Travel with Indigo

The 300-mile voyage to the Gambiers and its capital, Mangareva, was without notable events. Once again we are graced with nearly perfect weather and sea conditions. A 1:30 departure from Bounty Bay got us inside the fringing Gambier reef just at sunset on the following day. There in the protection of the reef and the low but shear volcanic islands we drop anchor for a quiet night under a waxing moon and brightly starred sky. Mars hangs low on the western sky glowing incarnadine.

In the light of the next morning, we can see that these surrounding hills are quite different from the high peaks of Pitcairn. These are spotted in copses of evergreen giving the place at first glance the look of the Pacific Northwest. Yet along the shoreline are wild groves of spindly coconut trees mixed with pandanus fruit trees and other tropical flora, these framing  gleaming white sand beaches lapped by iridescent blue water. Rising sharply behind the shore are the faded remnants of the ancient volcanoes that made these and most all of the Pacific islands, now covered over in tropical verdure.

I accompany Captain John and Mate Bobby to shore in Mangareva in search of the local police station (Gendarmarie; it’s French after all.). After picking our way among the coral heads and pearl farm buoys (about which more later), we locate the cops and check in. The head person is a Polynesian woman, or is she oriental?,  who speaks excellent English. None of the native French cops do of course.

The three of us take an hour to wander about Mangareva in search of logo tee shirts or other curios and fans. These last are needed because Indigo’s AC compressors have decided, here in the warm tropics, to retire from active service, like permanently. So its hot and stuffy in our cabins.

The village is but one narrow street along the waterfront lined mostly with modest masonry homes and a few shops, a clinic, the cops, and of course a monumental church. Everywhere you look are glorious flowers, exotic shrubs and trees. Rising just behind the street is the rocky and steep former volcano. It is a desultory sort of place and with far more French soldiers about than you would expect.

Here in the tropics these putative warriors have been issued–and inexplicably wear–one of the more ironic bits of uniform ever to adorn a soldier. It is what can be accurately called short shorts, something like what was once known as hot pants, and in cammo no less. The guys look like the gay cop on Reno 911, and I’m being serious here. It’s as if the French Army procurement office set out to prove up the truth of all the unflattering jokes about its military prowess. Could they be designed by Givency or Saint Laurent?  I am reminded of one of the jokes: During the first Gulf War, General Schwarzkopf, as I recall, was reputed to have said: “Going to war without the French is like going hunting without an accordian.”

The afternoon following our return to Indigo the crew and I (absent Captain John who was nursing a bad sunburn) load up the tender with a cooler full of iced down beer, a jug of painkillers made by chef Fiona, and a battery powered music box and head off to one of the many fine beaches within sight. There we spend lazy hours watching the sun set and the tide roll in, beachcombing and snoozing. It was a fine break for us all from the stressful life on Indigo. Next day we will hoist anchor and make for Papeete, Tahiti traveling through the jewel like Tuamotu group of islands, coral rimmed atolls all.