The Miss Tutti Frutti Contest

by Graeme Lay

  As I listen to Serge, I notice that he has the worst case of alcoholic trembles I have ever seen. His hand is shaking so much he can hardly get his glass up to his mouth. But he manages, tipping glass after glass down his gullet. In minutes the bottle is empty, he’s ordered another and his face has turned the colour of cabernet sauvignon. Then, excusing himself, he says that alas, he has to start work at eleven o’clock tonight. He shakes my hand, bids us all ‘au revoir’, and slaloms his way to the door. Curious, I ask Bruno, ‘What work does Serge do?’ The big man gestures with one hand in the direction of the town. ‘He works at the hospital. He is the island’s surgeon.’

  Coming to the Marquesas has in some ways been like arriving at the end of the Earth. I’m due to fly back to Papeete at midday, and Pascal has said that he will pick me up at 8 a.m. for that punishing, three-hour drive to the airport. But it’s a quarter to nine now, I’m waiting by the hotel entrance, and there’s no sign of him. Bruno tells me Pascal’s gone over to the Taipi valley to pick up some other people first, but when he hasn’t shown up by nine o’clock I begin to panic. I have an irrational horror of being stuck here: I mustn’t miss that flight.

  It’s now 9.30. Bruno comes out and frowns, sympathetic to my plight. ‘Where is Pascal?’ I ask him.

  ‘You heard the rain last night?’

  Indeed I did. It was so heavy it felt as if the whole island were being dumped on by a waterfall.

  ‘Rain has made road very bad,’ Bruno says. ‘Maybe flooding in Taipi valley. Pascal’s truck maybe can’t get through.’

  Shit! Is there any other way to get to the airport?

  Bruno shrugs. ‘You could take z’elicopter.’

  Really? How much is that? One way, 6,000 francs? I do a calculation, always difficult in French Pacific francs. That’s … about … ninety-six dollars New Zealand. I pull out my wallet and count the local currency I have left: six 1,000-franc notes. Exactly the helicopter fare. But if I take the flight, I won’t have a single franc left until I get back to Papeete. But then I won’t need any money once I get to the airport, and I’ll get food and drink on the plane. Checking the time, I see that it’s already 9.45. Even if Pascal turns up now, we’ll probably never make it. My anxiety is verging on panic.

  ‘What time does the next helicopter flight leave for the airport?’ I ask Bruno.

  ‘Ten-thirty,’ he replies. ‘If you like, I’ll drive you over to the heliport. It’s at the other end of town.’

  I have never been in a helicopter before. Now, strapped in beside the French pilot, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenegger, I can hardly hear myself think. The chopper’s rotors are noisy and right above our heads. Then Arnold shoves the joystick forward and in an instant we’re moving straight upwards. Five seconds later the whole bay of Taiohae is below us. It’s a sensation like no other, like being in a bubble – an amazing bubble that does exactly what Arnold wants it to. It is the most giddying, vibrating, yawing, thrilling, terrifying ride of my life. Arnold swoops up the slopes of Mt Muake, across chasms and over cataracts, over the saw-toothed ridges of the sierra; he whips over the desert plateau and down towards the island’s north-western corner. On the way he leans forward and grimaces, appearing to battle powerful updrafts which are seizing the chopper and biffing it this way and that. During these moments I’m convinced that the winds will win and we’ll plunge to our deaths in the ravine below. But Arnold triumphs and, minutes later, peering down, I glimpse the Virgin Mary statue atop its pinnacle. In another minute the island’s runway comes into sight. A few seconds later, and Arnold’s lowering us down on to it. It’s 10.38. The three-hour transfer by road has taken just eight minutes by helicopter.

  The airport terminal is a small modern building with plastic tables and chairs, a bar and a souvenir shop. Ceiling fans churn overhead, but they make little difference to the temperature, which is very hot, nearly forty degrees. The downside of my helicopter ride is twofold: I now have to wait for over two hours for the plane back to Tahiti, and I have absolutely no money left. And I’m getting thirsty. Very thirsty. Very, very thirsty. All around me people are drinking from water bottles, fruit-juice cartons and beer cans. Slaking their thirsts, casually, gratefully, pleasurably. I can’t even drink from the toilet tap, because the water here is definitely not potable – the island’s catchment areas are filled with carcasses of dead pigs, goats and horses.

  So I sit, and watch other people drinking, and dehydrate. My mouth is like emery paper, my limbs almost motionless. I feel giddy with thirst – the worst thirst I’ve ever had. I consider stealing a water bottle from the bar, but it’s not possible as they’re all in a fridge behind the barman. Instead, I hang my head between my legs and try to salivate. I can’t. I’m dying of thirst. I barely register that the terminal door has opened and three people entered, until I see who one of them is. Pascal! He made it in his truck after all! I could have come with him, saved myself fifty dollars and still had enough money to buy beer, water, tea, soft drinks – anything to slake this terrible, murderous thirst. Why ever did I take that helicopter?

  An hour passes, an hour and a half. I try going outside, but it’s like a furnace out there, a shimmering, desiccating, searing heat which in seconds evaporates whatever bodily fluids I have left. Staggering back inside, I take a seat and prepare to pass out. Inside, the heat is still infernal.

  Then, through a haze, I see a Marquesan man at the next table put down a large water bottle, then get up and walk away in the direction of the toilet. The water bottle’s two-thirds full. Staring at it, I know that I have to have it. A French couple are making their way towards the table, and there’s no sign of the Marquesan man, so I dash for the bottle, snatch it up and run for the door. Outside, ignoring the scorching heat, I tip up the bottle and let its contents run down my gullet, slowly, thankfully, mercifully. It’s the best drink I’ve ever had – better than the coconut milk on Atiu, better than the finest French champagne, better than the most exotic cocktail. In fact it’s not water, it’s ambrosia, and it’s saved my sanity, if not my life. Conserving the last quarter of the bottle’s contents, I put the cap back on and, as I do so, I hear the drone of an engine. I look across to the west, and see a red and white plane, the Air Tahiti ATR 72. Saved again.

  Nuku Hiva, which on the ground was so massive in scale it seemed a place where giants must dwell, is shrunk by height to normal size. There below is Hatiheu Bay and the Taipi valley, then Mt Muake and Taiohae Bay and Bruno’s hotel, its thatched bungalow roofs like a cluster of asterisks. Then the mighty island is gone and, after a teasing glimpse of the soaring spire of neighbouring Ua Pu, there are just clouds and the white-capped ocean. Opening my copy of Typee, I read the end of its appendix, The Story of Toby. After describing the young man departing from Nuku Hiva in the French sailing ship, Melville concludes, ‘Toby left this vessel in New Zealand, and after some further adventures, arrived home in less than two years after leaving the Marquesas.’

  ‘Some further adventures’? It’s tantalising. Which literary sleuth will put the last piece of Toby’s puzzle into place?

  NINE

  LAUGHTER OF LOUIS

  SOCIETY ISLANDS

  EVERY EVENING, as the setting sun turns the sky above Tahiti’s lagoon the colour of a provençal rosé, they’re out there practising: dozens of six-man canoe teams, brown bodies bent forward, arms rising and falling in unison, slim outrigger canoes scarcely visible above the waterline.

  In two days’ time it will be the real thing, the start of the annual Hawaiiki Nui Va’a canoe race, three days of paddling across open seas between Huahine, Raiatea, Tahaa and Bora Bora, the Society Islands, half an hour’s flight north-west of Tahiti. Canoe racing is an ardent pursuit throughout French Polynesia, as keenly contested as road cycling races are in France.

  When, two days later, I arrive at the waterfront town of Fare in Huahine, outrigger canoes are everywhere, having been shipped here on a French naval vessel. The canoes are eight
metres long, made in Papeete from moulded fibreglass, brightly coloured and emblazoned with the logos of their sponsors – banks, oil companies, breweries and other French Polynesian firms. Earlier today there was a traditional ceremony to bless the impending race, followed by dancing, feasting and entertainment from a Hawaiian rock band doing excellent covers of the Eagles.

  This is the biggest thing that happens in Fare, the capital town of Huahine, an island of towering mountains, secluded villages and deeply indented bays, whose winding roads, lined with breadfruit trees, coconut palms and vanilla plantations, all lead back to the Fare waterfront. On a tour of the island, which is one of the loveliest I’ve been on, I’m taken to the top of a bluff which overlooks the bay separating Huahine-Nui (Big Huahine) from its neighbour, Huahine-Iti (Little Huahine), the two islands being joined by an elegant bridge. After my guide, a sophisticated French-Tahitian woman called Maria, has pointed out various land features, I ask her, ‘What does “Huahine” mean?’

  She thinks hard for a moment. ‘“Hine” is our word for “woman”, and “hua” means …’ She licks her lips, then concludes with utmost seriousness: ‘Hua … you would say in English … is “cunt”.’ She nods. ‘Yes, that’s what Huahine means, “Cunt Island”.’

  Trying not to show my surprise at this information, I reply, ‘Oh, well, that must have made it a popular place.’ I think again. ‘In the old days, I mean.’

  Maria nods, thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’ Then she laughs. ‘But it’s nice today, too.’

  Moored in Fare harbour is my floating home for the next five days, Haumana, or ‘Spirit of Peace’. She is to follow the marathon canoe race – a kind of Tour de France on water – which has been held every year since 1992. Haumana is a thirty-six-metre, three-level catamaran with thirteen cabins, each with full-sized windows, a bathroom and air-conditioning. On the top deck there’s a big lounge, bar and open terrace. The cabins are on the middle deck, and the lower deck has a restaurant which seats forty people. An inflatable tender transfers me to the ship, and I immediately rejoice in the air-conditioning. On shore, it’s scorching.

  ‘Votre baggage, M’sieur?’

  ‘Ah … oui … merci.’

  The crew member, Tomita, picks up my suitcase and carries it to my cabin. The case is heavy but she carries it as if it were a croissant. She wears a tight-fitting red pareo, her black hair is elaborately coiffured and she has a curvaceous figure, including very prominent breasts, but she has the build of a construction worker. Like most of the crew of Haumana, she is a raerae, or transvestite. Though initially disconcerting, Tomita and her team become completely accepted by the ship’s passengers over the next few days. In the evenings, on the top deck, they dance the seductive Tahitian tamure, put on a fashion parade, weave baskets from pandanus, and play the guitar and ukulele as the sun goes down. They’re unfailingly jolly and attentive.

  While the canoeists practise on the lagoon, and the music of the Hawaiian band reverberates around the harbour, we have our first evening meal, prepared by a young French chef, Emeric Berthelemy. Befitting a man who has married a Tahitian, his menu is a mélange of French flair and Pacific ingredients: taro soup followed by mahi mahi in a vanilla sauce with green salad, apple and nuts, and a dessert of banana and chocolate pancakes. The taro soup is a little sludgy, but the rest is delectable. Mahi mahi, a prized game fish in the tropical Pacific, is superb eating, and the flavour of its firm white flesh is enhanced by the subtle aroma of the vanilla sauce. Vanilla is the Society Islands’ main cash crop, and it thrives in the damp, humus-rich soils.

  At 7.30 the next morning a green flag goes up and the canoeists are off. The harbour waters turn to a churning mass as eighty-four outrigger canoes burst away from the start line and head for the passage through the reef. The first destination is Raiatea, whose pastel-grey profile is visible forty-five kilometres due west. It’s an island that many New Zealand Maori believe is Hawaiiki, the spiritual homeland of their ancestors. On it stands Taputapuatea, Polynesia’s most sacred marae.

  Within minutes Huahine’s pass has been breached, the field has spread and we’re in open sea, pursuing the outriggers. For the purposes of the chase, I’ve been transferred to a poti marara, or speedboat (‘marara’ being a flying fish and ‘poti’ the transliteration of ‘boat’). The skipper is a stocky, barefoot Tahitian in his thirties called Louis, who controls his boat from the bow with a vertical PVC rudder. Wearing a baggy yellow singlet, blue shorts and a black back-to-front baseball cap, Louis grins a lot. When he is not grinning he is laughing uproariously and waving to the other speedboat skippers. I’ve never seen anyone laugh so much. Any boat that passes, anything that anyone calls to him, Louis breaks into hysterical laughter. When we strike a big launch’s wake and nearly roll, he laughs so much he almost goes overboard. When one of his mates on another speedboat shouts something at him about his misjudgement, Louis becomes almost paralytic.

  But Louis is obviously an experienced operator because he keeps us on course for Raiatea, close enough to the paddling canoeists without interfering with their course, and manages to avoid hitting any of the big pleasure boats which are streaming along beside us. There’s a huge flotilla out here now – every type of vessel, from French vermouth palaces whose decks are covered with beautiful topless girls, to wallowing old wooden ferries and an aluminium dinghy containing two Tahitians, a man and a woman, perched on stackable plastic chairs and controlling their little boat with a rope tied to the tiller. Race marshals on jet-skis, stern flags flying, zip around the fleet, keeping it a safe distance from the racers.

  And the racing crews are amazing. In thirty degrees of morning heat they’re paddling at about sixty strokes per minute, their arms rising and falling in constant unison, kept in regular beat by the calls of the last man of the six, and pausing only to pass water bottles down the line to replace their streaming body fluids. The teams wear sun-hats but no life-jackets, and they dig their paddles ferociously as they propel their canoes over the ocean swells. Even watching from the relative comfort of our boat the heat is enervating. What it must be like in the canoes, sealed in from the waist down and paddling ceaselessly, can only be imagined.

  All around us the indigo sea is lumpy, the sky a brilliant blue. Gradually Raiatea comes into sharper focus, its peaks seeming to rise from the sea. The spectator fleet, including our speedboat, streaks ahead to witness the finish on the waterfront at Uturoa, the island’s main town. The winning canoe appears, three and a half hours and over 12,000 strokes after starting, to acclaim from the waiting crowd. It’s Number 22, sponsored by the oil company which is the leading rival of the race’s main sponsor. It’s a fine example of ambush marketing, but no one’s complaining. Winning has been an heroic achievement.

  There’s a great welcome for all the crews as they stagger across the line then go ashore for a hose-down at the town marina and a feast. For me it’s back to Haumana for a few beers to help me recover from the fatigue induced by watching more than 500 superbly fit young men exhaust themselves at sea. I’m also preparing for Emeric’s next dinner: poisson cru, shrimps in curry sauce and coconut milk, coconut pie, and fresh pawpaw, mango and melon. In Tahiti the poisson cru is usually bonito, which abounds in the sea outside the reefs. The experts tell me that the secret to preparing the dish is to rinse the cubed fish in sea water, and add the garlic, coconut milk and the juice of fresh limes only about ten minutes before serving it.

  There is time the following day for a visit to Raiatea’s special locations.

  Haumana cruises first into the Baie de Faaroa, a deep ria, or inlet, in the island’s eastern coast and a beautiful, sheltered haven. French Polynesia’s only navigable river flows down to this bay from an extinct volcano, Toomaru, the island’s highest peak. The place where the river debouches into the bay provided an important shipyard for the early Polynesians. Here they converted the giant rain-forest trees into double-hulled canoes, launched them into the bay and set forth on voyages to other, distant part
s of Polynesia, including New Zealand. Before a voyage began, the canoe was blessed by priests at their most sacred marae, Taputapuatea, a little way down the coast. Haumana ties up to a jetty a stroll away from Taputapuatea. The marae, built right over this level promontory, consists of a large area of weathered coral rock, hundreds of slabs of dark grey stone, hewn flat and laid straight on to the ground to form a huge square. On the lagoonward side, larger slabs of rock have been placed upright in a line, so they resemble a row of high-backed chairs. In front of the row one upright slab stands alone. The dirt between the stones is pocked with the burrows of land crabs.

  When we approach a single upright slab of rock, our Tahitian guide pats it affectionately. ‘Here victims were sacrificed to the gods Taaroa, Tane or Oro. Since about the eleventh century, many, many human sacrifices have been made here. Their necks were put against this rock and their throats were slashed open with stone knives.’

  ‘Who were these victims?’ I ask nervously.

  Nodding in appreciation of my interest, he replies, ‘The priests chose them. The victims had to be strong and healthy, not people wounded in battle, because the old gods demanded much blood as a sacrifice.’

  Wandering across to where the marae meets the sea, I feel both in awe and in fear of this place – awed by its age and size, but uneasy at the thought of so much violent death. At the foot of several of the upright stones are other stones from other places, tributes placed by people who have made a pilgrimage to this vast, sacred site, which is to the Polynesians what Mecca is to Muslims. The guide tells me the stones have come from the farthest extremes of the Polynesian triangle – Hawaii, Easter Island and New Zealand.