In Tahiti Pt. 1

Tahiti First Entry

by Mykel Board

I transfer this from my hand-written notes to my computer. It's 1PM. I'm inside the $30-a-night hostel in Pape'ete Tahiti. I've just returned from a visit to Mo'orea, “the most beautiful island in the pacific.” Hot, but rainless skies, mountains, beaches, friendly people... I hated it.

All my fault. I shudda known.

The plan? Take the 7:20AM ferry to the bus. Take the bus to the Sofitel. Have breakfast at the hotel. Walk through the hotel to the beaches on the other side. Swim in the nice/safe waters of the hotel for a few hours... eat lunch at the restaurant... once more swimming, hitch back to the last ferry at 4PM.

The reality? Take the ferry: Check. Take the bus to the Sofitel... a high end tourist trap where the rooms are “bungalos” with thatched roofs... and a jump to the sea... Got there: Check

Find the hotel restaurant: Check.

I'm sorry sir, you cannot eat here. We are full today and need the tables for our guests.

Is there a place nearby I can get something to eat? I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon?

There is another hotel, five minutes... by car.

Can I walk it in 15 minutes?

The receptionist smiles a smile reserved for idiot tourists who can barely speak French.

No sir, you cannot walk in 15 minutes, but I can call you a taxi.

Are you sure they're not also full?

She picks up the phone. I can hear her getting switched from desk to restaurant back to desk. Then I here the merci. and she hangs up.

Good news, you can have breakfast at the other hotel... for 4500 francs. (About $45 dollars.)

No thanks, but thanks.

I walk out. $45 for bacon and eggs???? Maybe coffee??? I don't think so. I can go a day without food. I'm a Jew. We do it every year. Ah, but this sun... and the humidity!

Hungry, thirsty I head for the highway to THE NEXT PLACE

There's a little beach. No food or drink anywhere in sight... we'll a small yellow building a few hundred meters away... I go. It's a post office.

I struggle to the beach, change to my bathing suit under a towel.... Lie in the sun.. but don't go into the water. No sandals and I might step on a STONE FISH. After a half hour, hitch back to the boat (easy hitch). And take it back here.

Now to the transcription started yesterday:

I write this in an outdoor cafe in Pape'ete Tahiti. It's the rainy season... January... rainiest month of the rainy season... Guess the weather now.

The cafe is decorated with movie posters-- all obviously creased and unfolded... all French versions of American movies: Star Wars is the only one with the name not changed.

As I write, I eat a baguette sandwich... one of the cheaper things on the menu... about $5. It's a “Thon” sandwich.

I thought “Thon” meant “tongue.” You know, like you get in a Jewish deli, Hispanic taco truck, or Japanese Yaki Niku shop. Nope, I shudda known. “Thon” means Tuna.

It's a strange place here in Tahiti. I SHOULD like it, but I don't. It's like a puzzle with all its pieces:-- but they just don't fit together... at least not for me. It's tropical, relaxed, nominally Catholic, but with a history and culture steeped in mahu culture... and sexually tolerant. .

The mahu, for those who didn't click on the link, are usually the youngest boy in a family of all boys. This boy is raised as a girl. Mahu are an integrated part of society... more than accepted... just normal... everywhere, but most noticeable in restaurants, bars, and other service jobs. One of the receptionists at the hostel is one. They are everywhere, and-- like girls or “girls” everywhere-- are uninterested in sex with me.

Still it's a friendly culture, with people saying bonjour on the street... and greeting each other with a French style kiss on the cheek. They won't approach you, but will go out of their way to help if asked.

EXAMPLE: When I was looking for my couch-surfing hostess-- I had only an address and I couldn't find it. I hailed a guy on a bike. He stopped and I showed him the map on my dying phone. He shook his head and shrugged. Then, there appeared a couple of joggers. He waved them off their path and asked them in French if they knew where I needed to go. They huddled around the phone, tried to match landmarks... had a bit of trouble... One of them hailed a passing car. The car stopped. The joggers asked for the street I was looking for... the driver got out of the car... There were, then, half a dozen people huddled around my phone.

One spotted a landmark, another turned the phone properly to orient it to the street we were standing in. The bike driver said the French equivalent of Ah-hah! Then thanked everyone and took me to the building where the hostess lived. Outside was a complicated doorbell, where we had to electronically choose the apartment number. The cyclist couldn't figure out how to do it. As someone was leaving, the cyclist asked him in French. He not only explained in French, he manipulated the electronics and called the surfer. (Her name is Dominique.) VOILA!

Oh yeah, the bike guy's name was ANGEL, pronounced in French like New Yorkers pronounce the word orange. I gave him a big hug in thanks. He was not embarrased.

Maybe it's the rain... coming down like tigers and wolves now. Maybe it's the language. I try to speak French, but I do a poor and admittedly half-hearted job.

Maybe it's the contrast with New Zealand, where I stayed mostly with friends... while here I know no one.

It's not really bad... but I don't think I'll be coming back.

--More later

Mykel's more political and controversial columns are here

Journey to the Center of New Zealand Part 3

Journey to the Center of New Zealand

Final Part

by Mykel Board

So after water-blasting the seaguls while eating organic food, we're off to the local park... Before we get there, we need to go downstairs in the bug museum where there is a scary exhibit on a notorious Mauri-British confrontation. Created in twigs and dried cloth, it's as creepy as a loose floorboard in the middle of the night. These zombies greet you when you open the door to the WELLINGTON (non-bug) section of the museum.

OK, not soooo bad, almost civilized for sticks and rags... but check out the OTHER side of the floor.

And it gets heavier:

Coming out of the museum, we go to a park, another museum, then outside, I pull out the map and ask Kael... “where to next?”

He looks at the map.

“Can I help you?” comes a grandmotherly voice with a distinctly German accent.

The woman is indeed grandmotherly looking. About my age, she has that trust me, I only want to take care of you look that makes me wary.

“I don't think so,” I said. “We're just deciding what to do next.”

The woman looks at my army boots... my trenchcoat, by Bogart fedora. “Are you from New York?” she asks.

“You talkin' to me?” I don't say.

“I was thinking of going to the library,” says Kael.

“You instead should go to the Center of New Zealand,” she answers, slightly out of syntax.

“We don't have a shovel,” I don't say.

“Good idea,” says Kael. “I know where it is. But it's a walk. Is that okay Mykel?”

“I may be old,” I tell him, “but I can still walk.”

“Thanks for the idea,” he tells the woman.

“This way, Mykel,” he tells me, pulling my coatsleeve.

We bid the woman auf wiedersehen, and we're off... down a bunch of side streets, up a fairly flat hill.

“There!” says Kael, pointing to a sign.

“Fifty meters?” I tell him, “I can spit that far.”

“It's kinda uphill,” he says.

Then we come to the map. That bright orange line is the way up. A winding worm of narrow paths... and uphill? Think King Kong scaling the Empire State Building.

 

Starting on the hike... it seems like we've walked an hour when we come another sign.

Kael says (scampering ahead), “Come on... we're almost there.”

TWENTY MINUTES! That's not almost ANYTHING... except the time for pressing that snooze alarm ONE MORE TIME.

“Hang on,” I say, trying an exercise called BREATHING. “Okay, let's go.”

Up... up... Whenever we come to a turn... a choice between two paths... one side is steep... the other impossible... there we go.

Suddenly I have more sympathy for the Israelites leaving Egypt... it must have been a similar hike.

What's even more frustrating is meeting people who are on the way down from the trek.

“Don't worry. It's only five minutes.”

For YOU maybe. You're on the way down!

Kael scampers up ahead. He disappears from sight... then scampers back to see if I'm still alive.

“Don't worry Mykel,” he says. “It's right up there!” He points vaguely in the direction of the sun.

And finally, there it is. And what is IT? Is it a plaque on the ground saying YOU ARE AT THE CENTER OF NEW ZEALAND with a dot in the center? Is it a huge needle pointing to the spot that is the exact geographical center of the country?

Yes! That's exactly what it is.

The Plaque

The Giant Needle

Reaching the spot, I collapse on a hard stone bench and watch as a family of a dozen or so people try to fit themselves into one cellphone picture. “Can I take a picture for you?” I ask the woman struggling with the camera.

 “Are you from New York?” asks the woman. 

“Fugeddabouddit!” I say.

 They laugh.

 After the picture, it's a couple minutes rest and conversation with the Aucklanders who are in Nelson for a family reunion with their 80 year old patriarch. I tell them if they're ever in New York, they should come to drink club... And they can stay on my couch, though with 13 of them, it might be difficult.

 We bid our adieus and head down the hill. Yes we're going pretty fast as Kael and I have begun to feel some bladder pressure. After the restroom, we head into town. On a side street, we pass a woman, her husband with a toddler riding his shoulders.

The guy says HI and they pass us... the baby's hat falling from its head. Kael picks it up runs ahead and hands it to mom. Then mom and dad turn around.

 “You're Kale,” says the guy “... Aleister's son.” Kale nods.

 Then the guy looks at me. “And you're that punk rocker from New York.”

 “You talkin' to me?” I don't say.

 -end-

 More later, check out earlier entries in this blog and my more offensive political blog mykelsblog.blogspot.com