Eaha tooe hakatu?
We are well! We've been on land now for fifteen days, and oh, the wonders we've seen.
I apologize for leaving our story untold. Many efforts to write have been made, though left incomplete. I suppose the great Doz had it right when he said we've been having entirely too much fun. So, the Marquesas you ask!? Everyday I marvel at its richness and abounding warmth. Though I imagine many ports of call to be an indulgence when at sea for 33 days, the Marquesas resonate with a certain awe inspiring beauty I know not found in any of my other travels. Life is simple here. And life is grand. Each day holds laughter and space to take things slow. The land is strong -- silent stories in the fissures of ignacious rock sentinals, unyeilding silhouettes weathered into dramatic cliffs, life backed by a thriving display of turquoise and olive. Fruit falls at your feet. Salt and floral permeate the air. It's as if everything is smiling. Though life here, too, is a challenge. In a single century, it is said that the population dropped from some 80,000 to 2,000; most islands plummeting by 60% or more. Within the first 100 years of contact, a once bountiful society crumbled beneath the introduction of disease and alchohol. Others passed out of sadness from watching their culture die. In interactions with many islanders, those ghosts are still alive. The repercussions continue to ripple. And yet, somehow that smile continues.
When at last we spoke, the boys and I were on the cusp of reaching land. On shift that eve, it was all I could do to slow us to 4 knots to arrive at first light (what joy to see it envelop land!). Both wind and landscape were foreboding; it became clear why these three Northern isles were uninhabited nature preserves. Eiao, the farthest West, was the only that presented safe anchorage. Around 10am, cozied in alongside white sand and an abandoned fishing shack, we were thankful for the reprieve. We spent our day frolicking in the water, climbing palms and clambering over its elaborately rocky coast. As it turns out, Eiao was once populated, though only roaming goats, sheep and chicken remain as evidence, and serves now as a local hunting ground. Beautiful as it was, there wasn't much by way of fresh produce and so set sail into the night for Nuku Hiva.
Our 65 mile crossing that eve left Bill strapped to the wheel in 32 knot winds, every gust threatening to overpower our autopilot, and soaked to the bone. It may have been the only time his foul weather gear found use. When I took over for Ed in the morning, the wind and swell were relentless until inside the lee of the island. 5 different types of clouds spotted the horizon. Nuku Hiva's Western shore was captivating shrouded in a rolling mist. The rain subsided, the sun quickly warmed to 90 degrees, and we cruised alongside a welcoming committee of 30 jumping dolphins. We had arrived!
Settled within the remains of a volcanic crater, Taiohae, the capital of Nuku Hiva, is inset from the rocky cliffs that line either side of its bay. At its mouth, two islets guard your passing and provide shelter to the Turns that make it their home. Expecting little traffic, we were surprised to drop anchor alongside 25 other vessels decorated in the colorful splendor of their hailing ports -- Canada, Brittany, Brazil, Germany, Russia... Everyone calls the local harbormaster, no one gets a response. You pull in alongside the wharf, pass an array of colorful tented establishments, parade your newness to cruisers who've seen everyone come and go in the past several months, and traverse a quarter mile on drunken legs to the local customs establishment, or gendarmerie.
I think this is where everyone's expectation in my french lessons came into play and where my limited three sentences held no value. "Hello, how are you?" "Fine." -- question 1, response 1. Ok, things were moving smoothly so far. "Do you speak English?" "No." -- question 2, response 2. Or maybe they weren't. At that point, my third and remaining statement that "I am American" was irrelevent. There's nothing quite like painting yourself the ignorant U.S. citizen with the first contact you've had in a month all but 5 minutes into your trip. Needless to say, we learned the tricks of the trade in Frenglish and continued swimmingly. At least we haven't been stopped by an official yet.
Now that politics had been settled, we got down to real business: mangoes and lobster. Conveniently, the wharf houses a permanent open-air produce stand. Amidst beautifully carved rosewood pillars, several local growers occupy overflowing tables of fruits and vegetables, their fabrics and flower garlands as vibrant
as their bounty. Banana, papaya, lime, passionfruit, pineapple, and pompelmous (Indonesian grapefruit) color the counters. Breadfruit, eggplant, tomato, taro, lettuce and french bean amass on others. And of course, amidst them all, is the glorious mango! Our first lunch of many consisted of ripe tropical fruit and a knife. Lobster, on the other hand, was reserved for that star-lit evening on a balcony overlooking the bay. Well worth the wait, Bill's crustaceon filled a third of the table and the goat in coconut milk paired excellently with Tahitian Hinano beer. As we ate, celebrated, and reflected in merriment, the pounding of a dozen drums echoed across the bay. Dancers were rehearsing. We were told the 3rd Annual Marquesas (Mini) Arts Festival was set for the following week on Ua Huka, and though we had plans to meet Leslie and Zak in Tahiti, the beauty of their rhythm got us scheming on how to stay.
For the following several days, we were keenly aware that our time with Bill was running out and made every attempt to soak up as much of Nuku Hiva as was possible. At the recommendation of several fellow cruisers, we headed west to Hakaui and spent the day hiking through a lush jungle valley towering on either side at 800 meters. When we maneuvered the dinghy up a shallow river channel, a man sat beneath the shade trying to offer guidance into deeper water, laughing at our difficulty. Teki encouraged us to come ashore, familiarized us to the area and his entourage of pigs, and set to finding us some young coconut to drink. Meanwhile, Augustine led us along the trail, a canopy of fruit above us, and welcomed us to his home for pompelmous and pineapple. Around a beautifully intricate table he'd carved, he displayed a variety of unfinished carvings he'd begun and the flags his friends had given him from all over the world. Along the open windows of his eastern wall hung dozens of skulls -- wild boar, cow, goat -- his hunting trophies, he said, that were used later in works of art. Over the door hung a chandelier of Hinano cans. An elevated bed sat beside his immaculate tool bench. Each corner possessed great comfort. Accompanying us in our walk toward the falls, Augustine explained to us his place in the royalty that once held the valley, stopping every once and a while to identify the homes of his family members. His aunt and uncle were busy maintaining the plantations that supply much of the island with fruit. He left us at a river crossing with his mare, needing to tend to his other 30 some odd horses and cattle. The scenery changed as we climbed; the trail becoming an intricate web of vines and scattered ancient rock foundations, tiki hidden beneath the foliage. By the time we'd reached Vaipo falls, we were more than ready to swim beneath its spray, ducking in and out of the natural cavern it'd carved around itself. At 350 meters, it's the tallest in French Polynesia. Upon our walk back, the rain fell in droves, and we met Augustine galloping to us bareback, accepting what little we could give in return for his hospitality.
Back in Taiohae that evening, we joined the rest of the boating community under the party lights of Snack Vaeaki -- an establishment nestled into the wharf, it's bright awning comprising more of it's space than the kitchen, a gathering space for local fishermen, cruisers, and families. Henry, as present, straight faced, and kind as the land around him, shuffled back and forth, overlooking the operation. Henry's place, as it's come to be known, has long since become the backbone of many a person's days. And that night, he was holding the first grand party in all too long a time. Between sets of fourteen-string ukelele sessions and the eerie melody of cruisers voices, we indulged in fresh caught sashimi and tahitian rum (with lime and a dash of sugar, of course!). My initial apprehension of breaking into the boating community was subdued when I realized that the "what do you say? how do you break the ice?" bit was of little concern to anyone but me. Many arrived at the table that eve and in the days to follow to say hello and speak boaters talk. Others wanted nothing more than to share their stories or a cigarette. But all had made the same step away from mainland, taken the courage to live different lives, and were there to experience their enthusiasm for life. By nature of being under that awning, the common thread was inescapable. Though it's also said that whereever there is fresh fish and rum, one makes many friends.
Amongst other knowledge procured that eve, we were given the proper story on bread. We were quick to learn that, given the heat, everything moves at a fairly slow pace, rustles awake at sunrise, and takes the early afternoon for siesta. We weren't so quick to learn however, that with the rising of sun comes the only rush-hour of the day -- a mass exodus to the boulangerie. Your chance for baguette is defined by your ability to beat the pack by 5:30am. Otherwise, you make an effort to get there 15 minutes earlier the next day. The following morning, I walked in for fresh baguette and came back with chocolate croissants. It was 5:15am, they had 6 left. And it was worth it! We'd scheduled a drive for that afternoon to visit the other end of the island and it served as excellent, pre-journey, empty nutrition. Given the 45 degree angled roads we were charging up and scaling down, I don't know if we could have handled much else. The single-track road led us from Taiohae to Taipivai, where Herman Melville lived to tell his wanderings in 'Typee'. We then carried on to Hatiheu and Aakapa, stopping to climb amongst the largest excavated archaeological sight on the island, Kamuihei, Tahakia and Teiipoka -- an immense network of moss-covered stone structures sheltered by the limbs of banyans said to be over 600 years old. Several large, flat faced stones are set back into the woods, petroglyphs of turtles and fish hardly visible through the spongey green. Before heading back, we were ushered into a fantastic museum in Hatiheu by a glowing older woman who appeared to possess a certain resonance that held everyone together. We watched the sunset give way to the rise of city lights atop Toovii Plateau, the distant drumming drawing us back home.
Unfortunately, on the afternoon of the 15th, we had to leave Bill. As we packed his things onto the dinghy and cleaned up the empty space he'd left, an integral component of our journey was drawing its end. Many a day had passed with little more than the company of one another and the space Bill filled was rich in
character. He brought aboard an excellent sense of humor and lightheartedness, a reliable sensibility, a keen and watchful eye, diligence, patience both to teach and to learn, and a wickedly good cooking flare. Hull mate, I miss hearing you hollar to yourself in your sleep, tell stories from all your worldly travels, and chatting about the patterns of flying fish and how you left your hatch open. You were a great contribution to the team, Bill! May your journey back into the East Coast weather keep you healthy and joyful. Ditch it when you can and come back to where it's warm!
To those of you out there, I hope this finds you and yours well. The happiest of holidays to you all!
Until next time, with all our love,
The crew of L'Obsession, minus one.
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