If you go to Google Earth and look for Tubuai, you’ll find an image of an island in a state of slow transformation. Like Bora Bora, Tupuai features a worn-down nubbin of an ancient volcano at its center, surrounded by a continuous reef encircling a shallow lagoon. In a mere couple of million years, the remnant mountain will complete its disappearing act through erosion and subsidence of the island leaving behind the ever growing living coral ring of a mature atoll island. Tupuai (the original Polynesian name transformed to Tubuai in European mouths, like PoraPora to Bora Bora) is part of the Australs Island group, and is both the largest and most populated. No metropolis by any means with just about 3,000 souls, the island sits almost directly on the Tropic of Capricorn and some 350 nautical miles south of Papeete.
This much I knew, having done some basic homework on my next stop. One of the best parts of my travels thus far has been the meeting of new people in the circumstances of “Hi. A friend of yours said I could come and stay in your house for the next 10 days. Is it ok? He did call you, right?” This time the first meeting plays out at the Papeete airport, as my Tupuai host(ess) is slated to take the same flight there with me. I have her cell phone number and dial it in the Air Tahiti waiting area, scanning the rows of waiting people for a woman answering a cell phone. It works! I spot her, wave, we smile, and I introduce myself to Chantal Tahiata and her adorable three-year-old daughter Tapaeru. Chantal is a kind, elegant woman in her forties, a member of the Polynesian Assembly (think of her as a congresswoman) and the chair of Union Pour La Democracie (UPLD), an alliance of parties currently forming the senior partner of the sitting government. In short, she is someone in the political scene of French Polynesia!
This much I knew, having done some basic homework on my next stop. One of the best parts of my travels thus far has been the meeting of new people in the circumstances of “Hi. A friend of yours said I could come and stay in your house for the next 10 days. Is it ok? He did call you, right?” This time the first meeting plays out at the Papeete airport, as my Tupuai host(ess) is slated to take the same flight there with me. I have her cell phone number and dial it in the Air Tahiti waiting area, scanning the rows of waiting people for a woman answering a cell phone. It works! I spot her, wave, we smile, and I introduce myself to Chantal Tahiata and her adorable three-year-old daughter Tapaeru. Chantal is a kind, elegant woman in her forties, a member of the Polynesian Assembly (think of her as a congresswoman) and the chair of Union Pour La Democracie (UPLD), an alliance of parties currently forming the senior partner of the sitting government. In short, she is someone in the political scene of French Polynesia!
[Tapaeru says hi!]Chantal is returning to Tupuai after a prolonged, three-week absence. The government here has been in a state of acute crisis for more than three months, a crisis that has just seen a dramatic resolution through the election of a new president by the assembly (the head of government is elected by the assembly, not by direct popular vote; come to think of it, to make any sense of this week I’ll have to make my next post all about politics). Everyone in Tupuai is intensely curious to talk to her about it in a scene that might feature an Electoral College battle for the US presidency, and the coming home of one of the electors to explain what on earth happened. Accordingly, waiting at home is not just husband Thierry but a stream of family and friends and the gathering around the dinner table is large. The political talk is conducted in Tahitian and French, so on this first pass I catch very little. Chantal and Thierry’s home is a family homestead in the village, a large house built by Chantal’s father who was also a prominent politician. The walls and shelves are full of paraphernalia of a life spent in the public arena, complete with pictures from photo-ops during visits by foreign dignitaries. By any standards these digs are comfortable, after Manihi they seem downright luxurious; a large room with high ceilings and windows open onto a beautiful garden, a king-size bed with pillows and very comfy sheets.
The next day we go for a little tour of the island with Thierry and Chantal. I say a little tour advisedly, as you don’t conduct a big tour on an island this small. Only about 10 miles wide, the roughly oval island is ringed with a reef some 3 miles distant from the shore. There is a road that runs along the shore around the island, and another one that crosses over a low spot close to the middle of it, but that is it. All human activity is centered around these two roads, leaving the mountainous middle pretty much empty. We drive on the ring road and cut through the middle, occasionally stopping to chat with people or take in some sight as suggested by Chantal and Thierry. Because the island lies right on the tropic line, the climate here is more temperate than Tahiti. Vegetation looks different, and there is a fair amount of agriculture going on here. Veggies like taro, tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage and lettuce are grown here for export to Tahiti though from Chantal I learn this to be in decline due to competition from New Zealand and Australia.
The shore, a pretty continuous stretch of narrow beach, is dotted here and there with fishing canoes and groups of small aluminium skiffs. I’ve been told of three particular fishing specialties on this island and am looking forward to getting on the water to see these in action. There is a hitch, though. Thierry is a broken man. He is a passionate fisherman himself, someone whose weekly life and state of happiness have revolved around going out on his boat every weekend in search of big fish. Alas, his boat sunk about two weeks ago. Or I should say it was sunk two weeks ago, sunk by a big, bad marlin ramming the boat. Yes, I’m not kidding about this, though the details are a little sketchy. It seems Thierry had lent his boat, a 20’ potimarara with a 110 hp outboard, to some French friend who had been taking it out occasionally during the week when Thierry was working at his day job with the electric company.
It is this friend who was responsible for the calamity and whose testimony is the only record of what actually transpired with the fish. Either the fish actually rammed the boat, or the boat was swamped trying to get it on board, the crew of two eventually swam some undisclosed number of miles to shore. Initially I am completely skeptical about any of these stories, and then Thierry shows some photos of marlins he has caught on his boat and then I believe. These are some seriously big fish, the largest weighing in at over 400kg. Yes, over 800lbs. The fish are huge, and Thierry, as I mentioned, is deeply distressed. Mostly over not being able to fish, but also deeply disappointed at the loss of the boat, the motor and some serious amount of big fishing gear. Oh yes, and the disappearance of the “friend” who has since departed for France.
And then again, from my selfish perspective, this may be a blessing. You see Thierry had planned to take a few days off to go fishing with me. As wonderfully generous as this would have been, it would also have placed me squarely in the world of modern chase for the trophy game fish – something not really in my program. So now I am free to go with the little guys on the little boats to fish on the lagoon. Indeed this begins on Monday with a demonstration of one of the Tupuai fishing specialties I mentioned earlier, the collection of Pahua, or the giant clam.
The next day we go for a little tour of the island with Thierry and Chantal. I say a little tour advisedly, as you don’t conduct a big tour on an island this small. Only about 10 miles wide, the roughly oval island is ringed with a reef some 3 miles distant from the shore. There is a road that runs along the shore around the island, and another one that crosses over a low spot close to the middle of it, but that is it. All human activity is centered around these two roads, leaving the mountainous middle pretty much empty. We drive on the ring road and cut through the middle, occasionally stopping to chat with people or take in some sight as suggested by Chantal and Thierry. Because the island lies right on the tropic line, the climate here is more temperate than Tahiti. Vegetation looks different, and there is a fair amount of agriculture going on here. Veggies like taro, tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage and lettuce are grown here for export to Tahiti though from Chantal I learn this to be in decline due to competition from New Zealand and Australia.
The shore, a pretty continuous stretch of narrow beach, is dotted here and there with fishing canoes and groups of small aluminium skiffs. I’ve been told of three particular fishing specialties on this island and am looking forward to getting on the water to see these in action. There is a hitch, though. Thierry is a broken man. He is a passionate fisherman himself, someone whose weekly life and state of happiness have revolved around going out on his boat every weekend in search of big fish. Alas, his boat sunk about two weeks ago. Or I should say it was sunk two weeks ago, sunk by a big, bad marlin ramming the boat. Yes, I’m not kidding about this, though the details are a little sketchy. It seems Thierry had lent his boat, a 20’ potimarara with a 110 hp outboard, to some French friend who had been taking it out occasionally during the week when Thierry was working at his day job with the electric company.
It is this friend who was responsible for the calamity and whose testimony is the only record of what actually transpired with the fish. Either the fish actually rammed the boat, or the boat was swamped trying to get it on board, the crew of two eventually swam some undisclosed number of miles to shore. Initially I am completely skeptical about any of these stories, and then Thierry shows some photos of marlins he has caught on his boat and then I believe. These are some seriously big fish, the largest weighing in at over 400kg. Yes, over 800lbs. The fish are huge, and Thierry, as I mentioned, is deeply distressed. Mostly over not being able to fish, but also deeply disappointed at the loss of the boat, the motor and some serious amount of big fishing gear. Oh yes, and the disappearance of the “friend” who has since departed for France.
And then again, from my selfish perspective, this may be a blessing. You see Thierry had planned to take a few days off to go fishing with me. As wonderfully generous as this would have been, it would also have placed me squarely in the world of modern chase for the trophy game fish – something not really in my program. So now I am free to go with the little guys on the little boats to fish on the lagoon. Indeed this begins on Monday with a demonstration of one of the Tupuai fishing specialties I mentioned earlier, the collection of Pahua, or the giant clam.
Giant clams (or genus Tridachna) aren’t all giant. Some species are quite modest in size, about the size of a very large quahog, while others do indeed grow to be some half a meter in width. Like corals, they harbor endosymbiotic algae in their tissues, in the portion of the mantle visible to the outside and hence bathed by sunlight. The algae photosynthesize and provide nutrition to the clams, and the clam protects the algae, among other ways by producing these drop-dead gorgeous pigments as sunscreens against harmful ultraviolet rays. The clams are pretty common all around Polynesia, but very, very common in Tupuai. I have never, ever seen so many of these things in my life! And there is another difference; in the Tuamotus, the clams are mostly deeply embedded inside coral boulders, whereas here they just jut out from the coral rock they are anchored to.
All this I learn first hand on Monday morning as Chantal’s brother Karl, cousin Kekere and his wife take me with them to go gather some Pahua. They pick me up at Chantal’s on Karl’s pickup truck with his 16’ Carolina Skiff on a trailer in tow. We travel a few miles down the road, launch the boat off a beach, and head out to the lagoon, the flat-bottomed skiff slurping an occasional bigger wave over the low, square bow. At this point I have come to accept that a significant amount of bailing is just part of the boating routine here, though I am left wondering exactly why someone thought it a good idea to import a boat meant for the still waters of some South Carolina swamp to an oceanic island where brisk trade winds and subsequent waves are the norm. No matter, wielding a bucket we reach the destination, anchor and get in the water. And I get my revelation of what a lot of Tridachna actually means (for those familiar with field ecology, I conduct a brief survey and arrive at an estimate of three to four Pahua per square meter).
All this I learn first hand on Monday morning as Chantal’s brother Karl, cousin Kekere and his wife take me with them to go gather some Pahua. They pick me up at Chantal’s on Karl’s pickup truck with his 16’ Carolina Skiff on a trailer in tow. We travel a few miles down the road, launch the boat off a beach, and head out to the lagoon, the flat-bottomed skiff slurping an occasional bigger wave over the low, square bow. At this point I have come to accept that a significant amount of bailing is just part of the boating routine here, though I am left wondering exactly why someone thought it a good idea to import a boat meant for the still waters of some South Carolina swamp to an oceanic island where brisk trade winds and subsequent waves are the norm. No matter, wielding a bucket we reach the destination, anchor and get in the water. And I get my revelation of what a lot of Tridachna actually means (for those familiar with field ecology, I conduct a brief survey and arrive at an estimate of three to four Pahua per square meter).
The technique for collecting them is not exactly rocket science. Armed with a 1.5 cm steel spike some 30 cm long, you spot a Pahua, aim at the end with the excurrent siphon and jam the spike between the shells. At this point the clam realizes the size of the calamity about to occur and tries to slam shut. Alas, this maneuver just affixes the spike nice and tight, and by firmly turning it back and forth a couple of times the Pahua breaks free of the reef. The operation takes about five seconds, so it is possible for a couple of people to collect the 300 or so clams that I roughly count entering the boat in the 4 hours we are out there. These four hours also include the occasional breaks for opening and shucking the clams, and it is at this point I start understanding the scale of this fishery in Tupuai. You see, the shells of these things are really thick and heavy, nothing a person in their right mind would choose to cart home with them. So you shuck them in the anchored boat and chuck the shell back in the water. As I snorkel around the boat, I spot tens of these resulting shell piles littering the bottom.
Such is the scale of these piles that I immediately wonder whether this can be a stable situation, because I also notice that around the piles there aren’t many Pahua at all. I inquire about this with Kekere and Karl, and they confirm that the concern is warranted. There is less Pahua today than before, and more of them are being shipped out to Tahiti. Indeed I hear that the fisheries service has actually conducted a survey and has told the fishermen that the party will be over within a decade with current rates of collection. Not knowing any details I don’t know how much confidence to place in this, but certainly the collecting is easy enough to do.
Occasionally Kekere goes after some fish with a spear gun, but after visiting the Tuamotus, the density and size of fish around seems lower and his catch reflects this. The shucking of the clams is a sight, these folks are very practiced at it. Just for fun I time Kekere at 9 seconds per clam, as he deftly maneuvers a knife that looks too big for the job around the scalloped edge of the shells. A second operation (which I don’t time) removes the foot with remnants of the attachment point together with two black round structures that look like digestive glands. Every so often Kekere pauses to toss some bits of the Pahua in his mouth, and he offers me the adductor muscle in some lime juice for a taster. It is very good, the taste is close to a fresh scallop but the texture is much firmer. I eat some more, and then go for a longer snorkeling expedition toward the reef crest as the trio continues their labor. I’m told they are collecting the Pahua for Chantal to take with her for relatives and supporters on the other Austral Islands where she will be shortly visiting on her election information tour.And so I find myself re-visiting this conundrum of exactly how big a population the island is actually feeding from its marine resources. Right, there are some 3,000 people here, but everybody has multiple relatives on multiple islands so the explanation of “just collecting for the family” doesn’t sound quite so benign any more. Tupuai is famed for the Pahua, other islands simply don’t support the same densities of them, and they are deeply in the food culture of this island. Eaten raw and in stews, the edible portion of each clam adds up to about 100 grams, so a couple of them can make the nucleus of a meal.
Eventually around two o’clock we head back, chased by a stiff squall as we slop our way (bailing…) through the gorgeous turquoise waters of the lagoon. Later in the day I help Thierry bag the catch in Ziploc bags, and get a rough measure of about 35 kg of clams having been collected in that one outing. It is unclear to me how long Pahua have been collected here. Shells are commonly found in the archeological record of early settlements but not in a way that offers any proof of consumption as food. It is likely that they were collected, as they grow in very shallow water and the collection is so easy as long as you can see them. On the other hand it occurs to me that to achieve what we did today without goggles of some sort would be impossible – I test this theory by trying to locate some Pahua with my mask off and find it indeed completely impossible.
Since arriving, I have been asking such questions about past practises, but the answers have been few. Instead I’ve been told repeatedly that I must go see The Crazy Guy, he knows all about the history of the island. This sounds like intriguing advice, apparently the crazy guy is someone from Canada who has lived here for a long time and is a genuine character. He lives not far from Chantal, and I resolve to pay him a visit the very next day.
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