by Anais Nin
Once more, to give me the flavor of the island, Nicolai takes me to the best sea food restaurant, the Houstalet. The choicest sea food is served on a large platter. One of the specialties is a pâté of coconut crab liver, as delicate as pâté de fois gras. The meal ends with a special drink, apple calvados and mint, invented by Michoutouchkine.
I listen to his plans for the Museum of Oceanic Art. I leave wishing the museum might be built soon, so that one might visit Port Vila as a charming, modern, uncrowded city on a tropical island, and as a voyage into the past of Oceania.
The most fortunate event in travelling is to meet someone immersed in the life of a place, who loves it and lives in close communion with its inhabitants. Nicolai offered me the secret island of Efate, where shy and withdrawn natives would not otherwise have smiled. Kousurata in the native language means to travel, to roam. It is a tribute that, after all his wanderings, he should choose to rest and take root in Port Vila.
The Swallows Never Leave Noumea
From Westways, January 1976.
From the plane you first notice soft, contoured, small islands, which seem to float along the coast of New Caledonia, and you remember the nostalgia of your youth for desert islands. Then some of the islands are no longer green, but become blue atolls, part of the barrier reef which creates the lagoons and protects undersea life; but these coral reefs can only live near the surface, so what lies below your plane is a carpet of opals, lapis lazuli, turquoise, of such beauty that an artist is said to have given up painting after seeing them. They are like artfully spilled pots of paint in all the colors of sea and sky plus the scintillating transparencies of jewels.
The nostalgia for desert islands is to be fulfilled by an abundance of empty beaches accessible only by boat, where those who love fishing can stop, cook their catch, and eat it with the freedom of a Robinson Crusoe.
Driving from the airport you notice new and strange species of trees, groves of niaouli (a eucalyptus whose bark is used for native huts) appearing like grotesque, gray giants, and Cook’s pines, which Captain Cook loved, and whose straight trunks, often one hundred feet tall, he used to replace his ship’s masts. New Caledonia was Captain Cook’s discovery. It reminded him of his native country, Scotland, so he named it New Scotland; but in the landscape I see only a softness of outline, undulating mountains, which the Melanesian name of Noumea, the capital city, suits so well.
Arriving at the modern Hotel Château Royal, the paradox which sharpens one’s senses begins. In the lobby of the hotel are exhibitions of Oceanic art belonging to the collection of Nicolai Michoutouchkine. Dark, fearsome, towering figures carved out of tree trunks, sometimes out of banyan tree roots. Primitive gods, ten feet tall, dominating the lobby, asserting the presence of indigenous art Surrounding this is a gay, sun-filled, athletic vacation land resembling an uncrowded Riviera. We are in French territory thousands of miles from France, but here is France’s sophisticated cuisine, perfumes, chic clothes, French books. In the hotel, with the gods looking on, you can lead a Riviera life by the sea.
The entire island is surrounded by a great coral barrier reef, so snorkeling and skin diving are full of surprises and treasures. There are short trips on a glass-bottomed boat for those who like to do their snorkeling above the surface. There is a boat trip with a charming French captain past floating islands (reminding you of childhood desserts, îles flottantes) to a tiny desert island at the harbor entrance featuring a French “pique-nique” lunch with barbecued fish. On the island is an impressive lighthouse sent by Napoleon (some say by mistake to Port de France in Noumea instead of Fort de France on the other side of the world in Martinique).
Noumea is a contrast of old and new. Modern buildings and homes stand next to vestiges of early French colonial architecture, from diminutive workmen’s houses of sandcolored wood and peaked ied tin roofs, ending in the French lightning rod, to classical colonial mansions.
It is a satisfying cycle to emerge from a modern city—in which the air is crystal clear, the freshness exhilarating, the hills dotted with well-tended white villas built by the exploitation of nickel, which also filled the many small harbors with boats of all kinds and shapes—from this to the amazing life at the bottom of the sea. One can walk from the Hotel Château Royal to the aquarium.
The aquarium is unique in the world today. It was constructed seventeen years ago by two marine biologists (using their own funds), Dr. Catala and his wife, Dr. Catala-Stucki. They were attracted to Noumea by the abundance and variety of tropical fish and corals in the lagoons protected by the great barrier reef. Here the fish and corals and other sea life are kept in the same water they came from, in a totally natural environment (nothing in the tanks is inanimate), and nourished as they nourished themselves in the sea. The sea life lives longer in this environment (some fish have lived in the aquarium seventeen years), which has enabled the Catalas to do long-term studies. In one of these studies, they discovered the fluorescence of deepwater corals, revealing an unknown world, a world which shames the jewellers. Under ultraviolet light, corals, which ordinarily open to feed only at night, can be observed in their mysterious fluorescence, when they unfold and stretch their tentacles seeking nourishment. To see marine life in its natural environment was once only the privilege of deep-sea divers. Now scientists can make extended studies of corals, even watch one coral devour another when crowded, or observe the corals which move from place to place. This was first doubted by scientists, and Dr. Catala invited them to come and see. No one had known that corals have less weight in the sea because of their spongeous, air-filled sacs. Some corals are like flowers never seen before, only they palpitate. Some are set with tiny pearls and diamonds. Some are like curled white feathers or like snow-white petals set with opals and amethysts, while others are spiked round balls with five silver eyes and one red eye. The staghorn coral is chalk-white with black tips, the mushroom coral is lined with pale green. All eat plankton with constant, graceful dance motions, almost invisible undulations.
These are the treasures the courageous Catalas have brought to the surface for us. There were many obstacles to overcome. As the divers search for corals in the depths of the sea it is so dark and murky they often cannot find the basket used for transporting specimens, or the corals die in the process of moving, or the divers are stung by venomous polyps. “All these reefs,” Dr. Catala writes, “are the site of luxuriant and diverse animal and plant life. This is where the enchantment of coral gardens is revealed . . . In the coral world everything is life and motion, light and color.”
Back into a luminousness of perpetual spring—the swallows never leave Noumea—with lagoons and harbors filled with dancing boats, as Venetian canals are filled with dancing gondolas, to sinuous roads encircling the bays, tree-lined, uncrowded. The trees reach down to the beach. Four old men are playing boules, as they do in the south of France. A few plumes of orange smoke from the nickel factory appear but are carried away by the trade winds.
Long ago traders came here seeking sandalwood, then came whalers, then the missionaries. Finally France sent its political prisoners. One taxi driver remembers from his childhood the men wrapped in blankets, roaming the island looking for work, but more essential, for a family they could attach themselves to, work for, live with, to obtain the warmth lost by exile, the families and children lost by exile. He remembers being pampered by the prisoners, how they built him a playhouse. They also built the cathedral and other public buildings.
Just as one receives three distinct smells from the open sea, the lagoons, and the harbors, three different forms of life offer themselves in Noumea: the sunlit physical life, swimming, boating and other sports; the marine life, endlessly fascinating; and the Oceanic art visible in the museum. Here one becomes aware that New Caledonia is a mysterious land, much of it unexplored. Its carved petroglyphs have not yet been deciphered.
It is through the indigenous art that one becomes aware of a people who have not lost their sense of beauty
as Western culture has. Our protective lightning rods are always plain and resemble antennae. For the Melanesians, the carved slender wooden tips at the top of their huts become extraordinary symbols of protective figures, stylized old men of wisdom, suggestive of compassion and benediction. Masks of wood and feathers represent the spiritual chief; tools, axes, money, clubs, spears, pirogues, dishes, spoons, knives, are all objects to be decorated, painted, sculptured, sometimes inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There is a case filled with magic stones selected for their suggestive shapes: phallic stones for aphrodisiacs, womblike stones for fertility, stones capable of bringing sun or rain or helping navigation, others demonic, dangerous, bringing cyclones, illness, death. Some large stones are tied to the end of a club to make a casse-tête. The Melanesians have a genius for dressing themselves in natural products such as skirts of jute or tapa cloth made from banyan tree roots or the bark of the mulberry tree. The tips of war spears are carved of human bones. Wooden dishes are carved in the shape of fish or turtles—all these made without the help of the tools we know. Jade is sharpened to serve as a hatchet.
The native art makes one wish for a three-day tour of the island with taxi driver J. Bizien, who has driven a truck for twenty years, supplying the outer villages with foodstuffs, and who knows all the tribes and the tribal chiefs.
The fruit and flower arrangements in the hotel remind one of the Japanese. In every room there is an embroidered tapestry by Aloi Pilioko, the Polynesian artist now celebrated for his painting, sketches, needlework, in the primitive style of an Oceanic Picasso. There are also murals by Michoutouchkine, the well-known painter and collector of Oceanic art.
Two women stand out as symbols of the many aspects of New Caledonia. One is Dr. Catala-Stucki (her husband insists that she use her maiden name with his), the handsome, sturdy, dynamic wife of Dr. Catala and his collaborator in the creation of the aquarium. She is an oceanographer, a scientist, and a deep-sea diver. She took part in the most dangerous diving expeditions for corals and fish. Now in her sixties, she still dives every day for the particular marine food necessary for the aquarium fish. She radiates a passion for her work, for their mutual achievement, accomplished out of personal devotion and energy. Much has been written about this remarkable couple, but the most accurate and memorable descriptions of Dr. Catala-Stucki’s work are found in her husband’s own book, Carnaval sous la mer, for he has a gift for description and a sense of humor about marine life which is that of an artist and poet as well as scientist.
The other woman is Janine Tabuteau, the wife of the director of tourism in Noumea. She symbolizes the mixture of races, which prefigures the future of a world now able to uproot itself, roam, and bring the essence and quality of many cultures into one person. Janine is French, Indonesian, Chinese, and Russian. She did not at first appreciate the exotic beauty this created, the conflicts which gave depth to her character. At seventeen, when she went to Paris, she asked to have her luxuriant, long, black hair cut ‘like everyone else’s," but the hairdresser refused. Everyone urged her to accept her distinctive appearance, her mixture of reticence and modern dynamism. She has learned to be a cook of exquisite Chinese dishes, to accept her unique beauty, to manage a company of building materials, to consider architecture and decoration as extensions of this company. It is strange to see her behind an executive desk, with her soft Indonesian voice, her French organizational power. In the evening, she goes home, dons an Indonesian skirt, and cooks an amazing dinner for friends. I feel somehow that she indicates the future, the possibility of remaining an exotic woman, not like everyone else, and yet taking an active part in the modern business world.
Over the coral reefs, half an hour from Noumea, lies the Isle of Pines, a volcanic island eroded by the sea. The sea between the two islands is dotted with atolls, isolated ringor crescent-shaped reefs enclosing lagoons. The hotel, Relais de Kanumera, with its appealing native architecture, is built right on a lagoon. Separate bungalows are scattered among the overwhelming umbrella-shaped buni trees. From the hotel one sees a tiny volcanic island, overgrown with lush vegetation, shaped like a basket, while the sea undermines its base. The native children dive from it. At night it looks like a ship; at other times the vegetation makes it look like a hairbrush.
The remarkable hotel chef cooks in an open house, and his barbeque is a giant pit outside. It is strange, so far from Paris, to find the classic French cuisine, but the chef adds tropical creations of his own, like baked papaya filled with custard.
The Isle of Pines has flora not seen anywhere else in the world. It, too, was invaded by the sandalwood traders, the whalers, the missionaries. The French Catholic missionaries stayed on, and now on Sunday the entire population of the tiny island appears at the church. Here, watching the women, I can see how varied the short mumus are, all flowers, leaves, fruit, in primary colors. Some wear bands over their hair similar to the American Indians. Next to the church, standing alone, is a gigantic Cook pine, unbelievably tall and straight, as impressive as a cathedral.
When it was discovered that the political prisoners could disappear into the vast forests of New Caledonia, they were sent-to the tiny Isle of Pines instead. The prison is now hidden from the road by almost impenetrable acacia trees and is surrounded by a high wall of stones, now breaking down. The prison itself, gloomy and forbidding, is half in ruins. The roofs are gone, but not the heavy chains bolted to the walls, nor the three layers of iron bars on the windows. The men who were sent here had been the Communards, rebelling against poor wages, the hard life of the workers. In 1870 they held Paris for three days and then were either shot or imprisoned.
In the bus, touring the island with us, is an old Frenchman. His paternal grandfather was one of the Communards but had escaped to Brittany and made a new life. But another relative had not, and when we stand by the monument erected by the prisoners to their dead brothers, the old Frenchman reads the names carved on the single stone and is moved by his family name. Among the prisoners who died on the island were women, children, and those who sought to escape by building a boat, which foundered on the coral reefs. Later, walking on the beach, famous for the whitest sand in all the world, I see the edge of a sunken boat showing through the sand and think of the prisoners who tried to escape.
For a while after leaving the prison, I am under the haunting pain of such a place, all the more oppressive when the sky, which shows through the small, barred windows, is tropical, the smell of the lagoon so near, the flour-white sands so soft to walk on, and flowers, ferns, and tropical bushes abundant and replete with sun.
We look for sandalwood trees but find none on the island. Sandalwood was highly prized by China for its religious ceremonies. To extract the oil, the early traders tore the hearts out of the trees, ravaged them, and then moved on.
Snorkeling reveals a whole other world of fantastic beauty: red, black and blue starfish; mushroom-shaped corals; brain corals covered with sprays of flowerlike purple tips; mother-of-pearl “flowers” shaped like shells but transparent and floating on a stem as if made of silk; a ruby-red fish; the Moorish idol fish with a long, curved dorsal fin larger than its body, more like a sail or a bird’s wing; black fish, each with two white spots; a velvet-black fish with white stripes, named the zebra fish; one with a jet-black tail and brown front edged with brilliant orange; others with turquoise collars. The colors are phosphorescent, transparent, jewellike. The fish hide among the corals and in the many caves made by the action of the sea on volcanic rock.
Above the surface ride the beautiful, painted pirogues, carved out of trees, with outriggers and sails. The Melanesian natives have strong bodies and the same strong feet of Gauguin’s Polynesians of Tahiti.
The island is dotted with caves and grottoes. They are formed inside the volcanic depths and are filled with the familiar stalactites and stalagmites. At the very end of the Kouaouate Grotto there is an opening through which the sunlight falls like the aura over the heads of saints in Biblical pictures; and with
this cascade of light are banyan roots falling like ladders down twenty feet, throwing great white tentacles for fifty feet along the floor of the cave, seeking water. Here on a ledge, exposed to the dim light from above, the natives once placed the skulls of their dead. It was their belief that only the skull should be preserved. Formerly, all the caves were burial grounds.
It is difficult to forget the prisoners who built the roads we travel. But those who were pardoned and returned to France, did they remember the lagoons, the dazzling white sand, the tangled acacias, the miles of ferns, the floating islands on the Bay of Gold, the smell of sandalwood, the tranquil pirogues carrying coconuts? And the grottoes like the caves of our dreams?