Monday, May 24, 2010

Ile de Ua Pou

A day's sail away our anchor dropped in a little bay of Ua Pou Island. The little island town is 25 feet aft our stern, across shallow water. We share the water with a French yacht and a dredging crew from Australia who work atop a barge and crane. I watch the crew fishing and smoking. There isn't much room in the bay but it makes the scene seem quaint and authentic. We won't stay long. One day on land; a step back in time.

I sat outside the post-office with antagonized patience over the speed of the internet. Locals moved in and out. One stopped to speak to me in French. Maybe he wanted a Gauloises, my response was a silent, dunce-like smile. An aged man, donning an Australian cowboy hat, saunters over. The local deferentially is cast away.

In an Australian accent, "They're all my family, he's a cousin in-law. My name's Keith, you're an American." Showing me his hand and sitting down next to me. "Don't mind them, I don't, you don't see me complaining about them none." He talks as though we know each other, and as though I am frightened (and should be) of the "natives."

The only indication that I am listening to Keith is that I do not get up and leave. He just starts talking: "I married two of them... I'm 80... built my own house.. hip replacement... French blokes and Kiwis... worked hard... watch out for this one... cannibals but won't admit it... Marquesians eat that rubbish, breadfruit is good for teeth like theirs," and on and on and on.

Eventually I respond, "Find the skipper, maybe you can answer some questions for him." The two of them get along a little better. Keith nearly takes us by the hand to lunch. He talks and acts like some haughty British consul to Africa at the time of steam ships.

At his home/store, down the road, we are introduced to his wife. Marguerite an elderly Marquesian woman with flowers in her spindly hair and spindly hair around her mouth. She is friendly and seems to expect us. They saw our flag from shore. She pours me a Hinano at her dinning room table. The Aussie drones on. 20 minutes later we drive one block to the "snack" spot.

We eat steak and drink Hinanos, the Aussie drones on, the wife talks at me. I begin to feel lost and stuffed, and a headache from all the beer and food. Keith is then driving us to remote parts of the island. His frame of mind is manifest destiny meets rural Republican-- if any such distinction exists. His mind drivels through his mouth. I gaze out the window at scenery I saw just days before in a different place. Keith is bored here and wants to speak English, we are his victims, showing us Paradise is his bargaining chip.

I am not here to tell that story. I never will. I'm here to sail. I'm here to commune with the sea. A jaunt on land for steak and beer is desirable-- but that which one can have at home begets only a longing to have home with it. "He went to sea, and entering the regions so well known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure. He knew the magic monotony of existence between sky and water... there is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea."

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