Let Oʻahu and Kauaʻi show you the side of Hawaiʻi your Instagram won’t.
Words & Images Roberto Serrini
Let Oʻahu and Kauaʻi show you the side of Hawaiʻi your Instagram won’t.
Words & Images Roberto Serrini
free from the high rises, nightclubs, and loud Hawaiian shirts of Honolulu, the island unfurls before me in all her beauty. I pound some garlic shrimp and fresh, hot, coconut cream-filled malasadas from food trucks with the immediacy of administering an antidote to a venomous bite. Immediately, I am restored, the blue Pacific on my right, the emerald green mountains on my left as I travel up the island's skirt to my final destination: the infamous North Shore.
free from the high rises, nightclubs, and loud Hawaiian shirts of Honolulu, the island unfurls before me in all her beauty. I pound some garlic shrimp and fresh, hot, coconut cream-filled malasadas from food trucks with the immediacy of administering an antidote to a venomous bite. Immediately, I am restored, the blue Pacific on my right, the emerald green mountains on my left as I travel up the island's skirt to my final destination: the infamous North Shore.
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Hawaiʻi's famous food trucks can overwhelm, but no one will argue that Giovanni's Garlic Shrimp isn't a solid choice.
There are a million ways to rip around Oʻahu’s North Shore, surfboards, scooters, soft-top Jeeps with the doors off and Bluetooth speakers blasting reggae. But none of them come close to what Keola Ryan is doing. He’s not just offering an ATV tour. He’s offering a portal.
Keola is the founder of North Shore Eco Tours, and while he may hand you a helmet and lead you onto a rugged four-wheeler, don’t be fooled. What he’s really guiding is a deeper journey, one into the wild soul of Hawaiʻi. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill mud-slinging thrill ride. It’s a rolling classroom built on ʻike kupuna, or ancestral knowledge, and it might be the cure for TikTok-tourism.
Keola is more then an exceptional tour guide - he's a custodian for the true Hawaiian way of life.
Walking untred trails high above the North Shore coast is as close to pure Hawaiʻi that you can get.
Taking adventure in your own hands as you command an ATV through untapped paradise.
“It’s just us today, which is good, we can do a bit of everything and get to really know the land.” That’s music to my ears, Keola. We mount our ATV, engines growling and rumble into the dense, dripping green. The trail cuts through bamboo forests, guava thickets, and ancient lava fields, climbing steadily until the coastline below becomes a shimmering postcard.
Every stop is a story. Keola pulls over beneath a lone kukuitree and explains how its oil once lit Hawaiian homes. The ahupuaʻa (land division) we traverse once fed entire communities, with water flowing from the mountain to the sea like a circulatory system. Fishponds, taro terraces, medicinal plants, which are all still here if you know where to look, which I can’t because we’re flying through a plateau of 6-foot-tall guinea grass like we’re being chased through a cornfield by the cops.
“This grass was brought from Africa, originally to feed cattle. The cattle went and the grass stayed. A large part of our job is to trim it back, to give the native plants and trees a fighting chance to survive.” Keola explains with a bit of pain in his voice. He and his team are the custodians of 1,000 acres of private conservation land. It is his kuleana, or responsibility, to return this land to its original state, constantly fighting invasive plants like guinea grass and strawberry guava from choking out native plants, which ultimately choke out the link to their history and native culture.
Keola's sacred job is not just to protect this ancient land, but to make sure it flourishes for future generations.
The ride is wild. We splash through riverbeds, fishtail around muddy bends, and climb ridgelines so steep they steal your breath. But the adrenaline is secondary. What lingers is the sense of unique connection that you simply can’t get anywhere else, where you understand the importance of the ‘āina, or land.
Back at base, we munch on some fruit we picked along the way and drink a cold beer digesting the immensity of the afternoon. “This ain’t Disneyland,” he says with a wink.
“This is Hawaiʻi. The real Hawaiʻi, and when you’re here, you’ve got a job to do; listen, learn, and leave it better. The vacation you take with you after you leave, that’s your reward.”
North Shore Eco Tours doesn’t do mass tourism. Group sizes are small if not powerfully intimate. Guides are born and raised locally, and every tour funds cultural preservation and land stewardship efforts, ensuring that what you experience today doesn’t vanish tomorrow. The message is clear, and the experience thrilling, something I’m always on the hunt for, and Keola keys in on this.
“There is another place I know,” K says with a nod and sip of his beer, “it’s next level, if you’re up for it. But…”
“But what?”
“But you gotta hop on a plane.”
Waipa Foundation is the paradise of Hawaii before Hawaii.
Before I know it I’m on Kauaʻi, the oldest and perhaps most beautifully brutal of the Hawaiian island chain. I exit the adorable L’ihue airport which is like an open air bus station with planes, hop in my rental, and travel along the east coast to the Aston Islander resort on the beach. My room is lovely, although it feels like I’ve taken someone’s timeshare, which I think I have, given the fact there is a picture of a strange family on the wall that I do not know. Regardless, its balcony opens right to the beach and there is a lively pool bar, neither of which I have time to enjoy because I have a date with living history in Hanalei.
Natural beauty tapping into fresh coconuts.
The sacred taro plant is more than food, it's history you eat.
Pulling into the Waipā Foundation I didn’t know what to expect, only that I was expected to meet the Executive Director, Stacy Sproat. Instead I found a dozen or so people sitting together in the shade peeling vegetables while happily chatting away.
“Can I help you?” a young girl with the brightest smile I have ever seen appears out of nowhere. “Oh, yeah, Stacy is always a bit late. Have a seat, she’ll be here in no time I’m sure.” and she chugged off in her oversized wellies back to the group.
Stacy on cue pulls up in a green ATV and pops out holding a bunch of coconuts. “Sorry! I saw these and had such a time getting them down!” Stacy isn’t a tour guide. She’s a steward. A cultural torchbearer. A force of nature. When she speaks, you lean in, not just because of her calm intensity, but because you can feel she’s not speaking at you. She’s speaking through time.
Waipā isn’t a re-creation of old Hawaiʻi, it is old Hawaiʻi, just still breathing. Still feeding people. Still telling stories. This 1,600-acre ahupuaʻa stretches from misty mountain streams down to Hanalei Bay, and for generations, it’s been a place where the Hawaiian relationship with land, water, and community is not only remembered but practiced.
“We’re not here to entertain,” Stacy tells me as we gather beneath a giant monkeypod tree. “We’re here to restore a way of life.”
You don’t tour Waipā. You participate in it. You plant. You weed. You taste. You listen. You get mud between your toes and wisdom under your fingernails. On my visit, we helped harvest kalo(taro), the plant that isn’t just a food staple in Hawaiian culture but an ancestor. Literally. According to Hawaiian genealogy, Hāloa, the first kalo plant, was the elder brother of the first Hawaiian person. So when Stacy says, “feed the land, and the land feeds you,” it’s not poetic metaphor, it’s daily reality.
For Stacy paradise is hard work, but worth it.
We walk through loʻi (taro patches), learn about traditional water management systems that would make modern engineers weep with envy, and hear how Waipā is rebuilding what colonialism nearly erased. The Waipā Foundation isn’t just teaching visitors, they’re training the next generation of farmers, cultural practitioners, and community leaders.
The simple beauty of ancient agriculture techniques feeding a community.
We then gather for lunch that was prepared by one of the volunteers, a young, bright kid that happened to be a chef back in the States. “Yeah, I just saw this place and I was like, yep, this is it for me. End of story.” Grilled shrimps, fern salads, curried patties, and a cascade of fresh fruits on a level that would make brunch in the West Village blush, all coming from the land we just tended to. Of course there is poi, three varieties of it, each more interesting and complex then the next.
Poi here isn't a novelty you tell your friends back home you tried, it's a sacred and powerful food.
“Hey-” the young girl with bright smile returns barking at Stacy, “I asked auntie if I could help make the poi-”
“I donno…” Stacy says with a drawn out smile.
“C’mon what’s the problem?” she retorts with a steadfast stance.
“Ok, if you want.” And she’s off. I look at Stacy with a crooked, slightly confused smile.
“My daughter.” Stacy pauses. “Poi is very special. Everyone that makes it, makes it differently. It’s made literally by hand, so the way you process it, pull it, even the Ph on your skin affects it. We can actually know who made which poi by its taste.” I nod. Stacy pauses again. “My daughter … She makes sour poi.” she laughs with a shrug. Here, you taste the story of Hawaiʻi in every bite, even in the decadent Kalo Cheesecake that would give Junior’s in Brooklyn a run for their money.
The beauty of a community spanning generations, celebrating sacred heritage, is overwhelming.
What Waipā offers is something truly precious: a return to truth. A reminder that Hawaiʻi isn’t just beaches and sunsets. It’s community. It’s stewardship. It’s reciprocal care. Before we eat, Stacy offers a simple chant of gratitude and we all share one thing we learned before clapping twice so the land hears our thanks. It’s simple, but beautiful, and the connection I long for when I travel, that Hawaiʻi seems to have on tap.
get in the know The Hawaiian alphabet only has 13 letters in it: A, E, I, O, U and H, K, L, M, N, P, W.
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