Moorea

After our recovery day in Papeete after the red-eye flight we catch the morning ferry to Moorea.  Just thirty minutes away by boat, Moorea is light years removed from the hustle and bustle of Papeete.

Towering cumulus clouds hover over the dark land mass floating in an azure blue sea.  Our ship moves closer to reveal craggy mountains, jagged and tortured by a million years of volcanic activity .  Another half million years of wind and rain erosion carved the basalt now cloaked in thick green jungle.  A lone car wends its way along a narrow road;  a small ribbon of black between mountains and sea.  We rush to our car as the ramp of the ferry lowers to the wharf.  I shift into gear, make a sharp left to exit the dim bowels of the ship into brilliant tropical sunlight.

Quickly orienting I turn left onto the road that rings the island.  Just a year ago, we were  making a similar trip around the island of Iceland.  Both islands sprang from the sea as fountains of hot lava.  Latitude created somewhat different landscapes.  Iceland is covered in gorse, heather and tundra;  Moorea in thick tropical jungled.  Bundled in coats hats and gloves for Iceland and stripped down to flip flops, tee shirt and shorts for Moorea. I think I prefer the latter.

The road winds up and over ridges of ancient lava the down to eroded valleys below.  Ahead we spy a mile long strand of pure white coral sand lapped by wavelets that are impossibly blue.  We turn down a bumpy dirt track  and stop under the shade of a towering palm.  We stroll across the sand and dip our feet into the almost body temperature ocean.  A half mile off shore waves crash over the reef.  The lagoon is shadowed with coral and then brilliant azure blue over the sandy bottom.   We sit on the beach living the dream and reluctantly crawl back into the car and continue along the coast.

The road continues to wind around the island.  We follow it into a deep glassy bay where Cook is said to have first landed hundreds of years ago.  I imagine a quite different island then.  No electricity, no cars, no roads, and little thatched shacks with small children running in and out and splashing in the lagoon.  Men casting nets and bare breasted women pounding taro root.  No disease, plenty of food and not much to worry about.  First came Cook, then the missionaries who, with their diseases and religion, almost destroyed the native culture.  Despite this, I am happy to say the Polynesian way of life still seems alive and well despite some radical changes over the centuries.

As we drive we look up at the craggy misty mountains in awe of the majesty and raw beauty.  After taking almost two hours to drive  eighteen miles we arrive at our home for the next few days.  We turn into a narrow dirt track past a handful of traditional bungalows and park on a verdant grassy lawn that slopes gently to the sea.  I note the kayaks, beach lounges and hammocks; a promise relaxing and fun times.



I quickly unload the car and Deb suggests a paddle on the lagoon.  We somehow muscle a 200 pound kayak to the water and paddle off to a small motu (island) in the lagoon.  The motu is capped with trees and fringed with a sandy beach. We follow a channel through the coral and beach on the shore of the motu.  We hike across the island...about one hundred feet and then paddle over to the ruins of a former Club Med.  We explore the grounds dotted with native style bungalows overgrown by the voracious jungle.  We paddle back to our lodge.  Just as we are arriving, it starts to rain so we dash for our porch.

Deb on the motu with Moorea in the background

Club Med

Club Med

It rained all night and the next day started the same way so we jumped in the car to drive the rest of the way around the island.  The highlight of the day was a trip inland up a steep road which switch-backed up through lush tropical jungle of banyans, bamboo and a thousand other  species that I don't have names for.  The clouds and rain lifted long enough for us to look out over the two bays that cut deep into the south side of Moorea; remnants of ancient sideways volcanic eruptions.





We complete our circuit of the island and return to our lodge.  As I write this, I look longingly out from our porch through the overhanging thatch at a hammock slung between two coco palms at the edge of the lagoon.  It is too windy and drizzly to enjoy  but one can always dream.

Stranger than paradise

Ukeleles, mandolins and Hinano beer

I have always dreamed of visiting Tahiti.  In my mind it has always been the quintessential south seas island.  Our first day in this tropical paradise did not disappoint.  The red-eye flight from LA dropped us in Papeete at 5AM.   After a prolonged visit at the Hertz rental car desk we finally got into our tiny Peugeot  and   slightly bleary-eyed, drove into the gray dawn.  The road from F'aaa International airport wound around the north coast of Tahiti  to the French colonial city center of Papeete.  We found our guesthouse without too much trouble, dropped our bags and zipped off to the Sunday morning market.  

 After parking the car, we were distracted by a french patisserie that advertised brioche, croissant and cafe au lait.  Reasoning our way through early morning sleepless airline haze we decided it was a good idea to stop, sit and imbibe.  We treated ourselves to  raison filled brioche and what was probably the best, flakiest, lightest almond pastry ever, washed down with a delicious aromatic cup of cafe au lait.  I thought to myself, "Welcome to Tahiti".  After our brief repast, we walked a short block to the Grand Marche of Papeete.

The tall metal framed building (think Eiffel tower with a tin roof) rises in the center of town.  Outside, the street was a chaotic scene of umbrella shaded stalls with vendors hawking their wares to the passersby.  There were seemingly an endless number of tables heaped with farm fresh produce. Others had elaborate floral arrangements of fragrant tropical flowers.  We stopped to watch ladies popping open plumeria blossoms to string them on leis.  Another street offered snacks like fresh spring rolls and pork sandwiches to keep the shoppers going.  We waded through the crowd to enter the cavernous space. Our first impression was the smell of the sea.   The aisle was lined with several stalls of colorful fresh fish on beds of ice.  Parrot fish, tuna and what looked like red snapper were the main offerings.  A few stalls featured shelled mollusks on a string.

Not being in the market for food, we soon left.  Walking out I spied the steeple of a cathedral so off we went to join the locals in their Sunday worship.  Standing outside the door, it sounded like a host of angels  singing hosannas.   Peeking in, we saw the  packed congregation  singing  high mass.  The energy and enthusiasm was infectious and I found myself humming along. When mass let out, we moved down the street to the seaside to sit on a bench and eat our fresh spring  roll.

Deb wanted to check out the famous black pearls of Tahiti so we wandered around the town for a bit until the pearl market opened.   "Black pearls" is somewhat of a misnomer as the "black"pearl is anything but black.  Colors range from opalescent to a lustrous deep silvery color.  Depending on shape, size, color and flaws the pearls ranged in cost from tens of dollars to several thousand dollars.  

Feeling a little tired from the red-eye flight and lack of sleep we decided to check back with the guest house to see when our room might be available.  We were pleasantly surprised to find it would be ready in a manner of minutes.  After a brief wait, we were shown to our room which overlooked azure pool and garden filled with tropical fruit trees.  The room was  huge and immaculate rwith wainscoting and wall of closets built  with exotic hardwoods.  The clean white sheets beckoned so we crawled into bed for an afternoon siesta.

A few hours later we awoke...starving.  We asked the proprietress for a recommendation and after a short walk settled into a sidewalk brasserie down by the port.    After filling our bellies with  house brewed beer and seafood salad, we meandered along the main boulevard  to be treated to a local x-games like competition of bikes flipping into a giant air bag and a crazy exhibition of front wheel stands over a measured course.  After a few minutes we tired of the pumping beat of the music and started back to our guesthouse. 

Our guesthouse was up a slightly gritty backroad of the capital city, but it felt real.  (You all know we like to keep it real) A few blocks from our lodging, we heard the strains of a ukelele and mandolin accompanied by four part harmonies.  Being the unabashed travelers that we are, we leaned over the gate to listen.  We were soon acknowledged by the owner of the house who then insisted we come in and have a beer.  We were offered small wooden stools and invited to join the circle of musicians.  It is difficult to express the cross cultural magic that followed.  The players riffed off of each other and smiled at us with their eyes.  It seemed that the more we got into the music, the harder they played.  Noting how enthralled we were with the music, the mandolin player presented me with a drum made from a hollowed log that both I and Deb pounded on, albeit lightly, because we were intimidated by the caliber of the musicians.  A few beers and few hours later we staggered off into the twilight feeling that we had experienced in some small measure the essence of the south seas...and this was just our  first day.

As we strolled under a leaden and darkening sky, I reflected on the events of the day and said to myself, "Yeah, this is why I travel".

Tahiti graffiti

Tahiti graffiti