Travel with Indigo

It might have been a delightful and largely uneventful cruise were it not for the failed air conditioning units. This is but a minor inconvenience when the sea temperature is less than 75 degrees and the air similarly balmy. But here in the subtropics, where the Pacific warms to 84 and the air grows humid, a balky AC is the source of  sweaty discomfort. So our travel from Mangareva, capital of the Gambier Islands, to Papeete, Tahiti, grand capital of all French Polynesia, was a trying affair, especially at night when cooling winds abated.

On the first night out, while Sean our intrepid engineer was on duty, a startling noise interrupted the faint thrum of the main engines. When he and First Mate Bobby investigated, they found that a hand-sized flying fish had leapt over the starboard bulwarks–that’s about ten feet above the waterline–flown through an open sea door, and smashed into the main deck stairway leaving telltale scales and slime at the point of impact. Dazed, the poor devil lay on the foyer deck for a few moments then recovered his wits and began to flop about as fish out of water are compelled by nature to do. So vigorously did he flop that he managed to fling himself into the stairway  to my cabin, flop-step down the stairs and deposit himself at my door. It was there that he flopped his last.

Our plan had been to cruise through the lightly inhabited edenic atolls of the Tuamotu group, a slight northerly arc off a beeline route to Tahiti. But the boat gods would have none of it. A hydraulic seal on one of the steering rams began to leak, and so we altered course for the direct route.

Our arrival in Tahiti on the early morning of December 23 marked the end of the 4,400 mile voyage from Valpariso, Chile. When we left there on November 27, water temperature stood at 61 degrees thanks to the north flowing Humboldt Current, and we all wore light jackets. Here the ocean has warmed to 84 degrees and we perspire in tee shirts.

Since Indigo departed from Ft. Lauderdale in March 2006, she has covered 15,890 miles of pure fun and adventure with just a few discomforts and disappointments, these adding only variety and spice.

Tahiti from the sea is a volcanic island with peaks reaching to 6,000 feet densely clothed in jungle. On land it can be driven around in a full day allowing time to stop at a few of the many local villages that abound along the shoreline. Outside of its towns, the island is breathtakingly beautiful, flora dense, and idyllic. Aside from the soaring mountains, its principal geologic attraction is an encircling reef. This natural battlement protects a lagoon of always placid water lapping at serene beaches varying in shades from off-white to volcanic black.

Papeete is an unlovely, traffic clogged, paint faded  port town of  160,000 souls, most Polynesian, too many French, some orientals, and assorted Europeans and mixed caste. It hosts cruise ships, inter island ferries, and the French Navy among others.  Shops along the waterfront all seem to sell pretty much the same stuff: Polynesian clothing, black pearls, tropical flowers, and assorted gimcrack.

Many of the local ladies parade about town with a colorful flower tucked behind an ear. Behind the right ear means available, left ear means taken…or is it the other way round?

Some women and a few men wear head wreaths of fresh flowers giving the wearer the air of a Fairie Queen. It’s a style I don’t see catching on in the U.S. anytime soon.

In 1768 a bare-breasted Tahitian babe (scientific name: high stepperus Tahitianus) climbed from her canoe onto the quaterdeck of a French ship. There she allowed her flimsy skirt to drop and stood before captain and crew butt naked. Dropped her britches is what she did. Thus began the everlasting image of the luscious and seductive Tahitian woman. Somewhat later an embodiment of the image caused Fletcher Christian, and much of the Bounty crew, to mutiny. The story is repeated in many succeeding novels by authors from Melville to Michenor. Tahiti, the Isle of Love. Today, alas, the descendants of those same shapely demimondes resemble giant Milk Duds with feet.  Walking behind some of the larger Duds brings to mind two sumo wrestlers going at it under a colorful Polynesian printed arena tent. I’m not joking here. These are some big ol’ girls.

The island’s least appealing feature is its Frenchness. According to Paul Theroux, a noted travel writer and himself a descendant of French Canadians, “the French are among the most self-serving, manipulative, trivial-minded, obnoxious, cynical, and corrupting nations on the face of the earth.” He has a gift for understatement.

Following our arrival and a Sunday afternoon stroll through the town center, I take an air conditioned room at the Hotel Intercontinental, reputed to be Tahiti’s finest. It is a solid B class hotel, which tells you all you need to know about island accomodations. That night the crew (sans Bobby) and I hit the Paradise disco for some fun. There we see an oversized local girl dancing with a person of indeterminate gender. This, we learn, is one of the many mahus, a sexually ambiguous male who from childhood is brought up to take on a female role. Some are transvestite, most not. We do pretty much the same in America but we call ’em liberal Democrats. (Now that there’s funny, I don’t care who you are.)