CONTINUED...
We pulled anchor at dawn and set our sails south for Ua Poa. The wind was a steady twenty knots; everyone camped up top to brave their sea sickness. Luckily, it had turned out to be a beautiful day with minimal swell. We arrived in Hakahau, Ua Poa's main city, in time for the boys to ride the surf, encouraging a couple of young locals to join them. Alec had supplied us with a list of all the best surf spots on each of the islands and Ed was determined to ride all that were breaking. Beyond the town, an idyllic backdrop rose behind them -- shrouded in interspersing cloud cover stood the islands infamous volcanic spires, Mt Oave, Mt Poumaka, and Mt Poutemoka. Ua Pou has a reputation for its geology. Twelve pinnacles soar into the sky out of gracefully sloped valleys and white sandy shores. If for no other reason, the way the light struggles to peer out from behind its basaltic faces and undulating clouds makes the view worthwhile.
We went ashore in Hakahau and made a quick trip out of restocking our refridgerator's necessary ingredients - baguette, butter, juice, yogurt, and whatever fresh vegetables they had available. I found that the best market of all the islands was here in the end, even so much as offering whole pigs out of chest freezers. In most every city, at least you'll find a small magasin offering the likes of what you'd find at a convenience store at home. In Hakahau, one in particular offers everything from school paper to vegetables, bike parts to toilet paper, cologne to soft drinks, underwear to spatulas. Walking in town we noticed most every establishment to be closed and the local church adorned in red, an array of birds of paradise at its entrance. We assumed it to be because of the holidays. However, as we traveled back to the boat, hearing car horns blaring, we learned it was a wedding on the quay that the entire town was shutting down to attend. With the way techno music blares off the beach at most every celebration until the wee hours of the morning, it seemed as good a day as any to travel west.
After several days in Hakahau, tempted by the lands cliffs, we were determined to hike part of the island and found ourselves anchored off Hakahetau village. From its center leads a gorgeous loop trail we'd been told of. On the afternoon of our arrival, Ed and I decided to head to shore to investigate. Craziness ensued. Of what beach they have, it's all ignatious rock boulder and coral. A long, bent finger of a quay protrudes from its eastern half, some 12 feet into the air. Wrapping around the pier and extending out to its left is a great rock shelf, spotted with tidal pools and backed by soaring cavern like rock faces. On this particular day, most every child in town stood along this shelf, soaked and half naked. As we sat in the dinghy contemplating our exit, a set of waves started rising from behind us, filtered into the narrow channel between the quay and the shelf and crashed repeatedly onto the wall. Often, spray flew 20 feet into the air, showered the children in salty rain, and threatened to suck the onlookers that didn't run, out into the sea. The swell came in at such a force that our dinghy, even at full throttle, had a difficult time not catching in the space between oncoming waves and the whirlpools of those before them. For a long time we would drift in, try to find a way to land, then rush out at full speed, worried we'd crash onto shore. Ed was more than convinced it was impossible and was ready to turn back. By this time, we'd drawn the attention of many men who came to watch the show and shout various suggestions on what to do next and warn us of the shelf. In the crook of the finger of the pier (where the backwash was strongest) was a solitary ladder that, for whatever reason, we felt might assist us. Against every hesitation of Ed's, I convinced him to bring us as close as he could and then I would jump. Between two large swells, I managed to reach out and catch the middle rung with my hands, my legs dangling halfway between the wall and the dinghy that was quickly swinging back out to sea. When I made it up top, I learned that the guys weren't pointing to warn us of the shelf but rather to tell us to ram the dinghy into it, and then we'd all grab hold before the swell sucked it back out. Was this a joke? It seemed horribly stupid, but then so did all of our other alternatives. Waiting for another wave to crash, Ed took his chance, rode the wave and gunned the boat up onto the shelf, lifting the motor in the last moments of the hustle so it wouldn't crash. It took about eight of us to hold on while he climbed out and we pulled it in. A great deal of laughter ensued. We had no idea how they would suggest our getting back out.
The gentleman that had led our entrance efforts is the town's baker, farmer, and former mayor's son, Hollor. Behind him, we were assisted by Hakahetau's current mayor and the main dancers we'd seen perform in days past. As they welcomed us into town, the shelf gave way to a slight beach inlet and a highly decorated grass opening. Cavernous walls enclosed both -- goats clammoring along its walls and carved tiki peering out from high places. Everyone was making preparation for a cultural festival to be held the following several days. It was intended to be a smaller communal affair given the wedding in the town over. Dancers practiced to a lone guitar, tables were being set beneath awnings, and a fire was tended amidst heaps of meat. Tucked away on the shore, tools in hand, sat Timona. As one of the town's main stone carvers, Timona was finishing a tremendous boulder that he'd transformed into a bathing stone for newborns. After several months, he believed he was drawing nearer to its finish in time for the festival. Another carver, he told us, had built a beautiful tiki out of salt. However, with the ferocity of the waves, it'd all been washed back out to where it'd begun. Interested in seeing his work, Timona walked us to his home, allowed us to wander his workshop, and took us next door to speak with the owner of Snack Ti Piero for lunch. Opting to return tomorrow with the family, Ed and I completed our tour walking up a fourty-five degree angled road to peer out over the bay, three of the islands main spires appearing an arm's reach beyond us.
The following afternoon, we had the excitement of arriving as we had the day prior. This time, Zak and Leslie got to experience what Ed and I had been raving of all night. Though the waves weren't as foreboding, it still made for a grand adventure. We spent our afternoon under the roof of Piero and his family, delighting in some of the best smoked fish I've ever had and his son's tattoos. Arriving for the first time on Ua Poa when he was eighteen and serving for the French naval forces, he fell in love and never left. Now, thirty years later, he serves meals and fantastic stories out of his living room. This fish, his masterpiece he calls it, is cured for three days in salt, then smoked with scrap rosewood gathered from local carvers. It is accompanied by creme-fraiche. And it'll knock your socks off.
Finishing our meal, we were met by Timona's nephew and friend, sent to accompany us in our hike. Originally, we'd thought we could find our own way. That was a short lived thought. What began as a road became a path that jetted off straight into the jungle, often nonexistant or at best the size of deer trail. Beneath banyon and coconut, aside hibiscus and taro, we crossed over streams of waterfalls and ancient me'ae foundations. The climate changed through several zones the higher we carried on. Climbing the ridgeline, the lushness of banana and mango trees became fields of wild grass and sharp toothed palm. Another level of jungle gave way to a pine forest, decorated with heavy lichen and surrounded by fog. Nearest the top were delicate orchid-like flowers and flowering trees. Several times, there was little more than a rope to help carry us from one tier to the next. After three hours of bushwacking, we stood with our hands against Mt Poutemoka marvelling at the valley and L'Obsession so far below. Timona's nephew, insisting we call him John Wayne, and his friend Teki were both performing in the evenings dance. Given the hour, our descent was set at a fast pace, though in combination with its steepness and slipperiness, we found ourselves sliding down the mountain more frequently than we walked it. Our five hour jaunt, after the morning's excitement, seemed to give voice to the saying that the best things in life are not often the easiest.
Sweaty, dirty and bleeding, we made our way to the festival and were asked to dine beside the mayor and Hollor. While Ed and Leslie spoke with the mayor, Zak and I conversed with Hollor about his family and the struggles of being a farmer on the island. Like most everywhere else, growing lettuce is rarely more profitable than growing "other sorts of green", though with his passion for fruits and vegetables, he can't help but grow more than the town can eat. He spends the other half of his time as the town's baker, delivering coconut bread and pastries to local magasin's. It stood without reason, then, that his jaw dropped open when Zak and I discussed his ability to merge both farmer and baker as one with a certain modification in butter choice.
The night commenced with the dance chief dressed again in nothing more than tattoos, a guitar, and a loin cloth belting sorrowful Marquesan songs. A series of dances were performed to his music until all gathered around the decorated knoll, now alight with torches. John Wayne and a dozen others moved to the powerful choreography of a fire warrior dance, grunting to the rhythm Teki pounded into his drum. In the intimacy of that space, their dance felt much more profound than what we'd seen at the festival.
Zak and Hollor's connection over music brought about his joining us on L'Obsession to fill his thumb drive with new tunes - Tupac among the favorites. Late into the night, we talked about how we'd come to be where we were and how much he misses his daughter. Given a boat full of fruit, he wanted nothing more than a t-shirt and some whisky for his friends. Dropping him off at the craziness of the pier that evening, we were told we'd always have family in Hakahetau if we ever returned, and he in California.
Determined to begin our journey to Tahuata as planned, Ed and I set to reeling in our stern anchor. For four hours, we made every attempt to get it to budge after burying itself entirely in the sand. Thank the heavens that L'Obby's such a strong lady. An hour from sunrise, I took the helm and sailed off into morn. It'd been a remarkably beautiful and long day. Tahuata, we were on our way!
Hope all finds you well.
Fair winds, friends.
The crew of L'Obsession + two awesome adventurers
