Tahiti. Je t'aime.
Falling in love in French Polynesia.
I’m writing down some memories.
You can start at Chapter One if you like, or just keep reading here.
— 1988 —
I was waiting at passport control in Fa’a’a airport when I got talking to Michelle. She was heading back to Tahiti to see her boyfriend after a couple of years in England. As usual, I had no plans, and Michelle invited me to go with her to Moorea.
Riding the bus into Papeete, the fragrance of the gardenias was overwhelming, and the scent of coconut oil filled the air. The sides of the road were decorated with flowers, market stalls, and beautiful, beautiful women. Everything you have dreamed about Polynesia is true.
The ferry was not due for a while, so Michelle took me to a bar across the street. I was gonna bring my backpack, but Michelle said to just leave it by the ferry landing. ‘They don’t have theft in Tahiti,’ she said.
We left our backpacks and crossed the road for a bottle of Hinano.
When we came out of the bar, the ferry was there, but our backpacks were gone.
‘Oh, shit!’ I cried out. ‘My passport and all my money were in there.’
‘That was silly,’ said Michelle. ‘You should have kept those on you.’
‘Thanks!’ I said.
While I was regretting my folly, the ferryman told us he had put our backpacks onto the ferry for us.
‘Phew!’ I said.
And off we sailed for Moorea.
When we landed on Moorea, we hiked down to our holiday home, which was previously a barracks for French soldiers. After we were allocated our quarters, Michelle and her boyfriend rekindled their love with a big kiss, and we wandered into the bar for some wine.
‘Un verre de vin rouge, s'il vous plaît!’
It was my first attempt at speaking French since O-level French six years before, et mon français n'était pas très bon. Almost no one in Tahiti — only Michelle — spoke English, but I got by. The waiter gave me French lessons, too. And more wine.
Over the next few days, I hung out on the beach with two Amys from Long Island and drank plenty of vin rouge at the bar. As the days drifted by, I fell in love with Polynesia, and I fell a little bit in love with one of the Amys.
After a week or two of paradise, my Amy got sick, and she left for Australia. She told me to track her down in Sydney in a month or so, but insisted I stay and enjoy these lovely islands.
Some enchanted evening, when you find your true love.
A few days later, I was out hiking with my new friend Jürgen, and a car stopped to offer us a ride. The driver was the Most Beautiful Girl in Tahiti (according to me), and she invited us back to her house for some tea. After our tea, Ida said, ‘Hey! I am going to a funeral this afternoon. Would you like to come?’ I’d never been invited to a funeral by a stranger before, but it sounded like fun.
‘Of course! I’d love to come!’
Ida told us we’d have to dress respectfully — all in white, with long trousers. Lucky for me, I had some white linen trousers. But Jürgen didn’t, so it was just me and the Most Beautiful Girl in Tahiti, and we headed off to the funeral together.
The funeral was as poignant as you might imagine. There were hundreds of Polynesians dressed in white and an ocean of singing. I was so deeply moved, it carried me away.
E Maururu A Vau
(Thank you, I am leaving)
After the funeral, the Most Beautiful Girl in Tahiti took me to a party on the beach, where we danced and danced. When Tahitian couples dance to European music, they hold each other close like ballroom dancers, but when the Polynesian music begins with a thundering clash, the band drums out an intro. Ukuleles join, and the dancing erupts Polynesian style. You have never seen hips move so fast.
After lots of frenzied hip-shaking, the band plays something slower while everyone catches their breath. While we danced, the Most Beautiful Girl in Tahiti looked into my eyes.
‘Your eyes are so beautiful,’ she said. ‘But I must leave you now because my boyfriend is waiting for me.’
Tes yeux sont très beaux.
Over the next few days, I was joined in the barracks by an American man and two Danish girls, Anette and Helle, and we set off together for more distant islands. They were headed for Raiatea, but I jumped off at Huahine on my own and said I would catch them up.
Huahine had nothing for tourists, so I just sat on a step in the market square and leaned back against a wall, feeling the moment.
My moment lasted an hour, then two hours, until an enormous cruise liner stopped outside the harbour and dozens of little motor boats brought the tourists in by the thousand. The market sprang into life with stalls selling tourist crap. The tourists hustled, and they bustled until, suddenly, they all rushed back to their motor boats, and they were gone. My moment returned.
My moment went on for several hours, and I still had not thought about where I could pitch my tent, but just then, an American stopped by and asked if I needed help. I told him I had no plans, but he said that if I walked a couple of miles south, I’d find a marina. I could pitch my tent there.
It was late afternoon by now, so I set off to the south to find the marina.
When I woke the next morning, I crawled out of my tent, and three Tahitian girls came to see what I was up to, and they took me down to the lagoon for a swim. We had fun for a while, splashing and diving down into the clear blue lagoon.
When it came time to climb out, we swam to the rocks, and I felt the most exquisite pain you can imagine. I looked down at my foot and saw that I had stepped on a sea urchin.
Sea urchins have a venom that causes immediate, severe pain and can lead to symptoms like nausea, muscle aches, weakness, and, in extreme cases, respiratory distress, cardiovascular collapse, and even death.
‘C'est un oursin! Tu dois faire le pipi!!’
I wasn’t quite sure what faire le pipi meant — though I could guess — and I didn’t want to faire le pipi in front of my lovely new Polynesian friends. The pain grew and grew, and I hobbled back to my tent, where I found a bunch of gendarmes smashing my tent with their batons. My trouble with the police took my mind off the burning pain in my foot, and once everyone had calmed down, my gendarme friends escorted me to see the mayor to explain myself.
The mayor of Huahine had the finest office — all oak panels and leather chairs — and I felt quite out of place in my flip-flops and a t-shirt that had not seen a washing machine for months. The mayor invited me to sit down, and I explained my situation in broken French. After I apologised for camping where I shouldn’t, the mayor told me of a friend who had a field where I could spend tonight, but I’d have to leave on tomorrow’s ferry.
I arrived on Raiatea in a pitch-black tropical night in the torrent of a rainstorm. It was too dark and too late to find anywhere to stay, so I slept on a park bench under the bandstand in the town square. When I awoke in the morning, the rain had stopped, and there was a guest house just twenty yards away. I banged on the door, and all my friends were there having breakfast. They were ready to leave, though, so the next day, we got the ferry to Bora Bora.
Bora Bora’s reputation claims it is the most beautiful island in the world, and it’s not wrong. The island is surrounded by a coral reef, about 200 yards out, and the clear blue water inside the reef contrasts starkly with the deep, inky blue outside. There was only one resort on Bora Bora back then, and the only people who could make it there were squillionaires with their own yachts and poor people like us who could sit on a cargo ship for 10 hours. When we got off the ferry, a young Polynesian man told us we could sleep on the sand outside his house, which was a damn sight cheaper than the hotels the squillionaires stayed in.
There was nothing to do but swim every day in the beautiful lagoon, and I swam every day with Anette and Helle. Anette and I were having a romantic swim together late one evening when she told me she had a boyfriend back home. ‘I wish I didn’t!’ she whispered.
We couldn’t afford to eat anything but packets of ramen, which we cooked on a small gas stove on the beach, and every evening we traded stories of our adventures and wished they would never end.
But come to an end they did, and I got the next ferry back to Tahiti. It was the first ferry after a four-day holiday, so it was cram-full, and I spent the next 10 hours perched on top of an oil drum, chatting with the young French couple on the drums next to me. They were headed for home in Paris with their new baby after several years on Bora Bora.
I had just enough Polynesian Francs to get me back to Tahiti, but not enough to buy food or a place to stay when I got there. So, for my last three days in Tahiti, I slept under the trees and ate mangos and coconuts that I picked myself. When those last days were over, I jumped on the plane to Sydney for the next stage of my adventure.
I’m writing my memoirs.
You can follow along if you like.
I’m sure you know this already, but you were supposed to ‘faire pipi’ on your foot to alleviate the pain 😊
I had a friend back in the day who used to ride his mobylette across Europe to see his girlfriend, subsisting only on bananas …
I have always wanted to visit the Tahitian islands, especially Moorea. Your description is magical.
Also, I appreciate your South Pacific reference. To which I'll add: I am so happy for you that you have these memories of your own Bali Hai. And I'm grateful to you for sharing them.