We’re devoting our July features to the planet’s most stunning and distinctive beaches and islands. There’s no better way to escape the heat than by visiting the breathtaking coastlines and serene waters of our dreams. Explore our features to discover the largest beach party you might not know about, the effect of swimwear on climate change, a distant Tahitian village preparing for global attention, and the top beaches in the United States.
Just two weeks ago, I returned to Oahu for the first time since January 2, 2020. At 23 years old, I never imagined I’d spend the next two and a half years away from the islands where I was born and raised. Little did I know how much the pandemic would transform Hawaii. After a year and a half in Oregon to complete my master’s degree, followed by another year in Tennessee for my Ph.D., coming back to Hawaii was a shock. Things have changed—a bag of chips costing $2.99 in Tennessee now sells for $4.99 in Honolulu, and the plate lunch at my favorite Korean place has jumped from $14.50 to $18.95. My parents’ faces show more lines, and my youngest brother, who was once small enough for me to carry, now stands 6-foot-5.
More people populate my favorite hikes and beaches, and there’s increased erosion and litter. But the most dramatic shift I’ve noticed is the presence of not just tourists, but those who claim to be locals and have recently moved to the islands. The negative effects of overtourism in Hawaii primarily arise from those choosing to make the islands their home without appreciating Hawaii’s heritage or traditions. Visitor numbers were 233,616 in April 2019 compared to 236,835 in April 2022, according to state data, but what’s different is the rise in newcomers, driving up housing costs and living expenses. In 2021, more than 30% of homes on Maui were purchased by out-of-state buyers. A house that averaged $789,000 in 2019 now costs over $1.1 million, as reported by the Honolulu Board of Realtors. My friends and I live on the mainland partly by choice, but mainly because we can’t afford to rent or buy homes in Hawaii.
The wave of digital nomads has led to new residents flocking to scenic places like Hawaii. The challenge with Hawaii is not a lack of infrastructure for more homes; as an island chain, it can’t expand to meet these demands. Nearly everything in Hawaii is imported, and as the number of newcomers grows, the prices of these imports climb along with housing costs. Locals struggle to compete with the high salaries of project managers and executives, pushing them off the islands to more affordable lives on the mainland. The pandemic accelerated this exodus.
For years, Native Hawaiians and long-time residents have worked to limit outside influences on the islands. My absence from Hawaii for two and a half years was partly because I feel a responsibility to protect and amplify Native Hawaiian voices, especially as someone descended from colonizers. Since the pandemic’s onset in March 2020, Hawaiian resistance to tourism has been widely covered by major outlets. While unsustainable tourism has surged since COVID-19 restrictions lifted, the effects of colonialism run deep throughout Hawaii’s history of statehood and occupation.
Recent events, like the Red Hill water contamination protests, highlight unsustainable practices by America in Hawaii. This protest is linked to the Hawaiian tradition of mālama ʻāina, which means caring for the land. Hawaiian culture centers on land stewardship, seeing the land as family, something often overlooked by newcomers. The strength exhibited by Native Hawaiians during movements like Crisis at Kapūkakī and the Mauna Kea Protests comes from a long history of abuse and illegal occupation by the United States. Sadly, America’s tourist and military presence has caused irreversible harm to Hawaii’s land and resources, forcing locals to rely heavily on tourism.
Being from a service worker family—my mom is a lifeguard and my stepdad a pilot affected by flight cancellations—I know the economic importance of tourism in Hawaii. Without it, many residents might struggle to find shelter and food. Still, finding a sustainable approach to tourism is vital to Hawaiian growth without displacing Native Hawaiians and locals.
Now living on the mainland, I weigh the benefits and costs each time I return to Oahu. Does the joy of reconnecting with friends, family, and my birthplace overshadow the impact of traveling to a colonized island? Sadly, the answer is no. Yet, here I am, back in Oahu, sleeping in my childhood room at night, and enjoying Hawaii’s natural beauty by day. I am part of the issue.
Visitors and new residents need to support Hawaiian voices, educate themselves on Hawaiian history and culture, and engage in land stewardship. There are many ways to do this: volunteering with groups like Paepae O He’eia to restore fishponds, joining beach cleanups with Sustainable Coastlines, or contributing time at Hawaiian heiau sites protected by the Hawaii Land Trust.
My ultimate hope for Hawaii is a transition from a tourism-dependent economy to a self-sustaining one, as before colonization. Whether this will come to fruition, I cannot say, but it’s a dream worth having. Until change happens, I encourage travelers to volunteer with organizations that uphold land stewardship and preserve Hawaiian culture, and to support places like Pu’u O Hoku Ranch and Hanalei Taro that focus on sustainable interactions with the land.
