Drinking Traditions of Polynesia: 5 Local Beverages That Endure

Polynesia spans thousands of miles of ocean, from Hawaiʻi to Rapa Nui, linking volcanic high islands and coral atolls with distinct resources—and distinct drinks. Alcohol arrived with European contact, but islanders adapted it to local crops, climate, and ritual life.

Today’s traditional beverages reflect seafaring networks and colonial histories: ti-root spirits in Hawaiʻi, bush beers in the Cook Islands, cane-juice rhums in Tahiti, and coconut toddy on low atolls. Each is tied to agriculture, communal gatherings, and the rhythms of tropical weather.

Okolehao is Hawaiʻi’s native distilled spirit, traditionally made from the starchy root of the ti plant (Cordyline fruticosa). Roots are slow-baked in an imu (earth oven) to convert starches to sugars, mashed with water, fermented with wild or baker’s yeast, and distilled—originally in improvised iron try-pots introduced by sailors in the late 18th century. The name combines ʻōkole (butt) and hao (iron), a nod to those early stills. Bottled okolehao typically sits around 40–50% ABV, with small-batch runs sometimes stronger.

Expect earthy, vegetal aromas, caramelized cane and baked sweet potato notes, and a dry, slightly smoky finish. Okolehao was once a rural moonshine; periodic revivals now see limited releases on Oʻahu and Hawaiʻi Island. In Honolulu, you may encounter it neat or in heritage cocktails that reference tiki-era classics. It pairs well with grilled meats and lau lau, and locals tend to bring it out for celebrations rather than daily drinking.

On Atiu in the Cook Islands, tumunu—“bush beer”—is both beverage and social institution. After 19th-century missionary restrictions, islanders turned to fermenting local fruit: oranges or bananas are crushed with water and sugar, inoculated with baker’s yeast, and left to ferment in plastic drums or wooden barrels. The result, often 4–8% ABV, is ladled from a communal bucket into coconut-shell cups. Flavor varies by fruit and season: orange-based brews can be zesty and pithy; banana versions trend fuller and estery, with a tart, cider-like edge.

Tumunu gatherings are semi-formal “beer schools” with a host, house rules, and rounds measured by the shell. Conversation, hymn-singing, and storytelling are as central as the drink itself. Visitors can experience sessions arranged through guides on Atiu and, occasionally, community versions near Avarua on Rarotonga. Go in the late afternoon, when the heat eases and fruit ferments are freshest. It’s a living tradition that ties alcohol to fellowship rather than speed drinking.

French Polynesia produces cane-juice rhum—rhum agricole—made from fresh-pressed sugarcane rather than molasses. On Moorea and Tahiti, cane is harvested, crushed, and the juice is fermented 24–72 hours before a single or multicolumn distillation. White expressions are typically bottled at 40–50% ABV; aged versions gain vanilla and spice from time in oak. Brands such as Manutea and Mana’o showcase local cane varieties grown in volcanic soils and maritime climates, yielding grassy aromas with lime zest, sugarcane, and a whisper of sea spray.

Rhum agricole is the backbone of ti’ punch (a minimalist mix of rhum, cane syrup, and lime), poured in Papeete bars and beachside fare houses. With poisson cru (raw fish in coconut and lime), the rhum’s crisp, herbal profile cleanses the palate. The category reflects a hybrid heritage: techniques adapted from the French Antilles, cane suited to Tahiti’s rain-shadow valleys, and island drinking rhythms that favor light, aromatic spirits in tropical heat.

On low atolls where land is scarce, the coconut palm serves as pantry and bar. Tappers cut the inflorescence and collect sap—toddy—in gourds or bottles. Fresh, it is sweet and non-alcoholic; left to sit naturally, yeasts ferment it into a lightly effervescent palm wine of roughly 4–6% ABV. Islanders also boil the sap down to a syrup called kaleve for cooking, which slows fermentation. The fermented drink smells floral and bready, with a mild tang and coconut-blossom finish.

Alcohol policies vary by island, but where permitted, fermented toddy appears at village gatherings, low-key celebrations, and evening chats under breadfruit trees. In Funafuti, you may see tapping at dawn and sharing at dusk when temperatures drop. Toddy drinking is tightly bound to subsistence knowledge: pruning schedules, wind and rainfall, and the skill of controlling fermentation in a climate where liquids sour quickly without refrigeration.

Rapa Nui (Easter Island) has developed a small but distinctive beer scene led by Cervecería Mahina in Hanga Roa. Using imported malts and hops with local water filtered through volcanic substrate, the brewery turns out pale ales, lagers, and seasonal styles typically in the 4.8–6% ABV range. Expect clean malt backbones, tropical-friendly carbonation, and hop profiles that lean citrus and floral rather than aggressively bitter—built for warm evenings and seafood-heavy meals.

While craft beer is modern rather than ancestral, its emergence is tied to the island’s isolation: brewing locally avoids long, costly supply chains. Pints are poured in Hanga Roa bars after sunset walks near Ahu Tahai or with tuna ceviche and taro chips. For travelers, it’s a window into how contemporary Polynesian communities adapt global drinks to local terroir and logistics, steadily creating new traditions beside ancient moai.