Zanta Claus: Start Your Own Charity

Hey folks. The picture you see here is of a homeless Hawaiian person and an equally homeless Zafar, known as Zanta during these times. Yes I was homeless in Honolulu for three years: living veteran's shelters, in cars all over the city and at Barber's Point, tents in Waimanalo and on mats in Kapiolani and Ala Moana parks. It was not by choice. I am a Classical, Jazz and Blues musician. There is no real market for my sound in Hawaii. They prefer traditional stuff and light pop for the tourists; Reggae squeaks by for the young locals. I stick to my guns, stay true to my art and gain insights heretofore, unavailable.

I manage to hold down a few gigs averaging about $175 a week. That'll get me a few nights in the YMCA but your food budget is going to take most of that, if you plan to eat so living in the car is the best option. I'm stuck there.. . . Stranded In Paradise as my new book-in-progress will reveal. Yes, I escape eventually, but I really want to tell you how I found a heart for the indigenous Hawaiians.

I started my own charity: ZaZa's Annual Homeless Kids Initiative and played Zanta Claus for each year of the three that I lived there. This is exactly how it happened. . . .

When I first moved to Honolulu, I acquired a State ID card that enables me to get free camping permits. I pick up a nice tent at the local Sports Authority and some more supplies that I buy with savings. When I go to the City Hall, they show me that the only available site is in Waimanalo on the Windward side of Oahu---that means the wind blows all the time.

Unbeknown to me, Waimanalo campground is a camp of local homeless folks; it's their turf and they don't want outsiders camping there. I didn't know that. After setting up my tent I hear a woman shout as she walks by my address at site #12. .

"Alright Captain Cooke!" referring to me.

Captain Cooke is the Englishman who essentially invited the Western world into Hawaii and claimed it for the Crown of England. It is a major insult. I take it in stride and I take out my guitar and play :La Bamba from inside my tent. I hear people clapping and singing.
I emerge from my tent and see a fierce lioned -eyed Samoan known as "Uncle Mel" picking up a ukelele.

"Hey come on breddah, git u geetar. . .I know dis one," he said.

Earlier he had given me what is known as the "stink eye" as I enter the rest room while he's taking a little bath. Back out at the sight as they are cooking up Poke, we crank up La Bamba. Indeed the man can play. I bond with the whole camp with just a few notes of happy music.

Months later I am to visit Uncle Mel at OCCC, the local federal prison where he will be held on charges of assaulting a man who shot his daughter with a B.B. gun. He will do six months. After he is arrested, I get everyone to sign a card and I send it to him. A woman we call "Auntee" declares:

"Mel him gonna be stoked, him gonna cry. him say nobody care 'bout him. Uncle Mel gonna cry like a baby." Getting the card signed is met with equal degrees of suspicion and love. I did this kind of thing before when a fellow employee back in Atlanta is arrested for child molestation. I knew he didn't do it. The little girl , his accuser recants, but my friend told me:

"I was getting ready to commit suicide, had it all planned out, had the belt to do it with, then that card came."

That is real. That is important stuff. I'm surprised at the people who signed the card, who wanted to believe he did it. I knew better.

Mel is indeed the one who defended his daughter. . .I would have done the same thing. Nevertheless, when I visit him in the joint, he looks well fed and fit. Big stone ground muscles. He already looks like a warrior ready to conquer Maui, He tells me:

"Just the udder day, One o'dem guards dem, Butt me in the (he grabs his privates), I knock him out, bloody. They couldn't take me off him, I stop beatin' him when I want. They want to shoot me. They put me in solitary for a month for slow in the line."

When I go to pick Mel up after his sentence is complete, three guards stop me at the gate.

"You comin' for Mel right," one of them asked.

"Yeah, is he ready?" I asked.

"Yeah but we will let you have him under one condition?" he asserted.

"Condition?" I ask. The cops give each other a knowing look; they look at me like they want to arrest me. They order me slowly, with feigned attenuated rage:

"Yeah, keep him in Waimanalo, don't let him come back here. . .okay breddah?"

As I drive him back across the Pali Mountain to Waimanalo, Mel is sitting in back; my girlfriend Denise is up front in the passenger seat. Mel keeps his hand on my shoulder the whole time assuring me that if any would- be hoodlum in Waimanalo even looks at me funny, to let him know.

When we get back to the campground, I give Mel $25 and never see him again. As I walk to my tent, I am approached by a seven year old boy.

"Hey Mister ZaZa, bring me some bread tomorrow."

"You hungry? . .What's your name?" I asked."

"No I ain't hungry, I'm a fisherman and my name is Noah." he said.

Noah is a little white kid who with his sister, mother, and father live three tents north of me. The father is always unhappy, brooding, eyes everyone with suspicion, but the word gets around about me helping Mel. I get to my tent and the kid follows me with no protest from Dad. We talk of centipedes and the high winds that brought my tent down upon me the night before.

"You weren't in your tent last night were you?" he asked. "You were in your car."

"No man, I was in my tent," I said.

His eyes light up in disbelief. Last night's windstorm was so relentless that if someone raised a big enough sail atop the Pali, the island would have turned into a sail boat and crashed into the Philippines.

"In your tent?" For real?" he asked

"I ain't gonna let no wind run me outta my tent!" I said. . ."I mean it."

Noah runs to tell his mother that I stayed in my tent during the storm.Most folks rode it out in their cars or the restroom. I didn't know any better. I was too wet to get up so I decide to just stay in my sleeping bag yelling "Stop!" "Stop!" The wind god, Maui ignores me.

I take a seat outside my tent and begin the task or shaving my head so I'll be crisp for tonight's gig. Noah runs over and says,

"Ha ha ha ha Look at you, you're shaving your head."

"I have to," I answered, "I'm a genie and I must shave my head to keep my powers." I said, folding my arms like Mr. Clean.

"Aw-w-w there's no such thing as genies. . .gimme a wish," he demanded.

"Shamma Gumma ohhh de de Shannaana Shananana," I chanted. "Go look under those bushes, quickly. . .go now boy!" I said, brushing the air to shoo him along.

Noah runs to the bushes and finds a half loaf of bread. He knows that I put it there, but doesn't want to blow the game. He grabs the fish bait and runs to Dad.

"Daddy, Mister ZaZa is a genie, he gave me a wish, made lots of stupid sounds." The other six children who gather around him really believe I am a genie and so a legend is born.

After that day, I'd buy little toys and hide them all over the campground. It becomes a pleasure to awaken to the sound of children playing with the balloon rockets and balls. I leave little boxes of pennies here and there. The parents didn't mind but they still kept their guard up and that is understandable though they know deep down that they have nothing to fear from me. Most of them wonder about me except the elder: "Auntee" who once said to me"

"Haven't seen one like you for many years. . .so much compassion."

All the children know that I am leaving goodies out for them and they never say thanks for fear that it would stop the flow. I keep to myself and smile knowingly. Christmas rolls around and I come up with a scheme.

Hmmm, why don't I take up donations at the gig and buy some real big toys for these kids.

That night I go to work and beg money every fifteen minutes or so between songs. When I get fifty bucks, I take a break and run to Wal-Mart returning with fishing rods and Baby dolls. I stash them behind me while I'm playing. I beg for more money . . .

"Who'll give me a hundred bucks for the kids in Waimanalo . . .Come on down. . .gimme some bucks."

Since they see the toys, I appear to be trustworthy and the money comes forth. I raise a total of $352 over two weeks and I add my whole week's money to it. My friend James Strait gives me sixty bucks and we go to the mall. James buys laptop learning toys.

One the way back to the campground, I patrol Ala Moana Park like Batman. I'm looking for homeless families. I spot a group of four children playing near the Dragon Boat ramps, their parents nearby.
I walk up with a big trunk full of adventure figures donated by Bruce, one of the waiters at Formaggio,

"Two hundred pieces," he boasted.

As I approach, the father looks apprehensive, but my beard and Zanta hat is fairly disarming, but still. I shout in advance of myself:

"I have some free toys from people at work. . .for your children. May I give them to you?" I asked,

The father demurs, the mother answers in a loud voice, reaching towards me, almost choking on her words:

"Oh ye-s-s, we take 'em. . .Tank you?" Her children race over and stand behind the father.

I walk straight to the father and give him the box and I say. "Just for you breddah." I smile but he doesn't look up at me. I feel his good vibe though. . .his "Aloha" mixing with mine. I turn and walk away with tears welling. I want to look back, instead I see another family under the trees with a card table set up for dinner, I tremble.

I retrieve yet another bunch of presents from my vehicle, walk over to the trees. The man in the red parka recognizes me. He's seen me park my SUV to sleep in the parking lot where he lives, when I am too tired to drive around the cliffs to Waimanalo.

We never speak to each other. Homeless folks use telepathy for the most part. . .pride. . .avoidance of the ruses, as it were. When I walk up to him, I don't have to say anything. He has seen me practice guitar over by the lagoon, I'm harmless, but still. He takes the gifts without looking up, I avoid eye contact as well. My eyes are full, the world is a blur. I'm hooked on this. I'd quit playing and do this all year round if I ever hit the Powerball. Well, I take that back. I wouldn't quit guitar. . .that's for sure.

I get back into my SUV and head out to Waimanalo. I enjoy hearing the waves crash into the cliffs near Blowhole, they sing to me, they tell me that what I am doing pleases the gods. I am not polytheistic but I feel the presence of the spirits of the ancestors of these Hawaiians impinging upon my intuitive sensibilities, I feel something. . .loving me in return. It is spooky enough making that trip in the pitch of the tropical night with waves crashing hundreds of feet below me on this narrow road. Hawaii is a magical, mystical place; it abounds with mysteries and legends. I understand and feel something of Never Never Land and Oz and Utopia combined.

I arrive at Waimanalo in about 15 minutes. I am approached by a Hawaiian man named Randy.

"Hey man. . .do you do that ice?" (meth-amphetamine) he asked, his eyes shot from the pipe.

"Man. . .I'm too old for drugs. . .bad for my heart. . .but look 'a here. Can I give you some toys for that pretty little daughter of yours."

"I don't see why not," he said.

"I want you to tell her it's from Santa Clause, or let her think it's from you. . .okay?"

We walk around to the back of my vehicle; I open it up and he bellows curses of approval.

"D_______You the real Santa Claus man, where you git all dis?"

"Oh man, dem rich folks what come to my gig. . .I begs up the money." I said

I give Randy a vocabulary building laptop toy, a flying saucer and a doll baby set. He thanks me, takes it to his tent. I hear his wife say:

"Thank you good breedah. Keola is at her Auntee's, we hide 'em for tomorrow. Ka'ne (God) give you mana (God's power). mana with you. . .my family's mana is with you," she said.

I ask Randy to rouse the other parents to come out behind the bushes where I am parked to get the rest of the stuff. Everyone is thankful and pleased. They also kinda know that I am only passing through. There is love and sadness in their eyes as I turn away to go back to the city; once there I turn onto Atkinson and I check into the Y to get a shower and some indoor sleep to reward myself for starting my own charity.

The next day, which is Christmas, I drive by the campground and I see the kids and parents playing with the toys. I get full in the eyes, sorry that I didn't have the money to go to North Shore, Waienae, and Barber's Point, the other places where I've slept and witnessed the poverty in paradise.

On the way back from Kailua where I like to go to Starbucks for fat brownies, I stop by the campground. Randy's little girl runs up to me and gives me a big choking hug around my neck. There is a tent compound in the middle of the grounds where the Hawaiian flag is flying upside down. . .a traditional distress signal.

"Mister ZaZa, Mister Genie, where is your tent. Wind blow away your tent?"

"No sweetie, I gave my tent to Tagga. I sleep down near Blowhole 'cause it is closer to town. . .save gas." She ran and got the flying saucer and showed me that she could operate the remote control. Her eyes say 'thank you.' I wink at Randy, wave at the others and say "Ho Ho Ho" as I go to my car.

The following year( 2006) I raise $680, go back to Waimanalo where the homeless population has quadrupled. I have enough for everyone to have arm loads of toys from chemistry sets to remote controlled cars. A couple who comes to see me play, brings me a box full of wrapped toys. . .fully appreciating my mission and my Aloha. I take photos of the event which is like a feeding frenzy.

The photos help me to raise $1238 the year after that. With that kind of money, I am able so service people living in the woods out in Barber's Point, on the Leeward side of Oahu, some 12 miles north of Pearl Harbor where there is a family of seven girls living in one big tent. I use to park across from them to sleep when I had to teach the next day in nearby Kapolei. By then my beautiful SUV had been repossessed and I had purchased a nice Plymouth Voyager to sleep in. By then Waimanalo had gotten too overcrowded with small gangs and drug runners. Most of the kids were gone to aunts and uncles.

So I load up the sleigh and we go first to Barber's then over to Waienae, further north where many Hawaiians have tent cites (now dispersed by police) strewn up and down the beach way. It resembles an Indian reservation. Overwhelmed, I pick one camp spot. This time I have my students and their parents helping me as I approach the little village saying:

"Ho Ho Ho, Santa Claus is in the h-o-o-use. I'm the soul-l-l-l Santa from the South Pole. . .come and get some fre-e-e-e toys. . .Fr--e-e-e-e- toys for everybody. . .Anybody want some free toys-s-s-s. . . Ho Ho Ho!"

People emerge from their tents and run from the beach into the parking lot. They are orderly and cheerful. The woman you see in the picture with me? Well, she wouldn't some out of her tent. I walk by and she is crying.

"There won't be enough for me, I have.. . .ten children and seven grandchildren." she said.

"Well I have a truck full of toys, but you better come on and get somebody to help you . . take all you want. " I said.

She comes on out to the lot and I ask my little elves to make sure she gets a load. So many people are happy that day with fishing rods and snorkel diving gear for the adults as well. We have books and shoes and dolls and board games, a ton of "D" batteries, flashlights and best of all, we distribute about eight tents.

I am now back on the mainland, playing in a resort area that is practically bereft of poverty. The owner of Home Depot lives about two miles from here and I don't know people well enough to ask for donations to take over to Savannah to the ghetto right there on the East side. People over there may resent me coming over there when they have their churches to do that kind of thing anyway. One still has to be careful with this kind of stuff.

I'm afraid that people will look for me in Hawaii this Christmas and I won't be there. Before I left, I did all I could to encourage my associates to take it upon themselves to do ZaZa's Homeless Kids Initiative on their own. So it is my destiny for the moment, to be where I am and look for opportunities to love in other ways. . .tutoring maybe.

I encourage you dear reader, to initiate a project such as this if you happen to be in community where you can look across the tracks and see some folks who could really use a lift and a good example of caring and sharing. Take up a collection at work and buy some toys and just give them away. It would make any child happy.

In closing, I want to thank my girlfriend Denise Pineiro and her daughter Sarina for helping with toy selection, long time buddy James Strait for contributing all three years, Wes Zane, the owner of Formaggio, where I played the only regular gig I had, for awarding gift certificates to the kind customers who donated money. Thanks Barry for you splendid donations two years in a row.

Thanks Rich for helping out in Waimanalo may your marathons be many and merciful. Thanks to the Lemus family and the Johnsons for donations of money and their "sleighs." Thank you Fredi Lemus for the photos.

Special thanks to my elves, Blake, Marco, and Paulo. I wish we could do it again this year. If I can't. . . I.hope somebody does. . . If I ever hit the lottery we'll build homes, not shelters for the people of Waimanalo, Waienae and Barber's Point. Oh yes, and thank you----The Hawaiian People--- for allowing me to awaken to my heart and share true Aloha with you. I shall return.