Ua Pou, Marquesas

June 23 to 29, 2009
Hakahau to Hakahetau, Ua Pou, Marquesas Islands.

Hakahau: 9 Degrees.21.48’S; 140 Degrees.02.85'W

Ua Pou has a signature profile from as far away as Nuka Hiva—25 nautical miles away—you see the two massive volcanic spires: Pou Maka at 3264 feet and Mount Oave at 4040 feet. Ua Pou means two peaks. These pierce the sky and knock on heaven’s door. The spires are plugs drawn from the throats of extinct volcanoes. They make a bold statement of the power of earth’s energy. They draw you in and are awe inspiring.


Ua Pou’s spires: Pou Maka at 3264 feet and Mount Oave at 4040 feet.

It is blowing 25 knots. The main sail is double reefed and bravely Zulu makes her way to Ua Pou. Each nautical mile brings us closer to an exceptional place: with six valleys, flower stones (dark brown stones patterned with yellow flower imprint), and phonelite or Klinksteine, in German, named for a stone with a bell-like ring when struck: a clinking stone. These stones were traded in a long-ago yesteryear throughout the Marquesas for cutting purposes.

We come into the narrow opening to the tiny harbor with a small wharf and anchor close in. There is only one other boat: Auspice from the San Francisco Bay Area, USA. The sun sets on this little piece of heaven.

Waves crash on shore with a few local surfers riding the waves into the rocks. Waves crash on shore close to the thatch-roofed outrigger club. A young Marquesan paddles the blue waters with a Royale shirt on. Royale is the brand name of drinking water in the area. High up on the golden blanched hillside a white cross stands, signifying the spoken word.


Waves crash into the rocks of Hakatau harbor.


Waves crash onto the rocky beach close to the thatch-roofed outrigger canoe club.


A young Marquesan paddles his modern outrigger canoe sporting Royale: the brand for drinking water in this area.


High up on the golden blanched hillside a white cross stands, signifying the spoken word.

“Ello, ello. Zulu. Zulu.” We hear the heavy accented French customs man call at 1:00 AM in the morning. He is in a yellow kayak with a head lamp on and has paddled out to our boat.

“Eh you mus moooove, because a sheeeep is coming. Jus mooooove a leeeetle down there. The sheeeep is waiting to come in.” He politely directed us.

There is not much place ‘down there’ to move to. Russ pulls anchor, and rather than move ‘down there’ he goes back out through the entrance into the big swells of the sea at night with rocks looming in the moonlight and waves breaking and the ‘sheeeeep’ wallowing about from side to side: nerve wracking to say the least.

The cargo ship moves on in and we follow, and anchor giving it enough room to easily maneuver against the wharf. We rock and roll all night long.
Up in the morning we see out customs to check in. The most friendly of woman customs officer processed our paperwork and stamps our passports. In French Polynesia you have to check in at various points so that you can be tracked within the overall area.

“Where can we find some fruit to buy?” I asked in French. She tries to answer in English.

“Jus go clack clack on ze door of ze house et demande les fruit. Ze people will geeve it to you. If is ripe, it jus fall on ze ground and it eez no good then. No problem.” She smiles and I smile.

We start walking up through a valley toward the peaks. A truck stops and gives us a lift to the top. And back down we walk the long way, picking a hibiscus here and there, in the cool of the late afternoon. There are orchards of grapefruit and many have fallen on the ground. We do not have the gumption to ‘clack clack’ on the doors of homes, so pick fruit up off the ground that are close to the side walk. Really, though, we should first ask permission. Every fruit tree is owned.

The valley is sprinkled with green tin-roofed houses, painted white, and perched high up overlooking the sea. There is a gravesite of an Irishman and his Marquesan family names at the side of a gate to a homestead. The view is magnificent as we descend. Another truck stops. The driver gets out to talk to a man in his garden. A whole slaughtered cow is lying in the truck bed. Poor beast has most definitely breathed its last breath. Seeing the blood and flies and closed eyes is most disturbing. More so than seeing neatly cut steaks in saran wrap in the store. This is a vegetarian talking. Where are the sprouts and the mushrooms?

Back at the wharf Kim and Jim off of Auspice dinghy over.

“There is a French Military ship coming in tonight . We were told to prepare to move.” Jim says.

We are on pins and needles all night waiting for a headlamp to shine on Zulu from a yellow kayak. But only the next morning does the gray military ship come in. We sit on deck drinking tea with front row seats to watch the circus.

The medium-sized ship approaches the wharf gingerly. A line is thrown aft and tied off. Thrusters are at work, but the bow is not cooperating. Rubber tenders with high horse-power engines are lowered and the crew jumps in them like Jiminy crickets and zoom with great speed to where they can get up on the wharf and tie off. Well lines get tangled in the props? And there was much to do about high energy nothing in succeeding to tie up. It was like trying to direct Cleopatra in Ua Pou. The French are scurrying back and forth. The bow is 45 degrees off the wharf. Eventually after much maneuvering and scurrying, they succeed. Voila!
We hear a voice over the loudspeakers and Russ translates as follows:

“This is the Captain. There will be wine and cheese served on deck in 15 minutes.” Not!

Later we meet the very handsome young French captain on the wharf and ask when he would be leaving so as to give them plenty of maneuver room.

“Eight o’clock in za morning. You are OK where you are.” He said with a lovely pucker-of-the-mouth accent and Colgate smile. I want to wrap him up and take him home for one of my girls. Smile.

There is a dance to be held in the hall tonight. We walk to the hall intending to watch the dancers only. Clouds are gathering though. Marquesans are BBQing meat on coals from stalls erected for the occasion. I imagine parts of the poor cow sizzling away as we speak. Ouch!

People don’t seem as friendly. They are offish and reserved and in their separate little worlds. In fact we feel a little as if we are intruders: a disheveled entity blown in from afar. A Frenchman all in white sits on a small wall outside the hall: waiting perhaps for friends. Others are absorbed in conversation and laughter.

The rain comes down. Torrential sheets of it, drenching the sizzling BBQ. I stand under a tree on the beach with some Marquesan ladies on the side caught up in a private gossip session. It is time to seek shelter.

Inside the hall is decorated and tables are set and people have taken their seats. We find there are no seats set up for just dance spectators. Some young girls offer us a seat and we accept. One of the girls throws a tantrum and asks us to get off the chair. I think she must have been a little mentally challenged, so we leave and stand up for most of the dances. Young French men are ordering Heinekens left right and center and there was a mingling with the Marquesans and a happy time had by all. For us, though, it was time to take our leave from the periphery, and from Hakahau.

Out into the drizzling night we venture. Along the beach next to the outrigger canoe club, past the wharf and the military ship, into Zulu’s faithful tender and out to our cozy home afloat. We will take our leave in the morning in the wake of the French military. Until then, we rock and roll all through the night.

Hakahetau: 9 Degrees.21.43’S; 140 Degrees.06.30’W

Out into the open blue seas with white caps we punch into the waves, rounding the point and heading for Hakahetau on the northwest of Ua Pou. In the distance to the west you can see Nuka Hiva reaching for the skies in silhouette.

We sail past the rocky shores, past the airstrip that slants uphill and into the bay, the link of life to Hakahetau. Hakahetau means ‘restful bay’ and we drop anchor in site of a Swedish boat drinking in the muted blues and greens of these protected waters.


We sail past the rocky shores toward Hakahetau.


We pass the airstrip that runs uphill, the link of life for Hakahetau.

There is a very small stone jetty built in an L-shape. Children are swimming in the clear waters. We tie the dinghy to a post and walk into the valley, now claimed a ‘Heritage Site.’ The feeling is old world Marquesan. There are only 200 people living in this valley. They are shy, but friendly.

There is a shop that is part of a home. The sound of music comes from the school yard. We walk in to find young girls practicing dance moves. Huge shade trees provide cover from the hot, hot sun.

A young Marquesan speaks to us in English.

“Do you want some fruit?” he asks after finding out where we are from. His name is Holler Hokaupoko and he has the most winning of smiles.

“Sure.” We say in appreciation.

Holler meets us the next morning. Russ goes out to the small stone jetty and picks him up. He is loaded with bananas, oranges, pampelmouse and makes himself at home in the cockpit. I serve ginger nut biscuits and tea, which he savours with relish.


Some of the fruit Holler has brought us!


Holler is an amiable young man who bakes coconut bread for the community.


Holler pointed out his house in the cluster of trees above the rock outcropping: a million dollar view.

He points to where he lives: high up on the hill in a cluster of green trees with a million-dollar view. He learned the art of baking in Papeete he explains, but returned to Hakahetau because it is a quieter, gentler place.

“I can sleep as long as I want here.” He says smiling. “Four days a week I make coconut bread. My bread sells right after I bake it. All of it.” He says proudly. Smiling.

We invite him below after he asks to listen to some music: Dep Lepard, Guns and Roses, Michael Jackson, Police, Pink Floyd are his selections.

I promise I will copy and send him this music when I get access to internet, and have yet to fill this promise.

He also is interested in a gun for shooting pigs. A Winchester Model 70???

“My father is old and I must now hunt for him. And a .22 cannot kill the pig. One day I shot a pig with a .22 and it charged me. I climbed a coconut tree and had to stay there for two hours.” He says.

But alas, we have no Winchester and understand intention is all for the good. We leave together for the shore and he wants us to meet his parents and sign his book. His father, Etienne, plays a role in welcoming yachts to the bay. His name is apparently in the guidebook, Charlie’s Charts for the South Pacific.

We tell Holler we will see him later and start our walk toward Manfred’s cascades. A wooden sign points the way.

All along a two-tire dirt track we walk. Fallen limes and mangoes fill our bags. We dip our feet in a river and walk on to discover an old Marquesan village. This village was rebuilt in 2007 as part of the Mataava or Marquesan arts festival—in honor of the declared Heritage Site. Everyone contributed to restoring this village: moving stones, weaving roofs. Artists carved wood and stone sculptures in light of the phonolithic peaks: looking up to the spearheads of the skies for inspiration for material-- guardians of Ua Pou.


Rebuilt Marquesan village for the 2007 Mataava or arts festival.


The whole community helped to move stones, rebuild walls of this old Marquesan village.

We carry on, trudging up hill. Past pampelmouse orchards, palm trees at the base of the spires. We are high up. We hear the sound of the cascades. Stop! Arret! A sign indicates. No cars beyond this point. Not that there are many cars. A wooden arch has the letters: Manfredville arcing the dirt road. Beyond is a manicured garden.


We carry on trudging up the hill toward the spires and Manfred’s cascades.


Higher and higher we go.

We tarry at the entrance, loathe to go further. But we see a woman waving us on. She has plants in her hands and is with some young people, who also have pot plants in their hands. It is like the Garden of Eden. These are her grown children. There is the song of reed-warblers and fruit doves, the sound of trickling water from a pond covered in water lilies.

The handsome woman points to a small structure and says to go up there, that Manfred would give us some coffee. I hosed my muddy shoes off, but Russ forgot and promptly returned to do so, I presume at the behest of Manfred himself.

Manfred is thin, with wispy gray hair crowned with a balding head. His ice blue eyes twinkle beneath bushy eyebrows, and he ushers us to a seat around the table and pours us a demitasse of espresso coffee from coffee beans he planted and roasted. He tells his story in brief.


Manfred tells us his story in brief: from Germany, 15 years a helicopter pilot in Papeete and now here self reliant at the base of the spires for the last 5 years.

He came out from Germany about 20 years ago and was a helicopter pilot in Papeete for 15 years before he found this place at the base of the spires, at the foot of heaven. He is married to Desiree, half Chinese and half Marquesan mix. She is exquisite. Her face is as if an artist etched or carved it from the guardian stones. Striking. Her hair is long and black. Her skin a shade of coffee colour. Smooth.


Desiree and I at her kitchen. She is half Chinese and half Polynesian: a handsome woman.


Desiree's face is as if an artist etched or carved it from the guardian stones.

Desiree and Manfred are totally self reliant. Manfred makes energy from a homemade hydro electric system: this includes pipe carrying water from a stream that leads into a washing machine. Inside the machine is a paddle wheel that drives an electric motor off a shaft , which in turn exits the other side of the machine. On the shaft is a pulley with a belt on it that drives a small generator. The washing machine rattles and shudders threatening to lift off down the stream with the energy it creates.

Manfred also plants his own cacao beans and makes chocolate. He makes his own coconut ice cream using milk from his goats; goat cheese; his own pasta noodles.

Desiree opens a big Tupperware container filled with French soft cookies, called Madeleines, as I remember. More coffee? Taste the ice-cream and chocolate sauce? Shoo the goat away. She’s eating my sandal! Licking my toes. Shoosh! Go and eat some stalks.


Shoosh! Go and eat some stalks. We chase the goat away from licking my toes in the kitchen.

Manfred needs new solar panels and asks Russ to cost them out for him: to perhaps bring him some, or tell other yachtsman to bring some to him from Mexico at a lesser price. They calculate and measure and come to no real conclusion on the how and when.

It is time for us to go. We have been here a long time. We have a few hours of walking to do yet to get back to the bay. Desiree gives us two papayas and two huge avocadoes, the biggest I’ve seen in my life. She pulls two hot loaves of bread from the oven and packs them in for us knowing we will be traveling far to Tahiti. All of this for total strangers who have walked uninvited into their world.

Manfred goes outside to give the horses a salt lick treat. The goat calls for attention. Russ captures a picture of Desiree and I.


Manfred gives the horses a salt lick treat. Desiree says they are just there to look at: for their beauty.

“Write to us when you get back to America.” Manfred says. “Let us know you have arrived safely.”( I have yet to do this).

All of this day’s conversation has been in German and French. We wave goodbye. There is no time to go to the cascades or waterfall. We start our return trip, giddy with joy for having experienced is Eden.

Close to the bay we stand on a huge rock outcropping and look down on Zulu at anchor. Where is Holler’s house? We are close, yet far. An SUV comes down the dusty road. It stops and the driver introduces himself as Etienne and his wife is Yvonne. They are Holler’s parents. We exchange a few pleasantries and walk on down to the bay.


From a huge rock outcropping we look down on Zulu anchored below in the bay of rest.

Down at the small stone jetty I see swimmers in the blue waters. I cannot resist. I jump in. We smile at each other and say “aaah” as the water cools our bodies. A Marquesan man asks, once he finds out where we are from and where we are going: “Voulez vous les fruits?”

I thank him as I tread water and tell him I already have plenty. He points to where a shower is at the base of a rock. I find it and turn the tap on. Fresh water pours over my body, over my head and hair. Soothing, cooling, washing the dirt and salt away. I dry off, completely fulfilled and invigorated by Hakahetau, the restful bay.

Note: Russ did find the house of Holler the next morning. Holler was relaxing listening to a Dire Straits CD I had given him.

“Hey Ross! If you help me bake the coconut bread, I will give you 4 loaves.” Holler offered. Russ, being a non-baking type, turned down the offer kindly and bid Holler adieu until another time……..