5 TAHITI AND THE
ISLANDS UNDER THE WIND
“Money? What I do with money?”
In Papeete, yachts are not just visitors—they are integral parts of the community. The Phoenix was moored stern first to the sea wall on the harbor side of the main street, between the luxury cruising schooner Te Vega and the 30-foot ketch Tahiti. Like them, we laid out a gangplank to the shore and, since the rise and fall of the tide is negligible, it needed no adjustment during the month of our stay.
Thus established as semipermanent residents, we settled down to enjoy our central location. From the cockpit or while working on deck (always there was work to be done) we could watch the world of French Oceania as it went by, ceaselessly, from before dawn on one day until the wee small hours of the next. Here comes a woman, pushing her bicycle with a small and squealing pig dangling from the handle bars by its trussed trotters; there go a group of laughing Polynesians, loaded with bundles and crowned with circlets of leaves and brilliant hibiscus blossoms, on their way to board an interisland schooner bound for the Tuamotus. Sometimes a squad of tidily uniformed children passes by, shepherded by a nun in a white habit; or a bearded priest in a round-crowned hat cycles past, his cassock flying.
The center of town, however—and one of the most fascinating aspects of Papeete—is the open-air market. From 4:30 A.M. on, buses full of humanity, with roofs piled high with stalks of bananas, bunches of coconuts, strings of fish, trussed fowl and indignant pigs, pour in from the outlying districts. On the waterfront similar cargoes are being unloaded. Stalls in the market fill rapidly and the whole town pours in with baskets to shop for the day’s supplies.
Most visitors make an effort to get up early—or stay up late enough—to pay at least one visit to the Papeete market, but for Barbara the 5:30 trip to market was not only fun but essential. By seven o’clock most of the fresh vegetables are gone and the fish are beginning to wilt in the heat. By eight nothing is left but the picked-over discards. The buses, loaded once again with produce which looks the same but which has, presumably, changed hands, pull noisily out of the market square and head back to the villages. By 8:30 the market is deserted and, had we overslept, it would have been impossible to buy fresh food for that day.
Usually I went with Barbara for companionship and to help bring home the booty, but mostly to marvel at the display. The Papeete market is the only place I know where a magnificent branch of bleached coral, a fresh pig’s head, and a flagon of Chanel No. 5 may be found sharing counter space in a single stall. Surprises were never-ending and, after we had made our purchases for the day—red-fleshed tuna chunks threaded on a string, a small mound of tomatoes at an exorbitant price, or a woven palm-leaf basket of fresh limes for practically nothing, basket included—we usually wandered through the crowded aisles admiring the color and variety of the wares.
On the way home, in broad daylight, we would stop at a little café to enjoy a prebreakfast café au lait, served in a cup the size of a soup bowl.
Back at the Phoenix, the rest of the gang would still be asleep, awakening only reluctantly at the insistent clanging of the breakfast bell. Although they shared an inclination to lie abed, we were actually very proud of our crew and received frequent compliments on their industry. Old-timers, who had seen many a yacht come to grief in Tahiti on the rocks of crew trouble, were greatly impressed with Nick, Mickey, and Moto. Far from spending their time in the bars, they worked for a part of every day on the endless small jobs of upkeep without which a boat—and a cruise—begins to come apart at the seams. This was a routine we had established in Hawaii, even in the midst of a whirlwind round of hospitality: half a day for the boat, half a day for fun. Nights didn’t count!
My own tasks, though less obvious than painting in the hot sun or greasing stays, included the ever-onerous and time-consuming jobs of locating and purchasing needed supplies, current or for the future, and the cutting of red tape in preparation for further voyaging. For instance, while in Papeete I obtained permission from the Governor to visit “Les Iles Sous Les Vents”—The Islands Under the Wind—in the French Oceania Group; I cabled the New Zealand authorities for permission to visit Rarotonga, in the Cook Islands; and I wrote the American Consul in New Caledonia about the possibility of visiting Samoa. Since there were Japanese nationals as well as Americans in our group, we didn’t dare be too casual about our island hopping.