Jean-Michel Basquiat, His Time in Hana, Maui: and Other Poignant Essays

By Myke-Embe Cappadona

World travel subjects us to peculiar situations and allows us to encounter amazing individuals, some of whom I describe in this collection of poignent essays, one of which is dedicated to Jean-Michel, my old friend famously known as the artist Basquiat. We used to hang out together in Hana Maui and smoke a lot of weed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Myke-Embe Cappadona
• Release date: Dec 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463472309

Book preview

Jean-Michel Basquiat, His time in Hana, Maui

and other poignant essays

By Myke-Embe’ Cappadona

I dedicate this book to everyone who has ever made me wonder.  Contact me at [e-mail]. Also check out my YouTube channel: WhatKindTravel. What kind of traveler are you?

Edited by David Leberknight, author of Globalocity, the Adventures of Raymond.

Essays:

 1             Jean-Michel and Basquiat

 2             Too Proud to be Blue

 3             What’s in a Name, and the Zen of Basket-Weaving

 4             Stop Komunizmu

 5             The Giant

 6             No Problem

 7             The Trusting Tear

 8             My Visit with the Cactus

 9             The Boy on the Hill

 10           The Palm Reader

Jean-Michel and Basquiat

    The first time I distinctly remember meeting Jean-Michel Basquiat was apparently not the first time we had ever met.

    My inability to recall our initial encounter or pinpoint exactly what month or even year it was, is hampered by that gelatinous flowing of time which is a side effect of that 'I have no need for a calendar or clock' version of Island Lifestyle that I indulged in then, and still enjoy the luxury of now.  It has been nearly 40 years, still no calendar.

    This is a side effect, I would say, of spending a lot of time in a place where living in an 'unplugged' shack along the fringe of the forest on a secluded part of a tropical island, is not considered alternative or unusual, but the norm.

     A place where time and 'things that are important', take on new meaning.

    A place where a patient’s symptoms might present themselves as, 'isn't aware of current events, and doesn't seem to care'.

    So that's my excuse for not being able to recall exactly what year or under what circumstances Jean-Michel and I first met. I was, as are most Happy Island Dwellers, under the influence of what we call 'Polynesian Paralysis'. But I say that in a good way.

    I do remember many things about Jean-Michel from the moment of our second encounter, but before I get into that, please allow me to explain a bit more about my particular Island Lifestyle, for the benefit of readers who have difficulty understanding how a person might not be able to 'remember what year it was'.

    It's interesting how a secluded Island Lifestyle can validate the type of mind-set where a customized wall clock might read day-time/night-time or rainy/sunny; how living in this kind of place allows years to pass effortlessly and blissfully by.

    Hana is a place where spending one’s time amongst a mixed consort of delusional gurus, self-proclaimed princes, and happy natives seems to make a lot of sense.

    The fact that Tropical Island Life can subdue the suggestive powers that 'things are bad', is pretty well known. In this place we all drink from the same coconut, as they say, happily indulging in that intoxicating elixir that is abundantly available in those tropical places which retain their casual cadence.

    Corny and cliché yes, but no less true.

    Palms swaying in the breeze.

    Sunny, immaculate, uncrowded beaches.

    Jungle waterfalls that drizzle into clear cold pools of enticing water.

    A good view and pleasant company to share it with, is a recipe that just seems to work well for most people.

    Those familiar with this style of living will understand.

    Those that are unfamiliar, might wish they did.

    In the tropics, time can pass by like a sweet song.

    The first time I distinctly remember Jean-Michel was some time in the early 1980's.  And I do remember that it was a sunny day. During an odd phase in my life, at this particular moment I was engaging in the entrepreneurial, albeit questionable venture of selling 'pakalolo', Hawaii's name for the local cannabis, to any interested tourists who were slowly driving the curvy road which snakes through the lush rain forests on the eastern side of the Island of Maui.

    This was easier, and a lot more fun than you might think. Since the road was so winding, narrow, and spectacularly beautiful, tourists would always drive slowly admiring the views. It was easy to spot my customers, just look for young, or long haired, or loud-music partiers, and simply, flash them a bag of buds!

     And since I didn't own a car and I hitchhiked everywhere I went, I would always carry some bags of pakalolo with me to sell as a way to earn a little extra money.  I loved to walk, and the Hana Highway, as the road is called, is so fantastically beautiful, that walking is the best way to truly appreciate the scenery. This road is also the only link between two sides of the Island, so I found myself on it quite often.

    I can see how this might seem strange and even criminal to you, especially if you are a law abiding citizen with a real job. It is understandable that you might deem this type of activity to be completely unacceptable and I can respect that. But I am telling my story, and that's what I was doing at the time. When you consider my Island Lifestyle and livelihood then and now, you may come to understand that for me this was just another day in paradise. It never felt criminal or degenerate to offer the tourists something that, judging by my brisk sales, they really wanted.       

    Some things in my life have changed since then, like I'm not selling pot on the side of the road anymore, but other aspects, have thankfully remained the same.  Even I have to admit that my style and choices in occupation and habitation lean towards what some people might call unusual. But I am constantly reassured that my perspective on living standards and career decisions is contrived and based on intelligent choices after having considered the available options. Validation of my belief systems bombard me any time I watch a world news report, and since I now use the internet, this occurs on a daily basis.

    Although my perception of what I consider 'normal' has been influenced by my frustration with, and self-imposed exile from contemporary Western Society, I would not expect the average person living in the modern world and indulging in all its trappings to fully understand how a person can be happy living without a telephone, or cable TV, or an automobile. But it is these things [or rather the lack thereof], that I am proud of. My decision to live this lifestyle has been vindicated further by observing how completely crazed popular gadgets can actually make people behave.

    Besides forgoing participation in the 'accumulation-of-stuff', the rest of my logistical life could be deemed, 'off the grid', or my favorite, 'out of the loop'.

    I only offer this perspective to the reader in order to paint a picture of a lifestyle choice they might not know existed. Not to validate my act of selling marijuana to strangers, but to expound on the chasm of realities we all create and perceive as 'our normal'.

    Criminal or not, it was certainly interesting.

    Besides not owning a phone, or having what others might consider a job, I also choose to live in what is affectionately know as a 'jungelow' or 'jungle shack', an enigma to those who haven't experienced first hand the charms and rewards of residing in this particular type of habitation.

    Some might envision a Hollywood-ish paradise, a work-free life in an immaculate and perfectly constructed hut clinging effortlessly to a tree, or poised romantically on a beach, somewhere between Gilligan and Tarzan. A place where food is abundant, animals are still wild [but friendly], and your clothes never get dirty. Where Jane or Mary-Ann are always making coconut-cream pies, and birds sing from flower-filled trees. No hustle, no hassle, no phone no problem. Gimme' another mango, I'll be checking out now thank you. A nearly naked nirvana is a dreamy alternative to buttoned up urban hum-drum.

    Others might imagine a desperate existence in a moldy hovel shrouded by a dank forest, all gloomy and decrepit. Glowing eyes of angry animals peek at you from the bushes, waiting to pounce as soon as you turn your back. Step outside and an army of mosquitoes waits to drink your blood. Deprived of Cuisinart and cable, it’s a bad dream and a bad day, every day until you're rescued. No fashion to flaunt or electronic wizardry for entertainment, banished by inadequacy, only the mentally challenged would choose to live without the bells and buzzers of the home unit.

    Truth being told, and therefore Hollywood depictions aside, a simple Island hut, given a bit of love and care, can be as luxurious as any mansion, as regal as a chateau, or as quaint as a tidy cottage. Calmness and curiosity can flow as freely as the breeze through the room, and the inkling of what life could be about drizzles around like the misty rain. I have lived the majority of my life in a so-called jungle shack, and I can honestly say that my experience closely tracks to the cliché dream of paradise.

    With half-plywood and half-screen walls, and with no lock on the makeshift door, the term 'inside out' takes on new meaning. But these days I live in a type of  'new millennium' jungle shack. With solar panels for lights and music, a small refrigerator, and even Internet which I poach from a neighbor, my version of jungle paradise manages to be quite cozy.

    Having spent most of my life living this way, it’s easy to imagine how I developed an angled perspective on that which is considered  'acceptable behavior', plus an abject view on politics, religion, exploitation, dumbing down, moving up, and going within, all of which I will attempt to avoid comment on here.  

   So if possible, try to understand that for a guy living an off-kilter life like me, along with the looseness and naiveness of youth, selling pot on the side of the road to strangers was not as absurd as it might sound, nor did it seem criminal or degenerate since my customers were from all walks of life, and always very glad to meet me.

    Anyway, that's what I was doing the day I first clearly remember meeting Jean-Michel. Walking along the