead officers from the
Hawai‘i Island office of SHPD (or other island-specific staff) typically issue approvals.
Surprisingly, key approvals (for the grubbing and grading of the golf course and the Interim
Preservation Plans for the project) were either signed by or approved of by Don Hibbard, the head
administrator of SHPD at the time (Circuit Court 2002c). One former state employee explained
that this resulted from a meeting in which Governor Lingle (perhaps after communication with
Oceanside Partners) put pressure on the director of the DLNR, who oversees the SHPD, and in
turn ordered expedited review.
The Saga Continues: Navigating the Regulatory Field Hōkūli‘a’s response to the state land use law was clever in strategy, but somewhat absurd in
practice. The developer stipulated in documents submitted to the county in preparation for the
1993 and 1996 rezoning requests that they would include an “agricultural program” as part of the
development (including orchards, coffee, and forestry projects). The result would be that the
multimillion-dollar mansions could be designated as “farm houses.” (Carlton 2005). According
to the official Hōkūli‘a Farm Business Development Plan, the Homeowners’ Association would
sub-contract labor and farming experts (Hōkūli‘a 2002). Yet, court findings show that marketing
materials for the residential lots never mentioned agricultural activities (Circuit Court 2003).
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Moreover, there had already been hints that the proposed “agricultural program” might
not hold up to more scrutiny. A 1993 review by the State Department of Agriculture expressed
concerns regarding the phase one of Hōkūli‘a (which was then referred to as the Villages at
Hokukano).
Our main concern is that the proposed agricultural lots be put into bona fide agricultural
use. In the brief description of the proposed agricultural program, it appears that
agricultural uses are mainly for landscaping purposes. …The Agricultural Use
Zone…appears to be confined mainly along the fringes for landscaping considerations.
We believe economically viable orchard-type agriculture as suggested in the agricultural
program concept would require fairly large and contiguous acreage. (Kitagawa 1993:
Letter from Director of Hawai‘i State Board of Agriculture to Director of Hawai‘i County
Planning Commission. Emphasis added).
Eventually, the Circuit Court ruled that Hōkūli‘a violated the state land use law since the project
was not a “bona fide agricultural” development.
Why pursue a county strategy and avoid petitioning the LUC for a DBA? Likely for support
from businesses, politicians, and community members, and to stave off risk and save on costs.
They had initially planned to go to the [State] Land Use Commission with a much
larger project. So they started a series of community meetings. The feedback from the
community was, "We don't want you to go to the LUC. We don't want you to change
the land-use classification" . . . They were concerned it would set a precedent for other
property in the area to be reclassified to "urban," and then it would be basically the
suburban… (Jane)
Other interview respondents confirmed that local community members did not like the idea of
formalizing the “urban” status of Hōkūli‘a and wanted the site kept in the agricultural district.
The developers responded not by actually promoting large scale agriculture, but by maintaining
the artifice of the law.
Another business leader explained that the business community pushed the county
administration toward dealing directly with the developer in an assertion of “home rule.”
Business leaders were “sick” of interference by state agencies like the LUC. They felt entitled to
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call the shots at the local county level by approving rezoning and making a Development
Agreement—especially since Kona had “come into its own” as a coveted destination.
County officials led the developer to believe that its rights and permits were legally
sound. This was consistent with the fact that, over time, agricultural provisions of the land use
law have become murky. People quibble about what the letter of the law requires and, in practice,
many acres of officially agricultural land have little bona fide agricultural use. The state law
provides that only “farm dwellings” or structures directly linked to agricultural activity may be
built on agricultural lands. Yet, throughout the Big Island, luxury homes sit on vast acres of
agricultural land. County Council transcripts from Hōkūli‘a hearings in 1993 and 1996 also
suggest that this was a practice explicitly condoned by the local county administration, including
the mayor. The mayor preferred to allow residential development on agricultural lots rather than
have those lots rezoned by the LUC as part of the state urban district (Hawai‘i County Council
1994-1995). Pressures to build non conforming residences in the agricultural district have grown
as the Big Island has increased in popularity for tourism and residential construction. 74 (See
Suarez 2005 for legal overview of relevant Agricultural Land Law).
Finally, one can also assume that the Hōkūli‘a developers believed any petition would
face an uncertain probability of acceptance at the LUC, and they perhaps believed that their
influence was stronger at the county level. Even with a streamlined strategy, the developer faced
dozens of agencies and public hearings. They would still have to consult some state agencies.
The developers may have expected they would save time and curry favor more easily by
operating at the local level, but ultimately this strategy backfired.
74
Most of the state agricultural district lands are located in Hawai‘i County.
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Anticipating the Development Agreement Hōkūli‘a’s promise to build a highway bypass directly influenced Hawai‘i County
Council voting in 1994 and 1996. Council members had apparently already agreed that Hōkūli‘a
would make the promise to build a highway bypass legally binding in a Development Agreement.
These negotiations occurred outside of the formal process. Council members nimbly sidestepped
the law and engaged the developer in multiple venues to secure public benefits.
Council members who voted for the project touted the merits of the road and expressed
their confidence in an expected (though not yet finalized) Development Agreement. At the same
time, they could not legally require the developer to build the highway as part of the rezoning
decisions, as they were advised that this would violate federal property law (laws requiring a
“rational nexus”). 75 (Hawai‘i County Council 1994-1995: especially 5/11/94).
From the developer’s perspective, what was the purpose of this Development
Agreement? According to some experts, the developer wanted the agreement to ensure added
protection that the already granted county entitlements would not be revoked with a change of
administration. The developer “wished to have a development plan in their hands so they
couldn’t have the rug pulled from underneath them.” They also sought the County assistance to
condemn properties (Stan). County leaders, meanwhile, hoped for assurances that the costly but
much needed highway would actually get built. This reflects ongoing concerns that developers in
Hawai‘i County have not completed required infrastructure in a timely manner.
75
See land-use law expert David Callies on the so-called “rational nexus” test, which refers to federal
property law that sets limits on fees and exactions that local governments can impose on private developers
(Callies 1994). County transcripts refer to advice given to Hawai‘i County Council members, which
suggested that making the bypass road conditional upon the rezoning could be illegal. Accordingly, the
county council obtained assurance through separate channels that Hokuli‘a developers would build a
bypass highway.
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Finally, in 1998, the County of Hawai‘i and the developer forged the state’s first
Development Agreement, which would require Oceanside to build the bypass highway. 76 This
was another deal partially forged between the developers and county politicians—at least at
first—outside of the formal legal process. The Agreement was intended to ensure the desired
ends of both the County and the developers. Council Members would gain a road (worth between
approximately $30-55 million) for their community (and satisfy pro-development factions and
aggrieved commuters), while Hōkūli‘a would gain permission to build. Nevertheless, both
factions apparently misread the County’s political dynamics: they incorrectly assumed that
enough of the public would find such a deal satisfying.
First Wave of Community Protest and Lawsuit Despite promises and concessions, including the highway bypass, the project stoked the
ire of some local residents. As briefly mentioned above, Pisicchio, a local coffee farmer who
would later be elected to the Hawai‘i County Council, objected to the incursion in agricultural
lands and believed that the developers were underestimating the project’s impact on the area’s
natural resources and rural character. Pisicchio and her allies circulated petitions signed by
approximately 1,200 individuals. Letters to newspapers suggested that other local residents
shared Pisicchio’s concerns. Later, Pisicchio and CJ Villa initiated a lawsuit against Oceanside
and the County of Hawai‘i. These objectors desired to preserve the rural character of the area and
protect environmental resources, as well as the historic Ala Loa trail on the property. While
Oceanside Partners prevailed in the lawsuit, Pisicchio and Villa did secure protection of the Ala
76
While Development Agreements are commonly used throughout the U.S., none had ever been made in
the state of Hawai‘i. They are meant to back deals made between developers and officials with the force of
law.
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Loa. As per state law (e.g. the Highway Act), the Ala Loa trail was deemed public property and
was formally deeded to the State of Hawai‘i.
1996 Ordinances: Reinventing Hōkūli‘a as an “Agricultural Subdivision” Soon after, Hōkūli‘a developers chose to reduce the project density by half and officially
market it as an “agricultural sub-division.” The developers halved the lot density in the coastal
half and cut the golf course size (to a proposed 730 residential lots, an 18-hole golf course, in
addition to the already planned 80 unit members lodge, a golf clubhouse, a beach lodge, and a
shoreline park). Lot size, and thus density, would be no-smaller than one acre (contrary to the
original plans). Also, the entire project was now envisioned by developers as an “agricultural”
community. Hōkūli‘a returned to the county in 1996 to secure new major re-zonings and permits
in accordance with this new master plan (Please see Table 7.1 above for further explanation of
these specific ordinances). Rezoning authorized by the county’s 1996 ordinances replaced the
rezoning secured in 1993.
I asked many respondents to explain this change to Oceanside Partners’ master plan. The
original lawsuit controversy may have had an influence. Oceanside also explained in publicly
distributed documents that they reached the decision to change the project based on community
outreach meetings. Others explained that Oceanside Partners realized it could still make
sufficient profit with only half of the anticipated density in the Oceanside half of the site. With
this change in master plan, the developer believed they could lawfully avoid the LUC, since the
proposed minimum lot sizes would be one acre and the plan still included an agricultural
program.
In 1996, Oceanside Partners also pursued permission to build the “Members Lodge” (a
multistory resort)—the one element left in the plan that was a decidedly urban use. The County
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Council ultimately granted Oceanside’s request to re-district 14.9 acres to the urban district for
the lodge, a hair’s breadth under the amount which would require petitioning the LUC. The
County Council also passed the necessary amendment to the county zoning code and general
plan. At this point, major permissions were in place. Hōkūli‘a sought other minor permissions
and prepared to break ground in 1999.
Ground Breaking and Job Opportunities In 1999, Hōkūli‘a finally began building and selling lots. The company hired nearly
200 men from neighboring communities, many of whom were Native Hawaiian. The work
also indirectly supported many other jobs in the hauling, golf course, and construction
industries. This later created the basis for difficult community divides. Soon after, in 2000,
Oceanside began selling lots at the height of the real-estate bubble. Early parcels sold like
“hot cakes,” with sales of 192 lots ultimately totaling $243 million. This success, however,
was short-lived.
The Construction Process The construction process involved raw physicality: the use of dynamite to make way for
a manicured fairway and housing sites. Neighbors described the blasts and resulting debris
which came as crews scrambled to clear 80 acres of prime oceanfront:
You can hear them with the dynamite blowing the hills and all the dust coming up. . .
Get plenty dust… They was trying to clean one area on the other side, maybe 80 acres,
really really fast… All the dust was coming up from down there...making everybody's
house… all dirty with dust. (Clifford)
Another neighbor recounted memories of deep rumbles accompanied by the glow of explosives
he could see from the beach while night-fishing (Wendell). Wendell had grown up wandering
these lands. He felt troubled by these nighttime explosions knowing the area they were bombing,
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Hokukano, was dense with historic sites and burials. As he explained, you couldn’t “throw a
stone down there without hitting something important” (Wendell). A Native Hawaiian
construction worker, who later mobilized against the development, described the tears shed with
fellow Hōkūli‘a employees as they watched the physical destruction:
[Construction] was ripping [the land] to pieces. They [the other workers] sit here cry with
me about their culture. All the ladies who working security, the old tutus . .. We cry
together when we eat lunch. When they blowing up down there. Boom. Making lakes.
‘Cause we all know there's plenty sacred graves everything over there... (Martin)
Environmental and Cultural Offenses Around this time a new set of local residents became outraged at the alleged cultural and
environmental destruction. Four individual plaintiffs and an organization called “Protect
Keopuka ‘Ohana” (PKO) 77 first filed complaints based on alleged environmental degradation
and requested a temporary restraining order to halt construction. This legal action was prompted
by visible impacts to the pristine oceanfront. In 2000, after days of unusually intensive rains,
local residents noticed dirty water flowing from the project site into the ocean. They blamed the
land grading and grubbing, which had created massive piles of loose dirt, altered the slope, and
denuded the vegetation. Developers and land owners refuted these claims, but ultimately, the
77
“Protect Keopuka ‘Ohana” (PKO) formed to protest Hōkūli‘a as well as the lands called Keopuka, next
to the proposed 1250 Oceanside Project. Anderson and other investors intended to build a similar high-end
residential community on state agricultural district lands at Keopuka. The local Sierra Club hired a wellconnected resident, Jack Kelly, to organize opposition. He convened meetings, distributed fliers, and
reached out within his networks, including fellow canoe paddlers and other residents of the area. PKO
helped organized significant public opposition to building at Keopuka, and that project is currently on hold.
Kelly and allies helped motivate 2,000 people to object to the Draft EIS for the Keopuka project and also
helped organized major public attendance at the relevant LUC hearing (300 members of the public making
it reportedly the largest public presence at a Big Island LUC meeting recorded). (Sierra Club of Hawai‘i
2001). PKO also became a major opponent to the Hōkūli‘a project and a plaintiff in the major lawsuit
against Oceanside Partners. The PKO board was headed by a small group of individuals who included
state recognized cultural and lineal descendants with historic ties to the project site.
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circuit court agreed with the plaintiffs and order Oceanside Partners to stop construction until
project managers fixed measures to limit runoff. 78
Around the same time, stories began to emerge of the destruction of historic sites,
including the Ala Loa trail, as well as callous treatment of human bones unearthed during
construction. As described by one close observer:
Then in the winter of 2000, the kūkae [refuse] hit the fan. . . Most of the golf course was
mass graded and the rains washed the dirt down the steep slope and into the near shore
waters, creating a brown plume that everyone could see. . . . at the same time workers
began coming forward and complaining about the large numbers of burials that were
being discovered during the grading and how the developer wasn’t doing anything about
that. . . (Samuel)
Many Native Hawaiians and their allies throughout the island and the state became
outraged upon hearing that bones were being disturbed during construction. PKO led protests
and even organized a delegation to visit Japan Airlines headquarters in Japan. Other families,
Hawaiian activists, and local cultural leaders organized public protests and private vigils in
response to cultural upset. In this way, the Hōkūli‘a project flew in the face of the broader
consciousness characterizing the emergent postcolonial regime. In the original plans, Oceanside
intended to build housing lots directly on Pu‘u Ohau, the burial site of Queen Kama‘i Kalani,
grandmother of King Kalākaua and Queen Lili‘uokalani. Cultural descendants and residents of
the surrounding community were appalled. Since the Pu‘u was near to the ocean, it would have
commanded a steep selling price. Several vigils were held to honor the sacredness of the Pu‘u.
As a result of the lawsuits and the intervention of the Burial Council, Hōkūli‘a developers
dismissed plans to build on the Pu‘u. Descendants engaged in intensive discussions to determine
proper treatment of the Pu‘u, and current plans prohibit building on the Pu‘u.
78
During this controversy, John De Fries, a leader in the local business and tourism industry and a lineal
descendant of the project site (one of his known ancestors is buried on the project grounds) became the
CEO of Hōkūli‘a
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Another flashpoint concerned the historic Ala Loa trail. Construction workers for the
developers allegedly “relocated” this trail during construction, as was revealed during the
litigation beginning in 2000. Yet the developer, archaeologists, and state officials had difficulty
agreeing on the exact location of this ancient trail. Numerous memos between the developerhired archaeologists and officers at SHPD show complicated disagreements about the accuracy of
survey reporting about the original location of the trail.
Prompting the Major Lawsuit After the Circuit Court issued the temporary restraining order, four individual plaintiffs
and PKO united cultural and environmental grievances and sued Oceanside Partners in 2000.
The plaintiffs amended their original complaints and forwarded several additional complaints
including alleged violation of cultural, environmental, historic preservation, and State Land Use
law. One interview respondent described this legal strategy as throwing around multiple
arguments until one finally “stuck.” In the current regime, multiple legal provisions can support
community grievances. This strategy made it more likely that at least one aspect of the law
would serve community interests.
At the same time, tremendous resources, time, and energy were channeled into the legal
confrontation, as opposed to other avenues of dispute. Attorneys for the plaintiffs and defendant
in the 2000 litigation filed several thousands of documents (many of which were dozens or even
hundreds of pages apiece). Naturally, the terms and debates contained in these documents are
inaccessible (indeed incomprehensible) to most non-lawyers. If all critics of development were to
follow the path of resistance chosen by opponents to Hōkūli‘a, lawsuits could potentially displace
other forms of social protest, distract communities from important organizing efforts, and alienate
communities from important sources of political leverage.
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The Native Hawaiian Legal Corporation—which is partially funded by the Office of
Hawaiian Affairs—became involved in the case to represent PKO in response to cultural and
historical concerns. Jimmy Medeiros, president of PKO, 79 had proven ancestral ties to the land
and was also a former employee of the project (he was the only plaintiff of Hawaiian ancestry).
The four individual plaintiffs—local environmentalists and a commercial boater with deep
concern over water resources—relied on legal representation by a local Kona lawyer.
The law was indeed a useful tool, but in this case it was not always easy to wield.
Plaintiffs faced tremendous public scrutiny and private pressures. Newspaper editorials and
interviews painted some plaintiffs as radical environmental activists, with no concern for the true
economic and infrastructure needs of the region. Jimmy Medeiros of PKO was construed as a
cultural opportunist who used his ancestral ties to become powerful and extract money for
personal gain.
A Radical Court Ruling Ultimately only one of the plaintiff’s complaints was affirmed by the court: the
complaint alleging improper usage of state agricultural lands. Judge Ibarra of the Circuit Court
ruled in 2003 that the project violated the state land use law, and that luxury residential
development in the state agricultural land use district was illegal (despite the county’s blessing).
After having invested nearly $350 million in direct costs and over $8 million in legal fees, selling
243 lots and hiring 174 workers, Hōkūli‘a landed in legal and financial limbo (PBN Staff 2006).
(Please see Table 7.2 for investment timeline). Managers laid off approximately half of the
workers (Carlton 2005). From then on, construction proceeded in fits and starts.
79
Data about these individuals, who I name, come from public sources including newspapers and court
documents. I do not provide information about these individuals that is not widely publicly available.
However, the identities of individuals interviewed and discussed in interviews are anonymized (and are
denoted with pseudonymous first names only).
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Table 7.2 Oceanside Partners’ Investments and Sales from Project inception until May
2004
Time Period
Approximate $ amount invested in land development*
Project inception -1997
1999
2000
$8 million in planning and permitting
+$2 million in planning and permitting
+$15 million invested in planning, golf-course construction,
agricultural program, archaeology, etc.
+$62 million for infrastructure; golf course, planning and
permitting, etc.
+ $61 million
+$20 million invested in project (bypass highway, agricultural
program, archaeological work, infrastructure, shoreline park, etc.)
$354 million
"made in good faith and in reliance on the Development
Agreement and permit approvals issued by Hawai‘i County and
the State of Hawai‘i" (1250 Partners)
243 lots for aggregate price of $223 million
2001
2002
2003
Total invested in project
from inception to May
2004
Total sales
*Does not include purchase or leasing cost of lands
Source: 1250 Oceanside Partners
The court ruling sent shock waves throughout the state (Dayton 2006b and 2006c;
Associated Press 2005). It seemed, to many environmental and cultural advocates like a story of
David trouncing Goliath. A group of environmental and Native Hawaiian activists had
successfully halted a project that was apparently causing runaway pollution and cultural
destruction in order to provide luxury housing for wealthy newcomers. The ruling also sparked
fear amongst developers and public officials who worried that other residential projects in the
state agricultural district could be deemed illegal. The Hawai‘i State Legislature even considered
several major bills to overhaul the state land use law. However, the attention-grabbing ruling was
eventually vacated by a 2006 settlement (Dayton 2006b).
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Fallout from the Work Stoppages: Rifts in the Hawaiian Community The court ruling also had significant fallout amongst local residents and particularly
within the Hawaiian community. Local residents who earned livelihoods from Hōkūli‘a were
understandably angry about the lawsuit and work stoppage. Interview respondents
expressed different views of the Hōkūli‘a project: some saw the project as providing
meaningful employment for Hawaiian men and others believed the project was exploiting
Hawaiian workers.
The economic needs of the Hawaiian community, coupled with the newfound power
of activists, created social rifts. Also, tensions emerged between those minding their own
business, those supportive (or reluctantly supportive) of Hōkūli‘a, and those who vigorously
fought the project. For example Gordon Leslie (who worked for Hōkūli‘a) and Jimmy
Medeiros (PKO president and litigant against the project), who happened to be cousins, had
public disputes which were widely reported upon in the local media (Whitney 2001).
The evidently painful family conflict between Leslie and Medeiros is just one
example of what Koa described as “casualties” of people and families. Koa spoke about the
painful choices facing Hawaiians who must choose between making sure there is “food on
the table” and doing what some see as “standing up for their ancestors”:
So Hōkūli‘a became a tremendous force. Because of the amount of money it was
bringing in. So, whenever you have an ability to hire people, families and even
native Hawaiian s and give them food on the table, it becomes a very difficult
issue to have to say: “Do I feed my kids, or do I let them go hungry?” But I stay
on the line with my brothers and sisters. It creates a very horrible decision to
have to make. . . .
Ike, the project critic introduced above, noted the economic vulnerability of Hawaiians in
South Kona during the time of building. She suggested that construction began just as ranches in
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the South Kona region closed and fired employees. Many South Kona residents had to therefore
travel north up the coast for hotel and resort jobs.
It’s all about timing…these guys [the developers] sat there and waited ‘til the ranches
were being shut down, ‘til unemployment was high…and then they went boom, we’re
your little nest egg, you really need us!
A lot of the older ones were set up in the “cush” supervisory jobs. They were paid to be
the supervisors…they were making a lot of money. (‘Ike)
Speaking of the employees, another local resident and critic of the project suggests:
Sometimes people no understand and they get scared…[they think] the best thing is to go
with the one that gon’ pay them off and think they gon’ have em good, but they no
realize. (Sissy)
It’s a short term fix…band aid…for right now we gon’ guarantee you steak all week
long… (Sissy)
Others pointed out during interviews just how significant jobs at Hōkūli‘a could be for
local men. One employee explained that these were skilled jobs that created “value-added” for
workers; employees learned golf course skills, for instance, and could translate those skills to
other lucrative jobs.
Meanwhile, Hawaiian employees at the project were reportedly “wined and dined.”
Interview respondents told me that men working to grade the land were offered buffets of fine
food. Workers were told that they were helping to create a development that honored Hawaiian
traditions and that would bring benefits to Hawaiians in South Kona. Yet project critics like ‘Ike
believed that these men were being exploited and deceived. She lamented: “I really felt that these
guys [the Hawaiian workers], if they were educated…if they only knew what they were doing,
they would make the right choices. They would get out.”
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The Hōkūli‘a Settlement After the drama of the court ruling, more controversy ensued in a lengthy set of
settlement negotiations. The developer submitted an appeal to the Hawai‘i Supreme Court, and
the plaintiffs planned to continue their battle.
After years of pressure from lawyers, Oceanside Partners, key public officials, and the
public, the plaintiffs negotiated a major settlement with Oceanside in 2006. This settlement
secured many additional community benefits and environmental protections (including money for
local environmental foundations, affordable housing, and conservation monitoring, among other
causes). The plaintiffs’ legal firms were also awarded millions in legal fees, and the plaintiffs
themselves gained control over major funds given to a new Hōkūli‘a charitable foundation.
The Hōkūli‘a settlement process was largely shielded from public view. Many suspect
that “side conversations” went on in parallel to the official settlement negotiations (which would
have been illegal). Residents suspect that two of the plaintiffs were offered large sums of money
(some said on the order of $1 million) that would be conferred confidentially and outside of the
formal court settlement. In general, land lawyers note that the pressure to settle is so profound
that a powerful and rich developer can use the offer of money to divide and conquer. Why did
the Hōkūli‘a plaintiffs settle? The facts and the motivations are hard to know. However, some
plaintiffs may have felt they should settle and take funds offered –including funds that went to
public causes—for the broader community. Also, individual lawyers may have pressured clients
to settle in order to win the large payout of legal fees.
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The Current State of Hōkūli‘a As of the spring of 2008, after almost twenty years of planning and permitting and ten years of
actual construction, the project remains half-built. Construction on the second half of the bypass
highway has halted. As the project landed in financial trouble and faced the threat of foreclosure,
the Bank of Scotland assumed management of the property. The legality of the project remains in
limbo because the settlement agreement requires the project to go before the LUC for a DBA
from the state agricultural district to the state rural district. Lloyds’ Banking Group took over the
Bank of Scotland, which in turn was bailed out by the UK Government in October 2008 due to
the global financial crisis and now owns Hōkūli‘a .
While much of the project site is covered in Guinea grass, a few flagship homes have
been built. At the end of private cul-de-sacs, with careful landscaping of plumeria, laua’e fern,
and gardenias, lie multi-story houses, or “farm dwellings,” some with large windows and sculpted
gates, others with decks and interconnected compounds. One of my hosts explained that the sweet
smelling gardenias surrounding one of these imposing homes were one example of the
development’s “agricultural program.” These homes hint at what this exclusive enclave will look
like when fully built. An open air pavilion with luxurious furnishing allows visitors to take in the
vastness of the Pacific Ocean. Moreover, members of the public now have access (albeit through
the project gates and under surveillance) as never before to the coast and a small shoreline park
that is under construction
Members of the public see the project with different eyes. To some that I met, the project
site is breathtakingly beautiful. Such individuals highlighted how the massive swath of wild land,
previously covered with unruly bush, has been turned into a sculpted world-class golf course.
They point to carefully manicured nodes on the project site, which provide striking views of the
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pristine coastline. For many, the project represents significant progress and an improvement to
the land. Even some Native Hawaiians laud the way historical sites have been guarded and
preserved: currently, known archaeological features are set off by temporary orange fencing or
more permanent sculpted borders of stone walls and ti plants.
When others view the property, however, they see the destruction of ranchland, human
burial sites, and ancient places of worship. They see a sacred place callously turned into
fairways, luxury housing lots and roads, and now fortified by gates. Others see an offensive,
exclusive playground for the rich. These are only the most visible scars, as some local residents
see it, left in Kona by Hōkūli‘a.
The public battle over the controversial development paralleled private loss and troubles
for community members and brought embittering lessons. Planners and government officials
shook their heads at mention of the project’s name. Community members, when I asked about the
project, eyed me at a slant. A couple elders of the area proved reluctant to talk. One
archaeologist told me: “It’s too hard to talk about. I’ve blocked out the memory.” Later, when I
talked to Hōkūli‘a employees and other business leaders and developers, I heard great
disappointment. The half-built project represented loss of investment, jobs, and infrastructure.
Consultants described going through extreme efforts to meet public demands and fulfill legal
obligations, only to be dragged through court and then brought to near bankruptcy.
People shook their heads when they recalled the millions invested in an abandoned
project with forced layoffs of dozens of local men in a small rural community where many jobs in
the service industry lie far away up the coast. County planners and officials worried openly
about where jobs would come from, and what the project said about the development industry in
Hawai‘i. Other observers, including business leaders, professionals, and other developers, saw
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this as a failure of government. The county had issued permits and given its permissions, only to
be over-ruled by state law. They thought the county had failed in due diligence by granting
permits and rezoning ordinances, and they also thought the state had failed by not resolving the
contradictions and ambiguities in agricultural state law and cultural preservation.
Many others, including community members, had become reluctant supporters of the
project. They didn’t necessarily want to see the luxury enclave change the scenery of South
Kona, but they felt they couldn’t stop change. They saw costs and benefits of the project in terms
that could be weighed against each other and calculated accordingly. They desperately wanted
relief from onerous commutes and would now have to wait to see this coveted highway—one that
had “been on the books” for over twenty years—finally completed. These local residents saw
the Hōkūli‘a opponents as part of a radical fringe that had litigated against the powerful developer
for dubious ends. Local opponents bemoaned the stoppage of the highway construction. As an
example, Jane felt that stopping the project was a loss for the community—especially since
halting the development meant halting the construction of the bypass highway (of which only
about 3 miles out of 5.5 are built).
I don't think the judge should have stopped the project… I don't think the judge should
have stopped the construction of the road. I think it was a huge disservice to the
community. (Jane).
I expected staunch Hōkūli‘a opponents who had actively fought against the project to
view this result as a victory, but even they expressed disappointment. Cultural advocates
remained deeply troubled by the callous treatment of sacred historical sites. Other local idealists
explained how their work in Hōkūli‘a had revealed a dark underbelly of local and state politics,
what they saw as bribery, influence peddling, and “corruption.”
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Activists and company officials alike seemed weary from the fight and used the
metaphors of warfare. All sides, it seemed, had been wounded by the struggle over the fate of
Hōkūli‘a lands, and the half-built scarred landscape was a perfect metaphor for their social
experience. An activist said to me: “I was a warrior back then”—though he explained that in
order to survive, he had to become more “zen.” One developer sighed and explained: “I’m tired
of the warfare…I’m tired of mobilizing troops on my side…it’s so primitive, really.”
The Contradictions of Empowering Culture Those aren’t golf balls they’ll be hitting, they’re bones.
-‘Ike
You will see a brother turn against brother or sister against father and our people get
pulled apart because somebody comes in and says, ‘Hey, I want a piece of paradise and I
have a right to live in this beautiful place and have the house, the pool and the tropical
paradise dream, because it is America. . .’ But it just really hurts and injures the
indigenous culture the most because, it not only destroys them physically but you also
break their spirit. It takes a huge toll.
- Koa
This is my actual words to my kupunas [ancestors]. That I very sad that what's going.
And that I'm nobody, I told ‘em. I don't own the land. And I'm not the boss...I have no
control over what they doing. But I know that it's wrong, cause I know that they digging
‘em up over there.
- Martin
In this section I further elaborate several dynamics of the case study directly linked to the status
of Hawaiian culture in the emergent postcolonial regime. One development expert I interviewed
likened the shifts in the power of culture and community occurring around the project to plates
shifting beneath the ground. Another Native Hawaiian activist who fought the development
described his evolving sense of capacity to influence land politics. Martin explained, as quoted
above, that he had originally felt a profound sense of disempowerment. He was neither the boss,
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nor the land owner. But he then observed how the law could provide leverage to cultural
advocates. He explained he sees land politics as now part of “a whole different ball game.”
Speaking about Native Hawaiian organizations and their allies he explained: “We study. We
understand the processes. We're vigilant . . . We're up to speed.”
The codification of native rights and the new broad public consciousness and sentiments
about Hawaiian issues—all indicative of a postcolonial regime—have empowered native
Hawaiians. New legal tools and the elevated status of Hawaiian issues make culture a highly
contested terrain. Cultural empowerment is dynamic rather than static, and sometimes it is a
double-edged sword. For example, when culture is empowered, is becomes a target for
corruption. Oceanside Partners, it can be argued, empowered certain native Hawaiian s because
of their local ties and ancestry but also used such individuals strategically. Clifford echoed many
when he said, “Everybody was using Hawaiians.” Anti-development Hawaiians became powerful
allies for non-Hawaiians who shared their concerns, or who care primarily about keeping Kona
rural. For example, some interview respondents resented how the Native Hawaiian Legal
Corporation was “using” burial concerns and the Hawaiian plaintiff Jimmy Medeiros for what
was described as a specific “agenda.” Local observers noted a pattern of non-Hawaiians teaming
up with Hawaiians to back environmental causes as part of a “tried and true formula” (seen in the
PASH case, for example).
Early in the research process I asked development experts and community members to
describe the character of protest against the project. These individuals often scoffed, “Oh, people
were using culture as a club.” They explained that project opponents made claims about culture
to achieve access to money and power. I wondered whether this was a reactionary response to
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growing Native Hawaiian empowerment or a form of backlash that could undermine the
enforcement of cultural rights?
Indeed, cultural identities and a history of certain cultural practices in the context of the
current legal system are political tools. “Culture” can be used for instrumental purposes or “as a
political soapbox” (Hina). This situation also invites people to thematize their identity as cultural
practitioners, or to find novel ways to describe themselves as lineal descendants. This, too, can
create tensions within Native Hawaiian communities and invite backlash from non-Hawaiians.
Hina carefully articulated the tensions of contemporary cultural protection law in which plaintiff
Jimmy Medeiros was caught. The law does create a set of political tools. However, the
individuals most likely to be serious cultural practitioners (whose cultural practice is protected
under the law) are the least likely to use those tools because they are “too busy” with their
cultural practices (like teaching or performing hula, for example).
Cultural advocates have inserted themselves into the development process with
significant social consequences. In diverse Native Hawaiian populations, some avail themselves
of the anti-development tools available and others choose to stand by or protest in other ways.
For example, many Hawaiian individuals choose to focus on their more private or localized
arenas of responsibility.
Cultural concerns have been asserted through direct community activism and also
through state and county laws and agencies. Advocating for culture through state agencies also
creates new opportunities as well as new challenges. Agencies such as the State Historic
Preservation Division and the Burial Council got pulled into the game. Their authority was
challenged or sidestepped. They also apparently lacked the personnel and resources to implement
and enforce the laws on the books. Finally, the authority of agencies charged with protecting
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history and culture, like the Burial Council, were caught in legal ambiguity that arguably hid
politics from public scrutiny and created new forms of exclusion.
The Burdens of Cultural Recognition Hawaiian empowerment makes Hawaiian s a target, the flip side of the growing power of
“culture.” They become central players in a complex negotiation. Developers know they must
win enough of their support or face politically savvy opposition, working under a mantle of
“culture,” before a sympathetic public. Cultural law also carries the potential of a lawsuit
initiated by lineal descendants or those who can claim a history of traditional practice on the
lands. Developers accordingly stay on the defensive. Individuals like Gordon Leslie and plaintiff
Jimmy Medeiros, who may not have felt empowered before, found themselves at the center of a
multi-billion project. This was because of new laws, tools, and cultural frameworks that are
valued in the current regime.
However, Medeiros’ story illustrates the burdens and benefits that come with
asserting cultural claims through activism and litigation. Medeiros is a complicated figure,
and people hold widely disparate opinions of him. Some described him as cunning and selfinterested, or as a cultural opportunist. Members of the community accused him of
exaggerating his cultural and lineal ties to the land, the amount of time he had spent there,
and his history of practicing cultural rights in the project site. Others see him as a cultural
hero, a brave whistleblower, and a new warrior of the Hawaiian Movement.
Asserting Culture Through Laws and State Agencies There are major impediments when it comes to asserting cultural claims and rights
through state laws and agencies. The Hōkūli‘a case study reveals challenges that beset the
enforcement of cultural protection law.
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For example, burial rights, burial councils, and protections for traditional and customary
gathering and access rights are relatively new on the regulatory scene, and thus their position and
authority is often ambiguous (as is their relationship to other state agencies). This might explain
why Hōkūli‘a developers did not approach the Burial Council until 1999 when construction was
under way and plans had long been approved by County authorities. Of course, a less benign
interpretation is also possible. Also, Hōkūli‘a developers and cultural advocates were caught in a
web of legal regulations that govern the treatment of human remains and “archaeological”
resources. Fights about culture turned into fights about technical details and archaeological
expertise. One consequence is that this may have alienated non-experts from full inclusion in
debates about and demands for cultural and historical preservation.
The Court as a Fickle “Friend of Hawaiians” In general, several interviewees commented that the Hawaiian laws tested in the Hōkūli‘a
lawsuit are generally progressive, particularly when it comes to cultural protection. But the
written law is not enough. For one thing, state agencies lack resources and a commitment to
enforcing laws on the books. Empowerment, therefore, becomes dependent upon litigation and
favorable legal decisions. Lots of illegal events occur because “money talks.” This was seen in
the case of Hōkūli‘a.
Because we had the law, I think that gave the Native Hawaiian Legal Corporation a foot
in the door to sue. Because there were existing statutes that they were not abiding by.
So in a really David vs. Goliath legal battle, we ended up with the ability to get a judge
to see that these laws are not being enforced. I mean, down to the point when we were
at trial, and Judge Ibarra was asking about the lava tubes and the archeologists finding
burials or not finding burials, and asked the state, if there are no burials in there then
how do you know?
And basically, well, because the archeologist went in and said there were none, and
who is the archeologist hired by? By the developer. And did the state independently go
in? No. (Koa)
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Hōkūli‘a illustrates how communities find themselves in the position of having to litigate, which
requires a tremendous outlay of resources and access to legal expertise (and often comes with
emotional burdens).
So with Hōkūli‘a basically it boiled down to, you had the laws, you had a lot of people
who were ignorant of the laws, and you had a court case that was successful because
there were the laws on the books and the judge recognized that. The problem though is
you ended up back to square one with the enforcement of it and the implementation and
interpretation of the laws. (Koa)
You can have rules that seem very clearly spelled out, but they get interpreted
depending on what the person wants to read into it. So, it is always an escape
mechanism for an agency to say, well we have budget cuts, we don't have the staff, or
our agency is looking at the issue, this is our AG’s [Attorney General’s] opinion and
you can basically tinker around with any law, unless you get a lawsuit and get the court
and very few cases get to court. (Koa)
So the courts have become, at times, a friend of Hawaiians. (Koa)
Analysis and Conclusion In this section I offer analyses and concluding remarks about the complex narrative offered
above. This case shows both the limits and potentials of tools made available to communities in
the postcolonial regime, which was emerging alongside the project.
Mismatch with the Postcolonial Regime Hōkūli‘a found itself caught in a shift in paradigm: an ever widening recognition by
officials and the public of the importance of Hawaiian artifacts, historical sites, and burials. As
one respondent shared: “They [the Hōkūli‘a developers] were right on the edge of the shift in the
paradigm” (Ben). For those sympathetic to the project, what happened is lamentable: the
developer became a “victim” of changes in paradigms and changing protocols.
The regulatory complexity facing the developers made them both uncertain and defensive
when it came to dealing with county officials. This motivated complex deal-making with county
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agents. While this deal-making led to concessions typical of the tourism-growth regime, it did
not fully satisfy objections more characteristic of the postcolonial regime.
The county also seemed to be on the lagging end of the shift in the regime and did not
push the developers as hard to deal with issues of culture, agriculture, and lifestyle. Instead,
public officials pushed for infrastructural improvements and economic concessions.
Moreover, the developer employed tactics and made concessions better suited to the
previous tourism-growth regime. As compared to the other case studies of this thesis, Hōkūli‘a
found itself more “betwixt and between”—on the edge of a regime shift. This makes sense, given
that the project was initiated in the early 1990s, as opposed to the previous West Beach Project
(initiated in the 1977) and the proposed Lā‘au development (formally commenced in 2002). I
thus argue that the Hōkūli‘a development was caught in an unraveling regime. Hōkūli‘a
developers and many community members fell victim to a kind of regime mismatch.
Legal Sources of Community Power The density and two-layered nature of Hawai‘i’s land use laws created a source of local
power or leverage. This was exercised directly by County level public officials who pursued
goals and broad public interests through a liberal interpretation of the state land use law. Overall,
the entitlement process promoted the layering of conditions upon the developer and ultimately
pushed Oceanside Partners to redraw their development plans.
The regulatory environment provided a mix of formal and informal venues, and conflict
played out in these multiple venues. Community members and politicians aiming to shape the
project worked in official and unofficial channels to alter the development. Plaintiffs, especially
in the second major lawsuit (from 2000-2006), also accessed power from the law. The settlement
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required Hōkūli‘a to offer even more concessions to the public and to further change development
plans in order to protect environmental and cultural resources on site. Litigation served as a final
backstop for members of the public who disproved of the development and the terms of the
political negotiations enabling it.
Law and Contingency The regulatory environment did not dictate Hōkūli‘a’s path or strategy for seeking
permission to build. Rather, given the political conditions and ongoing active political
negotiations, including public opposition, Hōkūli‘a developers chose a particular strategy. They
drew upon planning knowledge, a key form of cultural capital, which suggested strategies of
“venue shopping” and “segmenting the project” into different phases. The developers also
employed a strategy of intensive community engagement (or co-optation, depending on how you
look at it).
The strictures of state agricultural law pushed the developer into more deal-making and
more intensive negotiations with Hawai‘i County agents than would have otherwise occurred.
The formal regulations propelled the developers to negotiate intensively with public officials and
to initiate a public relations machine intended to generate sufficient public support. Overall, the
regulatory system became a “tangled web” (Ben) that snared all types of actors engaged with the
Hōkūli‘a development. Even though the developer and its consultants repeatedly argued that
they were working in good faith and going above and beyond what was required by existing
regulations, the project became caught in ambiguity. I have highlighted a widely recognized area
of legal ambiguity having to do with the state land-use law’s requirements for “farm dwellings”
on state agricultural district lands as well as related murkiness about the jurisdiction of the state
vs. county. Ambiguity became both an asset and liability for the developer and its opponents.
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Contradictory Consequences of Hawai‘i Land­Use Law: Democratization and Exclusion If the law serves as the source of leverage for those hoping to halt or modify a
development, not everyone has equal or easy access to this leverage. Legal tools can both
empower relatively under-financed local residents, or exclude them—by privileging legal
expertise at the expense of broad community input. For example, lawyers and planners can often
mediate public input by advising county officials and also by working for developers to choose an
entitlement strategy. Dozens of attorneys had a hand in shaping the Hōkūli‘a project, ushering it
through the county approval process, and defending it against legal claims. Some legal advice
was designed to avoid public input and accountability (such as the ‘decision’ to avoid the LUC).
Thus, one consequence of the institutional context characteristic of the (then emergent)
postcolonial regime is that deep conflicts have become translated into alternative grammars. This
is most clear in disputes about archaeology. The terms of conflicts, such as those expressed by
‘Ike, have shifted, and they are subject to new authorities in new arenas. Sometimes, in these
new arenas, cultural advocates prevail. However, there are sacrifices that come with debating on
these revised terms. There are also new forms of exclusion, especially when the new order
requires the intervention of experts like attorneys or archeologists hired by the developer or
employed by the state. The elevation of archaeological expertise can create new forms of
alienation, while it can also create new opportunities for influence.
Also, the litigation and legal settlement (of the sort that may be increasingly invited by
the postcolonial regime) did not necessarily reflect broad public interests. Lawyers for the
plaintiffs may have brought a strong incentive to “settle.” Ultimately, lawyers require
compensation and may pressure their clients to settle. The empowerment of attorneys therefore
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may come at the expense of the social goals of their clients. In this case, settlement led to the
vacating of the 2003 Ibarra ruling, which had been seen as a landmark ruling by environmental
and cultural advocates. Also litigation may have drawn resources away from other forms of
collective mobilization. Litigation of the sort seen in this case can ensnare and estrange
community members from other popular bases of development contestation: in this way, using
litigation can lead to the narrowing or privatization of contestation.
Moreover, one interpretation of this case is that a relative narrow group of individuals
had outsized influence—another situation perhaps increasingly enabled by the postcolonial
regime. Former rancher and South Kona landowner Arnold “AD” Ackerman, whose family has
owned a portion of the project site since the 1800s, expressed this position:
The future of our community and the Big Island has been hijacked by a small group of
well organized activists who are dictating to the rest of us how, when, and where there
will be development in Kona if at all. They have been successful because they have been
virtually unopposed by the silent majority, who have been busy working hard, trying to
make a living, and raise our families…Our absence and our silence have cost us hundreds
of jobs, millions of dollars in community benefits and infrastructure, and some of the
most dangerous and contested roads in the state. (Ackerman quoted by Walden 2005).
This case study thus reveals the democratic possibilities, as well as the anti-democratic tendencies
or contradictions, that the emerging institutional and cultural context of land development in
Hawai‘i engenders.
Chapter 8. Conclusion: Overview of Findings and Implications Introduction In the introduction to this thesis I quoted a prophecy that people I met on Moloka‘i shared. This
prophecy foretold of the awakening and rising of the “common” people to overturn power
structures. The wise and thoughtful writer and local community leader of Moloka‘i, Malia
Akutagawa, interpreted the current relevance of the prophecy. She saw around her on Moloka‘i,
amidst the community turmoil over Lā‘au Point “unsettledness” and a metaphorical “churning
and boiling” (Akutagawa 2008).
Taken together, the case studies of this thesis suggest that the churning and boiling
Akutagawa identified have been brought about by a larger systemic change—a complex and
subtle, but persistent and durable, regime shift. This shift has altered the basic terms of land
politics in Hawai‘i. The case studies of Lā‘au Point and Hōkūli‘a show the sophisticated (and
often painstaking) ways in which communities have asserted their influence over development
(with unexpected efficacy). But these were more than just sporadic wins; they were linked by a
common context. Community influence, when it occurred, depended upon strategic and
sophisticated usage of the tools made available in this distinctive postcolonial regime.
In this thesis I aimed to address the following core questions: Who has power over
place—or the power to develop land, build, or alter open space? Who decides what happens to
land? And just as importantly how does the power to develop operate? I tried to look beyond
common answers to such questions, which focus on the usual suspects: those with money or
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political power, or the privileged few. During my research interviews, all manner of respondents
(including developers and planners) made it clear that “community” mattered. I learned how
developers went through extremely involved and elaborate efforts to dialogue with and win over
communities. Finally, I saw that power came from the creative use of new tools—both cultural
and institutional—provided by the current regime.
Before I review the findings of this thesis and reflect on some of its theoretical
implications I offer a brief review of one additional case study. This case study of Kaka‘ako
Makai in the Honolulu waterfront area also suggests that the current regime offers community
members new sources of power and influence.
Kaka‘ako Makai: Additional Evidence of Regime Change In Kaka‘ako Makai, a group of community members effectively mobilized to stop tourism, highend residential, and commercial development. This research site—in a different kind of locale—
shows similar dynamics as the others. Accordingly, it bolsters my findings. It is instructive
because it illustrates how additional place narratives made available by the current regime
became persuasive.
Kaka‘ako Kaka‘ako stretches several acres along the coast lying between downtown Honolulu (and
Honolulu Harbor) and the famous Waikiki tourist destination. Until the 1940s it was a workingclass, multi-ethnic residential neighborhood inhabited by immigrants and the descendants of
native original Hawaiian inhabitants. In the 1940s and 1950s, major landowners shifted the
region into a light industrial enclave. Its coveted location has repeatedly made it a target for
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developers. Particularly beginning in the 1990s, both change and the pace of living in Kaka‘ako
have come at a fast clip. It now finds itself in another tormented transition to an affluent
residential/commercial enclave in the urban core, with high-income residential high rises and
associated amenities like restaurants, boutiques, chain retail stores, and coffee shops.
The approximately 38 acres near the ocean have become a locus of social conflict; the
latest row beginning in 2005. This area—littered with the remnants of Honolulu’s modest
industrial past and its contaminating by-products—is seen as the last remaining waterfront in
central Honolulu that has not been dominated by private development or industry. To current
users and neighbors of these oceanfront lands, the place represents a sanctuary, or an inclusive
gathering place rooted in local values.
Kaka‘ako Makai is a place of durable social relations and long-term association with the
ocean and land. One person who has surfed in Kaka‘ako his entire life, along with friends from
local public schools, explains:
We just kinda like grew up over here. We made good friends and it’s like a family
now. Everybody knows each other. You know, we come here not only to surf but also
to socialize now . . . something like Cheers. You go there, you talk, and you just say
what you doing in your everyday life. So, I guess we felt threatened by the
development coming that would take all that away, all that we experienced.
In early 2000 Linda Lingle, the first Republican governor in the state of Hawai‘i since
1954, was eager to see the “revitalization” of the Kaka‘ako waterfront come to fruition. She
appointed a new director, Daniel Dinnell, to an unusual state agency charged with developing
Kaka‘ako, the Hawai‘i Community Development Authority (HCDA). HCDA issued a request for
proposals and in 2005 selected a developer, Alexander and Baldwin (A&B), and began
negotiations to overhaul the waterfront of Kaka‘ako. A&B, a long-time local (and now
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multinational) company with roots in the plantation economy planned to build a collection of
residential towers surrounded by commercial space (to be used for shops and restaurants) and
coastal parks and promenades.
HCDA would give the developer rights to master plan 36.5 acres of state-owned land on
the Oceanside of Kaka‘ako. In turn, A&B would be asked to complete environmental
remediation of the area (valued at approximately $50 million) and create and maintain certain
public amenities. In essence, public lands would be given over (both sold and leased) to a private
developer in exchange for public amenities and environmental remediation. The politicaleconomic influence of A&B is notorious: it is one of the former “Big Five” companies directly
tied to the sugar industry that once held a virtual stranglehold on all political and economic power
in the state.
A host of local residents including surfers, bodysurfers, and boaters rose up to challenge
the A&B development project. Residents of nearby areas, business owners, oceanfront users and
their allies felt that a way of life was threatened by this project. These groups fought for inclusive
public space, for public control of state-owned lands, and against the privatization of the “last
remaining coastline” in Honolulu.
Most of the opponents of the A&B project with whom I spoke explained that the project
was designed to serve the “wealthy.” Opponents anticipated “luxury towers” that were for rich
people from elsewhere.
Well, we thought it was going to benefit the rich people. They were gonna sell the [state]
land to build luxury residential towers, which basically the normal person in Hawai’i
could not afford, so it’s basically for the rich people from outside of Hawai’i. (Jon)
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[The effort was called] “Save Our Kaka‘ako” because it was the local people going,
“Stop, we want something that is ours. And that Point Panic [surf spot] is ours. And damn
it we’re going to make sure it stays ours. And don’t start building these things for rich
people.” Because those high-rises were not for us. (Carol)
These high rises were being built for people not from Hawai‘i. They weren’t being built
for people. It was another fancy Trump Tower thing that’s going to be for people from
somewhere else. And most of the apartments would be empty for most of the time
because it would be rich people who’d come on vacation here for a month. (Nick)
People also viewed the project as an incursion into public space: both the specific place of
Kaka‘ako Makai but also public space in general. Jon contrasts what is seen as the
exclusive, luxury nature of the project with his sense of Kaka‘ako Makai as a place that is
inclusive but that also defines a particular community.
And we weren’t against development necessarily; we were just against that type of
development. The reason is because what we saw coming up there was a luxury
condominium in a place that really we were afraid of getting squeezed out of our own
area. We felt that this is a place that we go to body surf and to hang out. And there are a
lot of people; some people even live there. We got some homeless guys that are part of
our body surfing group too. (Jon)
People felt a sense of outrage that state-owned lands would be sold or leased and then turned into
a source of profit for a private developer, regardless of any potential positive spillovers that might
result.
An organized movement and coalition called “Save Our Kaka‘ako Coalition” (SOK)
formed to stop the project. This coalition drew upon resources and networks from existing
organizations. They staged several rallies and a major march on the state capitol scheduled for
the day of the Governor’s state of the state address. As several respondents explained, this was a
multi-generational and multi-ethnic effort. Save our Kaka‘ako coalition members also initiated a
coordinated outreach to state legislators urging them to create legislation that would stop the
proposed changes to Kaka‘ako Makai.
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As a result of SOK’s efforts, A&B first proposed scaling back the project. A&B offered
to decrease building density and height; they also offered to include more parking and easements
for public access. This was apparently an attempt to appease the surfers and recreational water
park users. Nevertheless, SOK members continued the fight and surfers looked beyond their own
direct interests in preserving access to their prized surf break.
And we asked ourselves do we want to just sort of concede for our own self- interests or
do we want to do something for the greater good? And it came down to two things: and
the two things was no residential [building] and no sale of land makai. (Nick)
SOK pressed on, even though they believed they would be “trampled.” The coalition
took their opposition to the state legislature where they lobbied for the creation of a bill which
ultimately passed and killed the A&B project. The bill sped through both the house and senate
and was passed by a nearly unanimous vote. The legislative bill, House Bill 2555, stipulated that
the public lands should not be relinquished to a private developer; in fact, the bill went so far as to
prohibit residential development in the Makai area of Kaka‘ako peninsula (within the HCDA
development district). Moreover, the bill stipulated formalized citizen control over the makai
areas of Kaka‘ako: HCDA is now required by law to consult with a citizen’s coalition called
CPAC, the Community Planning Advisory Council, regarding the future of Kaka‘ako Makai.
(However, in many ways the future of the Kaka‘ako coast is more uncertain than ever, and the
lands remain in need of significant environmental remediation).
Why did legislators lend so much support to this bill? Coalition members largely believe
that their success was testament to the “power of the people.” Several interview respondents
pointed out that SOK had orchestrated one of the largest political demonstrations seen at the state
capitol for some time. Respondents concluded that the presence of hundreds of disgruntled
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potential voters made a visible impact on legislators. Jon credits timing: it was an election year
and legislators might have been particularly interested in looking friendly to environmental issues
and the visible “grassroots” movement. Jon also reported that the members of the media attended
the rallies and marches and helped generate broad support for the movement. Another longtime
observer explained that legislators literally “jumped on the bandwagon” in order to get political
credit for an action that had broad public appeal. Another senior legislator explained to one
coalition member that he supported the effort to halt development in Kaka‘ako because it became
clear to him that it involved people who represented a cross-section of the state—people of all
ages and diverse ethnic backgrounds.
Lessons of Kaka‘ako The “success” of the Save our Kaka‘ako Coalition offers some lessons about public
influence over development in Hawai‘i’s current context. Most importantly, it shows that even
highly concentrated political and economic power is not sufficient to push specific urban
development projects to fruition. This case also suggests that political fragmentation can create
opportunities for democratic control over particular places. Research in Kaka‘ako also illustrated
just how defensive developers are in the new regime. They reach out and attempt to co-opt
communities. Finally, the case study shows that legislators are at least at the ready to challenge
growth interests—even powerful ones. Prominent elected officials may not take the lead, but in
the given climate of skepticism over growth, there are ready opportunities to sway legislators.
Kaka‘ako also shows the contingent yet democratic potential of development in the current
regime: development unfolds in highly unexpected ways that may allow triumphs for “everyday
people.”
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Like the other case studies of this dissertation, community opposition created leverage
and spurred private developers to offer significant concessions, including direct “give-backs” in
the form of amenities as well as reduced project scale and density. This created a moment of
truth for opponents: should they continue the fight or take their gains and go quietly? In
Kaka‘ako (as in Moloka‘i), opponents continued the fight. This was in part because they linked
up narrow objections to development with broader and more encompassing concerns. The case
thus shows that community members access rich sources of leverage when they link place-based
meanings to broader narratives and frameworks. In Kaka‘ako, and elsewhere, community
concerns about development focus on specific local places but also are shaped by broader
commitments and interests—articulated as narratives—that transcend specific places. In
Kaka‘ako, narratives of working class or “local identity” as well as stories about how “average”
people have been trampled upon by development throughout the state animated the controversy
over Kaka‘ako Makai.
A parallel process occurred on Moloka‘i, but it took place on very different terms. On
Moloka‘i, specific places like Lā‘au Point are bound up with distinctively Native Hawaiian
identities. That linkage between place and identity creates a political community with strength,
resilience, and the ability to resist co-optation. A community can draw from meanings and
narratives about a specific place as well as meanings that go beyond that place, such as a broader
kanaka maoli identity, to acquire political leverage.
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Overview of Findings In this thesis I argue that access to the power to develop has been achieved by an ever-widening
and diversifying circle of actors. This has been enabled by regime change. The people I
interviewed offered the most compelling indications of regime change. Their words made sense
against the backdrop of the morphing Hawaiian legal system—a system that increasingly “decommodifies” property and empowers community. To sum up my argument, I review a sampling
of powerful statements made by local residents and expert observers.
Recapping Community Voices First, Robert from Wai‘anae commented on what the community has learned since the
West Beach controversy in the 1980s, when many local residents felt their interests were
trampled:
Yeah [past land use controversies] caused us to learn as a community . . . how to
maintain our culture, our community integrity. That's how I would put it. And use the
tools that are available, and use all branches of the system, the judiciary, the
administrative branch, as well as the legislative. . . the press, [and the community also]
recognizes how to use the media.
Young people ask me and I tell em, you gotta learn how to play the game. You gotta
know the rules of the game and you gotta know it better than your opponent … (Robert,
emphasis added)
Next, Sam from Moloka‘i described youthful skills particularly suited to the current historical
moment:
What I see about the ‘ōpio [youth] is now, with all of the Hawaiian education . . . the
young people really have a sense of protocol, of the whole sense of the culture. Plus,
they're more legally trained. . . . So, I see them coming with a whole new battle. I don't
see them as being, as. . . more gutsy in the sense that maybe the older ones were, but that
doesn't mean that they're less effective. They're using the new tools that are available.
And you know, it's funny because you find so many Hawaiian families where a single
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member has become either an attorney or serving some role intentionally in order to help
keep things in order. So, yeah, it's just the next generation coming into place. (Sam,
emphasis added)
These quotes show the relevance of new “tools” and weapons for a “whole new battle.”
Strikingly, Sam and Robert point to tools derived from legal training, as well as the tools of
“culture”—Hawaiian education and a sense of cultural protocol. These are two features of the
current regime which mark it as distinctive: new legal tools and the enhanced legitimacy of
Hawaiian cultural discourses and related place narratives.
Tony, another community member from Moloka‘i, the place at the forefront of regime
evolution, related how the “technique” of the developer Moloka‘i Ranch differed during the
Lā‘au controversy as compared to earlier days:
The earlier technique was shove it down their throats. “We’re a ten billion dollar
company, nobody tells us what to do.” So, I think it [the ultimate goal of the developer]
never changed. It just took a different complexion. . . “We’ll ask [the community] what
they want. We’ll give them what they want, but then we gotta get what we want.”
Like the Hōkūli‘a case and the Kaka‘ako case discussed above, the developer on Moloka‘i took
a softer stance and attempted to deal on the community’s terms—by recognizing the heightened
salience of culture, environment, and lifestyle concerns.
Finally, I offer a comment shared by Koa, from the Big Island. On that island using the
tools of the new regime to challenge the Hōkūli‘a project was effective, but also harrowing.
Laws are on the books, but they rarely translate into real political consequences:
I mean we have some of the most progressive burial protection laws in the country, and
we have the constitution, which is our highest law of the land, which protects our right
[as Hawaiians] to practice [our traditions], yet the implementation and the enforcement
of it is awful. (Koa)
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Like the rest of the Hōkūli‘a story, this quote makes a subtle point. It both highlights the
democratic possibilities of the current situation and shows how fragile these possibilities are.
Laws and new narratives and frameworks abound, offering new opportunities for under-resourced
groups to get involved as serious players in the real-estate development game. However, the
usage of such new tools is neither straightforward nor guaranteed to succeed. As all of the case
studies show, the battles in Hawai‘i are far from over. As communities gain new tools and new
powers, conflicts within and beyond communities grow more complicated, more drawn out, and
(sometimes) more burdened with unintended consequences.
Regime Change In this dissertation I have argued that processes of land development have been
fundamentally shaped by regime change. I have also suggested that successive regime change
has enabled new sources of popular influence over land development. In the first major shift
away from a plantation economy, economic elites, landowners, and Democratic Party leaders
allied with working classes to forge a tourism-growth regime and to promote tourism
development and urbanization. Organized labor along with working and middle classes were
empowered in a labor-corporatist arrangement. Moreover, political institutions established during
this period promoted urban growth, secured the political influence of organized labor, and also
ensured a modicum of economic redistribution for Hawai‘i’s working and middle classes.
Particularly since the early 1990s (though building on efforts from as early as the 1970s),
a multifaceted Hawaiian Movement has played a significant role in unraveling this regime and
constructing a consolidating postcolonial regime. Native Hawaiians and others, including
environmentalists, “newcomers” to the islands seeking a rural lifestyle, and farmers, have
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asserted alternative narratives or cultural frameworks for conceptualizing land. These key groups
have increasingly asserted lifestyle, cultural, and environmental interests; they have also troubled
the logic of development for jobs and economic growth. Perhaps most importantly, regime
change has shifted the terms of public debate about land development.
Also, and more concretely, Native Hawaiian political groups, environmentalists, and
other allies have pushed for the creation of new formal political institutions and laws. Laws have
codified native rights and layered new provisions onto land-use regulations established during
previous time periods. Examples I have pointed to include protections for native burials,
protections for native gathering rights and traditional practices, and the requirement that
development projects conduct social and cultural impact assessments in addition to environmental
impact assessments. Taken together, these relatively new political institutions have increasingly
curbed the primacy of private property rights and challenged the commodification of place.
Political action has altered the institutional context of urbanization and also broadened social
influence over real-estate development.
While the institutional context has expanded social control over development, it has also
brought contradictory consequences for social groups trying to shape local geographies. For one,
the regulatory context characteristic of this new regime is highly complex and thus its political
consequences are murky, uncertain, and contingent. The new political, institutional and cultural
tools and opportunities afforded by the new regime may be used in contingent or unpredictable
ways. One reason is that new layers of land-use regulations have multiplied the sites of
contention over land development and created more opportunities for political maneuvering and
decision-making. Multiplied “policy surface area” (Gauri and Lieberman 2004) or numerous
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decision-making points, which come from multi-layered and fragmented political institutions,
have fostered legal and political ambiguity.
Also, increasingly complicated land-use regulations reward technical and legal expertise
in a form of rationalization. New forms of knowledge and cultural capital become potent—forms
which may attenuate traditional political-economic bases of power. However, the complexity of
the institutional context of development—which often creates ambiguities—can benefit either
marginalized groups or highly-financed developers and investors. An example is the Hōkūli‘a
case in which the developers exploited ambiguity in state agricultural law in order to gain
permission to build. However, later, local residents (the plaintiffs in the lawsuit) found leverage
in this element of the law. What is significant is that the current situation is more malleable and
contingent and comes with new possibilities for popular influence. These findings resonate with
the thick descriptions scholars have offered of development politics in other locales with highly
valued real-estate, such as Chicago (Suttles 1990)—places where land development politics, as
they are in Hawai‘i, are messy and contingent.
Democratization? How then should the current situation be characterized? One possibility I have forwarded
is that the current context marks an increasingly democratic situation. I suggest this because the
current situation enables new axes of inclusion based on history, cultural identity, and lifestyle
claims. These axes of inclusion are linked to cultural and historic rights and are enabled by new
laws and institutions. New institutions have empowered diverse and often under-resourced
groups who employ influence over development through newly forged institutional and cultural
channels, as illustrated by the case studies of this thesis.
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However, the situation in Hawai‘i is both more limited and more expansive—in terms of
democratization—than other descriptions of regime change (e.g. Stone 1989). In Hawai‘i ,
changes in rules and consciousness in the arena of land development have fundamentally rewritten the rules and grammars of the real-estate game of Hawai‘i to enable new avenues of
influence. Yet such forms of “democratization” are limited to the arena of land development.
Also, might Hawai‘i be another instance of a relatively “superficial” regime change? A situation
in which, like the regime change in Atlanta described by Stone, the powers-that-be still wield the
levers of control for their own benefit despite apparently radical new possibilities for popular
inclusion? Indeed, elites and formerly dominant actors in Hawai‘i’s real estate game, similar to
the business elites of 1970s and 80s Atlanta, have not responded to Hawai‘i’s regime shift
passively.
In some regards, development politics in Hawai‘i may also resemble those observed by
DeLeon in San Francisco or Gerald Suttles in Chicago. In Suttles’ picture of Chicago, downtown
growth coalitions faced many obstacles but ultimately succeeded in pushing through their
redevelopment plans (Suttles 1990). As I have shown, development elites, public officials,
landowners, and “place entrepreneurs” in Hawai‘i have come up with new ways to assert their
interests and pursue potentially lucrative development opportunities. They have worked within
the system to appropriate new tools and opportunities afforded by the shifted legal and cultural
context. A key example is that elites and developers in Hawai‘i have tried to partner with
empowered Native Hawaiians in apparent attempts to placate the cultural and lineal descendants
who hold privileged positions over land development. Developers have pioneered public
relations strategies to neutralize the emerging sources of power and influence. They have also co-
335
opted some of the cultural and institutional tools afforded by the new regime by attempting to
appear “legitimate” vis a vis prevailing cultural and legal norms (e.g. for example, by touting
their cultural sensitivity, giving their projects Hawaiian names, employing local residents and
lineal descendants, etc.). Thus, despite new democratic possibilities, the old tourism-growth
regime, and the political-economic arrangements undergirding it, has tried to persist. This is
what I have described in this dissertation as the “contradictions” of democratization in land
development.
An alternative would be to characterize the current situation as one of growing
pluralism—or even “hyper pluralism.” Might Hawai‘i be moving toward a “wild city” (Castells
1983) or even a hyper-pluralist “anti-regime” of the sort DeLeon observed in San Francisco
during the late 1980s and early 1990s when the city was increasingly beset by high political and
demographic fragmentation? (DeLeon 1992) In San Francisco, according to DeLeon, high levels
of social diversity, coupled with a lack of political cooperation between emergent interest groups
like neighborhood organizations and ethnic organizations, created feudal-like fragmentation. The
city could not get things done as policy makers were pushed and pulled in different directions by
narrow competing interests. Pluralism complicated any potentially coherent governing or policy
agenda while undermining any form of effective urban regime. Even the possibilities of a more
social-democratic regime became constrained.
In some ways, what I have observed in Hawai‘i can be interpreted as diverse groups
articulating narrow interests, criticizing alternative or broad public agendas, or simply saying
“no” to development in all its forms. Nevertheless, I see several conceptual differences with the
hyper-pluralism described by DeLeon (see also Yates 1977). The first and most important is that
336
the movements, narratives and interests represented in the new regime are not necessarily
“feudal” and they are not always narrow or in service of highly particularistic group interests.
The challenges to specific development projects that I have discussed in this thesis can and do
involve several different kinds of groups and individuals. Additionally, the claims against the
luxury projects at Lā‘au, Hōkūli‘a, West Beach and Kaka‘ako involved broadly encompassing
narratives and ideals as opposed to highly particularistic group claims. In a “wild city” (Castells
1983), social groups pursue their own particular and fragmented goals, goals which may be
exclusionary or even reactionary. By contrast, in Castells’s mind, policy efforts linked
organically to “Urban Social Movements” have more encompassing aims (1983). The features of
the Hawaiian Movement which have embedded themselves in Hawai‘i’s political system have
more in common with Urban Social Movements than with the feudal outbursts of a wild city. 80
Specifically, claims linked to the Hawaiian movement are often linked to broader visions of
environmental sustainability and the social sanctity of place—in other words the social
significance of place above the promise of place for profits. In this way, many claims linked to
the Hawaiian Movement have not always been about narrow efforts to gain benefits for an
exclusive group. Moreover, local contestations in the case studies of this dissertation were not
only narrow or “NIMBYist” (not-in-my-backyard) efforts to hoard goods for select individuals
associated with places—political efforts of a more feudal sort. The Kaka‘ako case is a clear
80
Castells later work helps to flesh out this idea and also helps to distinguish Hawaii’s current situation
from the feudal version of a “wild city.” I view the elements of the native Hawaiian movement that have
shaped broad cultural frameworks as well as political institutions as linked to “project identities” rather
than “resistance identities” (1997). According to Castells, “resistance identities” react to domination by
“building trenches” and asserting exclusive or fundamentalist identities. Castells gives the examples of
religious fundamentalism or ideologies espoused by groups which are inward-looking, reactive, and
exclusionary. By contrast, “project identities” are oriented toward more encompassing projects of social
change, which aim to transform broader social structures. His key examples of movements animated by
project identities include the feminist movement and the environmentalist movement.
337
illustration of this. Community members chose to go beyond the concern for parking and access
to surf and instead asserted broader goals to protect inclusive public spaces and shoreline.
Coalition members subjugated narrow goals for broader aims.
Nevertheless, the case studies also reveal how the tools of the current regime can be used
for narrow ends. Relatively small, vocal groups can exert huge influence if they use the right
tools or if they have access to the narratives and cultural capital favored by land-use institutions.
Many interview respondents would say that this is exactly what happened during the controversy
over Lā‘au Point and in the struggle over Hōkūli‘a. Indeed, many local residents might argue that
the new regime enabled small groups to pursue their goals at the expense of broad public
sentiment.
Finally, the cases of this thesis, also suggests that the line between “feudal” goals and
“encompassing” goals are blurry and can co-exist in any given community-based contestation of
land. Narrow or exclusionary interests can motivate community reactions to growth (or antigrowth organizing), but they can scale and link up to other groups with broader concerns. Of
course, as I have hinted throughout the dissertation, even broadly encompassing agendas can
clash. For example, I identified a fundamental opposition between a view of land as a source of
cultural meaning and survival (in a Hawaiian sense) versus land as a source of broad public
benefits (such as jobs, infrastructure, or economic growth). Both are potentially encompassing
and hegemonic, yet neither represents what I would consider “feudal.” Yet they do compete in
complicated and difficult ways.
338
Consequences of Regime Change: Tensions and Contradictions Another result of the recent unraveling of the previous tourism-growth regime is that
prior forms of social compromise, which undergirded the previous regime, are no longer
applicable. Agreements and systemic arrangements designed to cater to class groups by dividing
up the spoils of development such as profit, jobs, and wages do not easily satisfy the culturebased and lifestyle oriented objections to urbanization that have emerged. Compromise with
cultural claims is difficult, and at the very least different from compromises which characterized
the tourism-growth regime. Yet such compromises are increasingly demanded by the current
regime.
The Hōkūli‘a case provides a compelling illustration of challenges that emerge in forging
compromises about development under the current regime. Constrained by Hawai‘i’s strict land
law system, Hōkūli‘a developers were anxious to win the support of the key public officials, as
well as members of the local residential community, before embarking upon the costly and
lengthy process of securing rezoning rights and building permits. Promises of job creation and
millions of dollars in County property taxes convinced many public officials, voters, and
community members to reluctantly support the Hōkūli‘a project. The deal was sweetened with
the promise of a long-needed highway bypass and a variety of other concrete give-backs
including a community park and other road/county infrastructure improvements. These
compromises between Democrats, workers, and community members focused on clear and
pragmatic concessions; these deals generated political support that carried Hōkūli‘a mostly
through the entitlement process. However, in the end, such compromises failed to satisfy voices
characteristic of the current postcolonial regime. Opponents to the project drew upon new tools
339
afforded by the current regime to slow down the project. Conflicts between cultural claims and
more pragmatic claims infiltrated communities and also nearly destroyed the project (along with
the valuable highway it was meant to construct). Some Native Hawaiians saw the project site as
the sacred resting place of their ancestors and a sanctuary of history and culture. This view of
land fundamentally conflicted with any view of that land as a commodity, and it rejected
pragmatic economic-based concessions linked to the commodification of that land. These views
of land, rooted in collective identities and social histories of land, place and culture proved
fundamentally incommensurable (Espeland 1998) with the urbanization of land as well as the
kind of deal-making that prevailed in the heyday of the tourism-growth regime. In both the cases
of Hōkūli‘a and the proposed residential development at Lā‘au Point, people who fought the
development projects for cultural reasons invited anger and disdain from those who had already
come to terms with the projects on the basis of other compromises. Cultural objectors faced
anger from within their own Hawaiian and local communities. Extended families and
neighborhoods became divided and as a result faced significant emotional pain and even trauma.
Theoretical Implications The Sources of Regime Change This dissertation suggests some lessons about how regime change occurs. Overall,
regime change was fomented by social movements acting upon cultural and institutional
frameworks of development. Regime change resulted from institutional layering in the realm of
land-use regulation, brought by litigation and social movement organizing in site-specific
controversies. Legal rulings in Hawai‘i have built upon one another to modify the regulatory
340
field. Moreover, a unique legal heritage created openings for change. For example, native rights
advocates have exploited the kernel of legal pluralism contained within Hawai‘i’s legal code: as
discussed in Chapter 4, modern Hawaiians and their allies have used litigation and political
advocacy at places like Ka‘ūpūlehu to successfully push for a modern updating of the traditional
and customary gathering rights that were originally established during the 1800s, during
Hawaiian Kingdom period. In this way, site-specific contestations have scaled up and impacted
the development system; conflicts over local places have become the kernels for social change
envisioned by Castells (1983).
Additionally, internal tensions, contradictions, and latent institutional opportunities
within the tourism-growth regime helped propel the development of a new regime. One such
internal tension involved the state Land Use Commission (LUC)—a pivotal institution
established during the tourism-growth regime which created openings for that regime’s own
upending. Though the LUC had been created in part to appease liberal and environmentalist
critics of the growth regime, from its inception until at least the mid 1990s the LUC served the
interests and goals of dominant actors within the tourism-growth regime—growth advocates from
the Democratic Party, organized labor, landowners, and developers (Cooper and Daws 1990).
Nevertheless, the LUC created institutional opportunities that are only now coming to fruition:
such political opportunities are increasingly exploited by critics of growth. We are now seeing
how growth skeptics use the LUC to limit tourism-urbanization and prioritize the social and
environmental significance of land. Moreover, institutional layering created further points of
political leverage for the critics of growth; examples include the LUC’s legal mandate to require
developers (e.g. “petitioners”) to submit formal enumerations of anticipated social, cultural, and
341
environmental impacts and to formally consider alternatives to such impacts. The LUC therefore
served as an institutional wedge that was later successfully exploited by future challengers, and in
this sense, the tourism-growth regime has unraveled partially as a result of internal contradictions.
The Power of Culture This dissertation also suggests answers to the question of how and when cultural forms
become potent sources of community influence over land-development. I build on literature
from cultural sociology to examine how several cultural mechanisms—place narratives, cultural
categories, and cultural capital—were used by local residents to influence outcomes in specific
projects. (Table 8.1 below offers an overview). This dissertation revealed that what I term place
narratives could be used to persuade decision-makers, such as LUC commissioners, to take
community concerns seriously. Place narratives can also mobilize opposition, particularly when
they link up to broader narratives. In the case of Moloka‘i, they helped congeal opposition and
aggregate divergent claims, interests, and grievances. This suggests that when community
members link up with broader movements and hook into broader discourses or frames, they can
have political leverage in site specific places. Also, place narratives potentially help project
opponents resist efforts to make deals with developers who offer concessions based on narrow
needs or interests—what some respondents conceptualize as “selling out.” This was seen most
clearly in the Kaka‘ako and Moloka‘i cases. Salient place narratives thus become a form of
cultural capital that communities may deploy in their dealings with public officials and state
agencies.
However, the cultural capital I learned of was more than just place narratives—it was
also about practices, savvy and techniques used by communities to navigate the complex terrain
342
of Hawai‘i’s land-use regulatory field. In the clearest example, the people of Moloka‘i built upon
past experience and deftly engaged the hearts and minds of land-use commissioners. They used
the language of the relevant land use laws while subtly highlighting the deep social and cultural
import of the place of Lā‘au. Furthermore, they orchestrated numerous presentations and a
dramatic public showing (a ‘sea of red’ protesters), which proved effective. This suggests that
place narratives, expert planning knowledge, ability to navigate within the regulatory
environment as well as skill in the public relations language of community constitute a form of
cultural capital that has currency in the contemporary regime.
The growing political potency of specific place narratives and cultural capital are linked
to broader regime shifts in public attitudes and the terms and discourses used to discuss urban
development in Hawai‘i. One indication of such change is that it is now commonplace to express
terms like aloha ‘āina, whereas just twenty years ago such a term would be unrecognizable to the
majority of Hawai‘i’s residents. Another example is that in past years cultural framings of land
rooted in Native Hawaiian culture were not even part of public discourse. Ancient Hawaiian
burials or iwi kupuna are illustrative. Over the last twenty years, Native Hawaiian activism has
drawn attention to the cultural significance of ancestral resting places. Hawaiian advocacy helped
establish state Burial Councils—official arms of the state DLNR and SHPD—which were given
authority over ancestral remains. Where once developers and contractors could hide or destroy
bones unearthed in the course of construction (in the 1970s), today they become vilified if they do
so.
The growing public sensitivity to native bones was evident in the cases of Kaka‘ako and
Hōkūli‘a. I attended a major public meeting about Kaka‘ako Makai in which the non-Hawaiian
343
CEO of a major national investment company assured the gathered masses: “we will strive not to
disturb the iwi kupuna.” I was struck by how this cosmopolitan executive used the Hawaiian
terminology without stumbling and without providing a translation. In another context, the
developers of the Hōkūli‘a project faced criticism in newspapers and public forums for the
developers’ treatment of historic sites and unearthed bones. Talk of desecration was hard or
impossible to counter, developers and their consultants explained to me, once accusations began
to fly. Hōkūli‘a lost a crucial battle in a public relations war. As a consequence, their
development plans were highly scrutinized by the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council, and local
residents were motivated to take legal action against the developers. By contrast, during
Hawai‘i’s tourism-growth regime, epitomized by the West Beach case, development supporters
consistently promoted a discourse highlighting the broad economic benefits of urban
development, the kind of cultural frameworks so central to growth regimes studied by scholars
elsewhere (Jonas and Wilson 1999). These situations illustrate how new grammars have literally
been written into Hawai‘i’s new regime.
Such symbolic shifts—changes in the grammar of real-estate development—have
happened through slow evolution and in subtle but persistent ways. Relatively new cultural
frameworks create political opportunities for the critics of ever-intensive tourism urbanization
and thus trouble the hegemony of the once prevalent growth regime. Communities in Hawai‘i,
including otherwise under-resourced groups, have new cultural tools with which to challenge the
agenda of growth entrepreneurs and shape their built environment.
Another important form of culture is cultural categories encoded by political institutions
(Steensland 2006). I aimed to demonstrate how institutions have helped to construct new
344
categories of actors—what I have termed privileged publics—and accordingly created new
openings for political influence over development. The most salient example is the (legally
encoded) category of cultural and lineal descendants—categories of actors who are afforded
privileged positions within the legal and regulatory system and whose rights, interests, and claims
are increasingly backed by the force of law (though often implementation and enforcement of
such laws may be lacking). Of course, such privileged cultural positions can be used in strategic
ways to serve private or narrow ends. Sometimes legal firms, interested individuals or civic
groups partner with recognized cultural or lineal descendants, who have unique legal standing, to
gain leverage with developers or courts. Interview respondents with whom I spoke complained
of the ways that “everyone was using culture” for their own interests (like getting money, power,
or earning legal precedent, funds for their civic organization, etc.). The encoding of new cultural
categories—and the claims of people who fit within those categories—does not shape
urbanization in straight forward ways; it introduces new negotiations and sites of contestation
into the development processes.
While the new regime has afforded new cultural sources of community power, other
currencies of power still hold sway. The case studies suggest that cultural forms of leverage—
place narratives, cultural capital, and claims made by members of privileged publics—work in
tandem with other efforts to shape built and natural environments. In the case of Moloka‘i, one
set of community members effectively asserted their influence in the LUC through powerful
displays of cultural capital. However, some evidence suggests that the connections between
activists and elite political insiders may have also tipped the balance of influence in their favor.
Most importantly, the financial and political capacity of landowners, developers, investors and
345
property entrepreneurs remain formidable. Development elites and the backers of urbanization
assert influence by partnering with public officials, promising broad economic growth, and
financially supporting critical political allies. In addition, they must convert some of their
financial and political capital to forms of cultural capital (Bourdieu 1984) by developing welltargeted public relations campaigns and pleasing key factions of communities. The difference is
that in this new regime, there are many fronts of influence and more sources of contingency.
Moreover, the cultural currencies of influence over development are more fluid and in some ways
readily available for manipulation—they are not only accessible to communities, but they may be
within reach of skilled consultants and development allies. The consequences of deploying
“culture” are more contingent than they are for other forms of capital. This is yet another
example of the complexity and unpredictability that characterize Hawai‘i’s contemporary landdevelopment regime.
346
Table 8.1 Cultural Forms and their Causal Impacts in each Case Study
Case
Cultural Forms
Example
Causal Role in Shaping
Utilized by Local Community
Outcome of Project
Opposition
West
ƒ
Place Narratives
ƒ
ƒ
Asserting claims linked to cultural
category
ƒ
ƒ
Place Narratives
ƒ
ƒ
Asserting claims linked to cultural
category
ƒ
Beach
Lā‘au
Point
ƒ
ƒ
Cultural capital
ƒ
Hōkūli‘a
ƒ
Place Narratives
ƒ
ƒ
ƒ
Asserting claims linked to cultural
category
ƒ
Kaka‘ako
Makai
ƒ
Place Narratives
West Beach linked to
Hawaiian identities,
cultural practices,
subsistence lifestyles
Hawaiian cultural
practitioners and
subsistence gatherers
should be protected
ƒ
Relatively little impact
due to lack of
amenable cultural
context
Lā‘au linked to
Hawaiian identities,
cultural practices,
subsistence lifestyles
Hawaiian cultural
practitioners and
subsistence gatherers
should be protected
Strategic performance
in LUC
ƒ
Project linked to
Hawaiian identities
and lifestyles
ƒ
Congealed opposition;
was compelling in
public bodies;
mobilized contention
Narratives also
apparently resonated
with LUC members
Motivated pre-emptive
work by developer to
show that cultural
rights would be
protected
Mobilized some
opposition
Helped generate legal
case, invited the
involvement of a legal
firm
Empowered the Burial
Council; generated
widespread opposition
and further scrutiny of
all aspects of project,
including
environmental impacts
Prevented co-optation
of movement against
A&B project
Resonated with
decision-makers in
current regime
Hawaiian cultural
practitioners and
subsistence gatherers
should be protected
Hawaiian Burial
Rights should be
protected
ƒ
Kaka‘ako as “a
local gathering
place”, Kaka‘ako
as “inclusive
public space”
ƒ
ƒ
ƒ
ƒ
ƒ
ƒ
347
Further Implications These findings are striking vis a vis existing research, which downplays the power of
communities to challenge economic and political elites. I have argued that this skepticism is
rooted in an underlying view of power as linked to both financial capital, formal political
position, or ownership of land—a view that is particularly dominant in urban political-economic
theory (Castells 1983; Elkin 1987; Feagin 1998 and 1983; Gottdiener 1985; Gottdiener and
Feagin 1988; Harvey 1973; Lefebvre 1991; Logan and Molotch 1987; Stone 1989). Urban
regime theory, for example, in its original and still arguably dominant forms (e.g. Stone 1989),
has not adequately considered the challenge posed by cultural claims in land-development
controversies (Horan 2002; Imbroscio 1998; also see Stone 2004). By contrast, this thesis reveals
the cultural and institutional bases of community influence, which are often overlooked by
researchers. This troubles the notions of urban regimes and growth agendas as built primarily on
class compromises. This dissertation highlights the significance of avenues of political influence
that are not linked to control over resources, land ownership, or formal political position.
These case studies suggest a way of conceptualizing power in development. Rather than
wholly located in material capital, it is comprised of multiple forms or “species” of capital that
hold currency in a given regime (or “field”) (Bourdieu 1984; 2005). In these case studies, the
power to develop flows not only from enduring and stable alliances between political and
economic elites, but from ongoing appropriation of laws, public meanings and even identities.
Hierarchies of power based on economic position and traditional political influence are relevant.
However, in between and amongst these readily recognized fonts of development power, there
are additional fields of power and influence. Communities wield their own means of ‘cultural
348
production’ and can marshal cultural claims, narratives, and capitals afforded by the broader
institutional and regulatory context.
Finally, this thesis also forwards a thick view of institutions and sees institutions as
features of the broader social structure that channel political processes in complex ways while
creating political and cultural opportunities of influence. Accordingly, this thesis also challenges
economist understandings of land-use regulation that read the consequences and causes of
regulation in terms of a simple balance of supply and demand (e.g. Babcock and Bosselman
1973; Glaeser and Ward 2009). Furthermore, these findings also echo but complicate pessimistic
reading of ‘growth control’ or growth regulation (Logan and Zhou 1989; Warner and Molotch
1995 and 2000). The reading I offer suggests that there is more room for the disempowered and
culturally-other to resist, maneuver, and redraw the boundaries of the playing field of
development than many theorists often recognize. This research thus suggests that studies of
urban development can profit from taking institutions seriously as well as adopting broader
historical frames of reference. Urban politics and sociology, like their broader traditions, have
long histories of trying to understand social realities for the purpose of improving them (Elkin
1987; Imbroscio 1998; Davies 2002; Rast 2007). Adopting a historical and institutional
perspective can better help to achieve this goal. This is because the social and political
implications of apparently progressive moments fizzle over time, or beget unintended
consequences. Or, alternatively, as has been highlighted in this dissertation, “progress” may
come to fruition only over long time horizons, and the payoffs of mobilization or institutional
innovation may only be apparent well into the future (e.g. Walton 1992).
349
Diverse actors in Hawai‘i have access to meaningful sources of leverage to shape their
natural and built environments and, in this sense, to forge their own destinies. Democratization of
land development in Hawai‘i, however, has been highly imperfect. Democratic possibilities are
present, and the new regime systematically provides for new forms of inclusion in the politics of
development—forms of inclusion from which otherwise under-resourced communities can
benefit. However, the new regime has forged democratic opportunities rather than pre-ordained
outcomes. We can thus see the case studies of this dissertation as, in Lefebvre’s words, “the
places of the possible” (1996). Overall, then, these accounts should give both hope and pause to
urban planners, communities, and scholars.
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