16 Oct 2010 - Taiohae, Nuku Hiva, Marquesas Islands

After a much needed quiet day at sea, the Rotterdam sailed towards the towering rugged cliffs of the Marquesas early in the morning. The Tradewinds buffeted the ship creating spumy waves in my coffe cup, which I naively brought up to the open fowrward deck to watch our careful entry into Taiohae Bay.

The mountain crests, vertical cliffs and narrow valleys of Nuku Hiva, our destination amongst the ten Marquesa islands, looked arid and brown. A few brighly green coloured areas nestled in scant bays, which seem to have some flat land adjoining to the sea. Obviously not a place, where visitors could opt for a 'drive around the island', the surf battered and rocky coast looked forbidding. We entered the bay between Motu Nui (The Left Hand Sentinel) and Matauapana (The Right Hand Sentinel), two mountain sized islands formed like gigantic boulders. We were in the lee of the forceful winds now, but remnants of the long ocean swells made it into Taiohae Harbour. At the head of the Bay, with a backdrop of jagged mountains, topped by Mt. Mouake (845 m), the buildings of Taiohae village hugged the shoreline like a thin thread. A few sailboats at anchor rose and fell to the swells, the light of the rising sun barely touched the slopes behind the village.

Rotterdam anchored and laid broadside to the deceptively smooth swells. Tendering commenced to port, the side exposed to the heaving sea. I caught one of the earlier tenders, and transferring from the water level platform to a tender rising and falling several feet against it, was a test in timing and agility.

I cannot imagine how the wheelchair bound man was manhandled/stepped onto one of those. A few minutes earlier, he had managed to fall down a flight of stairs in the ship's stairwell, wheelchair and all, because he became impatient waiting for an elevator. 'All the elevators in this ship only go up', he complained, whilst guests put him back in his chair and commandeered one of the alleged up-only elevators to take him down the remaining floor. Despite the somewhat perilous situation, the tender soon filled up with the 'never say die' crowd, performing feats of balance and daring, that would make a platoon of Marines proud.

Once ashore, I noticed the ship slowly changing position by 180 degrees to put the tender operation onto the lee-side. At least it broke the swells, although nothing could be done about the chop.

The Marquesas, ten isolated wild islands, of which six are inhabited today, are thought to have been populated 2000 years ago by Polynesians hailing from settled Pacific Islands, bringing plants, animals and traditional customs with them: stone carving, intricate tatoos, animal and plant husbandry, wood carving, medicinal knowledge (still studied today) and navigational skills. The Marquesans are said to have populated far off Easter Islands and brought the art of carving gigantic stone idols with them, creating the impressive Moas still standing (or laying) on the slopes and shores of Easter Island.

When Europeans reached the Marquesas, they found a sophisticated clannish society of about 50,000 people. Capt Cook was not the first visitor, that honour fell to Spanish Explorers, who landed here in 1595 and named the island group Las Marquesas de Mendoza. A few decades later, the population was decimated by the 'gifts' of the Europeans: syphilis, dysentery, smallpox, measles, tuberculosis, malaria and leprosy to about 2,000, and thus almost brought to extinction. Whaling brought many sailors to the islands (Herman Melville jumped ship here), Paul Gauguin lived and died here (of Syphillis), and Jacques Brel is buried here as well. TV culture has filmed Survivor shows here.

The natural beauty of the Island remains untouched.

Taiohahe, is by no means a one horse town, as a matter of fact, a lot of horses (slim but shiny and healthy looking) are tethered by long ropes and graze amongst the greenery. Before the advent of four wheel drives, horses served to transport goods and people from the north side to the south side of the island, a journey over steep mountains, high plateaus and tortuous passes lasting more than a day each way. Then came a dirt road big enough for a car, and the trip across was cut to five hours. Now the road is paved, and a trip across or to the inter island airport (yes, there is one) takes only 1 1/2 hours. However, that used to be iffy as well, as a strategic bridge used to flood after each downpour in the rainy season. Now there is a new, higher, stronger stone bridge.

I walked along the more or less only road along a shore wall through the village. No beach here, but black smooth rocks rolled musically to each arriving and receding breaker. There was a visitor centre (replete with craft market and offerings of exquisite wooden carvings and tapa cloth amongst the usual jewellery), a couple of stores, a monument to the war dead, an impressive restored marae with large tribal stone statues, and Notre Dame Cathedral, a catholic church. An archway, flanked with a couple of not so vertical towers, gave way to the cobble stone churchyard. A simple building, but the intricate artistry of the carved wooden stations the cross, baptismal font, pulpit, entry doors and altars inspired admiration for the outstanding skills of Marquesas artisans.

I had booked a ships tours, as there was no opportunity to see the more of the island under ones one steam. About thirty owners of four wheel drives, hailing from all parts of the island, had organised themselves to drive us over the mountain pass to The Valley of Taipivai, and the Baie du Controleur.

A commendable feat of organization, the private cars lined up on a packed dirt 'parking lot', and each tour participant carried a number corresponding to a number displayed on the car's windshield. I had car 30, and our driver was absent. However, Island time brought her around finally - she had to have lunch first. Looking like a long funeral procession the column set off into the mountains. Stunning views, windy S-curves, basalt pinnacles, blue sea. The drive gave an inkling of the savage terrain of the island, which has a few peaks over 1000 meters high, and almost no flat ground anywhere. The airport is actually situated at the remote north west corner of the island, behind something called the Terre Deserte.The road map shows a series of squiggles, which makes me wonder about the 'fast track' commute as well as the stunt pilot manouvres neccessary to land a plane.

Taipivai Valley proved spectacular. The beach at the shoreside village was covered with fine black volcanic sand. A small craftmarket had opened. Apart from the craft offerings, the locals had set up tables loaded with fresh coconut, grape fruit, papaya, mango, banana, and some other deliciously baked fruits. Some women sat near the beach on pareus, playing recycle bingo: instead of marking off cards, they placed markers on each number called. Children played with glass marbles, which seems to be the game of choice for kids here. Slightly inebriated men sat at a picnic table and drank beer. Horses and goats grazed, and chickens ran around everywhere.

We stopped at the local post office to gawk at an ancient sacrifice stone placed in front of it as a garden ornament. A large basin like affair, with a drain carved at one side of the stone bowl, and two good sized notches at the other. The notches served as resting places for human necks, which were summary severed from their human bodies in olden cannibalistic times. The blood flowed down the drain, the heads were preserved, and the bodies cooked and eaten. As mentioned earlier, Missionaries took care of that non vegetarian habit.

It is said, that the local tribes were so warlike amongst each other, that the missionaries had to build separate churches for newly converted Christians, to avoid deadly fights amongst tribal members during mass.

 

As well, the Missionaries took care of the tradition of tattoos (tatau - meaning to hit).

Quote a 1767 logbook: 'the very peculiar custom of this country to paint in black the tights of all men, and a little later draw strange designs on their legs and arms.'

All of ancient Polynesia adhered to the custom of tattoos, however the Marquesas excelled in refinement of design: paralell lines, chevrons, circles, triangles, shark teeth etc. The mythological value of tattoos is one of aesthetic and sexual attractiveness, as well as a mark of belonging to a tribal group and a protective barrier against evil influences.

Nudity was discouraged by the Missionaries, body decorations disappeared especially after the Pomare Code of 1819. Deprived of its erotic aspect, the body now hidden under clothing, lost its role in social distinction.

But, renewal is at hand together with youthful rebellion against established order. A renaissance of tattoos is evident, a wish to look handsome drives people to decorate their bodies not only with traditional designs, but also with many new styles.

Youth rebellion...Marquesan children are sent to Tahiti (transport on government expense, boarding cost at private expense) for secondary education to the nagging worry of their parents. Many of the children fall under the influence of Tahiti's drug traffickers. They are introduced and become addicted to Ice, some chemical drug derivative. Violence is common, and the children's future is at stake. Each time, a Marquesa parent sends off a child, it breaks their heart, as they never know, whether their child will return 'the same' as when it left.

But, the Marquesas retain an air of innocence and peace, and a aspect of unspoilt natural beauty.

 

Sadly I left this beautiful corner of Polynesia. We weighed anchor late in the afternoon, with the sun setting behind the rocky coast of Nuku Hiva...last harbour, but one of the most memorable, on this Pacific journey.

 

14 October 2010 - Rangiroa, Tuamotus

If Moorea is mountainous, Rangiroa in the Tuamotus is as flat as can be.

Rangiroa or Ra'iroa means 'large sky', and the sky does rival any horizon to horizon expanse of the Prairies, where instead of wall to wall wheat fields, we have reef to reef lagoon with numerous flat little dots of land surrounding it. Maximum elevation 6 feet, another candidate for submersion in global warming. The total landmass of all these specs of land is only 40 square kilometers.

Rangiroa is the second largest atoll in the world, and it consists of 240 motus (islets), separated by more than 100 hoa (tiny channels). The lagoon is immense, 1600 square km, and the islands being so low, one cannot see from one side of the lagoon to the other. The stunning array of translucent colours of the lagoon and the surroundiing ocean mesmerize the visitor.

Our ship actually entered at slack tide through Tipute Pass, which runs more than 10 knots current at maximum run. Heaven for dolphins playing in standing waves, heaven for divers and drift snorkelers 'shooting the pass' on the rushing current through a plethora of sea creatures and corals, highlighted by numerous sharks, eagle rays and tuna on the ocean side of the pass, and millions of colourful tropical fish and coral on the inside of the pass. Endless white sandy beaches, backed by waving palms and flowering hibiscus, frangipani, tiare as well as breadfruit, lime and mango trees complete the picture of South Sea paradise.

We tendered to a dock, which was mostly taken up by a small delivery freighter unloading consumer goods and loading copra. The rest of the dock was crowded with small fishing skiffs, glass bottom boats, and water taxis - not much room to squeeze in a tender, especially as the small space of surrounding deeper waters was also restricted by coral heads, shallows and bits of reef.

Avatoru Motu, where we landed, is about 12 km long and in most places no wider than a football field. Half the population of the 'capital' of Tiputa and the port of Avatoru had gathered and set up shop near the small concrete pier. A tiny restaurant sat on stilts suspended above the brilliant clear lagoon. The Tuamotus had opened for business.

I had not booked a tour, which were mostly geared to divers and snorklers, so set out to find 'transport' to explore at least this little motu. One of the famous 'Le Trucks' was parked near the pier, with a couple of ladies holding up a piece of cardboard, advertising 'Village tour which guide $12 (1000 Francs) and which Beech $15 (1200 Francs)". That was all the (grammatically challenging) English there was. As soon as I spoke French with them, the two ladies captured me and conducted their onslaught of questions from the visitors to my (grammatically challenging) French translation. I soon got in the swing of it, and answered everything from where to, how long, are there shops, what is there to see, how do we get back, where is the beach.....and of course, everyone spoke at once. Between the three of us, we figured out a 'ticket' method, to identify the 'village' tourers from the 'beech' tourers, as there were no wristbands or stamps or tickets. Some Franglish later, we used a permanent marker to paint a V or a VB on everyones wrist, depending on their 13 or 15 dollar fare. Change was another matter - dollars and francs all mixed up, and almost no one having small denominations. I sacrificed my stack of US Ones in exchange of the first large bill presented by a potential passenger. And the local lady handling the cash got the register going. Some people thought I was the 'official organizer', but I clarified that I was just a shanghaied helper...that elevated my 'position' to the point that everyone promised to buy me a drink back on the ship.

Anyway, after a while Le Truck filled up with passengers all dripping with sweat (it became searing hot in no time), and I was invited to sit with the guide ladies 'avant' - gratis - and keep up 'le traduction' for the duration of the bumpy ride.The lady read from a prepared handwritten script, pointing out island airport, school, dispensary, church, Hotel Kia Ora under construction - they all seem to be under construction or closed - power generating plant and post office. She gave me the bit to read that said: "Once in a lifetime, Tuamoto people travel to America. They like to visit Costco, Walmart, Seaworld and Disney on their vacation". Well, Paradise is in the eye of the beholder I suppose. 

I translated information about economy (Fish, Copra, Pearls and Tourism), schools (primary, high and 'college' on the island) religions (the whole gamut) and 'shopping opportunities' in Avatoru (postage stamps, and groceries and beer), number of flights from the airport (30 local flights per week), other cruise ships (maybe four a year), banks (two) etc etc. We stopped at Avatoru, a tiny settlement, where the road for this particular Motu ended. There was a 'marina', which constisted of a short concrete pier, where fishing skiffs seem suspended in emerald coloured water. Beside the pier side bistro, was a toilet, which did not flush. 

As there was no shopping to be done (an absolutely must do for many of the female passengers) everyone admired the shimmering colours of the lagoon, and after an ear splitting whistle from the driver, we all climbed back on Le Truck and headed for La Plage. The guide ladies asked me - quite concerned - if I was getting off at la plage, and leave the truck. No - I was staying on. Relieved, they asked me to remain for the NEXT load of tourists. Well, why not.

In sight of the ship, almost walking distance away from the tender dock, the bathers got off at a dreamlike georgeous beach. Here again, my limited translation services came in handy regarding info about pick up later: 'More or less every hour, the bus just turns up, someone hollers youhou, and then bathers can get back to the tender.'

And so it went, I did another 'tour of duty' this time quite 'the expert', and we had a happy bunch of people aboard. In Avatoru, I led the charge to the grocery store, where a bunch of people satisfied their shopping addiction/thirst by purchasing Hinano beer and Coca Cola.

The guide ladies invited me for lunch (poisson cru for me), which they bought at Avatoru Bistro, whilst the driver took this bus load for an bonus turn through the village past another dock where copra was being loaded. Guide ladies with a cardboard box filled with our lunches back aboard, we trucked back to the 'beech'. We picked up a few passengers from the first tour, amongst them one couple who promised to 'pay at the finish of the tour because they had no correct change'  and dropped them off at the tender dock. The couple with 'no change' disappeared without further ado amongst the dock side shopping tents, and the ladies were somewhat shocked at that affront, but did not run off in hot pursuit. I felt embarrassed, the 'guides' had been honest and trusting, and my fellow passengers too cheap to pay their modest fare.

Well, I had a fun - and delicious - lunch in the back of the truck with driver and ladies, when I asked to be retired from duty. They graciously accepted my resignation, and I wandered off to grab a water taxi ($10 for us, $ 6 for the locals) across the churning pass to the adjoining Motu, to visit Tiputa. More churches, neat houses, a dock with more copra being loaded, coral fences around properties, a large shady tree beside an artisan building, which was open. A few tourist stragglers wandering through the neat little town, then back onto the same water taxi. The driver, tatooed from head to toe, had 'rested' in the shade until he saw me returning to Tiputa dock.

Open air shops were busy, the little bistro at the tender dock was crammed full with visitors, drinking Hinano, eating Poisson Cru (the ones in the know) and Hamburgers and Fries (the ones not in the know) and watching the living aquarium below the porch railing: every fish imaginable, even a large stone fish who looked like a sandy piece of coral (their sting is extremely painful, worse than a scorpion) and a few sting rays frolicked in the crystal clear waters.

And so -  a day in Paradise came to an end, we weighed anchor to catch slack tide again (the Captain was on time) and left for the Marquesas....

 

 

13 October 2010 - Moorea

What a difference a day and ten nautical miles make. After Papeete's dubious attractions, Moorea welcomed us into its tropical gardens, rugged mountains shaped like serrated daggers, translucent waters and small town atmosphere. We anchored in scenic Cook's Bay, the other one being Opunohu Bay - equally scenic.

Tendering brought us to a small village pier, beside an abandoned hotel and another one still operating. A little bridge over the clear lagoon offered a sample view of the multitudes of colourful coral fish in the surrounding lagoon.

Flower adorned vendors hat set up tents and tables loaded with black pearl trinkets, iron wood carvings, shell adornments, pareus and t-shirts. Strolling past them, before reaching the one and only road circling the island three little tables acted as car rental offices: Europcar, Avis and one without a name.

I had pre-booked a car here just like in Tahiti (where I was deemed too ancient to drive without a health certificate). I headed for the no-name table manned by an husky, smiling Polynesian, and indeed it was 'Albert's' representative, French speaking with a smattering of English. I was in the right place, and I used my faulty French.

Yes, he remembered my booking - not a piece of paper anywhere, though. Within a couple of minutes, he filled in a little form with my name, drivers license number, birth date, type and plate number of rental car, and duration of rental. No small print. Price 6000 Polynesian Francs, taxes, kilometers and insurance (all verbal stuff) included. Something like $70, which was less than he quoted me via the internet. I handed over a 10,000 Franc note, he had no change. "Pay me when you get back", he suggested. He handed me a key, walked me to a little white 'Clio', turned the ignition - fuel tank empty.

"Drive to the gas station around the corner", he said, "there is enought gas to get you there. Fill it up with 1000 Francs, that is enough to drive around the island and leave it just as empty as you got it'. Of course, all this interchange happened in French.

He walked off and I tried to ease the handbrake. It did not budge. Another Polynesian man with baby in arms watched me, and I asked him for help. He came over, and tried to ease the brake. It did not budge.

Back to Mr. Albert again manning his open air office. Back to the car, a bit of rolling forward and he eased the brake loose.

I was off to the gas station, put in 1200 Francs of gas, just to make sure I would last the 30 or so kilometers. Hardly any traffic, speed limit 60 km, pleasant coastal cruising. No rain either. I meandered slowly along, stopping at quaint churches (no mould), little stone bridges where sacred eels swam in the clear river waters, a couple of small beach resorts, young people working on their lap tops on a beach side picnic table, a few small village stores and ever changing views of the colourful waters dotted with sailboats and out rigger canoes inside the all emcompassing reef. Inland, every bend in the road opened to another spectacular vista of deep green valleys, craggy mountains and peaks, and clouds snagging on the highest summits.

Being so small an island, it took no time to drive most of the distance around, and reach the Ferry Dock, where I saw the only large presence of cars: people who go day-shopping in Tahiti - via quick passenger ferry ride - leave their cars near the dock. Another larger ferry actually transported cars and passengers over to Papeete, a service that was unavailable in the Sixties, when I visited here last. A little further around the northeastern tip of the island is an inter-island airport, then 'the Hotel Strip'.

The coastal road rises high above lagoon level and a look out allows a vast vista of the emerald sea below, mountainous Tahiti in the distance, and the rows of hotel huts built over the water. Some international luxury outfit.

The old Bali Hai Hotel is supposed to be still open and one of the original Americans who ran it in the Sixties is still around serving drinks. However, it must have retreated into some kind of oblivion as I could not find the entrance, nor any other remnants.

It was only noon, weather benevolent, and I reached Cooks Bay again too early to return my trusty little Clio and plenty of gas left.

I restarted the 'round the island' with a difference - up into the hills to the Belvedere Lookout. The narrow paved road turned into a dirt track just after leaving the little village of Paopao behind. Potholes, creeks flowing across the road, hairpin bends, huge puddles...there were moments where I was not so sure, whether the little car wold ever make it. But after another hair rising bend, I reached a paved road. This one much narrower than before, but at least without pot holes. Instead the hairpin bends, switchbacks, precipitous drops increased. Now I was worried that the car would die on one of those steep inclines, in the middle of a scary bend in the road - and the handbrake would fail.

But - I made it, and was rewarded with a panoramic view from high above the two famous Bays of Moorea. A Holland America tour had brought a few cruise guests to this point - via four wheel drive of course. Everyone stood around amongst the clucking chickens (up here??) and oohed and aahed at the glorious vista, and one lady drawled, 'Is that our ship down there in that Bay?'

Another guest rolled his eyes and mumbled, 'Its the only ship in the only two bays, and there is nothing else around'.....locic again.

I asked the tour guide, what wold be the least 'exciting' route down to the coast. He said to head for Opunuho Bay at the dirt track intersection. And, lo and behold, after I negotiated the snakey descend to that point, there actually was another, almost straight, paved road back to the coast. My palms dried up, and I enjoyed my last couple of kilometers back to the tender dock, petrol tank back to previous level.

By now, Mr Albert had enough change on hand, I settled my account in cash, and that was it. No ageism on Moorea!

I'd rather spent a couple of days in this little paradise, than in somewhat decrepit Papeete...but we steamed out of Cooks Bay (Cook by the way never got here - he anchored in the adjacent Bay), through the opening in the reef into the wide ocean headed into the sunset and to the Tuamotu Archipelago.