Nuka Hiva, Marquesas

June 5 to 23, 2009
Taioha’e bay; The crepery at the quay; Food stores; Tikis on the shores; A walk into the neighborhood and beyond; Across the mountain saddle ; The Saturday night dinner and dance; Les haut commissionaire

Note: Chronological order for reading last three posts should be: French Polynesia; Nuka Hiva, Marquesas; Daniel's Bay. Apologize for posting out of order.

Taioha’e Bay, Nuka Hiva: 8 Degrees.56’S; 140 Degrees.05’W

Stunning. Extravagantly beautiful. A paradise after 3252 miles from Mexico, and 28 days at sea. About 20 dolphins power toward Zulu to perform their blue-water antics in a welcome play. My heart is filled with joy. Humankind needs land! Tenuously we enter Taioha’e Bay on the southern coast--our first port of call in French Polynesia. Hats off to the navigator!

30 or more years ago Russ’ parents, Russ and Flo, sailed into this bay on their CT 41 ketch called Drummer. Here is an excerpt from Flo’s journal.

“On Dec 17, Dad sighted Ua Huka, the easternmost of the Marquesas . We moved right along, close enough to see the palms at the water's edge. Nuka Hiva was still 25 miles west and faintly visible. By 4:00 pm we got the engine going full speed, and by sailing and motoring 7 knots we were off the entrance to Taiohae Bay at about 6 pm. The most wonderful and spectacular welcome was to have 200 or more dolphins playing all around us. Now it is dark, the anchor is down, and we are going to sit on the foredeck and drink the bottle of Pomard which Russ and Marilyn gave us to drink at the equator. 3200 miles and 29 days. My
hat is off to the navigator!!”

We in turn, now, retrace their steps to drop Zulu’s anchor in this same bay and gather ourselves for the experience that awaits. An Englishman, Andy, waves at us from his Beneteau 47--Drimea. He stretches his arms into the air as if holding up the beauty: the bay, mountains, and blue sky.

“Welcome.” he calls eloquently in Kings English, as only the English can.


Zulu approaches Taioha’e Bay, Nuka Hiva, Marquesas June 5, 2009.



Taioha’e Bay: Zulu is at anchor somewhere in the far right cluster.

It is lunch time and all closes down between 11:00 AM and 2:00 PM: the gendarme’s office, banks, post offices etc. Andy and Jane take us for a walk about. The heat is intense as we are close to the equator. We pass the school grounds facing the bay. Men and women are cutting up fresh tuna on a long table to grill for the school children’s lunch. Fresh fruit is cut up on the side. Quell lunch!

The path gets narrower, a horseman rides by, and not soon enough do we enter the cool of the boutique Pearl Lodge etched into the mountainside overlooking the bay.

“4 Hinanos.”Please.” Andy politely orders from the patio perched one level down from the swimming pool and overlooking the bay. We had not yet exchanged money, so this was kindly his treat.



Exquisite view from the boutique Pearl Lodge of swimming pool and Taioha’e Bay.

“Cheers.” Here’s to the extravagant beauty I say feeling the landscape sway. I’m giddy with happiness and shaky with rubber sea legs.

“Cheers and welcome to Nuka Hiva.” Andy responds with a most gentlemanly cock of the head and smile.

The heat is murder. It puts you into an altered state. I sip the cold beer and hold on to the image of the handsome Marquesan man on horseback passing us at a trot on the path up to the lodge. He was beautifully tattooed with long black hair tied back in a pony tail. It was like an introductory film strip that replayed as I looked out over the world across the bay, hibiscus blowing in the breeze.

We look down on the beautiful black schooner named Nirvana, flying a Spanish flag. It is as if she was placed in the bay by some otherworldly presence and Nirvana was created around her as her namesake.


Spanish Ketch at bay, appropriately named Nirvana.

Andy talks to fellow yachtsman on the VHF. There is a gathering on the Quay tonight and we are invited if we feel so inclined after just having crossed an ocean wide.

We do make it, albeit a little late. Up the perpendicular ladder at the wharf we climb. There the little group of humanity from all walks of life come together with common bond, that of sailing the seas on their own boats. Andy and Jane off Drimera from England, Keith and Ann off Ketchup 2 from Australia; Taja and Joha off Libertas from Finland; Marion and James off Balu from northern Ireland and others. We spin the yarns with laughter and animation under the wharf lights that cast squiggly lines on the still waters of Taioha’e bay. These experiences keep us in touch with each other along the way. What a welcome we have had.

With friendly immigration taken care of, we start discovering the island on our own. I share broad brush imagery of Nuka Hiva through words and take you on a visual journey of photography.

The crepery at the quay

We start our walkabout at the wharf where the dinghy landing is. Nadia runs a crepery from a roulette (van) there, with tables under a canopy looking out over the water. Food served from roulettes is a common thing in French Polynesia.

She is from East Germany and married to a Marquesan. Before marrying him, she took him to England, where she was living, and baptized him with his first pair of lace-up shoes he’s ever worn, warm clothes, a dreary winter, and English language school. Her partner survived the baptism and now they have returned to Nuka Hiva with the birth of their first son, whose name in English means Thunder. The night he was born thunder boomed across the valleys, as if echoing the announcement of his birth.

Nadia’s partner says I can take a picture of Thunder, but not of him. So I oblige and catch his tattoos in the taking. A note on tattooing: The mythological meaning of tattoo is aesthetic value and sexual attractiveness. It is also marks a passage from childhood to adulthood. It marks your identity or a group you belong to. The custom totally disappeared after the arrival of the missionaries. Nudity was taboo so why tattoo? But the designs were never lost. In the early 1980s tattooing resurfaced and Marquesan, Tahitian, and Maori societies were determined to recover from what seemed like a culture shock. The young, especially, quest identity and the tattoo renaissance is at large today.

In ancient times the pigment was made from the soot of a burned candle nut (ti’a’iri) thinned out with water. The mixture turned blue once it was introduced below the dermis. This operation was done with a tattooing comb (ta), a kind of adze with sharp teeth on one end, carved in fish teeth or bird bones. A mallet was used to hit the adze’s handle and make the pigment penetrate into the skin. Nowadays, though, they have acquired modern equipment and sterilizers.

Nadia serves her partner crepe after crepe and he eats them nonchalantly with head bent down, holding the fork like a dagger he jabs at the crepe: crepes with raspberry jam and Nutella, citron crepes, plain crepes with powdered sugar, savoury crepes. Then he ‘rests’ some more while Nadia works away. Oh what a life. I think I’ll have a lemon crepe and Russ will have a plane crepe with powdered sugar. Yum. Our first bite ashore after 29 days at sea! Savour the moment.


Thunder in the arms of Nadia’s partner.

Food stores

We walk along the road that edges the bay. Let’s look at the food stores. Outside a young girl sells fruit and vegetables: a meager supply. There will be more fresh things at the early morning market place I am told. Inside the store stock is limited, but hot baguettes are in abundance and cheeses and wines. Some food products are subsidized like: sugar, flower, coffee, bread etc.

Otherwise prices are astronomical. The cost of living for travelers in the Marquesas is inhibiting. It is best just to swallow the bitter-sweet pill and buy what you need and enjoy the hot, fresh-baked baguettes and cheeses. Buy the freshest of fresh fish, and sweet, sweet tropical fruit sold at the market place early in the mornings. C’est la vie.

Anyone working in the French Polynesian administration makes about three times what they would make in France. Usually someone in the ‘family’ has a job that brings in good money. Virtually every family seemingly owns a new SUV or 4-wheel drive. Proud to be a Marquesan with a shopping basket full of baguettes, cheese, wine in the backseat of their expensive cars driving on limited miles of roads. It is mind boggling to watch the money flow effortlessly. Although, admittedly, Marquesans do rely on traditional staples such as breadfruit, taro, sweet potatoes, bananas and seafood for nutrition. There is no sign of beggars or down-and-outs.

The Marquesans are a proud people and proud of their culture. They absorb the French culture with island casualness. Their French accent is not refined, rather harsh. You sense that these are their islands, not the French. We fill our baskets and return to Zulu happy for what fresh food this fertile island has offered, even though the moths have flown the pockets.

Tikis on the shores of Taioha’e bay

Morning dawns on another day in paradise. The sun shines. I feel loathe to swim off the boat as I would be sharing the playground with large hammerhead sharks lurking in the dark, dark, black-green waters. We wait for the cool of the afternoon then dinghy ashore to venture further. Walk along the shore side. See young people perched up on outcroppings of rocks, waiting for the waves to break over them. Little children swimming close to the rocky beaches.

We walk past an old-style home, pushed back behind the palms with the mountain for a backdrop. Perhaps some French person of stature lives here, sipping on his or her morning café au lait. Taking small bites of a croissant.



An old-style home, pushed back behind the palms with the mountain for a backdrop.

Russ is making his usual detours. I sit alone in the park alongside the bay that holds stone Tikis: representations of a god or deified ancestor, a trademark of the Marquesas. I walk to each one and study it. Wonder about its meaning, its connection to the far gone past. A strong presence resides. A heavy silence surrounds these stone images and the crash of the waves is all that breaks it.

Which ones do I choose to show you from many, many? There are also pa’epae’-- the stone pavement of a marae, and me’ae—sacred spaces on the pa’epae-- where funeral ceremonies took place.



Marquesan Tiki on the shores of Taioha’e Bay.


Marquesan Tiki on the shores of Taioha’e Bay.


Marquesan Tiki on the shores of Taioha’e Bay.


Marquesan Tiki on the shores of Taioha’e Bay.


Marquesan Tiki on the shores of Taioha’e Bay.



Marquesan Tiki on the shores of Taioha’e Bay.



Stone cutting that resembles a whale tale.

I snap out of dream time with the Tikis and catch up with Russ. It is time to head back. Across the road, as if in opposition, churches are nestled against the mountains. The missionary impact was lasting. Sunday is an important day of worship. It is also a family day.


Churches nestle against the mountain backdrop as if in opposition to the Tikis.

We walk on past what looks like a meeting place. There is a bustle going on inside. Palm fronds are being tied to poles and sides of the building. Young women are practicing dance. The music starts and stops, then starts again as the hips swivel round and round. Tables are being put in place.

“What is taking place here?” we ask someone as we peek in on the practice.

“Tomorrow there will be a dance show.” An effeminate Marquesan smiles and curves ‘her’ body into an S bend in motion, jutting ‘her’ one knee out from a pencil skirt. ‘She’ of course speaks French.

“C’est possible a achete les billets ici. FP1000 pour la dance, FP3000 pour les dinner et dance. C’est mannefique. Tout commence a 7:00 PM Samedi soir.” ‘Her’ eyes flash as she gives us the details of course all in French.

We buy two tickets, each at the different price as I do not eat much besides vegetarian.

“C’est bon!” ‘she’ says and smiles widely. Sashaying off.

The shadows are lengthening on the bay. Clouds gather as if a downpour will break the heat. Children are still at play in the water.




Swimmers at the end of Taioha’e Bay.

We head back to the wharf. The crepery is still open with Nadia hard at work. We walk to the end of the wharf’s L-shape leg where the Tahiti Nui VII is moored. We greet a man with a gentle, tired face on board. He runs this interisland tourist boat, geared mostly for islanders I believe: a little basic for the pampered travel sophisticates.

“Mon nom est Frederique.” He smiles giving us his name in introduction. We tell him where we have come from. As a seaman himself, he knows how weary we must feel and cuts a finger of bananas hanging off the boat for us as a gift. His smile is winning and unabashed he sports his glistening tattooed head. It is telling in design, but we cannot read its meaning: what the identity is or what group he belongs to. We bid Frederique adieu and Russ sits down at the end of the wharf to eat a banana gift. Night has fallen.



Frederique who runs the Tahiti Nui VII inter-island tourist boat gives a warm smile as he sports his tattooed head.



Russ enjoys one of the bananas Frederique has just given us as night falls.

A walk into the neighborhood and beyond

A walk into the ‘neighborhood’ is a breath of fresh air. We first take the road that leads up to a secondary school high up on a hill. See the horses grazing alongside the school. Huge pampelmouse hang low over the fence from trees on the school grounds. One has fallen to the ground and we pick it up and eat it. This to us is the cherry on the fruit plate: a huge King-size green bitter-sweet grapefruit. Cut it open and the fruit fragrance is succumbing. I could eat them daily forever.

Smoke from burning coconut husks spirals to the skies, here and there on the mountain side. Houses are small, with curtains blowing through open windows. People sit around the garden on plastic chairs talking, laughing. The gardens are lush with bougainvillea, papaya, mangoes, pampelmouse.


A horse grazes alongside the school yard.



Pampelmouse: King-size grapefruit are the cherries on the fruit plate for me.

You can hear the laughter of children are at play. A young girl peeks at us from behind hedges and smiles. I catch a photo of her smiling in front of a Noni tree. Noni have a rotten smell when ripe. They are used for medicinal purposes. For example rashes, insect bites, herpes, and some say it helps support the immune system and helps cells absorb nutrients.



A little girl peeks out from behind a tree and I catch her winning smile.



Flowers and fruit of the Noni tree. The fruit are used for medicinal purposes.

We wind down a steep road and stop to eye some huge pampelmouse hanging heavily on a tree in the wild. Hmmm. A car slows down and the passenger, a beautiful young woman holding a baby, asks us if we would like some pampelmouse.

“Oui, merci beaucoup!” I smile and put my best foot forward as we enter their well kept garden. The handsome husband gets out the car and picks us about eight of these King-size grapefruit. The pretty wife runs in to get a plastic bag and off we walk the final mile back to the wharf and to faithful Zulu at bay.

Across the mountain saddle

We wind our way back down to the main road to buy some refreshment. A baguette, cheese, cold water. At the edge of the bay a horseman dismounts and ties the tether to a tree while he visits with friends. The sun is blistering and we walk on up past and behind the Pearl Lodge. Stay awhile and look out onto the bay.

A salmon pink bougainvillea hangs in an arc against the mountain backdrop. Higher we ‘climb’ up, up and over the saddle. Down we go along a dirt path. Down down, resting in the shade of trees here and there. Drinking water. Down we go some more, past a farm of Noni trees we catch a Marquesan with his horse by surprise. Where did these apparitions come from I surmise he is thinking. We’re lobster red in the face and reeling.



Rest awhile and look down on the bay below.



Salmon pink bougainvillea arc over a mountain backdrop.

Down to the beach by a small bay we find a makeshift table under a tree and take respite. Tear at the fresh baguette and bite into soft camembert cheese spread thickly. Creamy. A strong aged nose to it. Drink a carton of tropical juice. Suck on an orange. Eat an apple. How about a square of bitter-sweet chocolate. Listen to the waves breaking on the pebbled shore and crackle in the crannies as they recede. Break again. Crackle as they recede. Never ending. The whole bay and beach are our own. This is our world. Walk into it. Feel the cool water.

It is getting late and we have the heights to retrace. It goes quicker than we think. High up we look at the mountain vistas and with dark clouds that come and go and the views below. The day is dying. We must go.


High up we look at mountain vistas with dark clouds that come and go.

The Saturday night dinner and dance

We have dressed as best a yachtie can dress. I even have some perfume on. We have our tickets and dinghy over to the wharf. Nadia is still hard at work at her crepery, and we sit down and visit with Hans and Erica off Babalu from Seattle. Erica is a dark-haired, dark eyed young beauty from Maine originally. She is wearing a seed necklace she bought at the Artisan stalls and a sprig of flowers in her hair. Hans, originally from Belgium, has been chief engineer on large yachts and has delivered same too. He is wincing a bit having just had a large tattoo done on his chest. They, too, are going to the dance.

We have some cold drinks and Patrice joins us too. He is a French yachtsman with a pretty wife and daughter, and is the actual owner of the crepery. He has leased it to Nadia as he soon will sail away to the USA to get a bigger boat. They, too, are going to the dance. It is time to go. So this merry group of travelers walks around the head of the bay in the night light, under the spreading branches of trees to the hall where the action is.

The hall is ablaze with lights and decked out with palm fronds and Marquesans are already seated. The ticket-collectors at the door have size presence to say the least.

The audience is dressed to the Polynesian 9s: crowns of flowers, boar tusk necklaces and ear rings for men, mother of pearl pendants on coconut fibre for women, floral shirts, floral ankle-length skirts.

The waiters all seem to be effeminate ‘she’s’: charming, gracious, efficient, always quick to smile wide and crack a girlish joke. Bending their hands at the wrist and sashaying off. They serve the food with a flourish, a sway—leaving behind a feint fragrance of perfumed Tiara oil—a fallen flower from behind the ear.

(Of interest, the mahu (transvestite) are accepted members of every village throughout Polynesia. After puberty they become mahus by their own choice, or by the choice of their parents and assume the roles of women, and dance the feminine parts in festivals).

Pork, shrimp, chicken, noodles, rice, raw fish keep coming in large quantities. There is no shortage of appetite. Travelers like us peck away without making much of a dent. But the Marquesans clean the plates.


The ticket-collectors at the door have size presence to say the least.



Russ beaming with our very sweet waiter, who serves our food with a smile.



The Marquesans clean their plates with gusto.

Who should we see at the dinner, but the beautiful young couple—Louis and Moana and their baby, who had given us the big bag of pampelmouse earlier on. Someone takes their photograph and I do too. He wears a black Tahitian pearl and she a crown of flowers and mother-of-pearl necklace. So gracious they are.


Louis and Moana with their baby at the dinner dance. They had given us a bag of pampelmouse from their garden earlier on.

The young women dancers come to center floor. They are stunning with black waist-long hair and costumes that conjure up accent around ancient lore: grass skirts, feathers, flowers, seed necklaces. They sway in the most enticing of ways like ocean waves—like branches of palms in the wind—like birds in flight smiling beautifully. Little girls are close to budding beauty. They dance with energy and grace-in the making. Priceless. Endearing. The men of course have to do the “haka” war dances with clubs and tattoos on show, and grass fringes covering only the bare necessities.

The drums beat! Voice is the second instrument. The audience is in awe. A Fire dance is the finale. The audience clap, lean back in their chairs smiling with satisfaction. The night has ended too soon.



Stunning young dancers with black waist-long hair and costumes conjure up accent around ancient dance lore.



A slice of the enthralled Marquesan audience at the dinner dance avec boar tusks.

Les haut commissionaire

The French high commissionaire from Tahiti is to arrive imminently. The park by the bay is abuzz. School children still in uniform are excited. They gather in clusters of friends enjoying ice creams or candy. Younger children wait in anticipation, a little French boy especially looks for the arrival of the guest of honor. People start to take their seats along the rock wall or stand around the VIP seating area.

The sweetest little old lady in an orange satin or nylon dress comes early enough to take up front seat in the VIP area. No sooner seated, than she is politely redirected to any place else but that. She walks slightly abashed and finds a place on the rock wall.


Little children await the French High Commissioner. The little French boy at the end is especially intrigued.



Somewhat abashed my favourite little old lady has been redirected from a VIP seat to the wall. She has a look of injured pride on her face.

I find Russ. He has a baguette and some cheese and two Hinanos. Barely has he taken a swig when a smartly-dressed policewoman puts him in his place by saying no beer drinking here! He speaks no French, but understood well enough. Funny.

The dance troupe and drummers arrive in costume. Event organizers in floral dresses show a sense of importance. Any minute now His Lordship should arrive.
And here he is all in white, his wife walking behind him somewhat bored as he shakes hands with those of importance. Pledge something to the flag while select dancers stand stone still with respect. All is silent.

The little old lady in the orange dress decides she deserves a better seat and makes her way to the steps where she knows he will pass by. ‘I’ll show them I can sit where I like’ I imagine her thinking. How priceless. And down the steps he comes in all his white-uniformed glory avec a flower lei around his neck.


The dance troupe and drummers wait patiently for the moment for which they came.


Event organizers anticipate the arrival of their guest.



Select dancers give presence while the high commissioner salutes the flags. Oops your undies are showing.



My favourite little old lady goes for an even better seat where the high commissioner will certainly pass right by her. See I can sit where I want to!


The French high commissioner makes his way down to the VIP area. C’est bon.

As he walks down the steps a Marquesan woman chants, in a haunting, powerful, moving voice. A welcoming chant. A chant showing respect. A chant of the ancients.

Then the speeches begin: oh how important a role Les Isle de Marquises (French spelling) play in world democracy. How strategic they are placed in the oceans wide. Oui oui. C’est vrais. Je comprend. And on and on. And the dancers start wilting and even the sweetheart lady in the apricot dress’ attention wanders. Those standing reel.

At last Monsieur le Haut Commissionaire sits down in front row VIP seating. Let the drums beat and the dances begin. Pampapap pampaappppaappppppa!!! POW. Bong. The drums beat and the dancers start their movement. The waves of the bay break. Children whisper. When OH NO!!! One of the dancer’s red wraps falls off and he’s left in his undies right in front of Monsieur. Quick, regroup, wrap up, dance on. Smile.

After the show a reception takes place. People from Nuka Hiva have brought refreshment. Monsieur makes a brief appearance and then he and his wife evaporate into a new SUV quicker than they arrived.

The people have fun though. Eating cake and drinking cold drinks. Chatting. Laughing. Children run in circles until the sun sets on Taioha’e bay to end the grand day.


Ready at long last to dance for the guest of honor.