September/October 2021 by AFAR

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AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

Ta b l e of C o nt e nt s

21 Photograph by Brendan George Ko

N O R T H S TA R

More than a visitor: No matter where she travels, writer Patrice Gopo carries Alaska with her.

ON THE COVER

Ipo, a member of Maui’s traditional voyaging society, watches a storm approach at Kamehameha Iki Park.

THE 2021 S TAY L I S T

The 14 best new sustainable hotels around the globe

A FA R . C O M 42

SEOUL FOOD

In South Korea, exploring the origins of one of the country’s richest culinary traditions.

FOUNDER’S NOTE

CONTRIBUTORS

W H E R E T R AV E L TA K E S YO U

Illustrator Diana Ejaita shares her interpretation of hospitality. Spine illustration by Violeta Noy

“These hotels set the standard for what the most environmentally conscious, socially responsible, and communitycentered hotels can be.”

HOME LAND

Tourism’s boom in the Faroe Islands has given many young Faroese people a new reason to remain.

ILL USTRATI ONS, CLOCKWI SE FROM TOP LEFT: MI CHELL E PA RK, RY AN JO HNSON, MARK CONLAN, DIANA EJAITA PHOTOS, CL OCKWISE FR OM LEFT: AL EX KROTKOV/CAS ONA SFORZA, JUN MI CHAEL PARK, CELESTE NOCHE

Chief ﬁnancial oﬃcer. Caregiver. Eclipse chaser. A life well planned allows you to

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© 2021 Raymond James & Associates, Inc., member New York Stock Exchange/SIPC. Raymond James Financial Services, Inc., member FINRA/SIPC. Raymond James® and LIFE WELL PLANNED® are registered trademarks of Raymond James Financial, Inc.

AFAR

CONTENTS

SEPT / OCT 2021

48 48

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS O F T H E “ E XO T I C ” K I N D

In an excerpt from the new book Tread Brightly, writer Sarika Bansal explores the ethics of visiting endangered cultures.

THE FUTURE OF H O S P I TA L I T Y

A more intentional and inclusive industry is not only possible, but well on its way.

THIS IS LIFE

Azerbaijani photographer Rena Effendi first visited the country’s highest populated village in 2003. She’s been going back ever since.

B E YO N D A L O H A

How will Hawai‘i— facing climate change, overtourism, and a push to reclaim Native lands—welcome travelers again?

ILL USTRATI ON: JOAN W ONG; PHOTOS , FROM TO P: KELS EY MCCLELLA N, RENA EFFENDI

TIME TO MEET AGAIN: Have a healthy journey with all precautions taken down to the smallest detail for your in-flight safety.

EGYPT

AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

CONTENTS

“OUR STORY REMAINS UNWRITTEN. IT RESTS WITHIN THE CULTURE, WHICH IS INSEPARABLE FROM THE LAND. TO KNOW THIS IS TO KNOW OUR HISTORY. TO WRITE THIS IS TO WRITE OF THE LAND AND THE PEOPLE WHO ARE BORN FROM HER.”

H A U N A N I - K AY T R A S K ,

the trailblazing Hawaiian scholar and activist who died in July 2021. First published in From a Native Daughter: Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawai‘i (Common Courage Press, 1993).

BRENDAN GEORGE KO

J U S T T H E R I G H T A M O U N T of W R O N G

A unique luxury resort & casino

YOU DON’T JUST NEED A VACATION. YOU NEED AN RV.

GO ON A REAL VACATION

AFAR.COM @AFARMEDIA FOUNDERS GREG SULLIVAN & JOE DIAZ

“A road trip around New Mexico is calling me, and I’d like to spend a few nights in Santa Fe at the newly restored Bishop’s Lodge, a historic hotel set in the Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range.” —J.C.

EDITORIAL

SALES

VP, EDITOR IN CHIEF Julia Cosgrove @juliacosgrove

VP, PUBLISHER Bryan Kinkade

What hotel in the U.S. do you want to travel to next?

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Supriya Kalidas @supriyakalidas

@bkinkade001, bryan@afar.com, 646-873-6136

DIRECTOR OF DIGITAL CONTENT

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, BRAND PARTNERSHIPS

Laura Dannen Redman @laura_redman

Onnalee MacDonald @onnaleeafar,

DEPUTY EDITORS

onnalee@afar.com, 310-779-5648

Tim Chester @timchester

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, CARIBBEAN Barry Brown

Aislyn Greene @aislynj

barry@afar.com, 646-430-9881

Katherine LaGrave @kjlagrave

DIRECTOR, WEST CJ Close @close.cj,

SENIOR TRAVEL NEWS EDITOR

cjclose@afar.com, 310-701-8977

Michelle Baran @michellehallbaran

LUXURY SALES MANAGER Laney Boland @laneybeauxland,

SENIOR COMMERCE EDITOR

lboland@afar.com, 646-525-4035

Lyndsey Matthews @lyndsey_matthews

SALES, SOUTHEAST Colleen Schoch Morell

AFAR ADVISOR & LUXURY TRAVEL EDITOR

colleen@afar.com, 561-586-6671

Annie Fitzsimmons @anniefitzsimmons

SALES, SOUTHWEST Lewis Stafford Company

INTERIM PHOTO EDITOR Lisa Corson @lisacorsonphoto

lewisstafford@afar.com, 972-960-2889

EDITORIAL PRODUCTION MANAGER Kathie Gartrell

SALES, MEXICO AND LATIN AMERICA

JUNIOR DESIGNER Elizabeth See @elizabethsee.design

Jorge Ascencio, jorge@afar.com

“I’m craving the crackly thin-crust pizza served at Marta in the Redbury New York.” —C.C.

ASSISTANT EDITOR Mae Hamilton

“I can’t wait to get back to New Orleans and spend a long weekend at Hotel Saint Vincent, a 19th-century orphanage turned boutique hotel in the Lower Garden District from hotelier Liz Lambert, a 2018 AFAR Travel Vanguard honoree.” —L.M.

CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Kristin Braswell @crushglobal

AFAR MEDIA LLC

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS

CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER Greg Sullivan @gregsul

Lisa Abend @lisaabend, Chris Colin @chriscolin3000, Emma John @foggymountaingal, Ryan Knighton, Peggy Orenstein @pjorenstein, Anya von Bremzen COPY EDITOR Elizabeth Bell PROOFREADER Pat Tompkins SPECIAL CORRESPONDENTS

Jennifer Flowers @jenniferleeflowers Fran Golden @fran_golden_cruise Barbara Peterson

VP, COFOUNDER Joe Diaz @joediazafar VP, CHIEF OPERATING OFFICER Laura Simkins DIRECTOR OF FINANCE Julia Rosenbaum @juliarosenbaum21 HUMAN RESOURCES DIRECTOR Breanna Rhoades @breannarhoades DIRECTOR OF PRODUCT Anique Halliday @aniquehalliday DIRECTOR OF AD OPERATIONS Donna Delmas @donnadinnyc

“I’m very excited for the opening of the Fairmont Century Plaza in Los Angeles. The midcenturymodern hotel was long a favorite of mine and I’m anxious to see the renovation.” —G.S.

AUDIENCE DEVELOPMENT DIRECTOR Anni Cuccinello SENIOR SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER Rosalie Tinelli @rosalietinelli SENIOR SEO MANAGER Jessie Beck @beatnomad ACCOUNTING CLERK Kai Chen

“I’m looking forward to staying at the Mayflower Inn & Spa in Washington, Connecticut, for a close friend’s wedding.” —A.K.

MARKETING & CREATIVE SERVICES

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, PROCIRC Sally Murphy

VP, MARKETING Maggie Gould Markey

ASSOCIATE CONSUMER MARKETING DIRECTOR, PROCIRC Tom Pesik

@maggiemarkey, maggie@afar.com

OPERATIONS ACCOUNT MANAGER Adam Bassano

EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, MARKETING AND SPECIAL PROJECTS

PREMEDIA ACCOUNT MANAGER Isabelle Rios

Katie Galeotti @heavenk

PRODUCTION MANAGER Mandy Wynne

BRANDED & SPONSORED CONTENT DIRECTOR

ADVISORS Priscilla Alexander, Pat Lafferty, Josh Steinitz

“I’m planning a relaxing solo getaway to Scribner’s Catskill Lodge in New York.” —A.C.

Ami Kealoha @amikealoha SENIOR DESIGNER Christopher Udemezue

SAN FRANCISCO OFFICE

SENIOR INTEGRATED MARKETING MANAGER

P.O. Box 458 San Francisco, CA 94104

Irene Wang @irenew0201 INTEGRATED MARKETING MANAGERS

Mary Kennedy @marmar353 Ed Raymond @edzerraymond

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AFAR ID Statement AFAR® (ISSN 1947-4377), Volume 13, Number 3, is published bimonthly by AFAR, P.O. Box 458 San Francisco, CA 94104, U.S.A. In the U.S., AFAR® is a registered trademark of AFAR LLC. Publisher assumes no responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts, art, or any other unsolicited materials. Subscription price for U.S. residents: $24.00 for 6 issues. Canadian subscription rate: $30.00 (GST included) for 6 issues. All other countries: $40.00 for 6 issues. To order a subscription to AFAR or to inquire about an existing subscription, please write to AFAR Magazine Customer Service, P.O. Box 6265, Harlan, IA 51591-1765, or call 888-403-9001. Periodicals postage paid at San Francisco, CA, and at additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Please send address changes to AFAR, P.O. Box 6265, Harlan, IA 51591-1765.

AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

WHERE TO GO NEXT IN THE U.S. Whether you’re seeking unbridled urban energy, a desert retreat, or a leisurely road trip, the team at AFAR has all the expert intel and inspiration you need to book your next closer-to-home getaway.

WHERE ARE YOU TRAVELING NEXT? TWEET US @AFARMEDIA

TI MOTHY SCHEN CK ILL USTRATI ONS (2): SAM I SLAN D

afa r.c o m

A FA R .C O M / C I T I E S W E LO V E

Shoulder Season = Best Season

If you aren’t tethered to the school calendar, there’s no better time to travel than autumn. Consider a trip to New Orleans; Charleston, South Carolina (stop by Hannibal’s Kitchen, left); Oakland, California; or Scottsdale, Arizona— for starters.

AFAR IN THE WILD

Slow Motion

See the “unseen West” via AFAR contributor Sebastian Modak. His trip on the inaugural Rocky Mountaineer rail from Moab, Utah, to Denver in August will be highlighted on Instagram.

“One New Orleans experience not to miss: Ride in a streetcar, especially along St. Charles Avenue.” —Chef Nina Compton, who helms two award-winning restaurants in the city, Compère Lapin and Bywater American Bistro

AFAR.COM/BESTCITIES

A FA R .C O M / R O A D T R I P S

Where Dreams Are Made

New York City tops our annual list of the best large cities in the U.S., produced by Resonance Consultancy. Go online to find out which newcomers round out the top 10.

Open Road

Looking for a nature lover’s road trip along the Oregon Coast? Or an all-electric drive on Colorado’s scenic byways? We have you covered.

W H AT ’ S N E W I N N YC

• Little Island is an elevated park in (yes, in) the Hudson River. • Moynihan Train Hall opened in the historic former post office across from Penn Station.

A F A R . C O M / T R AV E LTA L E S

• Fresh off renovations, LaGuardia isn’t terrible anymore!

FROM TOP: PETER FRANK EDW ARDS, RI CHAR D GARDN ER/S HU TTERSTOCK

• Café culture and street dining are here to stay, says the mayor.

“We’ve put a lot of emphasis on DEI [diversity, equity, inclusion] in our rebuild. The Black Experience in NYC is a new platform promoting Black culture and Black-owned businesses. We also launched the Latino Experience in NYC, which celebrates the incredible depth of Latin culture across all boroughs. The idea has always been to come for the things you know, but spend more time in the neighborhoods you don’t know, where you’ll feel the amazing chemistry in the diverse cultures here.” —Fred Dixon, CEO of NYC & Company tourism board, speaking during AFAR Live.

New Episodes!

Don’t miss season two of our Travel Tales by AFAR podcast, streaming now on all your favorite podcast platforms.

GO WHERE THE ROAD TAKES YOU. AND THEN SOME.

GO ON A REAL VACATION

AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

Fo u n d e r ’s N ot e

A REUNION WORTH THE WAIT so much pain and loss. I know canceled vacations don’t compare to serious illness and unemployment, but missed moments with loved ones are significant events. Milestone birthdays and anniversaries, weddings, births, and reunions—they’re some of our most treasured times. How do you quantify joy? Among the celebrations I had planned for 2020 was an AmaWaterways river cruise on the Danube with dear friends to mark our 40th college reunion. Rather than return to campus, we would sail from Budapest to Bratislava, Slovakia; head on to Vienna, Dürnstein, and Linz, Austria; and end in Passau, Germany. Nine of us signed up to reminisce and reconnect while cruising through some of Europe’s most picturesque scenery. But the pandemic—and its resulting closures and cancellations, vaccines and COVID tests—would require professional help to navigate. Our travel advisors at Judy Perl Travel were invaluable, helping to solve problems like: What do we do about our original canceled reservations? When will

MARKUS L AN GE/AGEFOTO STOCK

C OVI D HA S C AU S E D

we be able to reschedule and sail? All of us were fortunate enough to get vaccinated in spring 2021, and we were so excited when AmaWaterways announced in June that it would start sailing the Danube on July 21—and intended to keep sailing throughout the season. I spoke with Kristin Karst, co-owner of AmaWaterways, shortly thereafter. “We are dancing the happy dance preparing for our return to the rivers of Europe in July!” she said. “It is important to us to start back sailing as soon as we safely can in compliance with local regulations,” she added. “We want to do it for our employees, we want to do it for our travelers, and we want to do it for the destinations we visit.” Kristin and her Ama co-owner, Rudi Schreiner, were both named AFAR Travel Vanguard honorees in 2019 for their extraordinary efforts to sail as sustainably as possible. Like so many in our industry, they do this because they love what they do and the places they go—and they think that acting responsibly can make a constructive difference. At AFAR, we are huge believers in the power of travel to make a positive impact on the world. The experiences we have away from home can enrich our lives so deeply. Our travels can also support the communities we visit, particularly when we make special efforts to do so—like picking hosts who share our values. Safe travels, GREG SULLIVAN

Cofounder and CEO

In Budapest, locals and travelers enjoy a beach bar on the Danube.

@_connerjohn

@kaaaaaaty

@nelliebradfordphotography

Georgia isn’t some place you see. It’s somewhere you feel—an experience that’s completely your own. It’s less about snapping pictures and more about making moments worthy of them. Those candid smiles on a wide-open beach, ready for exploring. That instant in the mountains where you realize there’s nothing on your mind, but the beauty set before you. The family adventures across the city, leading to stories and shared memories of being together. You’re ready for a Georgia getaway. ExploreGeorgia.org

@cameronwillyums

AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

Cont ri butors

Writer Patrice Gopo has lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, for nearly a decade. Still, Alaska—where she was born and raised— will always be home, a feeling she reflects on in North Star (p. 37). “Though I’ve been away for a long time, there is a sense of deep connection,” she says. Gopo, the author of All the Colors We Will See (Thomas Nelson, 2018), is at work on a second essay collection. Find her on Instagram @patricegopo.

B R E N DA N G EO R G E KO Photographer

When he moī ī d to Hī īīī īi at age 19, pīīīī ī īī ī ī her Bīendan Geīīī e Ko was immeīīī īīī ī ī ī īī īī īīī d by the iīīīīīī ’ beauty and oī īī īī ī ī ī d pīīī . Nī w 35, heīs spent much of tīī ī ast 16 years doīīīīīī ing the stateīs nīīīī ī ī īī īī ī s, including Hī īīī īīīs iconic cī īīī line and waters. Mīī y photos are featurī d in Beyond Aloha īī . 82). “ī ī er the years, my wīī k has ī ī en about cī īīī īī ing stories that are spī cific to landsī ī ī ī īī” he sī ī s. “I find the land iī īī ī ī ī ī ī ī īī ī īī ī ī īī īīīī ī ī” Ko is aīī o a membīī īīī and documentarian forī ī īīī īs trīīīī īīīī ī ī oyaging cīīīīīīīī , the subject of his neī īīī ī ī ā āāāāeā īī īī ī īī or Sīīīīī , 20īī ī. He ī ī ī īī īī ī ī ī ī ī to honor Māori antīī īī ī īīīī īī ī ī ī ī īīī īī ī ī and pī īīīician Te Rangi Hīrī a. “ī y ī ī īī īī ī īī tter to him and sharing the prīīī ī īī īhat has haīī īīī īī” Ko sī ī s. Eī ī īīī e more of ī ī īs wīī k on Instagram at @brīīīīīī ī īīī īī ī .

D I A N A E JA I TA Illustrator

KO’S NEW BOOK, MOEMOEĀ, EXPLORES HOW THE CANOE EMPOWERS MAUI’S TRADITIONAL VOYAGING COMMUNITY.

For Where Travel Takes You (p. 96), illustrator Diana Ejaita tried to capture a feeling—that moment when a guest on the threshold enters a new space, environment, or country. Says Ejaita, who is based between Lagos and Berlin: “I have a lot of respect for the journey a traveler takes to reach a place, visit a country. Travels and travelers are, to me, always very exciting.” See more of her work in the New Yorker, New York Times, Washington Post, and on Instagram @dianaejaita.

SARIKA BANSAL Writer As a child, Nairobi-based writer Sarika Bansal performed classical Indian dance and was often photographed at events without permission, treated as an object rather than a person—themes she explores in Close Encounters of the “Exotic” Kind (p. 48). “Even though other people may look different from you, that doesn’t mean their existence is bound to the outside presentation,” she says. “They too have thoughts and feelings.” In May, Bansal launched a podcast called Driving Change: Made in Africa. Follow her on Instagram @sarika008.

CLOCKWI SE FROM LEFT: BRENDAN GEORGE KO (2), COURTESY OF PATRIC E GOPO, COURTESY OF SARIKA BANSAL, AGUSTÍN FARIAS

PAT R I C E G O P O Writer

RELAX, RENEW,

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Call your Travel Advisor or 1-877-SAIL HAL, or visit hollandamerica.com

*Have It All fares available on cruises 6 days or more, excluding Grand Voyages. Restrictions apply, see hollandamerica.com for details. Holland America Line cruises departing through December 31, 2021, are available for guests who have received their final dose of an approved COVID-19 vaccine at least 14 days prior to the beginning of the cruise and have proof of vaccination; details at hollandamerica.com. Consult https://wwwnc.cdc. gov/travel/notices/covid-4/coronavirus-cruise-ship for the latest CDC cruise travel advice, warnings and recommendations. Ships’ Registry: The Netherlands.

Welcome

TO WHATEVER FLOATS YOUR YACHT

24 miles of coastline. 300 miles of waterways. And too many temptations to count. Come see what’s new in Florida’s shimmering playground, from world-renowned hotels to cosmopolitan dining and nightlife. Plan your adventure at VisitLauderdale.com/Welcome.

2021

STAY LIST The world’s most sustainable new hotels by

JENNIFER FLOWERS Illustrations by

MARK CONLAN

S TAY LIS T

AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

TURTLE BAY RESORT

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VILLA COPENHAGEN DENMARK

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S TAY LIS T

THE MAKER NEW YORK

The cofounders of the beauty brand Fresh opened this belle époque–inspired retreat in Hudson, a former factory town two hours north of Manhattan by train. Comprising 11 rooms in three historic buildings—one is a Georgian mansion— the Maker mixes European and American antiques with the works of local artisans, including water decanters from Pierre Bowring of BowGlass Works and floral wall motifs inspired by Victoria Maxfield. Throughout the hotel, guests can feel the connection to past and place: the Hudson Valley master craftsman Gary Keegan restored original architectural details. From $425. themaker.com

CASONA SFORZA MEXICO

Designed by the prominent Mexican architect Alberto Kalach, Puerto Escondido’s Casona Sforza is one of the most visually striking new hotels in Mexico. Built using local brick, the openair guest rooms and public spaces feature dramatic arched ceilings of varying heights. The 11 suites showcase regional Mexican crafts, from the patterned rugs of Teotitlán del Valle to the cabinetry and ceramics of the Oaxacan highlands. Some of the pieces were made by artisans at Pueblo del Sol, a nearby social project created by Casona Sforza founder Ezequiel Ayarza Sforza to bring economic opportunities to Indigenous communities. From $290. casonasforza.com

CIELO LODGE Set along the sparkling waters of the Golfo Dulce on the Pacific coast, the six canopy suites at Cielo Lodge run on solar power and a micro-hydropower system, and come stocked with biodegradable soaps and other amenities. The 380-acre property, which features both primary and secondary rain forest that was partially logged 60 years ago, is a regeneration story in the making: Cielo has partnered with the National Forestry Financing Fund to reforest the land, and together they’ve planted more than 4,000 endemic trees to date. The lodge also partners with a number of NGOs to help monitor the area’s wildlife, which includes jaguars and sea turtles. From $410. cielolodge.com

FROM TOP: FRANCIN E ZASL OW, AL EX KROTKOV

COSTA RICA

PROMOTION

“At some point, everything comes back to life, the flowers are blooming, the horses are shedding their winter clothes.” FR O M T H E P O D C A S T EP I S O D E Ò T H E H E A L I NG P O W ER O F MA I N EÕS FO R ES T S Ó by Abdi Nor Iftin in season two of Travel Tales by AFAR, which features stories from our favorite comedians, philosophers, and novelists.

Listen Now Scan to learn more Let these life-changing stories inspire your next adventure. With The Marriott Bonvoy Boundless™ Card from Chase, and their shared belief in the transformative power of travel, you’ll be well on your way to your own life-changing experiences.

S TAY LIS T

ARTHAUS BEIRUT LEBANON

One of Beirut’s most exciting new hotels is a tapestry of Lebanon’s past, present, and future. Zoe and Nabil Debs, a British Lebanese couple, reimagined four Ottomanera buildings in the Gemmayzeh neighborhood, creating 23 rooms and suites with stone walls and high ceilings that invite in natural light. The buildings, which are part of Nabil’s family estate, provide the backdrop for their art collection, which features Byzantine-era works and other archaeologically significant pieces. In the wake of last year’s deadly Beirut explosion, which damaged the hotel on the day it was set to open, the Debses organized an exhibit to raise funds for Red Cross Lebanon—and opened the hotel a month later. From $280. arthaus.international

HOTEL BRITOMART

KLEIN JAN GROENEW AL D

NEW ZE AL AND

New Zealand’s greenest new hotel is part of a larger waterfront revitalization project in central Auckland some 16 years in the making. Hotel Britomart snagged the highest rating from the third-party New Zealand Green Building Council, thanks to its extraordinary efforts: Builders reused or recycled 90 percent of hotel construction waste; mixed captured or reclaimed water with the building’s carbon-intensive concrete; and constructed with bricks made of 80 percent recycled concrete. The handsome dark wood in the 99 guest rooms is reclaimed timber, plumbing is all low-fl w, and neutral-hued linens are made with fair trade fabrics. From $350. thehotelbritomart.com

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SEPT / OCT 2021

HABITAS NAMIBIA

Habitas, a sustainability-centered company, opened its latest property in January in sandswept Namibia. In keeping with the company’s mission, Habitas Namibia was built with modular structures to reduce waste of resources, offsetting its modest footprint by funding reforestation projects. The 15 solarpowered, canvas-walled tents are set on a private, 120,000-acre wildlife reserve that was once a hunting area, and the hotel is staffed by locals through a partnership with the nonprofit group Saira Hospitality. While the resident white rhinos, giraffes, and hippos are a thrill to en counter, the retreat puts a heavy emphasis on cultural programming, offering medicinal plant workshops, drum circles, and a pop-up bush braai dinner experience. From $700. ourhabitas.com

S TAY LIS T

THE PIG AT HARLYN BAY ENGL AND

For more than a decade, British hotelier Robin Hutson and his wife, Judy, have been adding to their growing empire of Pig hotels, a group of cozy, food-centric countryside getaways. The Hutsons’ seventh project, the sea-facing Pig at Harlyn Bay, is set in a 15th-century former Cornwall residence surrounded by pesticide-free gardens. Several of the 26 rooms are outfitted with four-poster beds, and guests can borrow Hunter wellies for exploring outdoors—rain or shine. In the wood-paneled dining room, the menu revolves around seasonal meat fi sh, and produce sourced from no farther than 25 miles away. From $185. thepighotel.com

FORESTIS DOLOMITES ITALY

KRUGER SHALATI SOUTH AFRICA

The most innovative way to stay in South Africa’s Kruger National Park offers a rare look at the social history of the country’s famous wilderness. Kruger Shalati hovers 50 feet above the Sabie River on a retired train track that carried Kruger’s earliest visitors into the park about a century ago. Developed by Motsamayi Tourism Group, which describes itself as South Africa’s oldest Black-empowered tourism group, Kruger Shalati offers 31 guest rooms (some fashioned out of refurbished train carriages) where travelers can look down at waters filled with crocs, hippos, and elephants. From $620. krugershalati.com

FROM TOP: J AKE EASTHAM, COURTESY O F FORESTIS D OLOMITES

Italy’s Alpine wonderland has long been considered a wellness destination, thanks in part to the region’s high altitude, fresh air, and extensive trail network. In everything from its minimalist architecture to its spa treatments, Forestis Dolomites reflects the natural surroundings. Locally based owners Teresa Unterthiner and Stefan Hinteregger created an ecoconscious sybarite’s dream: The glass-andstone property, designed by area architect Armin Sader, runs entirely on renewable energy, and all 62 guest rooms are clad in natural woods and equipped with biodegradable amenities. Large windows and terraces showcase the surrounding forests and mountains. From $590. forestis.it

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S TAY LIS T

SUSSURRO MOZ AMBIQUE

CO URTES Y OF SU SSURRO MO ZAMBIQUE

The owners of Sussurro, a new lodge set along a turquoise lagoon in southern Mozambique, pulled out all the stops to ensure that the hotel treads as lightly on its habitat as possible. The six bungalows, inspired by the regional architecture, were built using primarily natural and local materials. About 90 percent of the resort’s energy is renewable, thanks in large part to solar power. Meals in the dining room use ingredients from neighboring fishing and farming operations. Travelers spend their days scuba diving, exploring the water on a traditional dhow, or journeying inland for a safari in the less visited, wildlife-filled Gorongosa National Park. From $495. sussurro.co

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S TAY LIS T

THE JOHRI AT LAL HAVELI INDIA

Jaipur’s most famous hotels tend to be palatial affairs removed from city life, but a duo of young Indian hoteliers have opened an intimate new property that puts guests right in the thick of things. The Johri at Lal Haveli is built in a 19th-century merchant family’s haveli, or manor, within an ancient bazaar. The five guest rooms, which face a peaceful interior courtyard, are maximalist displays of color and texture, with scalloped arches and latticework made mainly of materials found in Rajasthan. Don’t miss dinner at the hotel’s restau rant, where chef Sonu Kumar prepares organic vegetarian dishes, including truffle cheese kulcha (a fl ky bread) and tandoor oven– cooked, yogurt-marinated broccoli. From $300. thejohrijaipur.com

PARADERO TODOS SANTOS FROM TOP: BHARAT AGGARW AL, YOS HI HI RO KOITANI

MEXICO

At Paradero, the beaches and galleries of Todos Santos—a surf town about 70 miles northwest of San José del Cabo Airport—are an undeniable draw. But Pablo Carmona and Joshua Kremer, the Mexico City– based founders of this indoor-outdoor retreat, have gone to great lengths to offer experiences that go beyond the ocean. Paradero’s 35 suites, some with soaking tubs and firepits, were designed to blend in with the desert landscape, with rough concrete walls and handcrafted Mexican furnishings. They’re a perfect base for an art and architecture walk in town, or an invigorating hike for a closer look at dozens of plant species, including Mojave yucca and Shaw’s agave. From $550. paraderohotels.com

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NORTH STAR As a teen, she couldn’t wait to escape her Alaska hometown. As an adult, she grapples with what it means to return.

by P A T R I C E G O P O Illustrations by R Y A N J O H N S O N

SEPT / OCT 2021

AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

THE FLIGHT AT TENDANT pauses by our row. She leans toward my two daughters as they clean up crayons and card games in preparation for arrival and asks: “Are you visiting or going home?” “Going home,” my oldest daughter responds. A smile of anti cipation ripples across her face, one that matches my own. Home. She’s never lived in Anchorage. This is her fourth visit in her nine years of life. Yes, she’s tasted king salmon fresh from the Gulf of Alaska. She’s donned heavy boots and plucked a stalk of fi eweed fl oded with pink fl wers. But there is no constellation of everyday memories shining with snow forts or day hikes to a glacier. My daughter’s response makes me want to hug her. “I grew up in Anchorage,” I say, clarifying what perhaps matters little to the flight attendant. “We don’t live there, but it’s where I grew up.” “Oh, so visitors then,” she states, moving farther down the aisle, having categorized us to her liking. No, I whisper. This is not a visit. This is a homecoming. Anchorage, where I was born and raised, is constrained by its own natural boundaries. The east rises into the Chugach Mountains, and the west dips into Cook Inlet. Between moun tains and water, a city thrives. As a Black daughter of this place, I once believed that Anchorage was too narrow for me to truly live here. I thought the landscape did not contain enough space for my story. I strained against these boundaries even as I enjoyed expansive summer days and snow tubing down packed winter trails. My imagination carried me to sprawling metropolises and bustling sidewalks crowded with an abundance of faces like mine. I left for college, searching for those places, eventually settling in North Carolina. But while we may leave our hometown, our hometown doesn’t necessary leave us, her draw growing in power over time. More than two decades after I left Anchorage, boundaries that once confined become limbs welcoming a daughter home. I crave that embrace.

My first book is a tribute to that journey: an essay collection about growing up as a Black girl in Alaska and searching for my way in the larger world. I’m returning to Anchorage to celebrate this book with my oldest community. My daughters and I will stay for a mere week, a week that will include readings and public conversations, an evening with a book club, and a day of workshops at my old high school. As the plane dips, I settle into the rhythm of a journey I’ve fl wn countless times. I turn toward the window and look past my youngest daughter to the clouds gathered in soft tufts. We land on a mid-autumn day when the chilly air is pregnant with the possibility of the first real snow. My older daughter, prone to occasional coughing fits, inhales deeply and breathes with ease. At an old friend’s house where we are staying for the week, I turn the faucet to cold. Ice water erupts from the tap and I drink deeply, quenching a thirst I didn’t even know I had. Later, when I stop the car at a trffi light and look into the distance, the reality of the city’s backdrop startles me for just a moment. A length of plum ridges and val leys is seemingly suspended from a clear sky. Then the panoramic view fades into my unconscious, letting me take it for granted as one is wont to do with backgrounds in their home.

ONCE, AS I WAS WALKING in North Carolina, years after I left Alaska, the gray of Cook Inlet seemed to appear on the horizon, encroaching on mudflats and approaching a line of evergreen trees. The scent of frigid ocean torqued through the air. Across the foamy surf and steelcolored waves, clouds obscured a range of peaks. Then I remembered: I was in my Charlotte neigh borhood. Not Anchorage. As my eyelids opened and closed and opened again, the mountains became clouds. The water transformed into a strip of sky. I wanted to weep at my mistake. For some time after, I longed for what I had left: the landscapes, the water, the signs of where I’m from. What happens when you no longer live in your home, but your first instinct to make sense of the tangible occurs through the lens of that place? Then, a horizon might look like an inlet the color of flint. And what happens when you return? As my week in Anchorage unfolds, I realize that the city is not only as I remember her. New roads run through areas once forested and wide, paved streets have replaced gravel ones. Development and glossy new buildings alter the cityscape. When I visit my old high school, a student raises her hand and asks, “What’s changed since you went to school here?”

AFAR

SEPT / OCT 2021

She sits near a boy from Sudan and another boy from Thailand. “So much,” I say. I stand before a classroom comprised mostly of students of color. The demographics have shifted. The structure of the building differs too. The hallways are larger now, the classrooms boast more light. A multiyear remodel has created common areas with circular tables. This is not my school even as it is my school. I wonder what my story would be had I attended this version of the institution 20 years ago. Would I still have heeded that call to explore? When I look out the windows, my eyes linger on what rises beyond. I finish by adding, “Those mountains, though, they remain unchanged.” A few nights later, at a friend’s house, my girls borrow mittens and run around in the backyard with her children. We all gather for dinner followed by warm raspberry-rhubarb pie. I savor every bite. As our forks scrape the last of the fuchsia filling, I tell the story of the flight attendant on the plane. This is how I answer questions about what it’s like being back. “There should be another word that means more than visitor,” I say. “Even if I don’t live here, this will always be my home.”

when the leaves crumbled beneath birch trees and the air turned in the direction of cold, the salmon returned to spawn near my childhood home. Once silver, they were bright red with age, weary bodies finding their birthplace. They swam upstream from Cook Inlet, through slender waterways beneath the Old Seward Highway, arriving back in a comforting marsh. And each fall, my parents, my sister, and I would walk down the boardwalk built over that marsh and hang our heads and arms over the railing. We would watch as scores of salmon flicked their fins against the familiar currents, piercing a trail home. A few summers ago, I leaned over my kitchen counter in Charlotte and wrote tally marks on the back of a used envelope. One for each year in Anchorage and one for each year away. Eighteen tally marks—almost—for my childhood. A tally mark for the year before I married. A tally mark for the two summers I spent in my 20s living at home. Twenty marks for years in Alaska. Eighteen marks for years away. With gratitude, I noted that I’d spent the majority of my life in Alaska. Now I am nearing 40, and soon, this will no longer be true. Years, maybe decades, in the future, I don’t think it will matter whether I have lived more or less of my life in Anchorage. With plenty of silver hair and a slower gait, I imagine I’ll return to this place I call home. I hope I will sit at a table in my favorite restaurant and feast on an open-faced crab sandwich. That I will drive down the Old Seward Highway or Northern Lights Boulevard and take in the sight of fresh buildings and trendy coffee shops with an occasional storefront that hints at G R O W I N G U P, E A C H FA L L ,

the Anchorage I once knew. Then I will head to the water, sit on a boulder near the mudflats, and watch the tide rolling back out to sea. I will turn my head to what lies in the distance. And I will see those peaks and breathe in their permanence. At the beginning of our week, my girls and I arrived in the early afternoon. For the final portion of the flight, we had cruised above ridges buried beneath snow. “Look,” I told my daughters, pointing out the window to the glory of sunlight reflecting off peaks. Now, at the end of the week, we depart in the middle of the night. A red-eye flight to Seattle and a return trip to Charlotte. As the plane ascends, leaving Anchorage behind, I find I straddle a space between my original home and the place becoming As the plane ascends, leaving Anchorage behind, I find I straddle a space between my original home and the place becoming one. one. This time no flight attendant asks, “Were you visiting or are you leaving home?” But I no longer feel constrained by vocabulary. If asked, I would answer, “I am anchored.” Not a visitor, but anchored to this place. Beyond the window, it’s impossible to make out the landscape cloaked in black. I pull my travel blanket around me and take comfort in knowing mountains and water remain, even as I go. Patrice Gopo is a North Carolina–based writer and author. This is her first story for AFAR, and she is profiled on page 18.

SEOUL FOOD

The iconic Korean banchan, small dishes that accompany most meals, is experiencing a culinary renaissance.

by L A V I N I A S P A L D I N G Photographs by J U N M I C H A E L P A R K

I S T I L L C L E A R LY R E M E M B E R my first meal in South Korea. I had just arrived in the country, fresh out of college and ready to begin a job teaching English. My new boss had whisked me from the airport to a barbecue restaurant, where I’d watched in panic as mounds of beef appeared on the tabletop grill. I didn’t eat red meat, and I was worried about offending him. Also, I was famished. Just then, a trampoline-size tray arrived, bearing tiny bowls of sesame-cucumber salad, fried anchovies, garlicky bean sprouts, boiled quail eggs, steamed eggplant, sautéed wild mushrooms, candied lotus root, and four kinds of fiery, funky kimchi. My love affair with banchan—the iconic, shared side dishes served with most Korean meals—had begun. During the six years I lived in Busan (South Korea’s second-largest city), I ate thousands of dishes of banchan but never fully delved into its backstory. Sixteen years later, I’ve returned to South Korea, this time to explore banchan’s roots—and its culinary renaissance. I begin my journey at Jirisan, a traditional restaurant in Seoul’s arty Insadong neighborhood. As a server delivers dish after tiny dish, arranging them like puzzle pieces on the table, my dining companion, Kim Chan-Sook—a food blogger and old friend—explains banchan’s origins.

AFAR

“We were historically a poor country,” Kim tells me, “so for economic reasons, common people couldn’t eat meat. Each household had one or two cows at most, so animals were used for agriculture.” It’s often said that banchan originated in the time of Buddhist influence, during the mid–Three Kingdoms Era (57 B.C.E.–668 C.E.), when meat consumption was prohibited. Kim believes this to be a misconception. “Meat was just a precious food that was difficult to get,” she says. Vegetarian recipes were used within peasant, temple, and royal kitchens to accompany the culinary staple of rice (bap, or rice, can also mean “meal”), and these assorted vegetable dishes formed the foundation of Korean food. Nowhere is the country’s ancient banchan heritage better maintained than at Seoul’s Institute of Korean Royal Cuisine, where hanshik, traditional cuisine from the Joseon Dynasty (1392–1910) is taught. In hanshik, the cuisine once served to the king, fl vors are mild and refined; you’ll find garlic, but none of Korea’s other signature spice, gochugaru (red chile pepper). While most banchan you’ll get at a restaurant comes in odd numbers, in hanshik, 12 rarefied dishes were served to the king. Nowadays, anyone in Seoul can partake of—and prepare—hanshik, thanks largely to Han Bok-Ryeo, institute director and second successor to the last Joseon Dynasty palace cook. In addition to running the institute, Han operates Jihwaja, a fine-dining restaurant, where she re-creates recipes dating back to 1450, such as a delicate bamboo-shoot salad with ripe persimmon dressing. “The essence of royal court cuisine,” says Hwang Ke-On, Jihwaja’s vice president, “is to make heartfelt meals with the best ingredients. It’s a slow food that requires a tremendous amount of time and effort to prepare and cook.” Chefs such as Han, who have cooked and studied traditional Korean food their entire lives, are valued, says Kim, who also attended the institute. “They’re respected as chefs’ chefs.” But more and more, fine-dining entrepreneurs are updating banchan. Kim tells me Seoul’s food scene is dominated by the modern category, with most contemporary chefs responding to Korean food’s worldwide boom by pivoting toward fusion fare. For example, Kang Min-Goo, chefowner of two-Michelin-star Mingles, offers a refined take on the ultraclassic ssam, a wrapped dish: He wraps Hanwoo beef (similar to wagyu) with cabbage and serves it alongside bean soup. At the vanguard of the modern-meets-ancient renaissance is chef Cho Hee-Sook, who spent 37 years studying hanshik and, in 2020, was named the best female chef in Asia. At her Michelin-starred restaurant, Hansikgonggan, Cho reinterprets palace cuisine using local, seasonal ingredients and tried-and-true Korean techniques. For instance, her take on juk, old-school rice porridge, changes seasonally and might incorporate pine nuts, shrimp, and scallops, and her bapjeon, rice pancakes,

Opposite page, from left: Mo Kyung-Sook has run Jirisan for 40 years; Jirisan’s plantfilled interior. This page: spicy radish kimchi.

SEPT / OCT 2021

are sophisticated canapés with fermented seafood. “I think it’s best when traditional food is kept authentic, without disturbing the food’s nature,” Cho says. “But I’m pursuing a new approach by combining traditional taste and appearance with modern tastes and sensibilities. I think it can elevate the value of the most distinctive banchan.” Back at Jirisan, Kim and I enjoy our own distinctive banchan. It’s not court cuisine, but still royally delicious and reminiscent of my early experience: a panoply of colors, intense fl vors, and surprising textures. Years ago, when I lifted my metal chopsticks and devoured those first bites, I knew I was tasting something special. Now that I’ve learned about its past—and future—it’s even more nourishing.

“I think it’s best when traditional food is kept authentic, without disturbing the food’s nature.”

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While multiple origin theories and infinite banchan varieties exist, custom dictates highly specific preparations, such as blanched, braised, stir-fried, dried, fermented, and roasted. Banchan is influenced by Eastern philosophy, says food blogger Kim Chan-Sook, so it should encompass five colors, symbolizing, among other things, the directions: green (or blue) for east, red for south, yellow for center, white for west, and black for north. And it should be served in dishes of 3, 5, 7, or 9 (in yin and yang principles, odd numbers are yang, considered good luck), alongside rice, soup, sauces, and, of course, kimchi—which doesn’t count as

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Where to Eat Banchan in Seoul

banchan. “Kimchi just comes automatically,” Kim says. “It’s expected, like a glass of water.” Banchan is served prior to the main course. Tables are typically set with a spoon—used to eat rice and any soups or stews that come with the meal—and a pair of flat, metal chopsticks. Most people eat a bit of banchan right away, alternating bites with bites of rice, and save some to mix and match with the main course(s). There are many rules that govern banchan. Two big ones? Never pick up a rice bowl or banchan dish and eat from it—that’s considered rude—and never stick your spoon or chopsticks vertically into your rice when not using them.

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J I R I SA N

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At this traditional restaurant, named for a mountain in southern South Korea, tofu is the star. Chefs grind fresh soybeans each day to prepare soy paste, soft tofu, and tofu stew.

J I H WAJA

Chef Han Bok-Ryeo is known as the “living treasure of Korean royal cuisine.” At her restaurant in downtown Seoul, diners can eat banchan similar to dishes once served to royalty. MINGLES

Since 2018 Mingles has maintained two Michelin stars for chef Kang Min-Goo’s contemporary take on traditional Korean food. Korean ceramics round out the effect: Black chicken and morel mushrooms might be served in a wide earthenware bowl.

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Located in a space overlooking Seoul, Hansikgonggan is run by chef Cho Hee-Sook, viewed as a godmother of Korean hanshik cuisine. Her seasonal menu might include bugak: thinly sliced vegetables or seaweed that are dipped in rice paste, dried, and then deep-fried. I N ST I T U T E O F KO R E A N R OYA L CUISINE

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Learn how to craft hanshik-style banchan through a multiday course at Seoul’s best-known culinary school. The institute was established in 1971, when South Korea decreed Korean Royal Cuisine an Intangible Cultural Property.

Lavinia Spalding is a writer and six-time editor of the 12-volume The Best Women’s Travel Writing (Travelers’ Tales). She wrote about the women of Spanish flamenco in the July/August 2019 issue of AFAR. Photograph by D Y L A N + J E N I

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SEPT / OCT 2021

OF TH E “EXOTIC” KI N D One writer wrestles with the ethics of visiting endangered cultures—and reflects on her own experience as an “other.”

FROM TOP: O LEG ZNAMENS KI Y/SHUTTERS TO CK, ARTUSH/S HUTTER STOCK, SMIT/SHUTTERSTOCK

by S A R I K A B A N S A L

Illustrations by J O A N W O N G

AFAR

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WE WERE ABOUT 30 MINUTES from our destination—a campsite near Namibia’s renowned Brandberg Mountain—when we noticed a few cars pulled over to the side of the road. “Cars on the road? Multiple?” I said to my husband, incredulous. By that point, we had been road-tripping around Namibia, one of the least densely populated countries in the world, for 10 days. Driving, we had passed one car per hour, on average. We slowed down, curious to see what was causing the commotion. Tourists were taking photographs of bare-breasted women who wore beaded necklaces and reddish braids. We had finally found the seminomadic Himba tribe, famous for their intricate hairstyles, bodies covered with red ochre mud, and perceived beauty overall. They are ancestors to the Herero people, who arrived in Namibia in the 16th century as subsistence cattle farmers. Prior to tourism, they had little contact with outsiders. I was less fascinated by the Himba women than by the overall scene. It was December 2017, but it could have been decades earlier. White tourists in khaki shorts scrunched up their faces as they peered through their cameras’ viewfinders, trying to capture the perfect shot of these “exotic” African tribeswomen. As soon as the tourists were satisfied with their work, they forked over some cash. We watched these events unfold from inside our rental car across the street. Before we knew it, a Himba woman approached us and demanded we take her photo in exchange for $20. We declined her request and drove off. The moment with the Himba recalled an unexpected village tour my husband and I Excerpted from the book took in 2013 in northern Thailand. We were Tread Brightly. on a three-day trek through rice paddies Copyright © 2021 outside Chiang Mai when our guide told us our by Sarika Bansal.

next stop was a Kayan village. I was surprised, since I had specifically asked not to visit the village. The idea of human tourism didn’t sit well with me. But it was too late. Someone was already asking for an entrance fee. Kayan women are known for wearing so many brass rings around their necks that their heads appear almost disembodied. They start with a few necklaces when they are young children, and over time, more than 20 pounds of rings will depress their shoulders and give the illusion of an elongated neck. Walking into the village, something felt off. It looked artificial in some way, as if created for tourists. We called our guide over and had him translate as I attempted a basic conversation with a woman and her daughter. I remember that the woman looked a little bewildered. She told me that her family came from Myanmar, that her husband was often working in faraway rice paddies, and that her daughter liked math. She was nice enough to answer the questions I asked about the brass rings, like if they hurt (they didn’t) and if she slept with them on (she did). I did eventually take a photo, but I never felt comfortable sharing it on social media. Only later did I learn that my instincts were correct. The Kayan people fl d Myanmar in the 1990s for Thailand, whose government granted them “conflict refugee” status. They now live in guarded tourist villages like the one I unwillingly visited, but have not been granted citizenship. They are not permitted to live outside the tourist villages, cannot return to Myanmar for fear of violence, and have no real rights in Thailand as stateless people. In a blog post, physicist and travel writer Katie Foote described the Kayan village she visited as “a live-in gift shop.” Both the Kayan and the Himba women existed as flat, ancient objects in the tourist imagination. Our jobs as visitors was to disregard their inner lives and instead gawk at their unusual adornments. But is there an ethical way to visit people from distinctive and sometimes endangered cultures like these? In the most generous evaluation, perhaps even a brief meeting can strengthen both parties’ understanding of the world. After all, who are we—any of us—to adjudicate what a worthwhile interaction looks like? What may look like a shallow exchange to me may have a profound effect on someone else. Further, tourism may help some of these cultures preserve their rich traditions. Without the cash incentive that accompanies tourism, it’s possible that the Himba and Kayan people would find it difficult to continue the unique elements of their cultures. But is there a line to draw? Why does my stomach turn when I see a staged village atmosphere filled with tourists and cameras? The root of my discomfort, I think, is that the experience is rarely an honest cultural exchange. In neither Namibia nor Thailand did I see signs of natural social interaction. Except for the money, the visitor is not there to give anything of themselves. Rather, the tourist is promised the chance to consume a foreign culture. They pay to feel, if fl etingly,

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like a colonial explorer “discovering” a primitive people—complete with foreign rituals and markers of beauty. They pay to gawk at people who represent a time before smart watches and drones. In 2005, Will Jones, the founder of a sustainable safari agency called Journeys by Design, delivered a lecture about the people of Ethiopia’s Lower Omo Valley. He focused part of his talk on tourism to visit the Mursi people, who are known for their large lip plates, piercings, and body paint: The Mursi see the act of photography as predatory, rich Westerners taking photographs of the poor African, and not just of the poor but of a particular, altered area of their bodies—not of their cattle, their lifestyle or their homes. As [Mursi anthropologist] David Turton again points out, the Mursi realize that photographs are being taken not because the rich traveler wishes to emulate the practice, but because it represents this power imbalance and a gulf between the rich, technologically advanced world and the poorer, technologically backward world of the Mursi. Another psychological challenge for the Mursi is the sense that they are being visited by a globally mobile audience, whilst they remain trapped at the end of a dead-end road, marginalized and captured on film. What happens if someone from a tribal community decides they want a taste of modernity? If this person decides they want a cell phone and

The root of my discomfort, I think, is that the experience is rarely an honest cultural exchange.

a university degree and a job in the big city? This is why there are so many image results if you google “Maasai warrior cell phone.” Many people think it apocryphal that someone may simultaneously wear non-Western attire, carry a spear, and text heart-eye emojis to their girlfriend. Modern ambition destroys the mirage of the primitive tribesperson. In his talk, Jones mentions the Maasai, tribal people of Kenya and Tanzania, as offering a potential solution to the exploitative status quo. The Maasai themselves manage many of their tourist villages. The entrance fee permits the visitor not just to take photos, but also to watch a dance performance and get a proper tour of the village. Some may consider this an ugly commercialization of the Maasai culture, but on the other hand, it’s directed by the community itself, and it encourages the tourists to learn something about the people and places they visit. I was once on the receiving end of being the cultural oddity, when I was on my honeymoon in Cuba. In keeping with Indian tradition, my wedding had included a mehendi, or henna, ceremony. A few days later, I was exploring the streets of Viñales with my hands and feet temporarily dyed in intricate maroon swirls and paisleys. I first noticed a few people pointing me out to their friends. Soon, people began to stop me. I learned quickly that Bollywood movies are big in Cuba. According to the people I met, films dubbed in Spanish are broadcast on national television every Friday night. I also learned that most Cubans had never met an Indian person, especially one who looked as “exotic” as I did at that moment. I speak Spanish, and love meeting new people, so I used the fascination with my mehendi as a foot in the door to a cultural exchange. I explained that I had just gotten married. On my phone, I showed them a few wedding photos, which apparently looked as colorful as the movies they watched. They told me about Cuban wedding traditions. We talked about how people around the world aren’t so different from each other after all. In their eyes, I was the “other,” the human symbol of a faraway culture. But unlike the Himba, Kayan, or Mursi women, I could engage with these curious Cubans on my own terms. I wasn’t being forced to parade my heritage, nor was I being held captive in a life that may or may not have felt authentic to me. I had the agency to transform the casual gawking into something I think allowed both sides to benefit: a human connection. Sarika Bansal is a Nairobi-based writer and the editor of the essay collection Tread Brightly: Notes on Ethical Travel (May 2021).

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DRY the desert is

HOME In the remote Faroe Islands, a photographer meets local guides and hosts embracing their roots.

Photographs by C E L E S T E N O C H E Illustrations by P E I T A B L Y T H E

LAND

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w ha t d oe s it mean t o lea v e home? What does it mean to stay, especially for people who face limited choices? Photographer Celeste Noche thinks a lot about these questions. Noche grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, but she was deeply influenced by the instability her mother, Erlinda, experienced as an immigrant from the Philippines. After fl eing dangerous conditions in 1980, Erlinda started over in the United States with Noche’s two older sisters, before Celeste and her brother were born. “She went through a lot,” Noche reflects. “She was working as a single parent, she changed jobs often, and had to start over again and again. I wonder where she would be if she’d been able to stay in the Philippines with more family and access to things she knew. But that wasn’t really an option for her.” Noche’s mother’s life has inspired Noche to consider the complex relationships we all have to home. And, as a photographer, Noche is drawn to people who live in remote places where populations are small, even declining. So when Noche visited the Faroe Islands—an archipelago (and part of the Kingdom of Denmark) in the North Atlantic with around 53,000 people—she was curious to see how the people she met were able to make a life (and a living) in their home country, in large part thanks to the burgeoning local travel industry. Rather than leaving the islands for economic opportunities elsewhere, “a lot of the [younger] people I met were able to stay in a place that was special to them culturally and personally and still have careers that gave them agency,” she says. “They weren’t being forced to take over the family business. A lot of them adapted to the increasing tourism so they could become stewards of their homeland.” Many of the entrepreneurs she met during her weeklong trip realized they could use their skills and also make a positive impact on the community they were raised in. Harriet Olafsdóttir av Gørðum and John Petursson av Gørðum, a couple she met in the community of Æðuvík, had renovated a farmhouse and welcomed travelers into

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their home for multicourse meals, part of a broader movement called heimablídni in which locals host dinners to showcase their cuisine and culture. Jóhannus Hansen runs adventure tours through his company Reika Adventures in the same places he grew up hiking. He now advocates for their preservation. And Katrin Bærentsen, who had initially moved away and engaged in queer activism abroad, realized that her home country needed such activist work and she could create change there; when Noche met her in the capital city of Tórshavn, she had helped advance queer rights in the Faroes and had founded a surfing business, teaching people how to enjoy the icy waters of the North Atlantic on their boards. This deliberate decision to stay (or return) home, especially to make things better, captured Noche’s imagination. The landscape of the Faroe Islands did, too—distinctive rocky outcroppings rising from the sea and expanses of green and sea and sky. “Taking photos, I kept thinking, ‘This is somebody’s home. This is new and exciting to me, but it’s someone’s home every day. It’s comforting to someone.’ ” Noche tries to bring that perspective to her photography. “When I think of my approach to home through photos, I don’t always want to look at things as if they’re being ‘discovered.’ Discovery is an overdone, simplified way of understanding something,” Noche says. For her, experiencing the landscape and environment of the Faroe Islands was more about how sacred that place was to the people who live there. “It’s beautiful for me to witness, but it’s even more special for people who call [the islands] home.” — S A R A B U T T O N Photographer Celeste Noche specializes in food, travel, and portraiture. She splits her time between Portland, Oregon, and the San Francisco Bay Area.

Previous page: The village of Velbastaðu on the island of Streymoy is one of the oldest settlements in the Faroe Islands. Photographer Celeste Noche passed through on her way to visit local sheep, of which there are many on the island. Opposite page: Heimablídni host Harriet Olafsdóttir av Gørðum feeds the chickens on her farm, Hanusarstova, in the community of Æðuvík. Below: Roasted potatoes and breaded fish with caramelized onions are one of several Faroese dishes Harriet and her husband, John Petursson av Gørðum, might serve to guests at their heimablídni dinners.

At right, top: The view from Noche’s Airbnb in Klaksvík, the second-largest city in the archipelago. “After a morning of driving around, we came back to rest and have snacks before setting out for dinner later in the evening,” she says. “I couldn’t believe our luck with the weather— earlier that morning the fjord was clouded in fog.” At right, bottom: Later, Noche took a small ferry from Klaksvík to the island of Kalsoy, where a single road spans the stretch of the island over hills and under mountains. “We slowed often as sheep lazily crossed the roads,” she says about driving on Kalsoy.

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Opposite page, top left: Seafood and root vegetables feature heavily in the Faroese diet, so a heimablídni dinner might include eggs, potatoes, and roasted fish drizzled with browned butter. Opposite page, bottom left: Lena and Jákup Hansen, who live in a home built in 1868, are credited with being among the first to host heimablídni dinners in the Faroe Islands. Opposite page, bottom right: The Faroese goose—raised for its meat and feathers— is indigenous to the islands and considered to be the oldest type of goose in Europe. This page: At another heimablídni dinner, this one hosted by a couple who live on a ninth-generation farm in the village of Velbastaðu, Noche joined 16 other guests for a multi-course Faroese meal.

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The Future of Hospitality

STYLI NG BY AN NA RABEN

w ha t d oe s ho sp it alit y mean in 2 021? What should it mean? Traditional definitions put the guest front and center, first and foremost. But after a devastating year for the travel industry, we can no longer dine out, drink up, or bed down responsibly without considering the livelihoods of the people who help make our experiences possible. Hospitality—once thought to flow in just one direction—is mutual. It goes both ways. It is also about more than dining, drinking, and staying somewhere. How can we be better to the planet? To our fellow travelers? We don’t have a crystal ball when it comes to the future, but we have some ideas—and, true to the spirit of hospitality, we didn’t come up with them alone. — K A T H E R I N E L A G R A V E

Photographs by KELSEY McCLELLAN

Illustrations by SAM ISLAND

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THE F U T UR E OF HOSPITA LIT Y

On the Road, Again A longtime solo traveler takes her first postpandemic trip—through the charming villages of southeast England—and wonders if there’s truly such a thing as traveling alone anymore. by Emma John

as lo ckd o w n be g an t o lif t in the U.K., I decided to attempt a grand tour of my own country: At the wheel of my trusty two-seater, I would explore the British Isles end to end, from the Scottish Highlands to the west of Ireland to England’s south coast. What an adventure! I could hardly wait. But soon, I realized something—I didn’t actually want to go. The distances felt overwhelming; the thought of booking hotels made my chest tighten. Logistics I would once have reveled in now weighed on me. My heart and mind were in unison: They wanted me to take it much, much easier. In the past, I’ve felt compelled to put as many miles as I could under my tires; now, I found myself sketching out possibly the slowest road trip of all time. I would set ff from my Buckinghamshire home in southeast England, taking quiet country roads through the Chiltern Hills and the rolling South Downs to the rural county of Wiltshire. I made Bath—a city I once lived in for a year and knew well—my turning point, and plotted a homeward route through the quaint villages of Oxfordshire, where some of my friends lived. In 16 days, I planned to cover 160 miles. I could, frankly, have walked it. There was another reason for miniaturizing my ambitions. As someone who tends to take trips alone, I revel in my freedom, the sense of being beholden to no one but myself. But if I was going to resume travel, I couldn’t in good conscience ignore the potential impact on those making it possible. The selfless service of so many frontline workers during a period of global existential crisis had inspired in me a desire to be a better citizen. At the very least, I could approach travel with an increased sense of personal responsibility. And in a way, that meant putting others before myself. I set ff with a suitcase loaded with plastic vials and longhandled swabs—courtesy of the U.K. government’s free rapidresult testing kits—and a contact-tracing app downloaded on my phone that was silently, but continually, scanning my environment. I wanted to ensure I wasn’t unknowingly

carrying the virus to the very people (accommodation hosts, waitstaff, museum volunteers) facilitating my trip. Pulling up at my first night’s lodging, a chalet in the garden of a couple who lived in beautiful seclusion in the Hampshire woods, I was aware of a powerful new perspective: the understanding that I was being allowed into other people’s space and that this was a privilege in itself. As the days rolled on, there was an incongruous sense of drama as I checked in at every venue I visited. Tearooms, cathedrals, the house where Jane Austen wrote her novels: Any one of these seemingly harmless locations could bring an abrupt end to my trip. If I was closely exposed to a confirmed case, I would be notifi d and instructed to self-isolate for a week. I chose activities that would lessen my exposure—and my hosts’ exposure—to risk. Gardens and walking tours were safer than crowded galleries, and alfresco dining preferable to the indoor kind, especially if I kept a blanket handy in the trunk of my car. Throughout, the generosity with which I was welcomed—by folks whose very livelihoods are wholly dependent on visitors—made me determined to repay their efforts by being a better guest. Communicating well seemed a good place to begin, as did honoring their time by arriving (and departing) when I said I would. I left every place as neat and tidy as possible, knowing that stringent hygiene-safety regulations put considerable additional burdens on those cleaning up after me. The less they had to do, the better. I was determined, too, to acknowledge and learn more about the people I was encountering on the journey. Social distancing might keep us physically apart—even encourage a certain wariness—but I could counter

that by arriving with a sense of the fellow human I was about to meet. I read the “About Us” sections of restaurant websites and the public profiles of my Airbnb hosts: Simon, the carpenter who had built by hand the Hampshire cabin I stayed in; Brian, the Canadian actor-turned-tour guide who took me on a literary walk around Winchester. I paid more attention to the waiters and chefs and bartenders and swimming pool attendants whose all-butinvisible ministrations had never seemed more tender. After a couple of days rediscovering Bath’s resplendent Georgian streets and cozy wine bars, I climbed out of the steep Avon valley and along quiet Oxfordshire roads for the final leg of my trip. It occurred to me, as I savored those last lingering days of village pubs and quirky high streets,

how quickly we become attached to places when we see them not as destinations, but as communities we’re invited to temporarily belong to. As travelers, it’s natural for us to want to get the most out of the time and money we’ve invested in a trip. But along with its many harsh legacies, the pandemic has offered this softer one: a reminder that when we’re traveling, we’re sharing life with others. A reminder that their experience of our mutual encounter is just as important as our own—if not more so. Emma John is a contributing writer for AFAR.

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Back to the Future

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As we travelers emerge, slowly and optimistically, from the pandemic, so too do the people and places that host us. Along with this reemergence? A recognition that things won’t ever be “the same.” Here, eight leaders reflect on the industry’s biggest question: What’s next for hospitality? by Katherine LaGrave and Annie Fitzsimmons

Companies will be held more accountable. “Before the pandemic, we were getting calls about sustainability. Now we’re seeing: ‘OK, so you’re celebrating Juneteenth, but what are you doing in addition? What does your leadership look like? What does your Board of Directors look like? What initiatives are you doing internally to promote these things?’ Customers are not out there for those one-liners. They want to know what exactly it is you’re doing.” —Victor Simmons, vice president of HR and head of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion at Ace Hotel/Atelier Ace

Technology will be better utilized to fight climate change. “At Red Carnation Hotels and Uniworld Boutique River Cruises, we’re implementing AI technology to cut our food waste in half. Effectively, it can establish a baseline of how much food waste is going out in about six weeks. We can do that simply through weighing the waste. In some cases, there’s a screen where we’re storing up the garbage and can identify the items. AI technology takes a really practical approach to food—serving sizes, garnishes, and items that just really aren’t being eaten or sold—and how we can reduce waste and get food at the source. “If you think about the supply chain with the hotelier at the top, you’ve got all of these services that can reduce or remove waste, single-use plastics, and excessive transport on our food stocks. The supply chain opportunity is very, very exciting. It’s why I always turn my nose up at the fact that people will say, ‘Oh, if you’re not small and bespoke, you can’t be sustainable.’ I call that hogwash. If you’re a big player, you have such a massive opportunity for change.” —Shannon Guihan, chief TreadRight and Sustainability officer at the Travel Corporation

Travel will become more accessible for all. Some 1.2 billion people globally have a disability, but more than half don’t travel because of a lack of information. Stephen Cluskey, a United Nations–certified accessibility expert, is the cofounder of Mobility Mojo, a company that helps hotels share their accessibility details online. He shares his vision for “normalizing accessibility.” How does accessibility affect everyone? This is about your elderly mother, your father with the bad hip, and your bad back. People tend to think accessibility is a big bathroom and a ramp, but it’s so much broader than that.

How do hospitality and a responsibility to provide access go hand in hand? Hotels have these assets that they’re not utilizing. Accessible bedrooms have the lowest occupancy rates and are the last to be booked. People with accessibility needs, on average, stay longer than your general traveler and spend more. If you think about a scenario where someone like myself—as a wheelchair user—is traveling, I’m not traveling by myself. I’m going to stay in the one accessible bedroom, which is the deciding factor for where the rest of the group and I go. The business case for this is around that one accessible bedroom, and the rest of the group staying in four, five, six other bedrooms as a result. How does this potential make you feel? I’m paralyzed from the neck down, but I need no more fulfillment in my life than what we’re doing. It’s incredible to think the team and I have the potential to impact more than a billion people around the world. We’re incredibly excited to see changes at every hotel in the world. We believe we’ll get there.

Indigenous producers will be prioritized. Sean Sherman grew up on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, where he remembers having a “single grocery store to service an area the size of Connecticut.” Since then, he has worked to revitalize Native American cuisine: He is founder and CEO of the catering and education business the Sioux Chef, cofounder of North American Traditional Indigenous Food Systems, and coowner/executive chef of the new Minneapolis restaurant Owamni, which serves food made exclusively with Indigenous ingredients and has a beverage list sourced almost entirely from Indigenous producers. “We just really want to try and elevate people coming from BIPOC communities that don’t have the same deck of cards,” Sherman says. “For me, struggling to even get to a position like this—to be able to talk about these issues—is a long path. There were a lot of hurdles to overcome. In turn, as we developed how we go about things and how we do things, purchasing is a big part of the philosophy. We prioritize purchasing from Indigenous producers—first locally, and then nationally—and then we support our local food system as much as we can.”

We will keep learning. “Part of my work is to remember that this isn’t my work—it’s community work. There’s no one person; there are no 10 people. It is a collective transformative process. The hospitality industry is in a deep learning curve right now. Some people are going to fall off while it’s still going up, but if you want any type of transformation, you have to allow for that time.” —Ashtin Berry, hospitality activist

Businesses will set new social norms. “It’s actually not about doing things better. It’s about changing deeply the way we work. If we keep doing the same things but try to just mitigate our impact, we are always going to run behind climate change and biodiversity loss. We cannot afford that. This requires radical change. “We need to understand what our guests want, but our responsibility is to give them more options. A company that is responsible needs to not wait for customers to ask, then process this ask, and then turn it into something real, because it takes too much time. We need to be proactive. We can define new social norms.” —Brune Poirson, chief sustainability officer, Accor

Guests will give (even more) back to the world.

“There’s this tremendous intersection between hospitality and exposing people to the wonders of the natural world, and that creates a very, very powerful dynamic, which I think is going to be even more powerful. Once upon a time, ‘sustainable’ was considered the Holy Grail—‘Leave no footprint. Don’t do any damage.’ I don’t think that’s enough anymore, because we have done a lot of damage. There are opportunities to get companies and guests to really engage in regenerative travel, because we’ve got to repair a lot. We’ve got to repair cultural divides, we’ve got to repair monuments, we’ve got to repair to the degree that we can be effective. “There’s all kinds of science that says the thing that makes people happiest is giving to other people. You should say to yourself: Ensure that my behavior is not negative in relationship to whatever I’m doing or wherever I’m going. Secondly, ask yourself: What are some creative things that I can do to be helpful, beyond just not being negative? If you create an ethos around that, everybody wins.” —Sven Lindblad, founder of Lindblad Expeditions, a luxury adventure cruise and travel company that is 100 percent carbon neutral

Women will have stronger support networks. In November 2020, nine women restaurateurs in Los Angeles came together to launch Regarding Her, a nonprofit formed in response to the impact of COVID-19 on the hospitality industry. By January 2021 they had held their first 10-day festival, planned to occur annually, connecting more than 100 female food and beverage entrepreneurs through collaborations, conversations, and virtual events. Today, Regarding Her provides support for women in hospitality businesses via grants, networking opportunities, and more. “The hospitality industry was not always the most ‘hospitable’ place for women—it was very much a boys’ club,” says Brittney Valles, owner of Guerrilla Tacos and one of the nonprofit’s founders. “So many women before us paved the way for this industry to be more welcoming to women. It is our job to maintain the space. When we encourage women leaders and success for women, we propel hospitality forward. In the future, we will see restaurant owners as community leaders, and that will largely be due to the influence of women.”

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Golden Rules of Being a Good Guest

Take the time to say hello.

“We interface with people all day, from all different walks of life. Where that interaction may not affect their day, a smile or kind word has a big effect on our days in hospitality. A kind word from a guest can make the difference between a good and a bad day. I guess that’s true for anyone, but especially for hospitality workers.” —Albert Rezk, director of rooms at Kayak Hotels Group

Our vacations wouldn’t be possible without the tour guides, housekeepers, concierges, cooks, and bartenders we encounter along the way. Here, their suggestions for making their days—and your trips—just a little bit better. by Tim Chester and Laura Dannen Redman

Eat responsibly.

“As a chef, you see what people are really eating. I want to make sure I’m cross-utilizing ingredients and keeping portion size front of mind so there’s less waste. If you’re dining out, it’s great to share items family style. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.” —Mona Guerrero, chef de cuisine at California’s coastal Terranea Resort

Be sensitive.

“A country’s past and its politics shape its people, but it doesn’t define them. If you wish to dig deeper into difficult topics when chatting with locals, do so with sensitivity. There are many countries that have gone through eras of conflict, and these experiences may influence how a foreign guest is perceived by locals. Showing empathy toward people and seeking to understand how these events influenced them is a way of honoring another nation.” —Alfred Sze, Hong Kong–based Asia/Pacific guide for Kensington Tours

Consider leaving something extra before checking out.

“We always appreciate when guests recognize that all of these experiences take human effort. And we appreciate it when they show their gratitude to us by giving gratuities.” —From the housekeeping staff at Casa Kimberly, a luxury boutique hotel in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

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Listen—and learn—from the local community.

“The most meaningful experiences I’ve had with visitors to Trancoso are introducing capoeira to them and persuading them to join me for a spontaneous visit to the public academy to practice with the community. The local players adore having an audience to show off to and teach, and they’re incredibly proud that people want to meet them, to learn their culture. It’s a beautiful human exchange, full of laughter and smiles.” —Carlos França, capoeira player and senior concierge at Uxua Casa Hotel & Spa, Trancoso, Brazil

Give a little grace.

“Bars and restaurants have been fi hting for their lives, and most team members signed on to help save the ship—but now it’s gone from triage to running a marathon overnight. Remember that your server probably worked for months not knowing whether they would randomly get COVID and potentially die. Remember that mask mandates and safety protocols vary widely, so what you’re used to may not be the norm. Don’t be alarmed if you see service included, an insurance fee, or any other fee that you aren’t used to; revenues are down and wages are up, so everyone has to find ways to recruit competent team members, and invariably that will be passed along to consumers via prices or fees.” —Neal Bodenheimer, managing partner of CureCo. and operator of Peychaud’s, New Orleans

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THE F U T UR E OF HOSPITA LIT Y

Here to Stay

Twenty years after the attacks of September 11, we’re still carrying our conditioner in “travel-size” containers. What shifts in behavior—and protocol— are likely to outlast the pandemic? by Michelle Baran

Smaller (and slower) travel

The comfort of clean

A (real) biometric boom

Alfresco everything

Crowds were a big no-no during the height of COVID in the United States. As a result, private winetastings, personal chefs, small-group tours, and hospitality experiences catering to pandemic “pods” all saw spikes in demand. While some people may be ready to head straight into a sweltering mosh pit after being vaccinated, others, who enjoyed the benefits of more intimate activities—the personalization and greater attention to detail among them—haven’t been so quick to return to crowds. Expect this hyperpersonalization to continue to manifest in myriad ways: travelers choosing small-ship expeditions and river cruises over megaships; vacation rentals with enhanced concierge services. Trips will likely get longer, too: COVID-related travel mandates (like quarantine and testing requirements) have made shorter getaways less attractive, and a more remote workforce means it will be easier than ever to blend travel and “work” by the pool.

Research now shows that exposure to infected respiratory droplets—not to contaminated surfaces—is the primary source of virus transmission. But we got comfortable knowing that everything we touched was being sanitized: Four Seasons Hotels and Resorts partnered with Johns Hopkins Medicine International to consult on cleanliness, and Hilton linked up with Lysol to make disinfecting a top priority. Airlines, for their part, showcased their commitment to giving their aircraft a more thorough scrub-down and made contactless check-in more widely available at terminals— and even on planes. (JetBlue now offers touchless seatback screens; use your phone as a remote instead.) This fixation on cleanliness won’t disappear but will evolve with time, comprising cleaning tech resembling something out of The Jetsons: Think airport bathroom–cleaning bots, UV smartphone–cleaning docks in hotels, and fogging devices that spray disinfectant.

Touchless technology was already on the rise as a matter of convenience: Airlines implemented facial recognition technology to speed up the boarding process, and Customs and Border Protection added it to Global Entry kiosks at more than 150 U.S. airports. But now that personal health status has become an unavoidable factor of the travel experience, touchless tech is necessary for the efficient identification of our vaccination and/or COVIDtesting status, too. Already, there are numerous vaccine and health passport apps in development, including the IBM Digital Health Pass, the CommonPass, and the International Air Transport Association’s IATA Travel Pass. Privacy advocates have long voiced concerns about governments cataloging our faces and fingerprints; the issue is no less contentious when it comes to personal health information. But like it or not, vaccine passport apps and mobile health technology are with us for good.

What started with social distancing evolved into a more pleasant way to experience gatherings of all kinds. Hotels enhanced their outdoor areas to help guests get more fresh air; parking spaces became parklets. The public—still wary of being in close quarters with strangers—flocked. Instead of treating this flexibility as a short-term solution, the savviest hotels, bars, restaurants, and destinations have recognized its potential. In May, New York City mayor Bill de Blasio signed the Open Streets program—which blocked off streets exclusively for pedestrians—into law. In June, Paris announced its 9,800 oncetemporary cafés-terrasses would become permanent from April to October. Meanwhile, new hotel (and Stay List pick, p. 33) Paradero Todos Santos on Mexico’s Baja California Sur peninsula has committed fully to the outdooras-indoor concept, with a lobby, spa, and suites set somewhere in between. Call it the power of the pivot.

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THIS

Azerbaijani photographer Rena Effendi first visited the country’s highest inhabited village in 2003. She’s been going back ever since.

LI FE

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Many of the houses in Khinaliq are connected, says photographer Rena Effendi. “I call it the staircase to the sky. In the morning, you wake up and you get on the roof and drink tea and exchange gossip and rumors with the neighbors. Everyone is talking from roof to roof. It’s a fairy-tale setting” (2006).

For the last 18 years, photographer Rena Effendi—born in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan—has repeatedly visited and chronicled the remote mountain village of Khinaliq (population: 2,000), the country’s highest inhabited point, where evidence of human civilization dates to the Bronze Age. There she’s documented the intersection of ancient traditions and insular customs with encroaching modernity. Writer and comedian Negin Farsad, who has familial roots in Azerbaijan, recently spoke with Rena about her project.

Clockwise from top left: Family members on the porch of their home (2006); view of the village (2009); sisters hold a plate of boiled chickpeas that will be used to make tikya bozbash, a meal of mutton, potatoes, and vegetables (2009); an interior of a typical home painted in bright colors (2009).

What initially led you to Khinaliq? I’d heard about this place that was near Russia in the mountainous Guba region. I heard it was extremely difficult to get to and that it was impenetrable. I thought, “Wow, how exciting. This would be an amazing journey.” Among the people who went there, there were all these legends and rumors [about the residents]: “Oh, these people, they’re different. They’re taller than we are, they’re blond and blue-eyed and they

NEGIN FARSAD RENA EFFENDI

speak their own language. It’s almost like you’re in a time capsule.” So I decided to go. At the time you could only get there with local Khinalug drivers, who were also shepherds. They were also the people who would feed the village, because they went to the market down below in Guba, where they would pick up all the products because nothing grows in Khinaliq. The village is above the tree line, so they have to buy everything down below and then bring it up. Anyway, I got in one of those cars, and we got stuck three or four

Khinaliq resident Sadaget bakes bread in a tandoor oven at home (2006). Married women traditionally cook, clean, and watch the children while their husbands tend to grazing sheep flocks in the mountain pastures around the village.

times in rivers and streams. At one point, water was coming inside the car. Thank god, there are some villages on the way where you can ask for support. The drivers would go up to the village and get other drivers with cars to pull us out of the river. NEGIN In the years since that first trip, the government built a better road, right? RENA Just before they started building the road in 2006, I went again. Then I went back in 2009. Khinalugs are a semi-nomadic people.

They would spend summers in the village, and during the winters, many would go down to lower pastures with the flock. When the government built the road, it became not necessary to travel so much. Yet many of them still prefer to. They built the road and things became easier in terms of ferrying food and supplies, and it’s become a little bit more connected. Also, the physical look of the village has changed, because people have access to cheaper and more convenient construction materials.

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Sadaget at home (2018). Says Rena: “I showed her the photograph of her I had taken when she was 31, and she giggled and said back then she was young and beautiful and it’s been a long time. She feared she did not age gracefully.”

Obviously, plastic windows and door frames are easier and more practical than their old wooden rickety doors and windows. Those started appearing, and they’ve changed the look of the houses. In some of the older photographs, you can see the way they used to hand paint the walls. NEGIN They’re beautiful. RENA That’s disappeared, because they’ve started plastering the walls, just like apartments in cities. You can’t judge them for it. They want

their home to be convenient. It’s their home. Who are we to tell them, “No, you should keep the culture and keep the authentic look”? We don’t live in their home. NEGIN I think it’s a hard needle to thread. That thing where you want to keep something looking old and beautiful and interesting. I was looking at those hand-painted walls and I just thought, “I want my apartment in Manhattan to look like that.” It looks so beautiful. As you’re describing how they live, how they leave in the winter

Clockwise from top left: At a wedding feast, men dig into mutton kebabs beneath a tent on a street of the village (2009); a woman does her wash using cold water from a nearby stream (2009); village kids (2006); new building materials, such as tin roofs, have changed the look of Khinaliq (2018).

and come back in the summer—and how difficult it was to get supplies in those early days—the question that kept coming up in my mind was, why did they stay? RENA One of the reasons I kept going back [to the village] is because that’s the same question I asked myself. I asked them as well and I couldn’t really get an answer that made any sense to me. When I asked them, they said, “It’s our land and that’s enough.” For me, because I’m such a nomad, and I’ve been living in places and traveling

all the time, I don’t have that emotional attachment to a piece of land that they do. I want to say I understand them, but it’s on a very abstract level. I can’t fully grasp this idea of being so attached to your homeland. It’s their ancestral homes; it’s their lands that they want to pass on to the next generation. It’s also their way of life that’s been passed on from one generation to another. It’s a village of shepherds. It’s not a bad livelihood. I think that’s the reason why it continued in spite of hardship. I talked to the people

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Village postman Badal Lalayev played an essential role in getting messages into and out of the community before the arrival of cell phone technology and the internet (2006).

and I said, “Look, how beautiful it is.” They said, “Well, beautiful but difficult.” That was their answer. NEGIN I was looking at one of your photos that had a bunch of kids looking at a cell phone. A lot of the kids have left over the years you’ve documented the village. Do you think that the [arrival of the] smartphone contributed to that? RENA I think so. When I went there for the first time in 2003, the only way for the village to communicate with the outside world was a post

ffi e and a man on horseback. I met him. He was the village postman, and he was the way the village communicated with the outside world. When they built the road, slowly telephone networking came in. Then finally, in 2010 or 2011, they put a cellular antenna in the village. Last time when I went in 2018, my phone worked. I could check my Instagram. NEGIN Terrible. RENA It’s terrible in some ways. At the same time, I saw pictures that I’d taken of people over the years in their homes, printed from Instagram.

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Friends play a game on a smartphone (2018). When Rena first visited, Khinaliq lacked cell phone coverage. Today most young people in the village have their own Facebook and Instagram accounts and are able to surf the internet from their homes thanks to a recently installed 3G network.

The kids see more and more about the outside world. It’s not just the TV or the postman who brings the news. The floodgate has opened. They want to stay connected, and they want to have different jobs. Maybe they don’t want to be shepherds anymore. Maybe they don’t want the hardship. I met a couple of boys who I photographed when they were very young, and I met them again as young men. One of them was a soldier, just back from the army on a summer break. He was back home with his parents and he said, “It’s really boring for me. I don’t

think I want to continue living here. It’s a small village.” Once you get a taste of going to the club, you want to be around people your age, you want to have fun, you want to have adventures. RENA It’s a global phenomenon. It’s not just there. I think it’s everywhere. I see it all around the world when I document small communities, rural communities. They’re losing their youth, and the old farmers don’t know who to pass the farm on to, unless you really entice them financially. It’s becoming harder and harder to do. NEGIN

Clockwise from top left: Zulfiya with her 6-year-old brother Behjat (2006); Behjat, now 18 years old, wants to find a job in the city (2018); 8-year-old Bakhtiyar stands next to motal, traditional cheese aged in sheepskin (2006); Bakhtiyar, shown here at 20, said, “I can’t wait to live somewhere else” (2018).

You talk to the older people there, and they’ve seen the road being built. They’ve seen the cellular network come. They’ve seen their own children leave. How are they handling that change? RENA They’re philosophical about it. They say, “This is life.” I don’t think they’re trying to restrain the kids. They too understand the hardships of living there. They shrug it off. This is a fact of life. NEGIN What is the local religion in the village? RENA Most of Azerbaijan is Shia Muslim. The country was part of NEGIN

the Soviet Union for 71 years, so we weren’t really allowed to practice any religion for many years. Today the country is very tolerant. It’s a secular society. Religion is not imposed on anyone. In this particular village, they’re Sunni Muslim. They’re socially conservative but are quite accepting. They will not judge you based on your religion. You can be a Jew, you can be a Christian, you can be anyone you want, an atheist; they’re not going to judge you. They’re socially conservative in the sense that families are quite

Clockwise from top left: Young bride Gunel waits in the bedroom of her home before her wedding (2009); men feast on mutton and beer (2009); wedding musicians play music (2009); at a marriage ceremony, women and men eat separately and meet once the dancing spills out onto the street (2009).

traditional and women don’t live outside their home unless they’re married. Many marriages are arranged between relatives or other family members from the region. NEGIN You alluded to this a little bit earlier, but now it just seems like modernity is there, it’s in the village, it’s on the phones. . . . RENA It’s at the doorstep. Yes. NEGIN It’s at their doorstep. Right. Are you worried? What are your predictions about this village?

I’ve been worried since 2006. I even thought, “OK, well, now they have the road and it will change dramatically.” To my surprise, I went back in 2018, and it hadn’t changed as dramatically as I had expected it to. The young people are connected to the outside world more through social media, but older people really don’t use [the internet] much. Some physical appearance is changing as well, but it’s not as dramatic as I thought it could be. I’m still optimistic that it will continue to survive. Let’s see what happens. It’s a place that really draws me in,

RENA

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Family members congratulate the groom Bahman by hanging silk fabric around his neck (2009). Most wedding rituals are centered around the groom, while the bride waits inside the home to be brought out for a brief moment.

especially because I’ve been going for so long and I love drawing parallels and photographing the same people over and over again, and seeing how they change. NEGIN It makes me want to see this place. Your photos set the vibe so beautifully. It really does seem remarkable. RENA For sure. It’s one of the most pristine, untouched village settings I’ve seen in Eurasia. It’s not for mass tourism, but it is for those adventurous travelers who want to come close to the culture, who want

to understand the people. The Khinalug hospitality is very special. They welcome you into their homes and let you be part of their life for a few days without trying too hard to impress you. They’re very sweet and accommodating. Just lovely, lovely people. Negin Farsad last wrote about global citizenship in the January/February 2021 issue of AFAR. Photographer Rena Effendi shot Uzbekistan for the November/ December 2019 issue of AFAR.

B E YO N D A L O H A

F O R Y E A R S, H AWA I‘ I H A S B E E N PAC K AG E D A S A P I C T U R E S Q U E PA R A D I S E . A P L AC E W H E R E M A I N L A N D T R AV E L E R S C O U L D F O RG E T T H E WO R R I E S O F H O M E .

—— — — —— — — — — — — —— ——— —————— —— — — ——— ———— — — — — — — — — — — — — ——— — — — — — — — —— — ——— — — — — ——

— ——— — — — — — — —— — — ——— —————I O N — — — — — —— — — — — — — — — — — — — — ——— — — —— — — —— ——— — — — ——— —— —— — — — — — — —— — — —— — ——— — — — — —— — — —— — — — — — ——— — — ———

A WHILE BACK,

at a particularly apexy apex of pandemic awfulness, an acquaintance of mine posted a photo on Instagram. White sand, turquoise water, lush green mountain rising soothingly in the distance. The image was generic—but the Hawai‘irecognizing corner of my temporal lobe lit right up. Wish we were here, this person had written. At some level, yes, of course I wished I was there. But it was a wish with an asterisk, a catch I’ve been grappling with since my last trip to O‘ahu in late 2019. While I only visited O‘ahu on that trip, there, in an idling car in a Honolulu shopping center, all my happy illusions about Hawai‘i as a whole began to unravel. The car belonged to Kyle Kajihiro, an academic and activist, and he was telling me how he fell into his third and highly unofficial line of work. For years Kajihiro watched as visitors from the mainland—perfectly intelligent and thoughtful visitors—transformed when they arrived in Hawai’i. “Even people who are otherwise politically conscious— they’d get to Hawai‘i and their brains just slip into vacation mode,” Kajihiro told me. “They have this vision of Hawai‘i as this multicultural paradise. They don’t understand that there’s a history of colonialism and dispossession inscribed in the landscape itself.” It frustrated Kajihiro, but it occurred to him that there existed a tool to push back against the nearly $18 billion tourism juggernaut responsible for this mindset. The tool was tourism itself. In 2000, he began moonlighting as a funny kind of tour guide—an on-the-side, word-of-mouth, extremely-not-for-money kind of tour guide. One of his stops might be ‘Iolani Palace, where he’d talk about the white businessmen and sugar barons who, backed by the U.S. government and military, staged a coup d’état and overthrew the Hawaiian monarchy in 1893. Or he might head to the Mākua Valley. Considered sacred by many Native Hawaiians, this ground in the foothills of the Wai‘anae Mountains was taken over by the U.S. military in 1942 and used for live-fire training for decades. (It’s still the site of an active Native Hawaiian struggle to stop the military training and to recover and heal the land, Kajihiro says.) Without an introduction, your average haole (foreigner) can’t just make an appointment, but that’s part of the point: Hawai‘i DeTours, as Kajihiro and colleague Terri Keko‘olani call the enterprise, aims to de-center the outsider, who never should’ve been at the center to begin with. Have you sunbathed at Waikīkī Beach? Snorkeled at Shark’s Cove? If so, our route that morning would have seemed confounding. Kajihiro drove us inland, away from the beaches and souvenir shops. Up a gentle hill we went,

and at the top, he pulled over. We were pointed back down the hill now, looking at the most visited tourist destination in the whole state. As many as 4,000 people a day visit Ke Awalau o Pu‘uloa, the inlet shimmering faintly below us. Most of them know it by its newer name, Pearl Harbor. As I tried to picture warplanes roaring in, Kajihiro grabbed a worn binder from the backseat. Opening it up on his lap, he proceeded to walk me through all that had come before that moment in 1941, and all that had led to that moment—history omitted by the USS Arizona Memorial tour. On the day the British explorer Captain James Cook dropped anchor ff Kaua‘i in 1779, a far-reaching colonial project began. In a matter of decades, Hawai‘i wasn’t just descended on by visitors; it was being remade as a more “palatable” simulacrum of itself. Ventures like Honolulu magazine, née Paradise of the Pacific, cropped up in the early 19th century, advertising an exotic land ripe for recreation, if a tad “primitive.” American government subsidies to steamship companies made getting there easier, while enchanted visitors—Mark Twain, notably, in 1866—helped spread the gospel when they returned to the mainland. Hawai‘i was rapidly tamed and reinvented for the mainlander imagination, and soon hotels, restaurants, and other instruments of the tourism industry dotted the landscape. Meanwhile, the U.S. military was making inroads of its own. By the time the Spanish-American War broke out in 1898, underscoring the strategic value of the islands, momentum was in place for annexation. From there it was a relatively direct path to statehood and the Hawai‘i most travelers encounter today. The consequences of this transformation are well documented and frequently ignored: a Native population estimated at 683,000 in 1778 reduced to 24,000 by 1920, all manner of sacred sites obliterated in the process; the Hawaiian language itself and countless traditions all but vanished. Today the once-thriving Indigenous population suffers disproportionate levels of poverty, addiction, incarceration, and homelessness. Those are the broad strokes. The finer ones were glinting in the sun below us. For centuries Ke Awalau o Pu‘uloa was an estuary teeming with fish. More than 20 loko i‘a, or Hawaiian fishponds, were created here, some as large as 100 acres, providing a sustainable source of protein for many on the island. In the early 20th century, the sugarcane industry, urban development, and—especially—military expansion eradicated almost all of the loko i‘a. Now, more than 85,000 acres on O‘ahu—some 25 percent of the island—are controlled by the military. This is the same military whose target practice bombed the island from World War II until 1990, when the Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana halted the bombing, helping to birth the modern sovereignty movement. The same military that wiped out

by Chris Colin

Protesters have used the upside-down Hawaiian fl g as a symbol of their distress—the upside-down flag is also associated with the Hawaiian sovereignty movement.

W H AT I S T H E H AW A I ‘ I S O V E R E I G N T Y MOVEMENT?

Dr. Jonathan Kay Kamakawiwo‘ole Osorio is the Honolulu-based dean of the Hawai‘inuiākea School of Hawaiian Knowledge, an institute committed to researching and revitalizing Hawaiian language, history, and wisdom.

photographs by Brendan George Ko

The sovereignty movement comes out of antimilitary activism in the 1970s. It started to encompass a resentment of the U.S. military in the fight to reclaim Kaho‘olawe Island in the mid-1970s. The movement continued to build and is marked by the commemoration in 1993. [Many] different organizations came together to commemorate 100 years since the illegal overthrow of the Queen and the taking of our Kingdom government in January 1893. What’s at stake here is 1.75 million acres of land—close to half of the lands of the archipelago—and the right of the

Hawaiian people to their own government. But the sovereignty movement is not one monolithic thing. We do not agree among ourselves about what form that sovereignty should take. There are some people who claim that the Kingdom government was a part of this family of nations in the 19th century. They believe that [the Hawaiian] government was entitled to international protection—and still is—and that America’s presence here is as an illegal occupier in the same way that

portraits by Kelsey Ige

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Germany illegally occupied countries during WWII. [Those who believe this think the] U.S. must be compelled to give us our country back, restore our lands, and probably pay a huge lease fee for all of the lands it has used. There are other people in the sovereignty movement who believe that that is never going to happen and so we should pursue a relationship with the United States that allows us control over some of our lands. They call for the U.S. to federally recognize us as a Native people and to restore lands for our people to farm, build on, and prosper from. There is another group of people who say that neither restoration of the kingdom nor federal recognition are good ideas, and that Hawai‘i is entitled to decolonization under the terms that were laid out by the United Nations in the late 1940s for territories that are under the control of foreign countries. Under U.N. and international guidelines, we’re entitled to a vote about whether we want to remain part of the United States or have the full restoration of our independence. Many of the people who support that—I’m one of them— say that this would give us a period of time [to decide what we want to do]. During this time, we would require the United States to give us the money to conduct the education, to do the community work and the kinds of things that would strengthen our cultural claims as well as our political ones. The belief and the cultural value [tying] the sovereignty movements together is that we are bound to these islands, to this land. Aloha ‘āina is this deep belief that our people are genealogically linked to the ‘āina, to the land. That our ancestors gave birth to the land and gave birth to us, and that we have responsibilities to the ‘āina to protect it. That under our people’s governance, for 1,000 years or more, we cared for the land, we nurtured it, we made it productive, it fed us. We think of the land as sentient, and this is why people were willing to risk their lives to save Kaho‘olawe from harm in the 1970s. –as told to Aislyn Greene

ūūūūūūūse fūom topū ū ōkūūūūū, a trūūūūional voyaūūūg ūūūūe built in the 1ūūūūū ūhe endemic Kūpūūa plantū ūhe nonūūūūūūūū ū ūacaena marūinata plantū

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Brendan George Ko, photographer and author of the new book f f fff eā (Conveyor Studio, 2021) and member of Maui’s Hui O Wa‘a Kaulua voyaging community.

T H E R E V I VA L OF TRADITIONAL V O YA G I N G In 2015, I started doing research into the Hawaiian Renaissance in the 1970s, which was both a civil rights movement and a cultural renaissance. [This included the resurgence of traditional wayfinding, which was nearly lost until a team of native Hawaiians sought out the Micronesian navigator Pius Piailug, known as Papa Mau.] In 2016, I showed up at the voyaging society on Maui, Hui O Wa‘a Kaulua, and that’s where I met my friend Kala, a kapena [captain] and apprentice navigator. Soon after, I was on a ū ūūū [canoe] for the first time. I felt really guilty because I’m not Polynesian, I’m not Kanaka ‘Ōiwi. But I remember my first steps on that wa‘a. I could feel the spirits. I felt a deep ūūūūūūū, a personal sense of responsibility, to perpetuating that culture—becoming an educator of it, becoming a crew member. The biggest difference [between traditional and modern voyaging] is that there are no instruments. The major wayfinding methods are celestial bodies,

on fhe ffland of f f fff fi, f auna f ea ffff s ff f796 ff f t ff f f e fff ff f el, ff king it fhe fff ff st f oint in fhe state. The fffffff f f ff ano fs f fff ffff f d ffff f d by fff y f ff ff f f f waiians. ffff f ffo f fff ffff f d prime fff l f state by ffff onomers, and in ffff f ffffffff ion of an fffffff y fff f f f ffff y near fhe summit fff fffff d to f egin. The ff ff f fff d ffff ty f f ter f fff ff ff e ff f f f f ould f e fhe ffff f st and most f f f erful in fhe f ff fffff f fff ff fff e, and ffffff fsts fffffff d at fhe ff fff f ct of fff ff ffff ff stant ff ff f ff s. f or fff y f f waiians, fhe ff fff ct ffff f fffff f ffff fhing differfff : f f t ffff her ff ff ff ff ion of ffff r land, or ff fff ff tunity to drf w a line in the sffff ff f ff ffe not ffom f f fff fi, f ou ff ff ff fy ffffff d ff out fhe f ffff f f fff y fhe fame ff y I fff fff om ffff , fff fff h fhe fff fff e fog of ff N ffffffff s and mainlander fffff fff e. As fhe fffffff eam ff dia fffff d fo ffame ff, a f fff le had ff f f en out f f ff f en ff fff f nity and fome ff ff ffff d fff fffffff e fff f s. I was ffff ffffy f fffff f d f f ffff . ff fs ffff ’t f fff anto fazing a ff f ff ff f l to build a f oundup f ffff , after f ll—just fome ffff ffff y fff ds ef ffff d about the heaf ens. Wff ff ’t sfffff fsts the gf f d gf f s, tff fe daf ff f eldom ffff ffff d in f f f ff f f e of fhe ff fff sts was ffffff f fs fff k f f fffff f f fff : its f f f ffffff ff e f fffff f , its ff ffffff ion of Native Hawaiian traditions, and fff long ffffff lement fff h fff ffff ffsm. The tendrils of ff ff f fff f ff ffler ffffff f f an f e ff ff f d ffom fff ff f ana of ffffffffff f l f f ff f ffff f l ff ff tain ff f ff ffff f ff f d by fffff f ane f lanters ff fe in fhe late fff h f fffff y ffff f d f f f e fhe ff y fff ffff f ff ion) to fhe ffffff ff fy fffff f l field of f f fff f f f f , fff h its ff ffff fff

marine life, and swell patterns, along with wind. A good navigator can see at least five different swell patterns and directions through that. Birds are a huge thing— having an intimate knowledge of birds. Knowing, for example, that the manu-o-Kū indicates that a sailor is near land. The canoe I usually sail for is called Mo‘okiha O Pi‘ilani. It’s a 62-footlong double-hull canoe. It typically fits anywhere from 10 to 16 people. When we sail, the wa‘a is the vessel for so many different spirits. There’s the kūpuna, the ancestors. And there’s everybody who put their ūūūū , their spirit energy, into creating the canoe, because there isn’t a company that makes them—it’s communities that get together and sand [the wood] endlessly till your hands are soft or bleeding. The voyaging canoe has my blood on it. Before we depart, we do a ūūūū, which is a prayer. We always have a designated cultural advisor on the canoe, usually someone who speaks ‘Ōlelo Hawai‘i, which is native Hawaiian. It’s all about safe passage and intention, because a lot could go wrong. We speak to the spirits of the ocean, to the wind, to ask for their permission, their guidance, help, and protection. For me, it’s important to preserve these traditions, because it was only in recent times that traditional voyaging came back—and there’s so much new history being made. Seeing the voyaging canoe go beyond the Pacific Ocean, into the Atlantic Ocean—into the Great Lakes of all things—that’s going beyond what the ancestors had done. It’s a sign that progress is being made. ūūūū i mua is to move forward—it’s not just about trying to get [back to] what was, it’s moving further. –as told to Aūū

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ā āāāāite pāāe: Radio teleāāāāās on the sacāāā ā auna Kea volcano, where prāāāāāā aim to prāvent an obāāāāāāāāy fāom bāāāg bāāāā ā ā āās pāāe: Kaupō Vāāley, home to a seāāāāā of Haleakalā Nāāional Pāāāā

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of a ī ī stern īī aming of land as a ī ī ī īīī ī e. On īīī t ī ame īime line, ī īīīīīīī s ī ī īīīīī enous īīī ī īī īī ī ī īī ī īīī ī d sustainability īī īīī īī ī s, ī īī īī īī īī īīī d īīīī īīīī ī — īīīī īīī īīī īy bī ī ame a footnote, triīī a for tīīī e trī ī el magazineīī īīīī h īs to ī ī ī , īhe īī īīī sts ī īī e īī ī er just īī out a īīīī ī ī īī e. The īīī īher īī īī ī īī īī ion of a mountain ī īīīī ī l to ī ī waiian īīīīīīīī lity and īīīī īity felt īīī e īīī ī o īīī h an affront as a final affrīīī . As one of īhe īī īīī ctors īī ld īī ī , ī ī e īī ī fi īī ing to īī īīī ct it ī ī ī īīī e ī e īīī w if ī e ī annot stop īīī s, īīīī e īs not ī īī y īīī ī ī e can fight for or prīīī īī . . . . This īs our last stand.ī īī īīī sters īīīīī ī d to īī lt ī īīīīīīīī ion in īīīī , and īhe ī ī īīī ct īīī e or īī īī ī īīīīīī d in limbo until 2019, when it aīī īīī ī d that it would sī on rī īīīī . Hī īīīīīīī of ī ll ī īī ī īī ounds ī egan īī king īheir īī y to īhe īīīīīīīīī ū ūpūūū (īīīīīī ) pīīīīī d tīīīī īī ī ī s in the pīī h of cīīīīīīīī īīī ī īīīī īī s, and ī īī ents īī īīī ht īheir ī īīīīī en. The īī īīī ctors, īī īhey ī ī ll īīīīī īī ī ī s, īī īīīī d a ī īī ī llel ī ī īīī ty up īīīī e, ī īīī ī īī te īīī h ī hild ī īī e, īī īī l īī īī ī ors, a īī īīī ī l īīīī ion, ī ī īī īī ī e īīī ī īīī ity ī īīīī ī s. ī ī on īhe īī īīī sts, īīī ī īīīīī d īīī īīī sm, ī egan rippling outward, all across Hī īīī īīī ī īī hu ī ī īīī d to ī e in īhe īīī ī ī s of an infleīī ion ī īīīī ī ī īīī īhing ī ī en an īīīī ider ī īī ld īī el after a īī w ī īī ī īīī īī īīīīī After ī y tour īīī h īī īīīīī ī , I ī egan to ī īī ī e ī y īī ip īī īīīī īīīī e ī īī ī īīī īī ions. I īīīīī d to īī end īhe ī emainder of ī ī Kawai Strong Washburn ūs a climate actūūū st and ī ī ek īīīī e īīīī īy just īī īīīī g īīī h ī ī īī le, īī ying to īīīīīīīī īī ūhe author of the novel ī īīī īī ī īīī īhing more internal than eī īīīīī l aī out the pīīī īī in the Time of Saīīīīī ī riter and īīī īīī st ī ina ī ī īīīīīī īīi had ī ī en īīving īī ūūūū ūūūūūūū, Strūūs & ī īīī ourne ī hen ī īī d of īīī ī ī T īī īīī sts ī egan ī īīī ī īīī ū ūūūux, 2020ū, which folūūū ū īīī . ī o īīī , as to īīī y ī ī īī le I īī ī ī e īīī h, īī e īī ws īīīīīīī d ūhe strūūūūūs and trūūūūūū of a Hūwaiian family toūūūūū to a homing īī īīī e. ī īīhout īīī wing ī ī īīī īy ī hat ī ī ī īd īī , ī he by the divineū ī ot on a plane and came home to contribute to the moī īīīīī ī On a humid īīīīīīī on, ī ī īīīīīī īīi īī d I īī t in īhe īīīī īīīī īīī īy ī entrified ī īīī lulu īīīī īī īī īī ī d of īī īī īī ī ī , a ī īīī īī Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ĀĀ Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā īīīī s īī om ī aikīkī. ī īī īd īī ī wn up in ī īīīī ī l ī īī hu, ī īīī ī Ā ĀO H A ‘Ā I N A aloha ‘āinaī īī ī e of our lands, ī īīī īī ī ī īīīī ’t a īī ī ī t īīīīī ī ī īion but a īī y of life. ī he had felt īīī īīīī d by īhe īīīīīīī īīī ī I grew up in a small town on the Big ī ī w īhat īī y of life ī ī īīī d to ī e īīīīīī oing a ī īīīī īī īīī e, īī Island, Honoka‘a, which is where my momentum built to prīīī ct itī novel opens. It’s just outside of Waipi‘o ī he ī egan ī ī ī īīī ī hing īhe ī īī īī e ī ī waiian and ī īī king ī lass Valley, on the northeast side of the īī īīīī y īhat had ī ī en īīīī īīī īī d and ī īīī ī īīīī d in īhe name of Big Island. I remember it being smallīī ī elopment īīī ī —not just īīī īī īī ī īīīī ty ī entrificīī ion but ī town life, with a lot of open space ī hanging of īhe īīīī y of īhe ī īīī e. ī he ī īīīīī d out to a building to explore, and a mix of these incredible ī īīī e a ī ondo had ī īī īī īī īī y ī ī ld for $30 million. The ī īīī ī ī places of natural beauty. īīī e īhe ī ite of ī ī ī īī ī l fiī īī īīīīī had ī ī en ī emade to īīīī act It’s important to emphasize that in no īīīī ide īī ī ī īīīīīī , ī īīī ing ī īī king ī lass and ī īī īī e ī ī waiians way do I consider myself a sort of larger to īī el īīī e īīīī iders, in ī ome ī īī ī s īīīīī ī īīī . ī ī īīīīīī īīi ī īīīī ī cultural ambassador or any authority ī d to a ī ī īīī īī ion of īents in a ī īī k, ī īīī e a īīīī er of ī īī īī e figure on the islands themselves. I can ī ī waiians ī īī e īīīīīī . īt ī as īīī īīī īī le not to ī ī e her ī ī ī īīī ī h only speak from my own experiences as pīī t of sīīī īhing largīī , a pulling ī īī k of old curīīīīīī having been exposed to Native Hawaiian ī īīīī ī īs an ī ī īī ī īī ion ī ou hear a īīī , īī ī wing up īīī e: īīīīī īs practices and mythology. There’s a īhe īīīī e of īīving in ī īī īīī ī īī’ ī ut ī ī er īime I ī īī īīīī d, ū ūū ūūūūūs sense of the deification of the land and ūhe price of oūūūūūūion and colonialiūū ī” she sīīīī elevating the land to something bigger than just the scientific sum total of its parts. Not thinking of, for instance, volcanoes in the ocean as purely some sort of natural phenomena, but deifying them in a way that gives them a certain amount of unknowability—

and being comfortable with that unknowability. Looking at a space and recognizing that we are people in a relationship with something bigger than us. There was a point when the islands were largely self-sufficient. They were able to provide for everybody with the agricultural systems that existed at the time. There was an understanding that you cannot live outside the bounds of what the environment is capable of sustaining. Many savvy practices came about as a result of trying to find a way to live within the boundaries of the world. [For example] it was very clear that there were times in which enough was enough, in terms of how much fish you take from the sea, or how much of this or that thing you collect. There was an understanding that there’s only so much of a thing you can take before it can’t be replenished. People today are looking at how we can rebuild a system of local sustainable agriculture, using traditional methods informed by some of the more modern techniques. There are a lot of places where that’s happening in the islands right now. You also have utilities that have looked into building solar at scale. There are discussions about wind farms. To me, I think the recognition [via Hawai‘i’s pioneering declaration of a climate change emergency] that climate change is here, and that it’s going to affect the islands is severely overdue. Not only in terms of how the coastlines might change because of sea level rise, but how things like the reefs might expire completely as a result of ocean acidification. I imagine a future for the islands in which changes have been made—to the extent they can be—to make them more sustainable, with a circular economy. A place that has responded to the climate emergency as an opportunity to reframe the way people live with natural systems. I’m optimistic that the islands are the place where those things can be imagined and built, and potentially be a model for coastal cities and other island nations around the world. –as told to A.G

ILL USTRATI ON REFERENCE: CRY STAL L IEPA

Clockwise from top: A lei made of ti leaves and an apu, a ceremonial coconut cup; taro plants growing in Maui’s Waihe‘e Valley; breadfruit, a ubiquitous (and cherished) ingredient.

Members of a traditional voyaging community are welcomed home with a honi, a traditional Hawaiian greeting.

O N E W AY TO GIVE BACK

Edwin “Ekolu” Lindsey is the president of Maui Cultural Lands, an organization that invites travelers to help restore the island’s natural spaces.

[Maui Cultural Lands] was really my dad’s brainchild. In the mid-1990s, when sugar was no longer a viable option on west Maui and big companies started to leave, all these lands came up for sale. My dad and a few others who had hiked a lot of the valleys had found Honokowai Valley to be the most archaeologically rich. Looking at all the development, he wanted to make sure there was a presence here that was going to protect these cultural resources and also bring awareness to all the other valleys that have it too. We have several projects that are ongoing. Malama Honokowai—mālama means “to take care of”—is our main

project. But we also take care of a heiau, which is a [historical] place specific to women. It’s in a place called Launiupoko, which means the small leaf of the coconut tree. We also take care of a place called Kaheawa, where the wind turbines are. We find that a lot of people come [volunteer with us] because they want to do something different. They’ve done the mai tais, the beach, the pool, the drives, the sunset. They’re looking for something a little bit more authentic. If you [join an outing with us] first we do proper protocol, which is a chant asking for permission to enter the land. In this case, you are entering a sacred place. Once we enter that space, we do a bit of work, which mostly involves invasive species removal. The site is along the Honokowai stream corridor and the idea is to reduce the amount of sediment that may be washed into the stream through larger rain events. We’re not going to stop it all, but at least we can lessen

the amount because in addition to the ocean’s temperature change, sediment is a huge killer of our coral reefs. We work for about 90 minutes, and then we’ll walk around. We’ll learn about different plants, answer any questions. We’ll start real simple with the names of the wind and the rain. I also talk about the water cycle through a Hawaiian lens using the different gods. The vision from my dad that I try to carry on is that people need to understand why these cultural resources—in this case the archaeology and the plants and the rocks—are important to maintain. You don’t know what secrets they hold that we haven’t discovered yet. –as told to Aāā

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ILLUSTRATION REFERENCE: CADENCIA PHOTOGR APH Y

ū S A Vūūūū ūū ū ūūūū ūūū ūūūū

ūūūs ūūū h was ūūūoming ūlear to me: ūo ūūūūūe ū ūūūūūi ūū ūūūūhing ūūūūe to a ūūūious ūūūel ūs to ūūk ū ūūūit means ūūūū to ūome. ūūūs ūs ūhe ūūūūūion I ūūūūd ū ūūelf one ūūūūy ūūūūūūū, atop a surfbūūūd ūūd ūūūūūd in ūūūūūen ūūūūū ūūūūūūWhat ūūūūū ū ūū was a ūūūūūūūūū ūūūūy ūūūūūw and ūūūūūūic hour on ūhe ūūūūs ff ū ūūūūūs sūūūh sūūūe. I ūūū’t ūūūh to ūū ūe ūūūs ūūout me, but ūūūūūs ūūūūūhe ūūūūūū ūūāāā ūūout me. ūūūūp on ūhe ū ūūours ūūūūūūs and ūou ūūūū ū ūūeing ūūw ūūū h a ūūūūe ūūū e ūūūs has ūūen ūūūūūūūūūū for ūūūū ūūūūūūūūūāāāā ūūūūūūūūion, if ūūūūūe ūot a ūūlling ūūūūū ūūū and a ūūūūū t full of ūūūūūion ūūllars. ūūūs ūūūū le surfing ūūūūū lude ūūd ūaid for: ū as I just ūūūūūūū cing ūhe idea of ūūūs ūūūūe as a ūūūūū ūūound for touriūūū ū In ūūūū, ūūū e ū ūūūūūūity ūūūss ūūūūūūūūd an ūūūūūūūūy ūūūū ūūūūūūūd to a big ūut ūūūūū for a ūegment of ūūūūūūūūū , ū ūūūūū ūūūūūūūd. āāāāāās: A Decolonial ā uide to ā āāāāāā(no ūūūūū ion ūū ūūūūūūū ūūs ūūūūūūion, ūūūūūh he did ūontribute to ūhe ūūūk) ūs ū ūūūūūūūū ing ūūūūū ūūion, an ūūūūūūūto ūūe ūhe ūūūūūū ūūk of ūūū ūūūūel ūūūūūūū y to ūūstabilize ūhe ūūūūel ūūūūūūū ū. The ūūūūūū ūūūhin ūūūūūūe ūūūū ūhing ūūūilar to ū hat ūūūūūūū o ūūūs, ūūūūūū ing at ūhe ūūūūūū y ūūūūion of ūūūs ūūūūe to find ū ūūūūs ūūen ūūūūūūū ūina ū ūūūūūūūūūi had ūūūūūd her ūūūūūūūo ūūūūūūūh into an ūūūū ūūening ūūūūy in ūhe ūūūk. ūditors ūūūūūūūtte ūicuña ūūūūūlez and Hōūūlani K. Aikau write: ā e āāāāse āhe āāā āāāāāg and āāāāāāāāā ion of ā āwaiian āāāāāāā, āāāā, and āāāor for āāāāāst āāāāāāāā āāā. . . . ā āāāāāāhe āāāāe of āhe āāāāāāā, āāāāāā , āāāāāāāāāā y āāāāāāāāg icon of āhe hula āāāāā meant to āāāāāā , āāāāāāāā, āāāāāāāā ās a ā āāāā‘i āhat āas āāāāās āeen clear āāāut āās āāāāāāāāāās of aloha āāina āāāve for āur āāāāā) and āāāole āāāāāāāāā. āt has āāāāned āāom āās āāāāāāy āhat āāāāāāā s do not āāāāās come āāāh āhe āāst āāāāāā āāāā, nor do āhey āāāāāstand āāāāāāāās of trāe rāāāāāāāāty as cāāāial to the extenāion of aloha.

A N E W W AY TO VISIT My best friend Tamika and I were both born and raised on Maui. We were frustrated [with the impacts of tourism] and wanted to figure out how we could influence our island in a positive way. So we created Aloha Missions based on the aloha spirit. We created little missions [such as learning about using native plants in lei-making or how moon cycles are used in daily life, such as when to farm or fish] to share with visitors and our local community, because even our local community needs a little aloha. COVID paused our in-person experiences. It’s allowed us to reflect on where we want to go. We’ve taken this time to listen to others on the island and ask, “OK, what’s our next step, as a brand and as a business, to positively influence our community?” We would love to build a community space where people can come and get our real, local view on their itineraries. Our whole thing is about interaction. I would rather meet you and develop a relationship with you so that you can come to us and talk about your plans and what you want to do and how you

ūūūe ūūū y mainlanders, I ūūūūūūūū ūd ū ūūelf a ūūūūūūūūūle ūūūūeler ū hen I ūūūūū ū ūd ūhe ūūlands on ūast ūrips. I ūead ū ūwaiian writers, ūūū t ūūūūl ūūūūūūs to ūhe ūūūūls, ūūūūūūd ūhe ūūūūū st ūūūps, ūūūūūūūū y ūūūū d to ūūead ūūū ūūūū. But reciprocity? What did that mean in the context of travel? Might it be more than just spending our money here? The ūūy ūūūūūe I ū ent surfing, ūūūūūlez had ūūūūū y ūūūūūd to ūū ūū. ū s ūhe ūūūū me to ūarious ūūūūūs of ūūūūū ūst ūūound ū ūūūlulu, I ūūūūd her ūome ūūūūion of ū y ūūūū ūūūūcity ūūūūūion. ū er ūūūūūūūe was a ūūūūūion of ūer ūwn: ū ould ūūūūelers learn to ūūūū ūe ūūūh an ūūūūūūūy different ūūūūūūū? Instead of ūust ūoming to enjoy ūhe ūūūūūūū’ ūharms, ūould ūheir ūūcus ūe on ūūūūūūūing ūūūūe ūūeking ūūūūūū? ū ould ūhey do ūhe ū ūūk of finding ūūūūle ūūū e ūūūūūūū ū, of learning ūūūe ūūūūūū ū, of ūūving instead ūū ūūūūūū? ūūūūūūs not a ūūūūūl ūūūūūy ūhat will ūūt ūūūūe ūhings up for ūou, no ū ūūūite ū ūūūū ūou can sūūūct each of tūūūe options. But tūūūūs sūūt of the pūūūūū

Lesley Texeira, ās the cofounder of āhe Māāāāāased compāāā ā loha Māāāāāāā. She and cofounder Tāāāāā āāāāāāerto help āāāāāāā s better connect ā āāāā and give back to— āhe iāāāāāā

can be a good visitor on our island. This would also be a space where people, especially local community members, could feel more at ease, and where the host community and visitors could come together positively. [In the meantime,] I would like to see more people reaching out to us over email and Instagram [asking for travel advice]. We’ll give our honest opinion about where you should visit and what you should do. Because the minute you step off the plane, you have a responsibility to the people of Hawai‘i to mindfully think about what you’re doing here, where you’re going, where you’re shopping. Hawai‘i is a special place. When you come, what is your intention? It comes back to cross-communal interaction. If visitors were personally to meet the farmer that grows the food or the local family that owns the shop down the road, they’d feel more of a connection and more of a kuleana, which is responsibility, to be a better traveler. Then, when you go back home, you can feel good about what you contributed to our home. –as told to A.G

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ī y īime in ī īī hu ī īīīīīīī d īīī h a īīīī er ī hift īī īī ī ning ī ll īīī r īhe ī īī ld. And īhen īhe ī ī ndemic īīī , bringing īīī h it īhe ī ī īīī īīī and ī īīī ī ī d īī cus on īhe ī īīī k īī ī ī s ī atter īī ī īīīīī . ī ome īī īhe īīī īī ions ī eing ī īī ī ī d īīī ht īī ī ī īīī īī ions īī out ī ho īīī ī ī en ī īīīīī ī d and ī ho īī s ī ī en īīīīīīī l in just īī īī t ī ī īī ī ī orner of ī īī . ī ī īīī īī ī ī ī ho īhe īīī īī ions īīīī ling īī ound ī ī īīī īīī ī o īī ī e īīī ī d īīī īīī h īhe ī andemic and īhe īī īī ks it ī ī ī īī ī d īīīī īī just to ī ome out īīīī ering for a ī īīīī iful ī īī īī ion. īt was to ī ī e īīīī īhe ī enter ī īī īīy ī īī ’t īī ld, īhe ī ī īhs ī e tell īīīī īī ī ī s īī e īīīīī ī īīīī , and fundamental cīīīī e is oī īī īīī ī After ī y īime īīī h īīīīī lez, ī ī ot in ī y ī īīīī l ī ar and īī ī ī ī īīī īh ī long īhe ī ī ī īīī d ī ī īīī , īī īīī d īhe ī īī īīī lei ī ī īīīī . īīīī ī īī ī īīīīīīīī īy ī īīī ī ous and īīīīīīīī īy ī ī īī , and home to īīī īī īīīī īī ī īīī īīīī īī ion of ī īī īī e ī ī waiians īī ī ī īīī e in īhe īī ate. An ī lmost īīīīī ī ī ent īī ass ī ī ī ers īhe hills in īhe īī īīīīī e; up ī īīī e, īī ī ī īī īī d īīī ī s dot īhe ī ide of īhe ī ī ad, and īī īīīīīī d ī ars ī it īīī īīīī d īī ī ī ī ds. I īīīīī d īīīī , ī long a īīīī ī w ī ī ad leading ī īī y īī om īīī ī ī īīī , until I rīīī īī d a 25īīī ī e pīīī ī īī humana Organic ī arms īs a īīīīī ī fi īhat ī īī ks īīī h īīīī ī īī ss īīīīīīī s and īī hers ī ho find īīīīī īī ī ī s īī īīīīī eam of ī ī ī īīīīī īīīī īs īīīī -term effects. ī īīīīī d in īī ī 4, it īī w ī īīīīīī ī īīīīīīī , ī ī īīī l ī īī k, and ī īher ī īīīīīīīī īīīīīī d īī īīī īīīīīī ī ī īd ī ome to īī humana ī ī ī īīī e it had ī ī en īī ī ī īy īīī ī īīī d īī ī īī īī e īīīīī s for ī o īī īī ī and ī ī ī īīī e I had īī īī d one of īhe ī īī ī ers at its café had just rī īīīīī d from Mauna Kīīī I īīīī ī ī d at īhe ī afé just as īhe ī īīīī īs ī hift was ending; īīī ī oung ī on was īīīī e, īīīī ing for īhem to ī o home for īhe ī ī ī . īīī ī īīī y ī ī īī le ī īd īī t on īīī s īīīī , ī he was ī eluctant to īī ī cuss īīī ī ī T īī īīī sts īīī h a īīī le īīīīīī īīīī ī and ī eluctant to ī īīī e īīī name with the wīī īīī ī What īī ī e you īīīī d īī out īīī ” ī he īī ī ī d. I īīī īīī ī d īī om īīī ī ī īī ī īī ion īhat I was ī ī ing īīīīī īīīī d. I īīīī ’t ī lame īīī . I offerī d ī ī ī ī y understanding of īhe ī īīīīī ion as her ī on ī īīīīīī ī d īī ound us ī ī ī ī īīīī īīī ī īīy rīīīīīī d her it was time to go home. In īime, īhe īīīīī ion īīīīī ī ī d into ī īīī īhing īīī e īīī e ī īīīī īīī ī and ī ī on ī he was īī ī cribing her īime on īhe mauna, as īīīs ī ī īīī d. īt had ī ī en ī ī ī īīīīīī ī . ī he ī ot out her ī hone and flicī ī d īīī īīī h īī sty ī īīīīīīī ome elders īīī e, ī ome ī ids ī īī ying īīīī e. I īīī e īī t a man ī īī īd īī īīī ī d īhe ī dmund ī ī ttus ī īīīī e in ī īīī a, īīīī ama, on ī īī ī ī y ī īīīī ī , īīīī . The īī y īīī s ī oman īī īī ī d īī out her īime īīī h īhe īī her īī īīī īīīīīīī he īī ī e and īhe īīī er and īhe īī ī īīīīīī ss and īhe pride all swīīīī d togī īher in a sīī ilar waī . īt īīīī ’t ī ī īīīī ī d to īī to write īī out ī y ī īīī t īī ī it īīī h īīī ī ī ut īīīīī , ī īī k home in ī ī īīīī rnia, our brief ī īī ī īīī īī ion īīīī k īīī ī me, īīī e īhan īhe hula īī īī on ī īd īīīīī īī d īī on, or īhe ī īīī k ī īī ī uitar ī īīī īī t in īhe hotel īīīīī , or īhat ī īīīī ct īī ī ī īīī ī lty musubi bite I found in ī aikīkī. īt īīī ī k īīī h me ī ī ī īīī e it ī īīī ’t for īīī īt had ī ī en a īīī y ī īīī er of īīīīī l ī ī īīī īi, īīī īīī ī d for īīī ī ī ī īī enjoyment or ī īīī ī īī ion or īīīī ī īīīīīīīī . ī y īhe end īhe ī īīīī was no īīīī er īīīī īī īīī , just ī īī ī lling īīī īīī h ī hotos and ī īīīīī ī īīīīī , īīī il at last ī he īīī īī ī d ī īī k into īhe īī ī ī īīī ī Then ī he īīī her phone aīī ī , we said gī ī īīī e, and she toī k her boy home. Contributing writer Chris Colin wrote about alpine hiking in the May/June 2021 issue of AFAR. Photographer Brendan George Ko is profiled on page 18.

aloha —which carries many cultural meanings—written in coral in the lava fields of Kona on the island of Hawai‘i.

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Wh e r e Trave l Ta ke s Yo u

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