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