February 7 – Samedi – Tiputa, Rangiroa

Rangiroa is not all that far from Tahiti, only some 200 miles and a quick 40-minute flight away. The speed of the flight does not seem to allow for sufficient time to adjust to the change in my circumstances, and I feel a bit apprehensive as I scan the small crowd of people waiting in the open hall of Rangiroa airfield for Hérvé. I have no clue how to recognize him, but I hope the brand new white Service de la Peche hat Estellio gave me as a parting gift will cue him in. The crowd thins quickly and, just as quickly, there is an inkling of recognition as I approach a tall guy who seems to be in his early thirties or so. An exchange of names follows and Hérvé leads me to a white minibus with “Commune de Rangiroa” written on it.

During the brief 5 minute van ride I gaze at the blazing white coral, the intensely green palm trees and the equally absurdly blue ocean. I don’t really know what is going on, but after some conversation I understand that there is a Rangiroa municipal government meeting in progress, and that Hérvé needs to go back to it – seeing as he's an elected member from his village of Tiputa. We reach a modern-looking building compound, and I timidly follow him into an air-conditioned meeting room with some twenty representatives and the commune mayor, or Tavana, present. I take a seat along a wall and listen to a measured debate taking place around the large quadrangle of tables in the middle of the room. I do like the sound of Tahitian, I get the sense that words are selected carefully and spoken forcefully – a sense that oratory is cherished both by the speaker and the audience.

After some twenty minutes the meeting wraps up and I briefly shake hands with the Tavana as Hérvé introduces me to him - then off we go to the same minibus. The bus, you see, is the official transportation for representatives, and will take us all the way to the village of Tiputa. The single road leading eastward takes us to the Tiputa Pass that divides the village from the island, or motu, we are currently on. This is the fact of life on Rangiroa (and most other Tuamotu atolls as well). Though some 70km in length, the narrow rim of the coral reef that extends above surface and supports terrestrial life is broken up into many, many, dare I say many motus of varying sizes. Between the motus are passes, ranging in depth from a foot or two to 60 feet like that of the major Tiputa pass. More about these passes later – they are important in many ways.

At the pass we are met by a small utility ferry, the van drives on board, and we get door-to-door service to Hérvé’s house in the village. And a lovely house it is - a modern, airy, two bedroom abode Hérvé finished building just two years ago as he (very justly) proudly tells me while giving the welcome tour. The house is situated near the pass in the middle of a large coconut grove. In the late afternoon light the trees are a magnificent sight and, together with the distant surf beating on the outside beach of the island, give this place an instantly comfortable feel. I settle in as Hérvé sets the table for dinner - uncharacteristically not fish, but franks and beans. I soon find out that the pace of life in Tiputa follows a very natural rhythm of the sun. You get up with it (the approximately one million roosters in the village help should light cues not be enough), and the absence of it drives you to bed. We talk a bit into the evening, but at eight o’clock it seems perfectly natural to crawl into bed.

So the next morning it’s up at about 6:00. I follow Hérvé out of the house to go to his parents' house from which he is to take me on the very first fishing outing. The walk would be a short five minutes, or about as far as you can walk in Tiputa without running into water. Would be, but isn’t. Everyone knows everyone else (as you would expect in a village of 600 people), and Hérvé is someone to know. So, we stop numerous times to say hellos as he greets this uncle or that cousin. The atmosphere, the sights, the people, all this make me think that this is one seriously pleasant and charming place. Oh yes, and the stop at the magazin where we pick up the daily baguettes.

Eventually we make it to our destination, which is right on the water. Under a permanent awning is the year-round dining table/hangout spot where I meet Hérvé’s father and mother, his younger brother Mamia and his kid sister. Back to a fish and bread diet, we eat quickly as Hérvé and Mamia start gathering their spear fishing kit. I pick up a sharpening stone and sharpen a spear while they set up. Then we wait for the current in the pass to turn. You see, the current is everything. Why? Because there is such a humongous amount of it, that’s why. Well over six knots in speed at the peak, the outbound current is a seriously bad thing to enter as a swimmer. The outbound trip to the great blue yonder would be swift, the return leg uncertain at best. With a little sea running against the current, there are some incredibly large standing waves at the mouth of the pass through which a bunch of dolphins are leaping in a great display of marine mammal athleticism. Yes, to wait is good!

So we wait for about an hour, chatting about this and that. I learn some new Tahitian – opope is current, the lagoon is roto and tua is the ocean. Hence opope roto is the incoming current and opope tua is the outflowing current. We enter the water around 1:00 as the tide is turning and the current starts flowing back in. Heading toward the pass we move through two clearly different waters, with filaments of the warmer, more turbid lagoon water folding in and mixing with the incoming clear and cooler ocean water. The lagoon water is sticking closer to shore, while the ocean water is starting to pour in faster mid channel; it is the interface between the two where Hérvé and Mamia concentrate their efforts. The bottom is anywhere from 30 to 60 feet in depth, and in places barely visible from the surface.

One crucial difference between spear fishing in Tahiti and here is that here everyone is towing a floating plastic tote behind them, and I see five other buckets bobbing at the surface some ways from us. I volunteer to tow ours, and the utility of the bucket becomes abundantly clear very quickly. There are sharks. Lots of sharks. They are mostly the familiar reef Black-Tipped and White-Tipped variety with an occasional Grey mixed in. These are not big sharks, ranging from 4 to 6 feet in length and not at all interested in human size prey. But boy are they interested in the speared fish! They are just as adept at finding an injured fish as advertised, and the technique of not losing a) your fish and b) accidentally some body appendage to them involves surfacing while towing the spear - and the speared fish - at the end of the spear gun and the 10’ stout nylon line. The sharks stick to the bottom, and as soon as the prey is mid-water, the conflict is pretty much over.

The expedition takes about two hours, and the brothers pile about a dozen fish into the tote. They are far more active in their technique than Jean or Baby in Teahupoo. Because the water is deeper, they scan the bottom on descent for targets other than the ledge or group of fish they saw from the surface. Not so much creeping and lying in ambush here, this is more like a search. Sometimes they will wait for a particular group of fish to approach within range while lying on the bottom, but because of the depth they have less time at their disposal. And clearly they have a shopping list, a shopping list that overlooks a lot of what passes as desirable in Tahiti. The fish are bigger and more numerous, of this there is no doubt.

This catch is only for the family to eat, and they are content with the dozen in the tote. We head back toward the house some quarter mile distant. When we arrive, we set to cleaning the fish at the water's edge. I dutifully record the species and sizes of the fish, and, after the cleaning of fish, gear and selves, Hérvé puts an opened coconut in my hands for drinking. We sit around chatting, Hérvé and his family talking away in Tahitian, and I’m very content to sit back and listen in in a blissful post-long-swim stupor.