Disrupting the Growth Machine: Evidence from Hawai‘i

Abstract

For much of its modern history, growth machine dynamics in Hawai‘i prevailed on a regional scale. Strikingly, recent events suggest that the hegemony of Hawai‘i’s growth machine has been disrupted. This article offers an in-depth case study of a major luxury development project on the island of Hawai‘i where development interests were thwarted despite the support of growth interests and local government officials. I show how local protesters made use of state-level historic preservation law, Native Hawaiian burial protections, state-level agricultural boundaries, and frames and meanings of land promulgated by the Native Hawaiian movement. Viewing this stalled housing project as an extended case study reveals how regional institutions and flexible social movement frames can be leveraged to promote alternatives to growth machines. I also highlight how distinctive regional institutions—that have evolved over time through institutional layering—may be prompting growth machine disruption in Hawai‘i, an understudied tourism and real-estate dependent economy. Finally, the case study suggests specific ways that local mobilization interacts with global economic downturns to shape spatial outcomes.

Keywords

growth machine theory institutions Hawai‘i urbanization land development social movements

Introduction

Urban scholars have demonstrated that, when it comes to real-estate, development interests systematically prevail over public interests and social values. Growth regimes, which pursue growth and intensify land use, appear ubiquitous and endure even when challenged. Molotch and Logan (1987) went so far as to argue that most U.S. localities are best understood as growth machines. Given such an uneven playing field, scholars argue that only the most resourced groups—in terms of income, occupation, and location in global or national “place hierarchies”—stand a good chance against the agendas of specific real-estate developers. (Logan and Molotch 1987; Logan, Whaley, and Crowder 1997; Molotch 1976; Stone 1989, 1993)

This article examines a situation in which a small group of protesters, who were relatively powerless given standard metrics, prevailed against a major international developer in the state of Hawai‘i—a state where a regional growth machine has prevailed up until recent years. I offer a case study of the Hōkūli‘a or “Oceanside” project,¹ one of the largest and most controversial real-estate development projects ever attempted in Hawai‘i. Hōkūli‘ a is a 1,500 acre luxury residential project in the rural South Kona area of Hawai‘i Island where development interests were thwarted despite having significant financial resources, transnational investors, and backing from local government officials.

Unlike other well-studied locations of unexpected success managing or curtailing growth interests, such as in California, Hawai‘i has been ignored in urban and development literatures. For most of its history as a state, Hawai‘i has clearly conformed to the growth machine model. Beginning in the late 1950s, powerful actors and large landowners intensified land use and created an economy largely dependent upon tourism, construction, and urban development (along with federal military spending). Development interests and public officials engaged in systematic cooperation and promised broad public benefits, but they often privately captured returns from development. Economic growth through land development served as the organizing principle of politics not just in specific localities but the entire state. (Coffman 1973; Cooper and Daws 1990; King and Roth 2006)

Development interests in Hawai‘i have been historically so powerful; it is striking when major projects fail or experience decades-long delays. Given this background, I ask the following research question:

Research Question 1: How did project opponents halt a major residential development project that was supported by key public officials and development interests, and which at first appeared to conform to prevailing growth machine dynamics?

I show that local opponents prevailed in a lawsuit and drew leverage to stop the project from state and local regulations—especially historic preservation law, Native Hawaiian burial protections, and protections for agricultural land—as well as frames (Benford and Snow 2000) linked to a broad Native Hawaiian movement that has promulgated meanings of land at odds with growth machine ideologies and which along with other critics of urbanization has helped to rewrite land use regulations and planning practices. The political and cultural context, especially since the mid-1990s, accordingly presents multiple means to challenge growth agendas.

Treating the Oceanside project as an extended case study (Burawoy 1998) suggests that there has been disruption in a state-level growth machine and a fracturing in the political consensus behind land use intensification (see also Purcell 2000). Development beyond established urban areas is increasingly politically untenable.

This is a surprising finding given the well-documented and theorized resilience of growth machines, especially in the U.S. context. Whereas other scholars have traced how growth machines endure despite challenges (Stone 1989; Swanstrom 1985; Warner and Molotch 1995, 2000), I show processes suggestive of an unraveling growth machine. Also, while the transnational character of real-estate investment has reinforced growth machine durability in other locales, in this case, local movements and institutions have created obstacles even for deep-pocketed global investors (see also Purcell 2000). A robust alternative to a growth machine is noteworthy in any context, but it is especially so in this least likely of cases where fortunes so clearly depend upon real-estate and where a powerful few have historically controlled land.

This article contributes to the theoretical development of urban growth machine theory by detailing processes and conditions through which local protesters bankrupted a major development project. I introduce a focus on (1) regional institutions and their evolution over time (see also Pierre 1999; Rast 2012; Wood and Valler 2001); (2) relatively flexible and inclusive frames and meanings of land offering alternative spatial visions, despite counter-framing by developers; and (3) the importance of multiple political and cultural tools to counter development interests. I review how project opponents leveraged institutions that have evolved through institutional layering (Thelen 1999, 2004) over several decades, demonstrating how insights from historical-institutional analysis can help make sense of urban development dynamics (Rast 2012). The case also suggests that local mobilization can harness global economic downturns to stop projects through the politics of delay.

Theoretical Framework

There is still considerable debate—and much pessimism—about how much and how social forces can disrupt the hegemony of growth machines and the projects they champion. Which tools and groups are best suited to go up against growth machine interests, given that growth machines are notoriously pervasive and resilient?

Growth Machines: How They Prevail

Growth machine scholarship² argues that those who seek profit through the buying, selling, and developing of real-estate tend to dominate local politics due to their privileged political position and the seductiveness of their agenda (Logan and Molotch 1987). Growth machines involve a coalition of public and private actors who promote land use intensification and associated increases in property values, in part by promulgating the ideology of “value-free growth” and associated discourses (Logan and Molotch 1987; Molotch 1993, 1999). Local institutions such as universities, media, and arts organizations may also be complicit. The theory suggests that battles over specific projects take place on an uneven playing field that favors “place entrepreneurs” but does not determine specific spatial outcomes. Development interests, accordingly, do not always prevail, but the theory suggests that the odds are in their favor (Logan and Molotch 1987).

The growth machine approach steers a middle ground between agency and structure: It stresses dynamics of coalitions as well as conflicts of interest between those who pursue exchange values as opposed to social goals or “use values” (usually of residents). However, some argue for more emphasis on structural conditions, such as qualities of capitalism or shifts in regimes of accumulation and associated consequences of state intervention for local development politics (Lauria 1997; Phelps 2012; Phelps and Wood 2011).

Growth machines are alive and well despite celebrated local attempts to thwart them. Case studies of slow growth administrations, mobilizations against development schemes, and even of growth control policy often end up revealing only “sporadic and temporary success” underscoring the resilience of growth machines (Logan, Whaley, and Crowder 1997, citing Molotch 1993; Warner and Molotch 1995, 2000). Electoral or policy successes of slow growth champions often invite backlash and are short-lived (e.g., Clavel 1986; DeLeon 1992; Gendron and Domhoff 2010; Swanstrom 1985; Warner and Molotch 1995, 2000).³ “Progressive” or “slow growth” electoral coalitions are notoriously hard to maintain given “considerable external political opposition, economic constraints and internal weaknesses” (Fainstein and Hirst 1995, p. 189). Molotch (1993, p. 49) summarizes nearly two decades of empirical literature: “the growth machine system remains durable, sustained in manifold ways through the mutual reinforcement of political, cultural, and economic dynamics” (see also Logan, Whaley, and Crowder 1997; Warner and Molotch 1995, 2000).

Growth Machine Frames and Institutions

Growth machine discourses appeal to diverse publics. Local discourses of value-free development frame the meaning of land development, often promising public benefits while masking privately captured returns (Logan and Molotch 1987; Molotch 1999). Discourses of smart growth can similarly cover for growth coalitions (Dilworth and Stokes 2013; Gearin 2004).

Value-free development acts as a collective action frame (Benford and Snow 2000)—or “ideological prop” (Molotch 1993, 1999) of the growth machine. Acting as a “master” frame, it persuades and appeals broadly because it is uniquely flexible, inclusive, and “broad in interpretive scope” (Snow and Benford 1992). In Hawai‘i, multiple alternatives to growth machine collective action frames, such as the discourse of aloha ΄āina further discussed below, unite allies against development interests. Such frames are nimble and broadly resonant cultural counterpoints to growth agendas.⁴

Growth machines also chug on because of the institutions that encourage systemic collaboration between public officials and pro-growth private interests. Growth coalitions dominate and also protect such institutions (Gendron and Domhoff 2010).⁵ Growth coalitions are also self-perpetuating because they may create divisible benefits such as profits, enhanced property values, jobs, increases to local tax bases, campaign contributions, and political recognition (Stone 1993, 2004). Thus, institutional variation across time and context, such as the relative centralization of land use policies, conditions growth coalitions (Wood 2004). Places with centralized urban policy appear less hospitable to growth machines (Wood 2004).

Places and Resources that Thwart Growth Machines

There is some consensus that the most resourced groups, such as higher income communities, homeowners, professionals, and residents of “in demand” locales, are more likely to successfully challenge development projects and growth machines (Fainstein and Hirst 1995; Logan and Molotch 1987; Logan, Whaley, and Crowder 1997). High levels of social capital can support land-related mobilization (Fainstein and Hirst 1995), as seen in the homeowners’ movement of California (Purcell 2000; Self 2005).⁶

Residents of “in demand” locales may have more leverage to refuse or scale back projects or to bargain for concessions (Logan and Molotch 1987). Tourism or lifestyle destinations in California like Santa Monica, Santa Cruz, and Santa Barbara with “unique desirability” (Pagano and Bowman 1995, p. 61) have shown the rare ability to sustain progressive and slow-growth coalitions in part due to their “competitive advantage” and admired coastal locations (see also Logan and Molotch 1987; Molotch 1993). Hawai‘i shares this place desirability, though my analysis sheds light on political capacity afforded by the regional institutional context.

Being well-positioned in the national or international “hierarchy” of places may check the dominance of local growth machines, but not necessarily (Logan and Molotch 1987; Savitch, Vicari, and Kantor 2002). Perception and leadership of city leaders (Pagano and Bowman 1995) or the tenacity and vigilance of electoral coalitions concerned with “quality of life” make the difference. Even in places that may have little to fear in terms of capital flight or property divestment, elected officials and local constituencies often cater to developers (Molotch 1999; Pincetl 1992, 1994). Case studies also suggest that fiscal health can be a necessary if not sufficient condition for growth machine disruption or alternative development strategies, and it may depend on the “vision” of public officials (Gendron and Domhoff 2010; Pagano and Bowman 1995, p. 3).

Cross-governmental conflicts within and between jurisdictions may also disrupt growth coalitions or create openings for alternative spatial visions, as seen in case studies of Santa Cruz and Los Angeles (Gendron and Domhoff 2010; Purcell 2000). Corporations may become less reliable backers of local growth agendas as a result of globalization (Purcell 2000). Phelps and Wood (2011, p. 2600) highlight how “local politics is entangled within a wider set of non-local political [and governmental] relations,” an agenda I advance. My analysis shows how political interactions across scales—global, regional, and local—shape place-specific outcomes. In this case, distinctive regional histories structured development processes, despite county-level political efforts (see also Leo 1998; Lewis 1996; Phelps 2012; Phelps and Wood 2011).

Anti-Growth Machine Mobilization: Obstacles, Regional Context, and Frames

Opponents to growth machines face risks of fragmentation and parochialism (Fainstein and Hirst 1995; Pincetl 1992, 1994, 1999; Purcell 2000). Place-specific mobilization against externalities of growth, such as density, sprawl, and environmental degradation (Warner and Molotch 1995, 2000), may be too narrow or exclusive and may privilege middle-classes or homeowners against working-class interests thus limiting potentials for broad coalitions. By contrast, growth machine frames seem readymade to stitch together broad coalitions in support of land use intensification and “economic development.”

Mobilization against growth machines is also often too narrow in terms of political jurisdiction, scale, and time horizon. Local antigrowth successes may be trumped by politics at higher levels where consequential land use decisions are taking place (Logan and Molotch 1987; Molotch 1999) (see also examples from Orange County, Pincetl 1999). Growth machines also tend to operate with a long-term view (Pincetl 1999), and their members develop “systematic mastery over the land use administrative apparatus” in contrast to sporadic place-specific mobilizations (Molotch 1993, 1999). Place entrepreneurs also appropriate novel “growth control” policy tools or even the rhetoric and symbols of their critics (Molotch 1993, 1999; Pincetl 1999; Warner and Molotch 1995, 2000).

Other variables such as state investment in infrastructure, complexity of land ownership, and type and stage of development may also impact the character of growth coalitions (Phelps 2012; Phelps and Wood 2011). Phelps (2012), for example, argues that as settlements mature, they are likely to shift away from “pure” growth machine dynamics to postsuburban politics concerned with collective consumption and the “politics of amenity,” as a logical extension of greater complexity in land ownership patterns, greater density, and the past consequences of state investment. In Tyson’s Corner, for example, Phelps (2012) marks the demise of a “pure” growth machine and a shift to “regime-style politics.” This may represent a more “balanced” approach to land use, for example, toward more in-fill urban development instead of urban sprawl.⁷ Phelps (2012) sees the growth machine model as most likely in new suburban greenfield development or in inner-city areas where rent gaps invite redevelopment. However, Pincetl (1999) suggests that shortfalls in the arena of collective consumption and fiscal crises are just as likely to empower place entrepreneurs. As further discussed below, in the case of the Oceanside project, past state investment in a highway up and down the Kona coast structured but did not determine political outcomes.

To compete, forces going up against development interests must enter into politics for the long haul. Any effort to undermine a growth machine—at a project or system level—must forge alliances across geographic and substantive divisions (Logan, Whaley, and Crowder 1997). In the case of the Oceanside project discussed here, site-specific protest tapped into political leverage offered by distinctive institutions, the legacies of social movement organizing, and nimble collective action frames.

Hawai‘i’s Growth Machine and Its Alternatives

In this section, I provide an overview of Hawai‘i’s regional growth machine. Especially since the late 1990s, institutional change and shifting cultural frameworks—in part resulting from environmental and Native Hawaiian activism—offer various tools to counter growth machine dynamics.

On the heels of the U.S. backed overthrow of an independent Hawaiian nation, an 1898 resolution of the U.S. Congress annexed Hawai‘i making it a Territory of the United States, despite widespread opposition of Hawaiian citizens, in an act widely recognized as illegal (Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Hussey, and Wright 2014; Silva 2004; U.S. Congress 1993). The Territorial period, from 1900 until statehood in 1959, saw the heyday of Hawai‘i’s sugar/plantation economy. Imported immigrant labor fueled the plantation economy, and a small Caucasian oligarchy dominated politics through the ruling Republican Party (Fuchs 1961).

In the “Democratic Revolution” of 1954, the Democratic Party ousted the Republican Party from its majority status in the Territorial legislature. Change in political power prompted spatial and economic changes. A new growth regime developed around tourism and real-estate development, which gradually displaced plantation agriculture as the foundation of Hawai‘i’s economy (Coffman 1973, 2003; Cooper and Daws 1990). The newly dominant Democratic Party along with large landowners and organized labor drove a dramatic transformation in land use and the economy by building hotels, infrastructure to support tourism, and residential developments to meet the demands of a fast-growing population (Cooper and Daws 1990; Kent 1993). Economic and spatial transformation offered ladders of socioeconomic opportunity to some descendants of plantation workers, though left behind others (Coffman 2003; Okamura 2008). Land interests accrued wealth as property values skyrocketed. The hegemony of the new growth regime held tight through class-alliances, extensive public–private networks, corporatist accommodation of labor, and a narrative that land development could create opportunity in a “New Hawai‘i” (Cooper and Daws 1990; Kent 1993; King and Roth 2006).

Land development sparked political push back from social justice and anti-eviction advocates, environmentalists, and neighborhood residents. The Hawaiian Renaissance and related Hawaiian Sovereignty Movement(s) emerged in the 1970s to advance political self-determination, indigenous control of land,⁸ and indigenous cultural practices (Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Hussey, and Wright 2014). Since this time, a multifaceted Native Hawaiian movement has objected to land development from the point of view of native rights and continued sovereignty of a Hawaiian Nation—and has conceptualized land development as a process of settler colonialism (Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2013; Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Hussey, and Wright 2014; Trask 1994a, 1994b).

The Hawaiian movement has championed native rights and inscribed those rights into contemporary law, especially the rights of access to historic lands, natural resources, as well as protections for iwi kūpuna (ancestral bones) (Baldauf and Akutagawa 2013). In the wake of protests against the desecration of burials at a large resort in Maui, the state established the Burial Sites Program and associated burial protection laws in 1996 (Hui Malama 2009). Since then, state law mandates that Burial Councils in consultation with cultural/lineal descendants determine the proper treatment of iwi kūpuna discovered during archaeological reviews required for major development projects on public and private lands, as well as iwi kūpuna disturbed and or “inadvertently discovered” during construction (Baldauf and Akutagawa 2013; Hui Malama 2009; Liu 2009). Developers often must significantly revise construction plans to respect the authority of Burial Councils and the traditions and beliefs protected therein (Baldauf and Akutagawa 2013; Liu 2009). In my research, local residents, public officials, and developers from throughout the state voiced awareness of the cultural importance of iwi kūpuna as well as putative concern about risked desecration of Native burials. This contrasts markedly with development projects initiated during the heyday of the growth machine. However, even contemporary expressions of cultural awareness may be superficial or politically expedient.

Other regional institutions, including state environmental laws and agricultural protections, structure land development in Hawai‘i. Both the state Constitution (of 1978) and the Hawai‘i State Land Use Law (first established in 1961) set boundaries on urbanization and protect the viability of agriculture in established agricultural land districts (Callies 2010, 2012; Lowry 1980). State environmental protections and coastal zone management policies parallel federal programs and set limits on land use intensification by requiring rationalized environmental review and special permitting processes (for a review of environmental law in Hawai‘i, see Callies 2010, 2012; Frankel 1997).

Its unique island geography as well as the strong tradition of political centralization, in part due to its history as a monarchy, also characterizes growth politics in Hawai‘i (Callies 2012; Fuchs 1961). Land use law expert David Callies describes the State Land Use Law—the only one of its kind within the United States—as a “sweeping state-wide zoning, which takes precedence over all local government land use controls in all but four percent of the state’s land area” (Callies 2012, p. 317). Hawai‘i, therefore, parallels regions outside of the United States or the few locales within the United States that have vigorously pursued regional planning, such as Portland, Oregon (Leo 1998). Hawai‘i’s land use policy centralization is often contested, and it is not uncommon to hear calls from developers, planners, and others to abolish the State Land Use Commission (see, for example, American Planning Association, Hawai‘i Chapter 2005; Star-Bulletin Editorial Board 1998). Moreover, as land is limited and counties are islands, annexation and incorporation are not targets for place entrepreneurs as they are in other locales (Heim 2012; Jonas 1991; Savitch and Vogel 2004).

Since the 1990s, two landmark Hawai‘i Supreme Court cases have further codified Native Hawaiian rights and layered new provisions into Hawai‘i’s environmental impact laws and Land Use Law. Public Access Shoreline Hawai‘i (PASH)⁹ (1995) and Ka Pa‘akai¹⁰ (2000) and related legislation recognize the rights of Native Hawaiian (Kanaka Maoli) cultural practitioners or lineal or cultural descendants of specific regions and ensure their access to lands to exercise traditional practices (Asam 2006; Belatti 2004; Garcia 2004). These laws require state agencies to protect traditional and customary practices and mandate that would-be developers assess cultural, social, and environmental impacts of potential projects (Asam 2006; Belatti 2004; Garcia 2004). PASH and Ka Pa‘akai clarify principles of Hawai‘i’s State Constitution that in turn date back to the Hawaiian Kingdom period (Asam 2006; Baldauf and Akutagawa 2013; Belatti 2004; Lam 1989).

Legal analysts argue that existing case law “elevates the rights of Native Hawaiians . . . to the same level of legal importance as the most basic and fundamental concepts in Western property law” (Panarella 1998, p.485; see also Belatti 2004; Garcia 2004). However, both Native and non-Native Hawaiian activists have used these laws to contest property development and stop specific projects.

Meanwhile, a multifaceted Native Hawaiian Movement has changed the discursive context of land development by forwarding a discourse of aloha ΄āina, a cultural framework fundamentally at odds with the commodification of land for profit. Aloha ΄āina has a deep cultural, personal, and political meaning for many Kanaka Maoli (see Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua 2013; Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Hussey, and Wright 2014). Aloha ΄āina evokes a familial and reciprocal care-taking relationship with land as “that which feeds,” while expressing political sovereignty and patriotism for the Hawaiian Nation (Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Hussey, and Wright 2014; Pukui and Elbert 1986; Ritte and Sawyer 1978; Silva 2004; Trask 1994a, 1994b).

Despite its rootedness in Kanaka Maoli expressions of political and cultural sovereignty, I suggest that aloha ΄āina has entered the broader public discourse in Hawai‘i. I observed in this research how Native Hawaiian and non-Native Hawaiian environmentalists, slow growth advocates, farmers, and even affluent homeowners rally around aloha ΄āina as a frame of political action. The concept acts as a flexible collective action frame and counter-discourse to pro-development scripts; when used by non-Native Hawaiians, however, it raises risks of co-optation as well as the potential for solidarity.

Data and Method

This article draws upon research conducted for a larger project, which involved in-depth case studies of four controversial real-estate projects initiated between 1980 and the early 2000s in different areas of the state of Hawai‘i. Here, I focus on one case study, using qualitative data collected between 2008 and 2009. My knowledge of the other cases informs my interpretation of this case (see Mukhija 2010). I conducted 45 in-depth interviews with key respondents including developers, current and former local residents, lineal descendants,¹¹ activists, public officials, planners, and other experts or observers. I asked respondents about the course of events, pivotal moments, community perceptions, and influential actors. I identified respondents from public records and by canvassing local scholars, planners, and development experts. I also asked each respondent to refer me to others with similar or opposing points of view. I transcribed and analyzed interview data to identify processes and patterns across interviews and cases. Informal discussions with community members supplemented interviews.

Data were also drawn from public records, newspapers, and other secondary sources, to trace the progression of the proposed projects through the regulatory process, following the logic of process-tracing (George and Bennett 2005). Public records were collected from the Circuit Court, the Hawai‘i County Council, the Hawai‘i County Planning Commission, the State Land Use Commission, the State Historic Preservation Division (SHPD), and other state libraries. I paid special attention to testimony from public hearings.

The Oceanside project exhibited a surprising outcome: the bankruptcy of a powerful developer and a court ruling that went against decades of development practice. Analyzing such “contrarian” outcomes can advance theory refinement. Focus on a single case also allows me to engage “how” and “why” questions (Feagin, Orum, and Sjoberg 1991; Gerring 2007).

While the idea of a growth machine denotes patterns of land use intensification operating within a city or region, scholars often draw on project-specific case studies to make broader conclusions (e.g., Fainstein 2001; Suttles 1990). This project adopts this logic and treats the Oceanside project as an “extended case study” (Burawoy 1998; see also Phelps 2012). I “extend” out from the dynamics of the project to generate insight about the broader political context.

Narrative of the Oceanside Project

Below, I illustrate how opponents challenged a major real-estate development project by leveraging cultural frames as well as laws and regional institutions advancing protections for iwi kūpuna, native rights, and agricultural lands. The project’s early phase appeared to conform to prevailing growth machine patterns: Developers marshaled the discourse of value-free growth (Logan and Molotch 1987) and promised jobs, taxes, and crucial infrastructure. County-level decision makers in turn offered their support, approved zoning and permit requests, and became party to a “well-drafted” and “executed” development agreement—the first ever in the state of Hawai‘i (Callies 2012).

However, the project was derailed by a court ruling that shocked local and national publics, and that was denounced by the development industry and certain lawmakers (Carlton 2005). Going against industry practice as sanctioned by county governments and state agencies for over two decades, in 2003, a circuit court judge ruled that the project violated the State Land Use Law (Callies 2012). Law Professor David Callies, echoing the Wall Street Journal (Carlton 2005), called the litigation and settlement an “attempt to change the rules in the middle of the game” and evidence of “public backlash against large-scale developers moving into previously designated agricultural land” (Callies 2012, p. 342) . Commentary in local and national newspapers, proposed legislation in the wake of the ruling, and interviews with land use experts also underscored how unusual the outcome was.

Developers had attempted to neutralize opposition. For example, they presented the subdivision as a farming-agricultural community to planning officials while marketing it to potential buyers as an exclusive enclave. The developer also tried to co-opt local activists as well as historical preservation authorities and even significantly decreased the project density. However, the developers’ systematic failure to protect Native Hawaiian burials and historic features of the site invited public scrutiny and political protest. Diverse Native and non-Native Hawaiian opponents drew leverage from multiple provisions in state law and mounted a lawsuit that stopped the project and bankrupted the developer.

I show how a diverse but small group of opponents seized opportunities afforded by this shifted political and institutional context to bankrupt a powerful developer—a developer who had built major luxury residential projects in at least three countries, who carried financial backing from powerful multinational corporations, who enjoyed the support of every key branch of the county government, and whose plans conformed to practices of building luxury housing on agricultural lands throughout the state for decades with “no significant objection either from the Land Use Commission or the state legislature” (Callies 2012, p. 342). As one respondent explained, “They [the Oceanside developers] were right on the edge of the shift in the paradigm.”

The Growth Machine’s Impact on Hawai‘i Island

Hotel, condo, resort, and infrastructure development on the sunny western Kona coast of Hawai‘i island, or the “Big Island” of Hawai‘i—where the Oceanside project is located—is a clear spatial manifestation of the state-level growth machine. In the late 1960s, John A. Burns, the governor and longtime “godfather” of the state’s Democratic Party, in cooperation with public and private allies, envisioned a “Gold Coast” and turned Kona and Kohala into a “regional resort complex” (Cooper and Daws 1990, p. 259). As in the rest of the state, major landowners, county officials, and state-level political allies in partnership with investors from the U.S. mainland and foreign countries promoted development. State Democratic Party leaders funneled money into transportation infrastructure including the Kona airport and Mamalahoa highway, literally paving the way for “tourism urbanization” (Mullins 1991). In Kona and other parts of Hawai‘i Island, “there was both political muscle and substantial public backing in favor of large-scale, virtually unrestricted development” (Cooper and Daws 1990, p. 261). Landowners often hired those with close ties to the Democratic Party as consultants or advocates, often blurring the lines between public and private interests. One influential Hawai‘i island senator, who was “acting on the floor of the Senate directly” in the interest of a resort developer in Waikoloa, secured state funding to transform a dirt road into a highway linking Kawaihae to Kailua-Kona, build a small boat harbor at Honokohau, and construct a new airport at Keahole to promote resort development (Cooper and Daws 1990, p.80). State investment had long-term consequences that conditioned the politics of the Oceanside project: Infrastructure invited population growth that has quickly outpaced infrastructural capacity. The presence of a single highway up and down the Kona coast along with uneven development of jobs and the restructuring of the plantation economy has created major lifestyle concerns.¹²

In recent decades, North Kona has become a commercial center and resort complex, with an increasing presence of vacation homes, and part-time residences. Population growth has strained infrastructural capacity and put upward pressure on land and housing prices. Residents voice frustration at traffic and worry about the loss of Kona’s “unique lifestyle” (County of Hawai‘i 2008).

By contrast, South Kona, where the Oceanside project is located, maintains a rural-agricultural character. Coffee farming, which became the dominant crop in the 1800s, continues to shape the social ecologies of South Kona (Kinro 2003). South Kona has grown at a slower pace than North Kona (County of Hawai‘i 2008). Official county land use patterns show that, with the exception of Hōkūli‘a, no lands in South Kona are officially slated for resort or major commercial usage in part also due to its steep slopes which are less suitable for urbanization.

Place Entrepreneurs in Action: Aims and Frames

Lyle Anderson, the so-called “father of private golf-course communities” (Carlton 2005), laid groundwork in the 1980s to bring the first exclusive luxury residential golf development to rural-agricultural South Kona (see Figure 1 for map of project location). He purchased (and leased) properties from longtime local ranching families, amassed approximately 1,500 acres of prime coastal land, and secured equity from Japan Airlines (JAL). Later, as a result of global market changes and project delays caused by litigation, JAL pulled out of the project, and the Bank of Scotland became the major investment partner. Anderson, working with 1250 Oceanside Partners as the developer, intended to construct a 1,440-parcel luxury residential community with a private 27-hole golf course, a 100 room Members Lodge (for high-end visitor accommodations), and an exclusive beach club. Developers first named the project “Villages at Hokukano” reflecting the ancient Hawaiian settlements on the coastline, and they later recasted the project “Hōkūli‘a” or “star of desire.” Here I refer to the proposed development as Hōkūli‘a, as it was known locally, or the Oceanside project. Hōkūli‘a would be the largest real-estate development by acreage ever built on the Big Island. Most of the project’s land is part of the state agricultural district, which according to the State Land Use Law restricts usage to agricultural pursuits.¹³ The property is situated on a slope directly overlooking the ocean and spans about two miles of shoreline several miles north of Kealakekua Bay. Oceanside Partners stood to gross between approximately $1 billion and $2 billion (or more) (Carlton 2005; Circuit Court 2003; Magin 2008).¹⁴ According to their marketing plan, the developers’ target buyer would be “an established Fortune 500 executive”; “[having] a net worth of $5 million plus”; “an avid golfer”; and “residential equity rich—owns homes in several destinations around the world”; and “owns a current primary home in [the U.S.] West Coast or Japan” (Circuit Court 2003, citing 1250 Oceanside Partners Marketing Plan).

Figure 1.

Map of project location.

In the past, place entrepreneurs could transform rural land into resort destinations, and dirt roads into highways. However, the Hōkūli‘a case shows new limits to urbanization. Building a luxury housing development in South Kona meant crossing a spatial boundary.

Annie¹⁵, a former public official, explained, “if they would have gone further north . . .I don’t think it would have gotten much attention at the time.” Similarly, Donna, a business consultant explained, “It was almost like there was a hidden line that ended at the Sheraton [Keauhou]. . . . In some people’s minds . . . it wasn’t okay because you’re opening up new lands.” Curtis, a local resident, explained, “there’s always been this line. For a lot of people in South Kona they say, ‘We gave you North Kona, South Kona is a refuge. . . don’t come in to South Kona.’” Similarly, Duane, a small business owner, emphasized the unique sensitivity of South Kona. “I think a lot of us in the very beginning weren’t sure if we wanted something like Hōkūli’a down in that area there. . . . We wanted to keep it country.” He went on to say,

we didn’t want something coming in and having a major impact . . . [making] prices of homes and land going up drastically, raising up property taxes, blocking beach access so that people wouldn’t be able to utilize that area there. And this is a very sensitive area . . . something that I think the local people feel very protective about.

Growth Machine Dynamics at the County Level

Annie echoed other respondents when she described the “pro-development majority” in the County administration at the inception of the Oceanside project (in the late 1980s and early 1990s). She called Mayor Steve Yamashiro “a very pro-development mayor.” She elaborated,

Mostly they [the council] approved anything and everything. . . . I think it was the mentality of the time. This all [development] was good, it brought more tax revenue . . .

Annie suggested that Hōkūli‘a began as an “extreme example” of this pro-development mentality and described the investor’s close “access” to the “mayor” and “planning director,” such that they could “talk about their golf game, or whatever.” She explained, “they thought they were just gonna bully their way in with political pressure.”

Growth Machine Frames: “Value-Free Growth” to Win Public Support

Oceanside representatives made the case for the project in dozens of formal public hearings as well as casual venues to seek support for the zoning and subdividing from county officials.¹⁶ Company President Richard “Dick” Frye reached out to local institutions and even offered donations to nonprofit organizations. Oceanside hired public relations firms and members of local families as consultants, and met directly with between 2,000 and 3,000 people during public relations meetings and property tours. Frye appeared in community meetings, at backyard barbeques, and in public hearings. Interview respondents described Frye as “very personable” and someone who would “go talk story” and “drink beer” with local families “in their garages.” They described his regular casual visits “into the community” to “explain what they [the developers] were trying to do.”

Duane described how Oceanside representatives convinced him to support the project by

talking to people, letting them know what the intent of Hōkūli‘a was and how they would observe all the rules and regulations, provide beach access, create area for the general public, and at the same time, taking care of all the artifacts, all the different historical things down there.

This convinced Duane that the developer wanted to “partner with the community . . . and help the community grow in a proper way.”

Pa‘a, a local resident, described her interactions with the company:

Hōkūli‘a was very diplomatic . . . They had meetings with the landowners, asking them what their feelings are and giving them a chance to express our feelings, our thoughts, our mana’o. Whether they listen to us or not I don’t know . . . . We’ve been down there several times by invitation, and we’ve always had a nice time.

Developers offered material concessions and framed the project as broadly beneficial, using a strategy well-recognized by growth machine scholars. Most importantly, Oceanside offered to build a $55 million segment of highway known as the Mamalahoa bypass (Carlton 2005): desperately needed infrastructure to alleviate traffic on the sole artery linking North and South Kona and providing access to hotels, schools, and businesses of North Kona (see also Dayton 2006a, 2007). The developers also agreed to build and dedicate a 120-acre coastal park to the public. Oceanside Partners and local backers also promised $8 million to $10 million in personal income for Hawai‘i residents, and more than $8 million a year in county tax revenues (McNarie 2003). They also publicized the construction jobs the project would bring and made campaign contributions to County Council members. In other words, the developers forwarded the ideology of value-free growth by presenting the project as serving the public interest, while downplaying private benefits.

Oceanside representatives pitched these public benefits to the Hawai‘i County Council, which held authority over zoning and subdividing. The Council ultimately voted in support of the project. Council members touted the merits of the highway bypass and expressed their confidence in an anticipated development agreement, which was finalized in 1998, that would require the company to build the road in exchange for development rights¹⁷ (see records of the Hawai‘i County Council 1994–1995: especially 5/11/94). This development agreement, the first in the state, legally bound the developer to build the highway by-pass.¹⁸

Oceanside Partners also sought to preempt potential opposition from local Native Hawaiian communities. For example, Oceanside convened meetings or “talk story sessions” with Native Hawaiian elders, community leaders, members of Native Hawaiian civic organizations, and activists. The developer also hired a locally renowned Hawaiian activist and state-recognized lineal descendant as a project consultant. Interview respondents called him the CEO’s “right hand man.” He held a reputation for “stopping bulldozers” as an antidevelopment activist (Essoyan 2001; Whitney 2001). This consultant led construction crews and hired relatives from the neighboring community (Walden 2005, 2008; Whitney 2001), and when testifying in front of the Hawai‘i County Planning Commission, he asserted his stance as a “pro-sovereign” member of the Hawaiian Movement (Leslie 1993). Developers likely hoped his voice would give them credibility when it came to Native Hawaiian issues that were increasingly salient. Later, in 2001, a well-respected Native Hawaiian businessman, John DeFries, took over as CEO. DeFries publicized his ancestral connections to the project site. Moreover, public hearing transcripts show people praising the project’s concern for local values and indigenous culture, and show the company promising to protect the cultural resources of the sensitive location.

Marketing the project as culturally sensitive while promising concrete material benefits earned the support of the Hawai‘i County Council (and Hawai‘i County Planning Commission), which passed a rezoning ordinance in support of the development in 1994. This ordinance granted Oceanside Partners the right to rezone the property to one-acre lots (or according to the county designation, “Agricultural 1 lots”) and then to subdivide the land.¹⁹ This act would allow for the official creation of the subdivision, the clearing and grading of the sloped volcanic land, and the installation of infrastructure (road, water, sewage, drainage, electricity, etc.) in preparation for property sales.

Despite publicly stated commitments, the developer and Hawai‘i County Council failed to comply with historical, archaeological, and burial protection regulations (Thomspon 2002).²⁰ The County Council approved the first phase of the project before historical review had been completed, without consultation with the State Historic Preservation Division (SHPD), and without approval from the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council (Hibbard 1995). As of 1994, the developers had not yet completed a satisfactory Archaeological Inventory Survey, Mitigation Plan, or Burial Treatment Plan.²¹ (Circuit Court 2002c).

Circuit Court Judge Ibarra also ruled in 2002 that the developer had violated burial protection and historical preservation laws (Thompson 2002). No representative of the Oceanside Project appeared in front of the Burial Council until 1999, just as construction commenced (Circuit Court 2002c).²² Failing to identify iwi kūpuna in advance left the ancestral iwi vulnerable to destruction during construction. When bulldozers destroyed burials and historic places left undocumented by the incomplete archaeology, families with ties to the land felt deep emotional pain.

As respondents indicated, incomplete archaeology and apparent disregard for iwi kūpuna have typified many major real-estate projects up through the recent past. This was likely aggravated by an absence of administrative rules (up until 2002) for historical and archaeological review under the the State Historic Preservation Division.

Increasingly, since the 1990s, the political environment has shifted such that failure to respect iwi kūpuna and ensure access to historic sites cannot be assuaged by economic concessions or growth frames. This paradigm shift may have prompted attempts by the developers to capture regulatory officials. For example, court findings show that the developer engaged in “improper conduct” involving “financial influence and improper socializing with [the] SHPD [State Historic Preservation Division] regulator” (Circuit Court 2002c, p. 14-15).

Challenging the Growth Machine: Leveraging Legal Institutions and the Regional Context

In public hearings and news editorials, local residents construed the project as a threat to the viability of agriculture and objected to potential inflationary pressure on land prices and to the project’s exclusive and luxury character.²³ One local coffee farmer and her allies circulated petitions against the project which were signed by approximately 1,200 individuals. This farmer mounted a first lawsuit against the developer. While Oceanside Partners prevailed in the lawsuit, plaintiffs forced the landowner to deed a historic trail (the Ala Loa trail) to the state. This early wave of opposition failed to derail the project, but may have helped prompt Oceanside to downsize²⁴. A later wave of opposition would voice similar concerns but would more forcefully advance native rights and aloha ΄āina.

The developers modified plans in an attempt to respond to the shifting institutional and cultural context. Following this first lawsuit, developers cut the density of the project’s first phase in half and agreed to keep the lots in the state agricultural district as opposed to petitioning the Land Use Commission to shift the land into the urban district. Lot size would be no smaller than one acre, contrary to the original plans. The developers also downsized plans for the golf course. The luxury residential project continued to be marketed as an “agricultural sub-division” and presented to regulatory officials as a low density “agricultural community.” Accordingly, multimillion-dollar luxury homes, nestled around a signature golf course, would be considered “farm dwellings.” Developers returned to county agencies in 1996 and secured county-level rezoning ordinances and permits in accordance with this new master plan. Interview respondents suspected that these changes were a response to public opposition, the developers’ realization that sufficient profit could be made with fewer lots, or the developers’ fear that changes to the composition of the State Land Use Commission would threaten any request to redistrict lands.

Even the decrease in density was not enough to address criticisms facing the project. A 1993 review by the State Department of Agriculture stated, “it appears that agricultural uses are mainly for landscaping purposes.” This review deemed that proposed orchards along the fringes of lots were not a “bona-fide agricultural use” (Kitagawa 1993). Local residents shared this view, which I heard frequently during interviews and informal conversations. For example, Pa‘a explained,

Those are supposed to be ag’ [agricultural] lots down there. Their idea of an ag’ lot is to build a multimillion dollar house on an acre of land . . . That’s not how I view an ag’ lot. If you buy an ag’ lot, you build a moderate home on it and you make the land around it productive.

However, ambiguity about what is required within the state agricultural land use district is not specific to Hōkūli‘a. Hawai‘i County and Maui County had been allowing luxury residential subdivision projects in the state agricultural district for decades (Callies 2012). Some interview respondents blamed the Land Use Commission for failure to clarify the terms of the State Land Use Law.

Mobilization Against the Development: Native Rights

The increased institutionalization of native rights, burial protections, and cultural sensitivity for iwi kūpuna, as well as the growing salience of aloha ΄āina frames, helped fuel mobilization against the project.

In 1999, the Oceanside developers began construction before comprehensive archaeological assessments took place and before burials could be protected (Circuit Court 2002c, p. 14-15). Lot sales began at the same time and sold at a fast pace. The company hired nearly 200 men from neighboring communities. The work also indirectly supported jobs in the hauling, golf course, and construction industries.

However, by the early 2000s, the project was caught in a “public relations nightmare,” as one respondent put it. Cultural and environmental destruction came to light and sparked outrage among local residents. Three major events catalyzed new protests: (1) a flood that washed loose dirt, resulting from questionable land grading practices, into the protected bay waters below the project; (2) the “inadvertent” destruction and unearthing of iwi kūpuna; and (3) attempts to develop a housing site on Pu’u Ohau, a known burial place of Hawaiian royalty.

Native burials that had not been discovered during the original Archaeological Inventory Survey instead came up with bulldozers and heavy equipment, sparking public outrage. People became furious as stories emerged of construction crews and consultants desecrating ancestral bones, trampling historic Hawaiian sites, and flouting the archaeological review process (Circuit Court 2002c). One local resident described the emotional turmoil felt by workers as bulldozers and dynamite created the contours of the golf course. “[Construction] was ripping [the land] to pieces. They [the other workers] sit here cry with me about their culture. . . .When they blowing up down there. . . . ’Cause we all know there’s plenty sacred graves everything over there . . . ” (Martin).

These missteps cost the developer credibility in Hawaiian communities. Public outcry over the treatment of cultural resources invited intense public scrutiny. Local families, Hawaiian activists, and community leaders organized public protests and private vigils.

Importantly, not just Native Hawaiians were angered at such offenses. Native rights and aloha ΄āina became shared frameworks of opposition.²⁵ An organization called Protect Keopuka Ohana (PKO) involved environmentalists from the local Sierra Club. PKO led local protests and a delegation to financer Japan Airline’s headquarters.

Mobilization Against Development: Making Use of Diverse Cultural and Political Tools

Ultimately, several plaintiffs, including local environmentalists and PKO, filed another lawsuit that would stop the project. Leon, a land use expert, described their legal strategy as forwarding multiple arguments until one finally “stuck”; this tactic makes sense in this context where multilayered regulations and frames counter land development for profit.

In 2003, the Circuit Court ruled that the Oceanside luxury residential development was illegal because of its location in the state agricultural land use district. Despite its marketing, the court deemed the project was not a “bona fide agricultural” development. The court also ordered the developer to address the grievances of cultural/lineal descendants and defer to the authority of the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council (Circuit Court 2001, 2002a, 2002b, 2002c, 2003).²⁶

After selling 243 lots, hiring nearly 200 workers, and investing nearly $350 million in direct costs and over $8 million in legal fees, Oceanside Partners landed in legal and financial limbo (Pacific Business News Staff 2006). Managers laid off approximately half of the workers (Carlton 2005). The court ruling sent shock waves throughout the state (Associated Press 2005; Dayton 2006b, 2006c). As a result of the court ruling, the project was effectively “frozen in place” for three years. Eventually, the plaintiffs and developer settled in 2006, and the injunction was lifted. When the injunction was lifted, the developers had to play “catch up” and finish completing infrastructure. The settlement obligated the developer to pour significant resources into local environmental and cultural preservation, community nonprofits, affordable housing initiatives, and previously promised infrastructure improvements (Dayton 2006b; Nakaso 2004; Pacific Business News Staff 2006). From then on, construction proceeded in fits and starts. Soon after, the lead developer Lyle Anderson and his investment partners found themselves caught in the global recession. Anderson declared bankruptcy, and the entire project was found to be in default in 2007; the project was held in receivership by Lloyd’s Banking Group, a London financial firm, which took over the failed Bank of Scotland.

Respondents suggested that the recession in combination with the litigation and conditions imposed by the settlement pushed the project into jeopardy. Curtis explained, “if the litigation was to kill the project then they made the project miss the market and the project is on life support right now, at best.” Similarly, Donna said,

Because of the lawsuit, because of the Judge, Hōkūli‘a unfortunately missed the largest real-estate boom ever . . . there was demand for that kind of property for second homes . . . but not during or after the recession.

Yet another suggests that even before the 2006 settlement, “the project had a cloud over it . . . their money was drying out.”

At the time of my research, much of the land remained vacant; however, infrastructure, including roads, sewage systems, storm drains, and potable water, had been put in place. Nevertheless, major features of the planned community had not been built. Also, separate litigation related to the planned bypass highway²⁷ delayed the County in granting building permits and rights to occupy housing sites. As of 2013, SunChase Holdings had purchased the Oceanside Project’s debt and placed the development in chapter 11 bankruptcy (Magin 2013). The building rights of lot owners remain in question and key features of the project are not yet built, including the planned “residential lodge.”

Conclusion

Opponents of the Oceanside project wielded influence offered by a shifting cultural and institutional context to stall and bankrupt the development. Power came from law as well as growing public sensitivity to both environmental and Native Hawaiian interests as well as a concern about loss of agricultural and rural lands. Meanings of land—frames of aloha ΄āina and environmental sustainability—further troubled the legitimacy of the project.

Respondents described the project as evidence of a “shift in paradigm” regarding historic and archaeological resources, agricultural lands, and Native Hawaiian rights and practices. In the current context, said one respondent, “Now, [developers] get chastised for it [disturbing historical sites]. All the eyes are watching them. It’s very important that they handle these in a very sensitive manner because somebody’s going to put a stop to the project if they don’t.” One planning expert described responses to Hōkūli‘a as evidence of a “changing landscape,” with heightened standards for historical preservation. He highlighted differences with earlier eras: “archaeological reports that were done in the ’80s and ’90s, it’s night and day. . .there was a different standard back then.”²⁸ One local resident and Native Hawaiian rights advocate told me that he sees land politics as now part of “a whole different ball game.” “We study. We understand the processes. We’re vigilant.” Similarly, Koa, a former public official, pointed to legal leverage: “In a really David vs. Goliath legal battle, we ended up with the ability to get a judge to see that these laws are not being enforced.” Finally, Reggie, a development consultant, explained,

You have greater awareness of [the issues] and . . . a greater sensitivity to Hawaiian protocol and Hawaiian culture and all of a sudden it all comes together in Hōkūli‘a . . . they got branded as not being culturally sensitive and taking care of Hawaiian iwi. Once that conversation started, they were stuck.

I used the case as a window into the development context, and I argue that the findings are suggestive of broader growth machine disruption in the state. The case reveals how symbolic and political boundaries limiting urbanization have been ever more sharply drawn around rural and agricultural places. A complex institutional history including governance principles from the Hawaiian Kingdom period provided seeds of growth machine disruption. Major development projects face heightened political contestation and potential delays, especially in places viewed as cultural, rural, or agricultural refuges (see also Purcell 2000 for similar findings about Los Angeles).²⁹ However, the processes I describe could be alternatively conceptualized as contestations against ongoing and persistent forces of settler colonialism (see for example Fujikane and Okamura 2008; Goodyear-Ka‘ōpua, Hussey and Wright 2014).

Other cases, such as the defeat of the proposed high-speed interisland “Super Ferry,” the defeated luxury housing development at Lā‘au Point Moloka‘i, and the mobilization against the expansion of the Turtle Bay resort at O‘ahu’s north shore, reflect growing community “intolerance” for development and new forms of “people power” (e.g., Dayton 2007; Paik, Mander, and Bernard 2009). These cases also reveal fragmentation between state and county interests: County-level officials are sometimes backers of major growth initiatives, as in the Hōkūli‘a case, but sometimes a voice of restraint as in the Super Ferry, which was backed by Governor Lingle.

Considered alongside other attempted developments (Darrah 2010), this case study reveals the variety of tools and venues available for opponents of urbanization.³⁰ Pivotal decisions regarding Hōkūli‘a were made by the Circuit Court and the Hawai‘i Island Burial Council. In other cases, projects were denied or delayed by the state legislature, the State Land Use Commission, or other county agencies. The multileveled land use regulatory system offers multiple means to challenge real-estate development. With so many “veto points” (Immergut 1990), projects face risk of failure or delay, which can stop a project when financial markets shift. Therefore, local protest can harness downturns in global business cycles to halt undesirable projects.³¹

The implications of this apparent growth machine disruption remain complicated. The varied political tools available to confront development create new forms of inclusion as well as potential exclusion. My research cannot show what the “majority” of local residents wanted. However, interview respondents, residents quoted in news sources, and editorials criticized what some viewed as harms to the larger community caused by the protesters and plaintiffs.

This case also shows how adept growth interests can be at getting around “growth control” policies (Warner and Molotch 1995, 2000). Oceanside developers attempted to co-opt antidevelopment frames, for example, by portraying the project as a “farming” community while also marketing it to luxury global investors.³² Oceanside also tried to frame the project as sensitive to Native Hawaiian cultural concerns, even while they sidestepped preservation law and damaged cultural resources.

Discourses of indigenous rights and aloha ΄āina frames have earned political legitimacy that the developers wrestled to appropriate. I view these as efforts to co-opt Native Hawaiian rights discourses and institutions, which can be detrimental to indigenous communities. Interview respondents suggested that “everybody was using Hawaiians,” as one put it and spoke of heavy burdens facing concerned Kanaka Maoli especially because there is not a single “native” viewpoint. During my research, the pain of descendants whose ancestors were buried on the project site was palpable. Yet, other Native Hawaiian rights advocates with whom I spoke praised the project’s stewardship of cultural resources, particularly after John DeFries, who also had ancestral ties to the area, took over as company CEO. The Native Hawaiian president of the Protect Keopuka Ohana, who was a high-profile plaintiff in the lawsuit, faced criticism as well as praise in the local media.

Moreover, laws on the book may not translate to direct political leverage. The lawsuit revealed that the Hawai‘i State Historic Preservation Division lacked the resources to enforce existing regulations. Project opponents therefore turned to litigation, which can be slow, expensive, and inefficient. Respondents described to me the emotional pain that came with public scrutiny and protracted litigation.

Theoretical Implications

This case study—the first focused on Hawai‘i in the mainstream urban development literature—suggests new analytical foci for growth machine theory. First, it shows how regional institutions and multileveled land institutions can be used to challenge growth interests. Accordingly, scholars should consider multiple scales and look beyond taken-for-granted units of analysis (see also Brenner 2000; Phelps 2012). Second, the case also supports the idea that tourism destinations or locations with uniquely attractive, “in-demand” geographies have unique leverage to confront developers (Gendron and Domhoff 2010; Logan and Molotch 1987; Pagano and Bowman 1995). When interest in property development outpaces available land, local forces gain leverage over transnational investment capital. Third, the study reveals how interactions between global and local processes can generate local political opportunities. Local activism prompted project delays which, in combination with the Great Recession, jeopardized the project (see also Pagano and Bowman 1995; Pincetl 1999).

Finally, the case underscores the potential of social movement frameworks and associated cultural innovations to confront growth machines (see also Amin 1999; Bailey 1999).³³ Flexible and potentially inclusive frames rather than particularistic or exclusive frames are most effective. Accordingly, public relations, the packaging or “selling” of development projects, planning ideologies, and counter-framing should be brought to the center of development analysis (see also Bristow 2005; Molotch 1999). Frames and meanings of land and development undergird the persuasiveness of growth machines; they can also be targeted and transformed by groups lacking political or financial capital.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

The author thanks John R. Logan, Lee Sichter, David Callies, Susan Fainstein, Patrick Heller, Colin Moore, Myungji Yang and the anonymous UAR reviewers for helpful feedback on previous versions of this article. The author is also grateful to many generous research respondents and hosts during fieldwork.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: Funding was received from the National Science Foundation (Dissertation Improvement Grant) and Brown University Graduate School.

Notes

Author Biography

Jennifer Darrah-Okike is an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. Her research lies at the intersection of race/ethnicity, identity, and urban processes such as residential attainment and urban development. Her research on growth politics and land development in Hawai‘i has been supported by the National Science Foundation. She also conducts research on racial residential segregation and residential mobility, as well as political participation among immigrants and ethnic minorities.

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