When travelers touch down in the sun-soaked sprawl of Honolulu, their compass almost inevitably points to Waikiki. And sure, go ahead—sip that Mai Tai at Duke’s, let your eyes trace the curve of Diamond Head, and soak it all in. It’s a postcard-perfect introduction, no doubt. But Waikiki is just the appetizer. Beyond the polished facade lies the real Oahu—a raw, electric blend of grit, astounding cultural history, and jaw-dropping beauty that demands to be explored.

To see the real Oahu you’ll need a set of wheels. Hop in a car, take the Pali Highway, and prepare for jaw-dropping scenery. This drive isn’t transportation; it’s a moving work of art. Follow the signs to the Kaneohe exit and pick up the Kamehameha Highway. Your first stop? Hoʻomaluhia Botanical Gardens. Itʻs free, which feels almost criminal when you realize you’re stepping into actual paradise. This place doesn't just look heavenly—it feels it. I come here all the time, now that I call this place home.

my favorite spot inside the hoʻomaluhia botanical gardens

When you’ve replenished your soul with the garden’s serenity, hit the road again and let Kamehameha Highway guide you toward the North Shore. Stop in Laʻie for the Polynesian Cultural Center if you’re in the mood to learn something or to see the best live production I’ve ever witnessed called “HA: Breath of Life”, grab a bite at the famous Kahuku food trucks, and pull into every beach park that catches your eye along the way—because trust me, they all will.

Why might it surprise a visitor?

Hawaiʻi is a place with history that runs deep and wild, like the roots of a banyan tree. The first Polynesians didn’t just stumble upon these islands—they crossed thousands of miles of ocean, navigating their route by the stars and the currents of the ocean. They call it “wayfinding,” and it’s not a lost art; it’s alive, taught, and practiced even now. These were people who didn’t just survive—they thrived, building an advanced civilization in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but what they brought and what they found.

For 400 years, this island civilization flourished—isolated, self-sustaining, and deeply rooted in its connection to the land and sea. Then came 1778, and with it, Captain James Cook: the uninvited guest who unwittingly set the stage for the unraveling of a kingdom. Disease, missionaries, and greed followed in his wake, eroding the sovereignty of the Hawaiian people.

Fast-forward to 1893, when American businessmen orchestrated a coup to overthrow Queen Liliʻuokalani, the last monarch of Hawaiʻi. By 1898, the islands were annexed—absorbed into the United States without the consent of the native population. In 1959, statehood became official, a moment celebrated by some and condemned by others. For many Hawaiians, it wasn’t progress—it is occupation. The scars of that history linger, etched into the culture, the people, and the land itself—a reminder that paradise has always come at a price.

Any negative aspects?

Every year, 15,000 native Hawaiians leave their ancestral home, packing up their lives for the mainland in search of something they can’t find on the island: affordability, stability, a chance to breathe. It’s not just about the cost of living; it’s the cost of existing. Three jobs to scrape together rent. Days blurred by endless work, usually in the tourism industry. Think about this for a moment. There are more native Hawaiians living on the US mainland now than there are living on the islands of Hawaiʻi. Las Vegas—yes the neon drenched desert—has become known in Hawaiʻi as “The 9th Hawaiian Island” due to its large and increasing population of transplants seeking a better life.

And why? Because Hawaiʻi, for all it’s beauty, is finite—just a scattering of islands in the vast Pacific, where every acre has become a trophy for the wealthy. The housing crisis here isn’t an abstract policy debate; it’s a slow, steady eviction of the people who shaped this place. Paradise has been monetized, parceled out to those who can pay, while its heart—the locals, the native Hawaiians—are pushed to the edges or beyond.

Aloha isn’t just a word; it’s a way of life. It’s nearly impossible to not feel the warmth and kindness of the locals here. You feel it the moment you arrive: the kindness, the sincerity, the genuine warmth that wraps around you like the island breeze. It’s intoxicating.

But here’s the thing about aloha: it’s not one-sided. It’s a reciprocal agreement, a mutual respect between you and the land, the people, the animals—everything that makes Hawaiʻi what it is. Treat it with respect, and it will embrace you in return. But show disrespect? Ignore the quiet rules that hold this all together? Well, don’t be surprised when that same aloha turns it back on you. Life here demands respect. For the beaches, the mountains, the reefs, and the history etched into every grain of sand. So, take off your shoes before you enter someones home. Clean up after yourself. And listen—really listen—to what the land and its people are telling you.

And one more thing—drive with aloha. Out here, the road isn’t just a way to get somewhere; it’s part of the experience. Slow down, let others merge, attempt the Shaka to other drivers even if it feels weird. Respect the land, the people, and the rhythm of the island—even behind the wheel.

No Limits: My Oahu Travel Guide

Papeete, Tahiti