Tahiti--First Visit

July 6 to July 21, 2009
Finding Papeete; Bastille Day July 14: Sarah and Dannel Arrive; Heiva: July 17, 2009; Papara: surf beach; Let’s get out of here.

Finding Papeete: Lat 17-32.42’S; Long 149.34.22’W


We see the masts of sailboats in a cluster.

We see the masts of sailboats in a cluster. It has been awhile since we have sailed into Papeete. Like about 29 years?

“There are the range markers.” Russ points. He lines them up as two outrigger canoes pass by.


Two outrigger canoes pass by as we approach “Papeete” (we think).

We are up on deck and not looking at the charts.

“Hmmmmm, this looks tricky.” I think as I see the markers helter skelter and wonder if it is Green right returning, not red right returning as in USA, Canada, and Mexico.

We see a couple of sailboats coming out through the channel.

“Let’s follow their path in the opposite direction.” I say. “And by the way Russ I see the bottom and the reefs! It is SHALLOW.” I caution.

I think of what Papeete looked like 29 years ago with boats tied stern to the wall alongside tree-lined Blvd Pomare and with bow anchors out. How Earl Hinz, a friend of Russ’ Dads and author of the South Pacific guidebook, Landfalls of Paradise, welcomed us as we pulled in with Toti our previous boat. How he did a double take when he saw me go back down and come up with my little baby, Ian Sebastian age about 4 months. He took us to lunch. Blvd Pomare swayed under my thin legs. The beautiful waitresses at the restaurant, with long black hair and chocolate grape eyes and full red lips, took Ian in their arms during the whole meal: a little blonde blue-eyed baby that crossed the seas in a wooden boat.

I remember I had a salad and ice-cream with chocolate sauce. And was enamored by all around me: mystical and magical and paradise found.

I would sit at night in the cockpit and watch the big ships come and go in and out of the pass: sailing off to faraway exotic landfalls with cargoes of tropical gold. How Russ would go ashore to the French Baker at 5:00 AM to get croissants and pain du chocolat. He went so often that the baker baked us an unforgettable Christmas cake as a gift. I remember the Polynesians perched on the reefs, prying shell fish loose, opening them up and popping them into their mouths for lunch. How they would row their outriggers made of wood out to to our boat to investigate: black hair and honey skins.


Tahitian giving us a ride in his wooden outrigger, 1979.

“10 feet!” I yell to Russ peering over the side to see the reefs around Zulu. This gets me into the present in a hurry.

“Hey Russ! This does NOT look like Papeete.” I call out.

Sailboats are idyllically anchored close to one another with a green grass shore.

“Excuse me, where is Papeete?” I call out to some yachties in a dinghy because Russ is still mozing around what I think is the Tahiti Yacht Club area and he is too thin-skinned to ask himself. Embarrassing? No, not at all. What do we know? We’ve just come down from Alaska!

“One pass down!” they call (I imagine they think what idiots). “You can’t go out this passage, it is too shallow!!” they advise.

“We just came in this way.” I call back and see their mouths drop open.

Out we go nibbling our nails and into the wide pass of Papeete. There is the foreign trade wharf, the petroleum dock, the fish wharf, the Navy wharf, the repair wharf, the floating dock, the transit wharf, and the Quay. I think this might be Papeete.

Dave from Meander is on the Quay ready to catch our lines. It is tricky, and once tied up Mediterranean style, it’s even trickier to jump off the bow onto the Quay. You need to be a jolly Chinese acrobat.

“Want a pain chocolat?” Dave asks. He is of medium build and height, fair headed, slightly balding, continually in motion. High speed.

We walk with him across the now very busy Blvd Pomare. He leads the way past a modern MacDonalds of all things, past the Cathedral with churchgoers dressed all in white with island hats on, to the store. Dave is amused as I snatch up chocolate croissants and Picnic chocolate bars and fruit for the universe.


Cathedral in Papeete.

It is Sunday, so we will check in the next day. We invite Dave over for a glass of wine at sunset. He accepts, bringing a bottle of white to share, and is happy to help us in any way we need. A single hander, he talks the evening away in Yankee rapid-fire motion. We hear all of the near misses and dangers he has encountered, the rescue missions he has been involved in, and about the murders on Palmyra, where two ‘down-at-the-edge’ yachties killed another couple of yachties for their boat. Sunk theirs, got rid of the bodies and sailed away to Hawaii where they were promptly arrested. We saw the boat coming into Hawaii when we were there. He knew the murderers and filled us in. A book titled something like ‘The Sea Will Tell’ by Vincent Bugolosi (sp) was written. Goosebumps! Time to go to bed. Listen for footsteps on the deck at night!

Monday is check-in time! Spare you the details of French Polynesian immigration arrogance in Papeete. Of forms and bonds and runarounds to banks and back again to say come back tomorrow to which I respond NO to which his cheeky lordship responds OK late afternoon ALL DAY? I feel like a Vienne sausage being processed, not a salt wary sailor girl having just reached the shores of ‘Paradise lost’?

Russ discovers the headsail stay is not broken, but rather the fitting came loose and swiveled its way up into the foil. This was caused by the boat rocking so violently in the storm and with too much pressure from too much sail up, supposedly. Things do not look that bad. Now just how to fix it? And we need a part.

I haul Russ up the mast and we take down the rigging and headsail and manage to get it off the boat and lay it lengthwise on the Quay. A feat to say the least. Later at the end of the day Dave and another yachtsman huddle down with Russ to resolve the challenge of fixing the problem. Do this, do that, and then do this and that. Voila! That should do it.

“Let us go to the Roulette’s tonight for a steak?” Russ proposes of Dave. Give me MEAT Russ imagines!

Roulettes are vans from which all sorts of food are served: Chinese, Italian, French, Polynesia etc. So the three of us traipse on down past the cruise ship piers, past the customs and immigration office to Place Vaiete where we find the Roulettes parked by the waterfront.

There are tables set up, with plastic table cloths, around each van, and we chose the one with the effeminate ‘waitresses’: mahu or transvestites. They are dressed in high heels and sparkly T-shirts and skirts: very attentive and helpful. They have some flair.

Dave starts a one-man monologue about his travels in Australia, about the latest book he is reading: Dark Star Safari by Alan Theroux. It is as if he is fast forward on a speed machine and eventually I have to excuse myself—for the night. I am too overwhelmed.

On returning to Zulu, Dave calls Russ and gives him the part we need. The next morning Meander is gone. Through the radio we next hear him in Singapore. Speed machine going west with few stops between. He has already circumnavigated a few times.

With the head stay fixed and the roller furling back in action we motor through the channel to anchor across from Taina Marina, near the airport--out close to the reefs. Hear the waves crashing! Music to my ears.

Bastille Day July 14: Sarah and Dannel Arrive

I have no notes. I’m stalling on writing. Get up and make a lime drink. Get up again and put some ice in the drink. Get up again and file a broken nail. Get up again and calculate something. See the table bare and think: I should have a flower by my side. Listen to the wind howling in the rigging.

It is Bastille Day, July 14. This commemorates the storming of the Bastille Prison during the French Revolution. There are huge celebrations underway. Military bands and canon salvos, marches, baton-twirling troupes of majorettes and the crème de crème is a ball held at the mayor’s residence. Am I not invited? I don’t have a dress in any case.

The Tahitians have prepared a long time for outrigger races; throwing javelin spears at a coconut target high, high atop a pole; spear fishing and amazing dance competitions: one village against another. The Bastille Day celebrations are part of Heiva, which combine the above with traditional Tahitian festivities over about a 6-week period.

I’m too excited in that my golden sunflower daughter, Sarah, is arriving tonight with her friend Dannel. I’ve tried to get Zulu looking her best and have stocked the fridge, freezer, and cupboards, and filled the hammock with tropical fruit.

Russ catches Le Truck to the airport to meet Sarah and Dannel. I walk the marina docks. Sit on a bench and watch the sleek mega million black-hulled yachts registered in the Cayman Islands, tugging at their mooring lines. Watch the crew polishing and cleaning endlessly. Watch the pampered owners sitting in deckchairs with drinks. Watch the sunset on Moorea. Watch people. Join yachties for a sundowner.


The sun sets on Moorea from Taina Marina, Tahiti.

Walk the docks again. No sign of the trio arriving. I see people getting out of a van with luggage and ask them what the situation at the airport is.

“Verrry crowded and because it eeez Bastille Day, ze are no taxeeees or Le Trucks.” A French traveler explains.

Four or more hours later the trio arrive on Le Truck. Night has come and the stars are out. I hug and hug my child. She looks so coquettish in black tights, black and white striped jersey top that comes down to her thighs and Heide-like blonde braids (plaits), bluest of blue eyes and a sprinkle of freckles on her nose. No, she is not 10 years of age, rather a grown woman of 27 and a nursing student in Ashland, Oregon. Her friend, Dannel Christian, has chocolate eyes and French and English (from Fletcher Christian??) blood, and a calm and centered presence: always considerate, a gentleman. Lucky he has such strong arms for carrying a bag loaded down with boat supplies and wine, coffee, balsamic vinegar, maple syrup. They hardly had room for their own clothes!

Load the cases in the dinghy and we all jump in and outboard off toward the reefs. In the morning Tahiti will come to light. Haere mai ra. Welcome.

Morning dawns and Sarah and I jump in the royal blue water and swim out to the turquoise, to the clear. Russ and Dannel go out in the dinghy and anchor. The reefs are sparse with life. Gone are the myriad of fish and vivid colours of the reefs of yesteryear. Fished out. Destroyed. Sad. Sarah is a strong swimmer and I laugh trying to keep up.

“Let’s go down town.” Dannel says after warm croissants and rich Stumptown French Roast coffee from Portland and fruit. Dannel likes to explore cities and he’s good at it. We hop back on Le Truck and head for the Market Place.

Papeete is worn at the edges. Not much to write home about really. Although an attempt is being made to build up the waterfront and the visitor center is first class and friendly. The sharp-looking, friendly Tahitians at the center try to paint Tahiti in its best light, but it is not that easy to see through. If you’ve done a short walkabout and seen the central market place, then a ‘been there done that’ attitude comes about. Am I spoilt? Probably.

The central market place or Marche Municipal or Mapuru a Paraita has been renovated and is located off Rue F Cardella and Rue Albert Leboucher. The ground floor of the market is lined with tables filled with fruit and vegetables and fish and flowers and flower crowns and shell jewelry and pareos. The vendors are colourful in flower-patterned dresses, with crowns of flowers themselves. Some are old and complacent, weaving a hat or making jewelry from green spines of sea urchins and other creatures or shells. They give smiles often with a tooth or two missing. Glass counters to the side contain ready-made lunch plates and cold drinks.

The Mezzanine has artisan creations, and tattoo and Tahitian pearl stands. There is a sit-down eatery where you can enjoy hot Panini sandwiches among other things, beer, and iced lemonade while the music plays. It is a good place to rest the limbs.

A broader circle of points of interest around the market place includes: general Chinese stores with bolts and bolts of colourful Polynesian pareo cloth; modern surf clothing shops; Tahitians sitting at low tables on sidewalks selling fruit or Tahitian pearls; eateries; corner fruit carts on very narrow streets. The Cathedrale Notre Dame, Mairie de Papeete (city hall), Assemblee de la Polynesia Francaise (FP assembly), and the Place Vaiete (where the Roulette’s [van eateries] park at night) and the Quay and waterfront are also within this broader circle.

At lunch time people sit on street benches or low walls around the Place Vaiete with often long Baguette sandwiches filled with steak and pomme frites. Fashion statements are at large with the French. A small group of men in casual cotton print shirts stand in a circle on a sidewalk and play guitars and ukuleles and sing from their hearts—a Tiare Tahiti flower behind the ear. Le Trucks and traffic race by on Blvd Pomare, belching out exhaust fumes. The sun burns hot. There is a breeze.

To soften the façade the town still holds vestiges of the French colonial past through its tree-lined streets, its architecture, and traditions. The port, with ships from all around the world, underscores that this indeed is the administrative, economic, and cultural capital of French Polynesia set against a velvet green mountain backdrop.

Papeete means ‘a basket of water’ in Tahitian. The name comes from freshwater (pape) Queen Pomare used to collect in her basket (ete). The water in Papeete truly is the sweetest, purist in the South Seas. You can drink it straight out of the tap.

My pictures of Papeete are gone: vanished into a lost world of their own, of my own reckless accord, of my carelessness, an enigma. So words will have had to do.

Heiva: July 17, 2009

Out of all the ongoing festivities—some of which I touched on above under Bastille Day, and others that include: fruit-carrying and horse races, Tamure groups, beauty contests, flower-studded floats and more—we go to a dance competition called Odyssey: three dance categories from different districts and one song category held in an open air stadium on the waterfront.

The stadium is filled with Tahitians and French in their best island attire. I could do without the traditional song and chants, but I could stay up all night listening to the thundering drum beats and watching the titillating Tamure danced. Tahitian dancing is not mild hula, come Tiny Bubbles. It is a rigorous, forceful, suggestive swiveling of the hips and the costumes are breathtaking. The dancers smile wide. Their coffee-coloured skin shine wet with energy spent. Feathers or flowers or pieces of palm frond or grass skirt or seeds from a necklace fall to the ground as movement heightens with the beat of the drums.

The Tamure traditionally is an acting or dancing out of legend, to include warrior or king or priest or fisherman or heroe characters . But now it is intermingled with glitter and sizzle in modern production of the Tamure! Wish I could share the sound. Wish I could share the dance form.

The show is long. Our bottoms are worn out. Sarah is ready to leave and so is Russ and Dannel. I could stay to the end and more ends. But then again I am a die hard.

Heiva provides French Polynesian youth an outlet for expressing their traditional culture, which is threatened by the Western cultural influence. Rapp et al. It is an important event and I feel privileged to have experienced a small slice of it.

Papara: surf Beach

Sarah is a surfer girl and was going to bring her board, but didn’t. The Tahitian breaks are mostly far out on reef passes with strong currents. You need a ride out there or it is a 20 minute paddle. Some of the chat forums on the web speak of ‘Yo! You better bring some lemons to squeeze on shredded skin when you hit the reefs’. Hazards do include getting bashed on the reefs and if so getting closely acquainted with sea urchins and crown of thorn starfish. Sharks? A consideration all over the world. None of the above stop the surfers though. It is all possible, but not probable.

We bus it to Papara, a surf spot, about an hour north of Taina marina. It’s a lovely drive with mountain faces coming ever closer to the road and ribbon waterfalls dropping down the faces.

No-one seems to know where the surf beach is. I ask about 4 ladies to tell me when to get off at ‘this place’ and I show them on the map. They smile genuine smiles and nod blankly and point to somebody else vaguely. Eventually, after tearing up to the bus driver from the back of the bus to show him our destination before we miss it, he stops. Voila! Ici! Through those trees he points.

It is windy and we have a hurried sand-ridden picnic on a black-sand beach followed by a run for shelter from the rain, which Russ finds, followed by a hot coffee. We watch the young surfers pull stunts in the wild waves and Sarah is somehow glad she missed this kind of surfing.

I hear that rather than aggressively guard the surf spots, Tahitians shake hands with each other before they paddle out to the lineup. A nice gesture.

It is time to get back to Zulu. We wait a long, long time. We change weight from one leg to the next. We walk in circles. We grow beards. The clouds gather and wind blows. No buses to be had. We split up and hitch hike back to Taina marina.

Surf is up! Wanna go?

Let’s Get Out of Here!

Dannel and I are at Carrefour--the mega grocery store down from the Marina. We’re on a mission to stock up for Moorea. Frommage (cheese)? Jambon (ham)? Saumon fumee (smoked salmon)? Poullet (chicken)? Thon blanc (white tuna)? Baguettes? Croissants? Pain chocolat (chocolate pastry)? Fruits and legumes frais (fresh vegetables)? The cart is cringing with overload. Out through the check-out stand. That will be a million FP$. Dannel contributes graciously. He grabs a bottle of sparkling wine for Russ’ birthday.

We are ready to go.

“Dad! Let’s go to Moorea! We have been here long enough!” Sarah announces. Russ is in a sun struck dreaming state of procrastination.

“We’ll go tomorrow.” He responds.

Time is slipping by and Tahiti is losing its interest edge. Sarah is anxious to get this show on the road and poor Dannel has enough grip on himself to stay neutral. They go off for a swim at a fancy hotel and when they return we head out to the reef, anchor the dinghy, and have a sun downer. It will help bring us closer to Moorea.

Lovely. Bounce, bounce. Moorea is on the horizon beckoning. The waves are crashing on the reefs. We are surrounded by the colours blue and turquoise and white and clear. I’ve brought all I need for pina coladas: ice, pineapple juice, Meyers rum; coconut cream.

“Cheers! Salut! We cheerfully say!”

We bob and bounce and sip our drinks until the light of the afternoon bursts bright before it falls. Then from the decks of Zulu we watch the sun in final descent on the Island of Moorea, the name of which means Yellow Lizard.


From our anchored dinghy on the reefs of Tahiti: Cheers! Salut! We cheerfully say!


Sun in final descent on the Island of Moorea.