Fascinating Humanity: Travels In The Marquesas Islands

Ua Pu Island

Ile de Ua Pou

Travels in the Marquesas Islands

Hereafter is another extract of the chapter I wrote for the 1982 National Geographic book, Secret Corners of the World, I posted the first extract on this blog on August 1, 2013.

http://victorenglebertphotography.blogspot.com/2013/08/adventures-in-marquesas-islands.html

I must leave Tahuata by speedboat--the taxi of the Marquesas today to catch the weekly plane from Atuona to Ua Pu, next island on my route. In July, unfortunately, the sea is rough on any day, and often worse. The speedboat trip takes only an hour, but over the mad billows of the Bordelais Channel, a narrow corridor between Tahuata and Hiva Oa. Here waters that have gained unchallenged speed in their long race from South America must suddenly meet waves surging back from the coasts.

The waves heave us up and drop us and drench us.

The pilot speeds up to avoid the biggest ones and slows down as we drop in seemingly bottomless hollows. Sometimes he cannot muster enough power from his motor to pull us over these mountains of water; he must veer horizontally below the crest. Off Teaehoa Point he almost loses control of the boat. Coming from every direction, the waves toss it about like a nutshell and almost swamp it twice. If the motor fails, they will break us on the rocks, for the pilot runs close inshore. Marquesans do this to limit the swimming distance in case of shipwreck--thus increasing the risk of capsizing. But soon we are in normal sea again. Heavy, but predictable, sea.

With volcanic towers, pinnacles, and spires, Ua Pu emerges from sea and clouds like a fairy castle. No forests shroud its valleys, for it lies in the rain shadow of its sister islands, but it will provide incidents as varied as those of a folk tale.

On the landing strip, a young man in a jeep radios to the French pilot the speed of the wind, often too strong for landing. Then he drives up and down the strip to keep 23 horses off of it. He takes me down to the village of Hakahau, where his mother, a sturdy matron called Rosalie, will give me pension--room and board.

She serves the meals at one end of a large terrace, by a big color TV set that attracts thirty or forty viewers every night. At the other end stands a small altar, with two statuettes of the Virgin Mary garlanded with flowers and shells. Here at 6 a. m. the family prays for half an hour each morning.

Every house in Hakahau seems to display such a shrine. So strong is Roman Catholicism in the Marquesas that some have called this group "the Spain of Polynesia," and in Ua Pu the French priest is especially active.

Now Hakahau is preparing for Bastille Day. Four wooden structures are rising next to the town hall, to house restaurants and a ballroom.

Taporo II, a sailing vessel, arrives and stirs a burst of excitement. A dinghy shuttle runs to the quay, where a jeep shuttle takes over: canned goods, wine, soap, a bicycle-all the necessities of modern life. Then the jeep brings copra for the schooner to take to market. A French couple tell me that if two or even three schooners arrive at the same time, a mad competition for copra begins. Rumors are spread, destinations become secret, and passengers are accepted for one island when the boat will go to another.

Bastille Day comes at last. As I sit eating dinner, a man who has already celebrated freely comes up shouting that he wants a word with the stranger. Rosalie rebukes him. He insists. She fends him off. He comes back. I am amused, but Rosalie loses patience. She strides up to him, lifts him in her strong arms, carries him to the street, and dumps him on his face. The TV viewers cheer. I think it tactful to slip away.

As I stroll down to the town hall, another drunk approaches me.

"You look German," he says. "Heil Hitler! Could you then explain to me what Hitler meant by 'To be or not to be'?"

I tell him that he has his authors mixed up, and leave him cogitating.

Inside the ballroom, colored lights and blaring American music seem to make the girls shyer than ever. They refuse to leave their benches; the boys, undaunted, dance together. Outside, children and dogs enjoy themselves tremendously. The children are fascinated by the glitter, the unusual festivity. The dogs sniff the air eagerly; I watch four of them nibble at the meat of a brochette vendor absorbed by the dancers' antics. By ten o'clock even the girls are dancing. More people are coming in all the time. And everyone, generally so distant, greets me with surprising warmth. It seems appropriate, on this fairy-tale castle of an island, that people should throw off their deep reserve for one night in the year.

This young woman interrupted her cooking to greet me

Cette jeune femme interrompit sa cuisine pour me saluer

Trimming a hat this young woman wove from pandanus leaves

jeune femme Finissant un chapeau de paille de pandanus qu’elle a tissé

Shopkeeper ironing a man’s shirt

Epicière repassant une chemise d’homme

Pulling baguettes out of a stone oven. They are as good as any in Paris. And so are those I ate in several French West African countries. Why can’t America produce any worth the name?

Retirant des baguettes d’un four de pierre.