Arrived in Tahiti

We are anchored in Taravao, which is on the western side of the isthmus that separates the two main volcanic islands that make up Tahiti. We arrived on Thursday morning after a very windy and bumpy sail from Manihi. Taravao is at the upper end of well sheltered bay and we're near a boat yard, where on Monday we will have our port engine assessed----it's been finicky about getting into gear since we arrived in the Galapagos in early March.

Friday was spent riding the bus the 60 kilometers to Papeete to clear in with Immigration and Customs, meet with our agent, Francesco, and run into people we've met along the way. It was a bit of a culture shock to back where there is traffic and lots of buildings, but we're looking forward to grocery shopping at the big Carrefours.

We plan to stay here for a while so pictures and stories will be forthcoming. All the best.

Update

We plan to leave Manihi tomorrow (May 25th) and will either sail directly to Papeete, Tahiti or will make a brief layover in Tekuhoa on the way, depending on the wind at the time. No internet for a few days, but will definitely reconnect in Tahiti.

A Quiet Week in the Manihi Lagoon

It was a quiet week in the Manihi lagoon. Last Sunday, our catamaran “ile de Grace” arrived to the kind of anchorage that would have seemed crowded to the long-ago sailors that passed through these islands. Seven boats, and it forced us to anchor a bit further out than normal, in about 60 feet of water. The next day, no fewer than three of the locals came by to extend a greeting to these interlopers, setting off a chain of events that left the locals chattering amongst themselves on Thursday, when the M/V “Dory” arrived at the supply dock with the usual weekly run of groceries, diesel, spare parts, and appliances.

That Monday, Fernando, the local baker, fisherman, black oyster pearl farmer, and head of the local Mormon church, swung by in his 20 foot skiff, introducing himself and his services. A few minutes later, Jean-Paul arrived on his pirogue – a large man by any standards, and seemingly even larger jammed into the narrow cockpit of his tiny outrigger. Finally, the commune’s introduction was made complete by the pulling alongside of the local gendarmerie, pointing out that we had anchored too close to the channel by which the children were ferried to and from school each morning and afternoon.

Fernando gracefully intervened, and offered to help us move our boat back about 10 meters, an offer which I (fatefully) accepted. As I began to start up the engine to power the windlass, so as to let out more chain in a controlled fashion, Fernando gestured that we could do this by hand … in the course of which I managed to catch the tip of my left ring finger between the now-tight chain and the steel windlass. The flesh at the tip of my finger was no contest for the steel, and I pulled it back, bleeding and numb. Our on-board medic, the famous Dr. Jennifer, reached into our first-aid kit, wrapped my now-bloody finger in gauze and bandages, as Fernando loaded me into his skiff to take me to the town’s small clinic.

The clinic was in the small town hall, through a door on the left just up some stairs and a few dozen yards from the tiny boat basin. I was greeted by Tereva, a seriously-tattooed nurse practitioner on a three-week rotation from Tahiti. I was his only patient at the time, but as I was to learn, he is a busy man. After introductions and a recitation of the underlying events, he did an extraordinarily-professional job at cleaning, dressing, and bandaging the wound. After tetanus serum (immediate inoculation) and a handful of analgesics and antibiotics, I was on my way back to the boat, my hand swathed in a bandage and aluminum split (to protect the now-raw tip of my finger).

Health care in France and its Polynesian territories is a public good, and the care was free. The mayor of the town helped Tareva work on my hand, and she seems to have a hand in many affairs, as we read a notice on the town hall’s bulletin board inviting comment on the need for no alcohol zones in and around the town center, over her signature.

Earlier that day, we had asked a few of our anchorage companions over for dinner, and that night, bandage and all, we hosted 5 other sailors for a wonderful evening of food (homemade chicken soup) and drink. In addition to our new friends Joel and Rob from “Alobar,” we were joined by the gang from “Horizons,” Marcy and Joseph, a do-it-yourself couple from San Diego, and their son, Steve.

The following day, we followed up on a dining/diving tip from Joel, who had spotted large numbers of clams and oysters strewn about the coral reefs that lined the shore. With help from Fernando, Jennifer and Joel donned their snorkeling gear, and swam off, only to return in an hour with a bagful of clams. Working with Fernando, they cleaned the clams, after which Joel and I went to Fernando’s house to meet his family and help in preparing fresh coconut milk for clam seasoning.

Fernando introduced us to his wife and children, reached under the kitchen counter for some coconuts, and, using a chef’s cleaver, expertly split the nut in half, draining the water. He took the halves to a grinding machine attached horizontally to an adjacent work surface, and ground out the white meat form the lining of the shell into a large bowl. Once complete, we took a cheesecloth, wrapped it around the white shavings, and squeezed hard as a steady stream of rich coconut milk poured from the tip of the cloth into a plastic jug.

The clams were pressure cooked for an hour, after which Jennifer and Joel added white wine, garlic, curry powder, and then, the fresh coconut milk. Dribbled over linguine, the meal was to die for, and Jennifer took special delight in knowing that she had pulled the clams from the sea just behind our boat just a few hours earlier.

By this time, we were becoming good friends with Fernando and his family; his son, Vetea is a well-trained outboard engine mechanic who managed to get our motor working, and his wife, Stella, is an amazing cook, and runs a small walk-up/eat-out window outside their kitchen, along the town’s waterfront street-cum-boardwalk. That afternoon, Jennifer and Joel went with Fernando to his black pearl farm, where black lipped oysters are raised over a three-year period from larvae, to small oysters, to cultivated oysters, and then, finally to harvest, where only 7 in 100 yield high-quality saleable pearls. The next day, Jennifer and Joel joined Fernando for a spearfishing expedition. It’s grouper season in the atoll, and they were determined to get their share.

Grouper season. The excitement around the atoll is palpable, as every villager with a boat is anchored in 30 feet of water dangling fish lines with octopus-baited hooks to a bottom swarming with egg-laying grouper. Since I am out of commission for diving (or any wet sports) for a while, Jennifer, Joel, and Rob grabbed their spears and fell overboard, looking to penetrate the tough skin of a grouper with the tines of the spear. All around, the locals were bringing flapping groupers to the surface almost as fast as they could lower and raise the lines by hand. The numbers are incredible. Fernando has a small crew, consisting of two close friends; the previous day, they loaded multiple 55-gallon buckets filled with grouper. At the dockside table with a thatched roof, located just in front of Fernando’s front door, they filleted these fish all night, yielding 140 kg. of clean white meat. These are bagged, frozen, and then shipped to Tahiti for use by Chinese restaurants. The going rate? 700 fpf (French Polynesian francs, worth about $0.11 each, or about $8/kilo). Revenue for the day? About $1000 US. Other fishermen were enjoying similar success, and, when queried, were incredulous that overfishing might be a problem – apparently, the numbers were too large to imagine ever running out of grouper. As Joel pointed out, abalone were once as numerous as these grouper appeared to be, only to fall victim to over fishing. In any event, the dog stands watchful eye, escaping the heat.

It seems that once a year, the grouper come into the atoll to spawn (all grouper start their lives as egg-bearing females; only later do some of them morph into males). We had arrived at the peak of the season, but alas, the fish were too deep for us to reach without scuba, and their skin to tough to penetrate from afar. No matter; Fernando gestured for us to follow him and to leave his crew and the safety of the lagoon behind; we were headed out through the pass to the reef just outside the atoll.

There, our intrepid spearfishers were rewarded with water so clear it appeared invisible. We’ve been to a lot of so-called clear diving waters, but the visibility here was out of a dream: 40-50 feet, as clear as air. The gang managed to snag a few reef fish, and spotted dozens of needlefish, eels, and other coral denizens before calling it a day. That's Jennifer with a blue fish against a blue sea. Returning to Fernando’s house, we all took a turn at cleaning the grouper, including your faithful scribe. Cut behind the fin, pull along the spine, turn the skin-covered filet over, and then pull the knife along the tough skin, yielding a delicate filet. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Note the plastic bag covering my bandage :)

Having hosted others for two nights running, we took the next night off, after watching Fernando (man of a million trades) free dive to 40 feet to free others’ anchors that had become snagged on coral heads.

The next morning, the weekly supply ship arrived. As regular readers know, this a big deal on these small islands, and Thursday was no exception.

Alain was expecting his bi-monthly shipment of meat, ordered from Tahiti at half the price in the local stores. He was not the exception; most locals ordered their food and such from Tahiti. Xavier Michel, a retired captain in the French navy, and who runs the ham radio station on Manihi used by yachts (including this one) to email from sea, was waiting on his 200 liters of diesel and a new freezer. Forklift operators carted crates of fresh vegetables to the two small stores (“magasins”) that serve this small island. And a wizened old Tuomotun, short, squat, and with a flower placed delicately behind his ear, hauled a dozen dolly-loads of oil to the supply room behind the dock. A woman sold cold coconut water from a cooler (the young nuts are filled with sweet water, for many years and for many islands, the only source of water on these rather arid atolls – nip the top off, and drink away; each nut has about a pint of delicious liquid inside). That's Rob and Jennifer, enjoying the water.

Bags of copra were brought to the dock for shipment to processing plants (7000 fpf/bag), and the iridescent shells of the black-lipped oysters whose cultivation produced the famous black pearls) also went on board at 11 fpf/kilo, to be used by Chinese factories to create baubles, belt buckes, and the like.

We also visited Fernando’s bakery – which, despite its inauspicious location, has all the modern breadmaking equipment one might find in Paris: a $50,000 US oven, large industrial mixers, and kneading machines. On Thursdays, when the ship arrives, they bake 1000 petite pain and 900 baguettes to supply the neighboring island of Ahe (next stop for the supply ship, and lacking a bakery). Fernando’s granddaughter appears to run the bakery.

That afternoon, having provisioned with fruits and vegetables and the all-important Sprite, Jennifer and Joel dove our anchors to reconnoiter the location of coral heads. The chain used to attach the anchor to the boat is essential in these waters; the sandy bottoms are punctuated by columns of coral rising dozens of feet to the light above. As boats swing, the chain slides along the bottom, and is often wrapped around these coral heads. We unpacked our snuba gear – basically a Honda engine and an air compressor, sending pressurized air down two linked 60’ air hoses, each with a regulator.

Down they went, pulling themselves along our anchor chain, and descending to about 40 feet, from which they could see that our chain had fallen on the side of one of these heads, but had not wrapped around. Getting off will be easier with this knowledge. They also dove Joel’s chain, and, as events would prove, his was in a good shape.

That evening, Joel, Rob and Jennifer went to the 4-star resort hotel tucked discreetly on the western edge of this atoll (bungalows on stilts over the lagoon’s turquoise waters) for a drinks and dinner (I needed to rest; my finger while healing nicely, still sucks some energy out me).

The next day was the birthday celebration for one of Fernando’s crew: the grouper could wait, and we spent time helping him clean the coconut shells of the husky fibers that would otherwise gum up the grinding machines used to make the coconut milk. Later, we met up with our friend Jean-Paul, the larger-than-life pirogue rower who sold black pearls from his tenuous perch. Jennifer picked out a lovely necklace, and we managed to trade for some extra pearls (tools and wine for pearls).

A short way from our boat is an other-worldly stretch of coral, awash and pock-marked with small outcroppings, and Jennifer and I took our dinghy to explore. Lots of coconut palms, some sheds, and nothing but sand and rock and water.

That evening, we were treated to the weekly practice session of the island’s dance troupe, working on their routine for the annual July contests in Tahiti between all of the islands in French Polynesia. With no lights, under a cloudy but moonlit sky, and to the tightly-orchestrated beat of 4 drums and percussion instruments, a group of about 30 girls and your women and 30 boys and young men danced in a tightly-choreographed routine.

Polynesian dance is a study in contrasts, with rapidly-shimmying hips (women) and rapidly-shaking calves (men), juxtaposed against the slow and sinuous movement of arms, all the while keeping the head and chest stock-still. Some of the movements defy description, and later, Jennifer received some private lessons from Poa-Nuie, Fernando’s adopted 18-year daughter. She’s one of six kids, adopted by Fernando 12 years ago, even as her birth mother still lives on this small island of about 600 people.

The birthday celebration was a feast for the eyes and the stomach – Stella had outdone herself, and we enjoyed the singing, toasts, and delicious spread.

After dinner, we hung out outside his house as Jennifer took her hip-swing/sway/shimmy lessons, and I bemoaned my inability to pick up the guitar sitting there. By 10 pm, we were all tired, so we took our dinghy out into the dark lagoon and threaded our way back to ile de Grace across the mile of gentle wavelets rippling atop the atoll’s coral heads, its breeding groupers, and the succulent clams. It was a quiet week in the Mahini lagoon, and we were looking forward to a peaceful night of delicious sleep.

Weather Reports

Some of the readers of this blog may know that I write songs in my spare time -- usually, with an emphasis on the lyrics. This passion began as a passion for writing poetry in my college and graduate school days, under the mentorship of some very fine and patient poets, including Elizabeth Bishop I am proud to say.

With kids, work, and life squeezing out the time needed to reflect and write in the more pure form of poetry, I turned to songs, but one of my goals on this trip was to re-kindle my passion for poetry.

At the risk of boring the fair readers of this humble blog, below is a recent trio written while under passages:

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Weather Reports

1. Ratios

Building outrigger sailing craft

at Ropitui, the navigator said:

Cut the mast to the length of the raft,

and the outrigger to one-half the height of the mast.

Shape the rest by eye.

The teacher said: Her hand is as big as her face,

And be sure to leave enough room for her head,

Which is once again as big as the sky above.

Divide the sky into quadrants. Track Orion to Sirius.

Learn the tidal cycle. See the way

A moon quarters, the full sun, an emptying sky.

Now, pay attention. Fill the sails carefully;

Explore her eyes; and take note of this weather,

whose ratios change, my friend, as we do,

Sliding across water that won’t sit still.

2. Nudged

Without a care, the curling tip of a passing swell tugs at the dangling line,

Tugs twice, then tugs again, and now the errant line starts to slip back, slide down,

Over the side of the boat’s hull, gathering speed as it falls into the sea.

It’s deep here, and the line drifts in lazy swirls to the ocean bottom,

Snagging string-like jellyfish as it tumbles bitter end over bitter end,

Settling in a tangled mess on a seabed of new rock, white sand, and dead plankton.

After a time, the rope spawns a colony of new life:

Bits of algae, small crustaceans, and soon, fish, and more fish.

When the line eventually rots and disappears, this underwater oasis will seem to have always been.

(This all might have been foreseen, even predicted

Days ago when a deepening low began to push northwestward

Building waves as the wind backed to east.

Someone might have anticipated the new foresail, and new lines,

A new direction even, and might have noticed the way the sailors

Moved quickly (almost carelessly) as they readied the boat.

This way, it might not have been a surprise then,

This accident of timing: the wind shift, the loss of an unsecured line,

The beginning of a new life in a new place.)

Years later, you and I sail across this buried world, not recalling

That in our own time, that’s all it took: a shifting of the breeze,

A chanced tug, a gathering of weight, and a brand new world.

Who remembers the wind, a wave, that falling?

Can anyone stop themselves, mid-ocean, and refuse?

What choice do we have, nudged from our lives by distant changes in weather?

Take delight in carelessness!

3. Deciphering

Examining the sun as it falls lightly

Behind the darkening horizon the clouds

Give way to layers and the diminishing

Stature of perspective. Pink-edged

Limbs and soaring heads are transformed,

And look -- there’s one I knew in Connecticut,

And another from Mexico. The dark one

With feathery arms from Costa Rica, and that one

Over there with the billowing sides could be anyone

I once knew.

So many clouds, not rising but backlit, taking shape,

Recalling names unbeckoned,

Arranged casually into an accidental biography.

Is this what weather brings? This creation of memory

From bits of cloud, a coloring sun, a falling sky?

There’s Donna, and Christina, and was it Carrie … Connie … Callie?

Such hard work, this deciphering.

Jon Glaudemans

May-June 2010

Passage to Manihi, Archipelago Tuamotus

We left Nuku Hiva and L’Archipel des Marquises on May 11^th hoping we will always remember the isolated beauty of these special islands. Though excited for the flat atolls and clear waters of the Tuamotus, I will miss the lush green mountains and the cooler weather up in the highlands of those mountains. I think volcanic islands are really cool. They demonstrate just how dynamic our planet is, and what starts out as a violent eruption from the Earth’s core ends up as lush paradise, sustaining many forms of life.

Jon and I ended up taking five days to sail from Nuku Hiva to Manihi. We stopped our boat and drifted for 8 hours on Saturday in order to slow down and not arrive in the night……These atolls have very tricky entrances and it is best to coordinate our entrance into the pass with slack tide and daylight. Once inside the pass, careful lookout is a must for all the coral heads lurking just below the water’s surface.

The passage was easy, the night watches not difficult, and, we did not see one sailboat or fishing boat the entire journey. We had time to laugh and enjoy each other’s company…..when we weren’t catching fish (see earlier blog).

Prior to leaving Nuku Hiva, Jon made a trade (change, in French) of 5 gallon water jugs for pampelmousse. It’s the grapefruit-like fruit that, though much larger and green, makes the perfect wake up juice for mornings when sleep has been limited to 3 hours. I wish I had my juicer on board. I am left the squeezing them through a colander, but the result is terrific. It’s become a natural part of our mornings.

We thought we might have some heavy weather Friday evening when storm clouds appeared on the horizon. We even saw a funnel cloud and brought in our geneker. It never touched the water and turned into a water spout, but we kept our eyes alert nonetheless. Having grown up in tornado alley, I take funnel clouds seriously whether on land or sea. Nothing serious materialized, but we got long steady rain Friday and Saturday nights, which meant the boat got a fresh water rinse.

The weather ended up being quite fair and the winds were often below 10 knots. This gave us the opportunity we had not yet tried on this boat---to go wing and wing, with the geneker the port side and the genoa on the starboard side. (Usually wing and wing is with the main and genoa sails on opposite sides. We did nicely and it was a lot of fun.

Fish Tales

[Warning: This tale may not be for the vegetarian, vegan, or faint of heart.]

Fishing is not just a pastime or sport on our passages, it’s a major source of our protein. The fresh meat and chicken we left with from Florida are long gone; and, except for Panama, they are now too expensive even if one can find them. Canned tuna and chicken are held in reserve for that hypothetical scenario when we are adrift at sea with either no sail or no mast and must fend off starvation. So we (Jon and Stephen when he was with us) fish for food.

In the Bahamas, Stephen rediscovered his long lost passion for fishing and the thrill of the catch. In the Caribbean, he seemed to catch a fish within minutes of putting a line out. We have two poles off either hull’s stern. This was going to be easy. We grilled fish kabobs off the back of the stern, made fish curries, fish stews and Jon’s special recipe of baked fish with mayonnaise and onions.

On the way to the Galapagos, Stephen caught a Mahi Mahi that was over 5 feet. (We do not have a scale and any guess of weight probably would have to be discounted by the pride and ego of the fisherman.) Stephen and Jon were now inspired to go for even bigger fish.

But just as enthusiasm was at its height, our luck changed on the Pacific crossing. Ours became a tale of the ones that got away. The sound of the fishing reel spinning would alert us to a fish on the hook. Stephen would rush to reel it in while Jon would try to slow down the boat. It had to be a big one, given how much the rod was bending and how difficult it was to reel it in……and then the line would break free. He must have been so big that he broke our 100-pound line. He never jumped so we don’t know what he was. Maybe he was a really big tuna.

This story repeated itself so often that I lost count. Once we got our hook back, but it had been bent back so that it was straight. Maybe he was a shark. Stephen changed the drag on the lines. He played around with the lures. He used a small Mahi as bait. Fishing books were consulted. In the meantime, we were hearing from other boats about their really big fish. The Albatross and Malikalalou each caught a huge spearfish. The big fish were out there, they were even biting on our lines, but we could not bring one in to save our souls.

We lost lures and fishing line at a steady rate. I had bought an additional 400 feet of line when I made a home trip in March and we were well into that when a fish (must have been a really big fish) took all the line off the reel. We were down to one rod and reel when, during a brief sail maneuver that required the engine, we lost the last of our line to our portside propeller. No more fishing. While changing the propane tank on our grill, we even lost the gas attachment overboard, so no grilling the fish we had left in our freezer. A most dejected Stephen threw away the fish head he’d been saving in my refrigerator as bait for that really big but elusive fish.

[Aside: Jon got the fishing line cleared from the propeller several days later when the seas were calmer and he could dive with our hooka and air compressor. His reward was Kit Kats. His earlier blog about running out of Kit Kats was misinformed. He did not know about 2 additional stashes, one of which he’s now gone through. He has about 30 Kit Kats left and, if he plays it right, will have Kit Kats until we get to Tahiti, where he just might be able to replenish stocks.]

In Hiva Oa we bought more fishing line, but that was it for Stephen who was going home. Jon bought an 8-pound tuna from a local fisherman in case our luck didn’t improve. We stowed it in our small freezer and headed out to see the rest of the islands. Turns out it wasn’t necessary. Jon caught a 4-foot Mahi Mahi on our day sail from Tahuata to Ua Pou…..we gave some of that fish away. Though our freezer was near full, the fishing lines were again out on our sail to the Tuamotus. Jon caught yet another Mahi Mahi, not really big, but about five or six meals worth.

Though he complained of a sore back and hands from bringing in and cleaning that last Mahi Mahi, though I told him we didn’t need any more fish, and though our freezer is full of fish, two days later I see the fishing lines back out dragging behind the boat. Glare at him I did. Sure enough, just as Jon goes to sleep for some much needed rest and I sit down for a quiet watch, two fish are hooked on our lines. As I hold one line, Jon reels in the first fish and he promises me that if it’s a Mahi, he’ll release it. He caught two Big Eye Tuna.

Between catching the fish and eating the fish is the part of the story that is usually passed over. But this tale would be incomplete without it. Now that Stephen is back in California, I have a part to play, much to my chagrin, which is hypocritical I know. (I used to go fishing with my Dad, when my brother wasn’t available, but the deal was that I didn’t bait the hook, I didn’t take the fish off the line, and I certainly didn’t “clean” the fish, which means gutting it and cutting its head off.)

First, getting the fish into the boat often requires a gaff. Most of the fish we’ve caught, while not really big fish, are too big for our net. Thus, the gaff—a curved spear used to pierce the body of the fish. I’ll hold the fish on the rod while Jon does the deed. That is usually when I say my first, “Lord have mercy” in my retrievable Texas accent. We have a large plastic storage box that we put the fish in to kill it and clean it. Sometimes our not really big fish are too big for that and they flop all over the back of the boat. Yesterday’s tuna fit in the box, but he was so strong in his flopping that he cracked the plastic side. Let’s just say that quite a struggle occurs on the back of our boat after a fish is caught.

That’s when the second, “Oh, Lord have mercy,” is uttered as Jon knocks the fish senseless so it’ll cooperate in its own beheading and gutting. As he proceeds to “clean” the fish, I’m getting buckets of sea water to wash the blood off the boat, uttering even more, “Lord have mercies,” and trying not to look nor throw up.
Jon does the rest. He can filet a fish down to the bone and he deals with the rest of the mess. I just get the plastic zip lock bags ready.

We now have a freezer really full of fish. We even are experimenting with drying fish.

We are in feast, and our famine (at least our bad luck) has passed. Jon is forbidden to put the lines out until we’ve reduced our stockpile significantly. Honestly, I don’t know what we’d do with a really big fish if we ever caught one. We will share our catch with others and others have shared with us. I hope that when Jon and Stephen are old men, they will have fond memories of their fishing exploits in the Pacific. And I hope I make it through this three-year circumnavigation without having to “clean” a fish. Lord have mercy.

The Dangerous Archipelago

Today, we leave the lovely islands of the Marqueses, with their tall volcanic peaks and lush vegetation, for the Tuomotus, a long chain of coral atolls about 600 miles to the southwest of us.  It will be an easy sail (we hope) with the wind from behind.  The Tuomotus are known as the "dangerous archipelago" because they lie flat in the ocean, surrounded by coral reefs.  Their highest landmarks are the palm trees that grace their shores.  The atolls themselves are only passable through at most 1 or two cuts into the lagoon, cuts where the current can run 5-8 knots at flood or ebb tides.  Entering at anything other than slack water is dangerous, and many ships (prior to GPS) ran aground on their shoals.

We'll be careful, though one of our main engines is acting up, and we've given up waiting for parts for our dinghy engine.  The delays on the part of  Honda US in shipping even the simplest of parts have left us frustrated -- but we're looking forward to the crystal-clear water of the seas inside the lagoons, as well as the wonderful snorkeling and diving in those clear waters.

They have internet there (!), so we'll be back back in touch in a few days or so -- meanwhile check our progress using the top button on the left hand screen of "links."

In the interim, here's the wikipedia link:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuamotus


Hope all are well; be good!

/jon

Economics vs. Diplomacy

Backing up a bit to our arrival in the Marquesas, a little story on my dilemma of having to choose between the merits of economics verses the merits of diplomacy when the two are not on a par.

Prior to arriving, we knew that barter was very common in the South Pacific islands. Unlike Central and South America, where bargaining is a given and tipping is often expected, the South Pacific islanders prefer to barter, and, when they are in a cash transaction, do not negotiate their price. To suggest a lower price is considered an insult, as is offering a tip, which offends their sense of honor. The concept of exchanging goods, however, is deeply imbedded in their culture.

It even explains human sacrifice. “Mana” (the overarching spirit or “the force” for you Star Wars fans) was a gift from the gods, but would only be given in exchange. The people would offer sacrifices at their altars in exchange for the gift of mana. Sometimes these sacrifices would be animals---valuable because they were food. But when the gift had to be the most valuable, they would offer a human, because there was nothing more valuable than a human life. (This does not explain the convenience of sacrificing one’s enemies and then eating him, but I’m a novice here.)

Also, being islands, everything except the local food has to be imported. If you’ve ever gone to Hawaii, you know that explains why everything is more expensive there. In addition to making consumer goods more expensive, they also are more scarce, depending on when the ships arrive to these remote islands.

So in Panama we stocked up on hand tools and fishing hooks for the men, perfume and makeup for the ladies, and pencils, markers and notebooks for the kids, and of course, some sweets. We pulled these items out from the bilges as we left Hiva Oa and headed to Fatu Hiva, an island without a bank or an ATM. It’s a place where money is not that important, but foreign things are.

Our first morning in the Bay of Virgins in Fatu Hiva, I noticed a small fishing boat visiting other sailboats in the harbor. Jon was ashore, so I got the barter box out, ready to see what was being offered. Ours was the last boat they came to, and I introduced myself in my barely passable French to two men who only had a bunch of bananas and two pamplemoose (similar to grapefruits but larger and green when ripe) left. Happy to have the fruit, I asked them what they would like to have in exchange and suggested some of the items I had. They wanted wine. Turns out all the adults wanted wine, because it’s so expensive, it’s hard to get, and they wanted it for their “Have” (pronounced hav-aye) celebrations which last for about the month of July.

Unprepared, I ran down to the bilges where I have a few bottles left over from our house and pulled out the cheapest bottle I had. It was worth about $20. I didn’t want to get off to a bad start with the locals by offering to barter and then backing down, so I made the exchange. I’d just bartered a bunch of bananas and two grapefruits for a $20 bottle of wine, instead of the usual bottle of inexpensive perfume ($2) or a few candy bars. Not very economically-rational, as Jon let me know upon his return.

Oh well, at least I didn’t offend these Fatu Hivans at first blush. I hope. Maybe I wasn’t even being diplomatic, just a sap. Who knows? Jon and I eventually got the hang of bartering and left the island with a good variety of fruit (limes, papaya, mango, breadfruit, oranges and pampamoos), a frozen chicken, a tapa (art inked onto a paper made from tree bark), and a stone tiki.

Later, I traded a pencil for a smile with this little boy. I don’t know if every exchange was always economically efficient, but I do know both parties always departed happy and to me, good relations are more important than economic efficiency. We’re still trading.

Skin Deep?

Walk among the villages of the Marquesan islands, and the most striking attribute of the people is that the vast majority of Marquesans are tattooed. Tatooed heavily, with remarkably ornate, often geometric patterns etched in a deep sepia black. Tatooed on their forearms, their shoulders, their calves, their ankles, and, for many women, tattooed under and behind their ears. When these islands were first visited by Europeans, the dispatches back to the mother country all mentioned the tattooing – then, many if not most Marquesans were tattooed head-to-foot, ear to ear, shoulder to shoulder.

Being different than the Europeans’ skin management practices, the arriving missionaries set out to civilize the “noble savages” and discouraged tattooing in their evangelical zeal, thus eradicating (temporarily it turns out) an important feature of Marquesan culture. The original roles of tattooing were several. In no particular order, tattooing played an important role in seduction; by the end of the 19th century, lips, feet, or hands that were not tattooed were considered ugly, and according to a G. Turner, “ a young man could not think about marriage while he was not tattooed.” In addition, and not unrelatedly, tattooing was an important part of the passage into adulthood. Motifs were approved by tribal elders, and often circumscribed the individual’s social status and potential. These ceremonies were, at the time, often accompanied by human sacrifice, explain perhaps the missionaries zeal in discouraging tattooing.

Tattoos related to privilege and social status, and often the tattoos were genealogical roadmaps to a person’s family history; in times of resource constraints, tattoos indicated allegiance to a tribe or family. Wrong tattoos? No dinner. At its core then, Marquesan tattooing – with its elaborate set of rituals, symbols, and imagery – communicated essential characteristics of one person to the surrounding community. Viewed through the lens of self-identity, tattooing became both a rite of entry into the world of adulthood, and, in the words of one author, a “protective barrier against evil influences.”

Against this backdrop, the early missionaries did their best to discourage the practice, and tattooing as a central element of Marquesan society all but died out in the early 20th century, only to find a resurgence in the late part of the century, continuing to the present. In the same way that the Marquesan language retains its own separate identity from Tahitian, Marquesan tattooing retains its unique symbols and imagery. One of the leading practitioners of this rebirthing art form is Brice, a Marquesan who lives with his parents and his two small children up the road from the harbor of the village of Taihoe, on the island of Nuku Hiva. After a three year stint with the Foreign Legion in France (“boring except for the parties”), Brice returned home and has a thriving practice in traditional tattooing. His living room – which serves as a waiting room, is filled with old academic texts of long-dead anthropologists’ examinations of the role and art of tattooing. There are also the body building magazines, soap opera guides (his mom loves the soaps), and, in the corner, a workshop where, when he’s not tattooing, Brice crafts incredibly delicate carvings from coconut shells, bones, and wood. He complains that he’s too busy tattooing to spend time with his real love, carving.


I’m here to get tattooed. I had seen many of the local’s decorative tattoos, and had asked around, and all tattooed fingers and arms pointed to Brice. He picked us up (Jennifer kept me company) at 8:00 am at the small “mini-dock” that serves as a central place for fishing boats, yacht dinghies, and, in the evening, a dozen or so women and kids fishing for small bait fish. On Saturdays, the dock becomes an open air market, but you need to arrive early: stalls are opened at 4:00 am, and by 6:00 am, there’s not much left. Brice had his two-year old son with him, and had just stopped by the market for some food and bread. Jennifer and I hopped in, helped him unload at his house, and settled into the couches. Two others also had 8:00 appointments, and the apparent triple booking didn’t concern Brice (or any of us) too much. We were on Marquesan time.


In time, Brice’s mom brought out two plates of freshly-made crepes, along with a small assortment of spreads, and we enjoyed a terrific breakfast as Brice began his work on the two others – a pair of married commercial pilots who are taking time off to sail their boat throughout the South Pacific. By noon or so, they had both been tattooed: he on his upper arm, she on her ankle. It was lunchtime, though, and we were all invited to join the family at the kitchen table for a meal of fresh-cooked Marquesan crabs (remarkably similar to but smaller than the famed blue crabs of the Chesapeake Bay), chicken, and rice. They barely spoke English, we barely spoke French, but none of that mattered --- we were, for the moment at least, family around the kitchen table.

Brice needed to digest his food, so we got started about 30 minutes after lunch. Unlike many tattoo artists, Brice expects to be involved in the choice of designs. He and I spoke of things that were important to me: my family, my loves of sailing, music, the sea, and my home state of Maryland, and we settled on a mosaic design of several images, wrapped in a ring around my left ankle, with a profile of a tiki curling around my outer left ankle. In turn, the following images were captured by Brice into the intricate tattoo that now adorns my ankle: the symbol of the Marquesas, signifying my passage here and the birthplace of tattooing (as least according to the Marquesans); a traditional motif of sea and sky, connoting a oneness with nature, and a positive attitude; the traditional symbol of a “po,” or conch shell, one of the first musical instruments of these islands; the traditional symbol for a turtle, reflecting my newfound status as a “shellback,” or one who has crossed the Equator on a boat; the traditional symbol for a crab, harkening to my family and our home state of Maryland; a distinctly non-traditional but beautiful rendering of a “lover’s knot,” which Jennifer and I have chosen to serve as the logo of our boat, and which was captured as well in a piece of jewelry I commissioned to honor her sailing our boat across the Atlantic without me; and, in curl down to the ankle, a profile of a tiki, echoing the specialness of these islands.


He worked for about an hour; he drew the outlines in a red pen, then etched the details freehand, using just his eye and a small Petzl headlamp to keep the lines straight and true. The sensation was not entirely comfortable, and the needle pulsed in and out of the skin, leaving ink in the small punctures. He’d stop every minute or so to re-ink, and, happily, the discomfort subsided immediately. I’m to keep the tattoo lightly covered in an herbally-infused Vaseline, I can’t swim for a week, and no sun for a week. It looks great, and I love it.

It’s not your garden variety tattoo, but here, it’s just one of many. Why a tattoo at age 53? I’m too old for seduction, I’m already married, and (most of the time) I’m an adult. To me, it’s a nice tangible sign of respect to a people and their islands – recognition that I too am undergoing a bit of a transformation in this sailing journey. (Importantly, it’s on a part of my body that won’t likely sag with my steadily aging skin and body.) With any luck, this journey that Jennifer and I are on together will keep our minds and spirits clear; with any more luck, my tattoo will keep me free from “evil influences” and remind me of my central loves: my wife, my family, sailing, nature, music, and my expanding sense of continuous wonder at this strange and beautiful world.

Possible Origins of Rowing???

We now have been to five of the six inhabited islands in the Marquesas and I am beginning to theorize on how the French came up with the sport of rowing, or crew as it is sometimes called. First of all, it is my understanding that the sport as we know it was developed by the French, although the long held annual regatta between Cambridge and Oxford had me thinking it was originally the British. But after being in French Polynesia, I am beginning to see the sport in a new light.

My theory is that the French were inspired by the outrigger canoe competitions that have been going on for centuries in all of Polynesia. Wherever we have anchored, the same thing occurs about an hour or two before sunset. Rowing practice. Every village has either a canoe club which shelters its outrigger canoes or a place along the shore where the boats are kept. T-Shirts on the locals often display a club name or regatta competition, and many decals on the 4 wheel trucks display a club or rowing symbol.

They come in singles, triples or six person canoes and paddle around the bays in what looks like a serious workout. While there is no petite coxswain facing the rowers, I can usually hear someone in the boat calling out the stroke or when to switch sides with their oars.

Having watched our daughter Kate row for five years, the hard work and discipline I see here in the islands is impressive. The most intensive training I've witnessed was a six women team in Taipivai, Nuku Hiva. Jon actually tried to get their attention to ask them to carry some photos of children back to the village and they totally ignored him.....no time for socializing with the boaters.

Although the western sport does not have the outrigger and the rowers use one paddle that they alternate on the bow and the stern side, the two sports are very similar. They both take hard work and dedication. The both require intensive team work. And, they both seem to be very very competitive about whose team can row the fastest.

If anyone actually knows the origins of the sport, or if there is actually a link between it and the Polynesian outrigger canoe races, I would love to hear it. Until then, I will continue to entertain my theory.

Thinking of you Kate,

Jennifer

A Few Givens

There are a few givens in the Marquesas.  One is that the wind will swing from sea breeze to a land breeze at night.  When we anchor, we tend to face the south or east, where the prevailing winds come from.  Regardless of direction, however, the winds will shift around at night to be coming from the land, usually blowing down the valleys at the mouths of the rivers that form the many bays that punctuate these islands’ shorelines.  For the past few nights, we’d been staying in a bay whose village was located about ½ mile up the river that forms the cove, a part of a larger bay.  The water was a silty brown, partially the product of the basaltic dust that flows down off the mountains that climb steeply form the waterline.  In addition to the basaltic dust, the vegetation surrounding the bay also gave it a coloration, like you might find in a southeastern swamp, where the tannin from the cypress and mangrove trees colors the water a translucent brown.  (I read somewhere once that sailors would gather barrels of this tannin-laden water, since it tended to keep unspoiled longer. We’re happy with our reverse osmosis watermaker’s water.)  Jennifer and I will miss these mountains, but we are looking forward to the low white coral islands of the Tuomotus, with their crystal-clear waters.  We took a walk ashore after a few days, to scout out the village, landing at the outrigger canoe shed that dots each bay in these islands (more in a coming blog on the outriggers!)

That night, after scouting the village, in a very "African Queen"-like trek, we took our dinghy upstream to the village dock, passing through a narrow opening in the beach, brushing away floating coconut fronds and banana leaves from our path as we passed under several jerry-rigged low-hanging telephone wires, and rowing between waterlogged banks with the aforementioned trees overhanging our passage.  Unusually, this river sported vertical banks down which ivies grew.  Once every three weeks, a small lighter (boat) arrives carrying supplies from the bigger supply boat (itself tied alongside a much larger town in Nuku Hiva) mentioned in an earlier post.  Like other ports, the arrival is a big deal, and “much larger” must be kept in context.  Our village this evening is perhaps home to 200 people.

We made the waterborne trek because: a) it’s faster than tying up at the canoe landing area and walking; and b) we were on our way to the spring fundraiser for the local school.  Which brings me the second “given” in the Marquesas:  if it’s a post, and if it’s a special occasion, then the post has got to be wrapped in an ornate palm weaving.  Most buildings here lack appreciable sides; the weather is such that the combination of sun, wind, rain, and temperature make sides a kind of irrelevancy.  Sure, most houses are fully enclosed, mostly, but many are not, and most public buildings are a simple roof with supporting posts.  And we’re back to the posts.  These public buildings – school auditoriums, town halls, canopies here and there, are all supported by posts, and to date, we’ve seen virtually every post wrapped carefully in palm fronds.  The frond, with its center stalk and evenly spaced leaves, make an ideal wrap.  The center stem runs lengthwise up the post, and the leaves are then weaved as one might weave the long hair of a girl, in and out, with new leaves taking up the volume of the ending leaves.  Once woven, flowers are inserted into the braids.  The final effect is stunning – a green tapestry of woven leaves, with exotic flowers, extending from floor to roof.

The third given is a universal given:  all schools in all parts of the world raise money the exact same way:  the spring fair.  We had the chance to visit two school fairs here in Nuku Hiva (it’s May Day!), and, recalling times with our own kids’ school fairs, there’s the ticket booth where money is exchanged for tickets, and then there are no shortage of things to spend your tickets on:  food, drink, games, raffles, grab bags, etc.  At the evening fair after our jungle dinghy ride, we were also treated to the boys and girls performing traditional Marquesas dances.  The girls – between 8 and 12 years old – performed the native dances – filled with flowing arm and hand gestures, all the while waving, and, at times, shimmying their tiny hips in a rapid flutter that belied their ages.  The boys were the flip side of the stereotype:  in grass skirts and bare chests, with thrusting arm motions and loud aggressive calls, they recalled their long lost elders’ dances that foretold conflict.  One guide book I read said that warring tribes would sometimes simply meet and dance AT one another.  Faces tattooed and bulky arms and legs in proud display, the book asserted that sometimes just the sight of a neighboring tribe’s dance was enough to call off the conflict.

 

No danger of conflict that night; we watched the kids, laughed with the parents, and enjoyed a nice barbecued meal of beef before heading back in our dinghy, under a dark night through a twisty river, to return to our boat in the bay.  The tide had gone out in the interim, and what had been a quiet motoring turned into a rowing exercise through the pitch black night.  Jennifer sat on the bow with a flashlight, calling out directions, and the river gravel scraped the bottom of the oars from time to time.

 

Arriving at the mouth of the river, entering the bay, we experienced the magic of this water laden with the detritus of the adjoining hills’ vegetation.  With every stroke of the dinghy’s oars, the water burst into a bioluminescent glow, with swirls of light passing behind our dinghy as we rowed.  Each passing swell – without even breaking – bore the same eerie light, and all around us, the bay was on fire with twists and turns of light, so that the entire surface was aglow with light.  Each drop from the paddle, as it struck the water, spawned a pinprick of light.   The water was alive – visible in the pre-moon darkness, with the wake of our dinghy lying like a glow-in-the-dark rope behind us.  So the final given of these islands:  they can surprise you with their wonder, even when you think you’ve seen it all.