(FORTUNE Magazine) – They were on the verge of extinction. The famed Kahiki, of Columbus, Ohio, had been torn down for a Walgreen's. Aku Aku, in Cambridge, Mass., became a New England fish house. But even 18 months ago, when we first reported on the endangered status of tiki bars, radical preservationists had already begun emulating tree-sitter Julia "Butterfly" Hill: They clung to their rattan perches, making sure that no Ian Schrager or Rande Gerber could build yet another cosmo-drenched den of chemically peeled pretentiousness. Sometimes, just when it seemed these dedicated stool-sitters could drink no more zombies, a supporter would stop by to feed them flaming bits of pork that tasted strangely of Sterno. Thus, the forces of global boutique-ification were successfully beaten back.

Tiki fanaticism, it has become clear, respects no national borders. A cell of preservationists operating in Barcelona has mummified three icons of 1970s tiki fabulousness, escaping detection until recently simply because surveillance teams didn't speak Spanish. They still don't speak Spanish--but they have confirmed by satellite phone that Kahala, Aloha, and Kahiki, which are lovingly photographed and posted on www.city-in-space.com, actually do exist.

Large numbers of slurping missionaries clutching tattered copies of Sven A. Kirsten's devotional tract, The Book of Tiki (Taschen), have also been tracked to London, where three new bars have opened in recent months: Down, Waikiki, and the most outrageous, South London Pacific, which took a southeast London gay pub and filled it with wonky hand-carved tikis by artist Josh Collins, an alleged "tiki freak" who has since disappeared to the wilds of Australia (where he's said to be dreaming up a tiki theme park). Collins's tikis have lewd, horrified expressions, appropriate considering that the Elvis impersonators who perform here include Greek Elvis, Midget Elvis, and Hermaphrodite Elvis. Visitors to London are encouraged to pay their respects to the old guard: A venerable Trader Vic's is still tucked--as any Trader Vic's should be--in the bowels of a Hilton.

Meanwhile, a bar called Waikiki Wally's recently opened in New York City. "Waikiki" is for the huge mural of the famed Oahu beach, complete with shimmying hula dancers and a dissipated sailor. "Wally" refers to the resident cockatoo, whose cagey smell adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the exuberant East Village tiki decor (built into the bar is a diorama depicting lurid vacationers at a luau). Tina Louise--yes, Ginger herself--partied at the bar when Wally's first opened, but on our visit we saw only a mysterious personage in a lopsided blonde wig. After several excellent scorpions, served in tiki mugs, the evening blurred. Such are the delights and the perils of this wanton world. A few plastic flowers can make a Shangri-La of East 2nd Street. And with a cheap hairpiece and a bit of paint, anyone can be Ginger--you, me, or the next guy.