February 14 – Samedi – Tiputa, Rangiroa and Manihi

You hear this often: We can’t starve here. This claim refers to the condition of these islands where food really does seem to be for the taking in the form of fish, fruit and coconuts. You also hear the opposite interpretation, particularly of the Tuamotus, as a hostile place with scarce resources and poor water supplies. It is difficult to reconcile these two views in light of what I’ve seen traveling through the islands so far. Baguette, corned beef and rice being integral parts of the local diet, it is hard for a casual observer to filter out how the dinner table would look long-term without those staples.

Then again, changes in diet have accompanied huge changes in the social fabric of the Polynesian culture as well. By all accounts, village life was once much more a communal affair, and a large part of the getting of food was done together. In the Tuamotus this involved digging large pits down to the fresh (actually brackish) water table, to be filled with compost and used for communal gardens. But it was fishing that really expressed this cooperative nature of living of the Paumotu. The best example of this was the use of communally constructed and maintained fish weirs (or ahua huiraatira), of which there were one or two per village.

Notice the past tense. In interviews with the elder fishermen, the communal weirs vanished in the 60’s or 70’s, depending on the island and the village. The immediate reason seems to have been that the copra boats plying the waters between the islands and Papeete started buying fish as well, and the sharing of cash proved less easily done than sharing the fish. All this, by the way, coincided with the vast economic pressures brought to the archipelago by an army of technicians, administrators and soldiers involved in the French nuclear testing program in 1964.

Ok, so there are no more communal weirs in the Northern Tuamotus, but some private weirs still exist, and with Hérvé’s help I managed to visit one in the neighboring village of Avatoru. I should add that Hérvé’s family used to keep a weir right in the Tiputa pass, but it was destroyed some years ago by a storm. Hérvé shared with me an old family photo from the late 70’s showing family members tending the weir, and though much of the structure is still there, they have yet to put it back into service for reasons that are still not quite clear to me.

[Hérvé's family weir]

With all this playing in my head I find myself in an old, leaky, fiberglass skiff heading west from the village of Avatoru and across the pass. The pass itself is smaller than the one in Tiputa, but a motu on the lagoon side splits it into two channels, and we are headed to the farther channel and around the motu. Flying out of Rangiroa to Manihi today I managed to get a good picture out of the plane window: the motu is on the left and you can see the weir as a faint dark line in the shape of the letter N against the light reef (follow the edge of the channel from the motu up and torward the right).

Driving the boat is Punua who is, yes, another uncle of Hérvé’s. We are accompanied by another fisherman who works for the commune and who, given Hérvé’s position in the municipal council, has taken a council van to drive us to Avatoru. Before embarking on the boat, I interview Punua on camera at his house on the lagoon with Hérvé translating. During the interview Punua holds in the crook of a big arm a perfectly tranquil grandson who examines me intensely. I have a strong impulse to start trading expressions with him. Since this would completely blow my cover as a serious investigator, I stifle the urge and keep my face in the viewfinder.

Back in the boat, the drive is a short 10-minute affair in the pass. The current is flowing out, and the old outboard is making a loud racket inching us along the edge of the swiftly moving water. Our destination appears as a collection of poles sticking out of the water on the edge of the pass in what I estimate to be about 2.5 meters of water. We slide along the aggregation, and what from the distance looked like a pretty random gathering now resolves into three organized rows of poles. We tie up to four of them, Punua and I don masks, and I follow him in the water outside the weir. He scoots inside the enclosure over chicken wire tied to 5cm metal poles forming the frame of the structure. Inside there are fish. Oh my, are there fish. A huge school of ature (a small jack) swims in a lazy circle in the inner chamber of the weir with a couple of stingrays and a large green moray getting fatter by the minute. As the curtain of fish splits here and there, I catch glimpses of small sharks, triggerfish, trevally and goodness knows what else!

Yes, you could feed a village this way! And the weir is not just a way to catch fish, but also a way to keep them really, really fresh for a long time. Just go to the ahua and collect what you need for the day and then come back the next day for some more. Ok, so it is not quite as simple as that, there is strong seasonality among the most abundant species like ature and oeo, but Punua tells me he gets a mix of different species in smaller numbers all through the year.




The weir incorporates two large chambers shaped like inverted V’s, aimed at the pass. At the apex of each V is an enclosure that opens to the main chamber via a mesh funnel with an opening some 50 cm in diameter. It is this funnel that allows the fish in, but poses too large a puzzle for them to figure out how to use it as an exit. And here they are, providing a steady flow of fish for Punua’s roadside fish stand, as well as local schools and restaurants.

So there it is staring one in the face: the irony of our modern condition. Is it preferable to go to work for money with which to buy fish or to not work (so much) and just go get your own fish? Or work with your neighbors to secure fish for all, as the weir does represent an investment in material and labor that is too big for any individual or small family unit. Contemplating such things, it is difficult to steer away from notions of South Seas idyllic village life, of a life with few cares and simple pleasures. Funny enough, reading through the works of Kenneth Emory and Frank Stimson, two ethnographers who traveled extensively through the Tuamotus in the 1920’s and 30’s, this is an image that emerges. Both gents, employed by the Bishop Museum of Honolulu, at times went completely native replete with their own houses and wahines and stayed on islands for months at a time.

It also difficult not to worry about the future of these islands. Though families and communities are still very important in the Tuamotu life, an intensifying cash economy brings with it the pressure to exploit marine resources. Earlier, I visited an enclosure where poisson sale, or salt fish, is being dried for market. The species used for salting is the oeo, a species of snapper that, during the new moons in November through February, is fished in large numbers by jigging in the lagoon. I interviewed two of the five fishermen who run the salt fish business and obtained a rough estimate of some seven to ten tons of salted, dried oeo being shipped to Tahiti every year in those four months. The salt fish business goes back at least to the 1940’s, but today there are more people involved and the fishermen complain of a dearth of fish.



Swimming in the weir, though, abundance is really the only fitting image. I reluctantly follow Punua over the mesh and back into the boat. In the distance there are the remains of many other weirs, disused and in disrepair for reasons that, despite my questioning, still remain somewhat of a mystery. The Paumotu have a reputation in Tahiti as being lazy, not wanting to do much for tomorrow today. If there is something to that reputation, it is hard for me to sit in judgment. I suppose you can go and fish intensively for a few days, freeze the catch and eat frozen fish for a few weeks – and pay for a freezer and expensive electricity. Or you can go get your fish fresh by extending some effort every day. Which way would you pick?




With these thoughts I get ready to leave Rangiroa. I will miss this place, the village of Tiputa and Hérvé and his family in particular. I’ve eaten many meals at his parents outdoor dining table, paddled a va’a (outrigger canoe) with his brother Mamia, drank some beers with his pals at the local magazin – I have had a fantastic time here and am loath to leave. Hérvé departs on a flight after mine for Papeete, and his father drives us to the airport in his 15’ aluminum skiff. We say our reluctant goodbyes at the airport, but I know I’ll be back here before long! Thank you, my friend!

February 5 – Jeudi – Papeete

As quickly as it started, my stay in Teahupoo is now over. Back in Papeete and on the ship for just a day, the past week seems positively surreal contemplating it now with the ship as a very familiar backdrop. The last two days consisted of another spearfishing outing, a trip to the Taravao fish market and a farewell soiree at the parish house.

The spearfishing trip incluldes myself, Jean, Estelio and Baby Maoni, a many-time French and Pacific spearfishing champion now in his seventies. He is incredibly spry, though, and has absolutely no trouble keeping up with his protégé Jean on the fishing front. He has these friendly twinkling eyes, and though, again, there is no shared language, we hit it off very well. We take off on his boat, a small outboard-equipped Potimarara at around six in the morning, heading south inside the reef. The itinerary has a little sightseeing and more fishing in it, and we begin by following the reef further around the island than I’ve been before. The weather is indifferent with some squalls and occasional rain around, but this, with the early morning light just seems to intensify the greens and black of the steep mountain sides to our left.



There is a portion of the southernmost Tahitit Iti where the reef actually stops for a while, where there is no reef crest to offer protection from the swell and the waves served by the Southeasterly trades. Before we get to this rough batch, though, the reef turns into the island, and we must cross a very shallow, coral boulder-strewn bit of the waters, and Baby slows the boat down amidst the surf that is now breaking everywhere. These are his home waters and, given that no prayers have been uttered yet, I try to relax and enjoy the show. He picks one particularly large swell, guns the engine and we leap over some boulders that seem much too close to the surface in the clear water. I clutch the camera and eye the distance to the shore to scope for a feasible bailout plan, but soon regret my timidity as we are, predictably, safely through.



After inspecting the sheer cliff faces, a cave opening to the sea, and a small steep-sided and incredibly lush bay, we turn around and head back North toward the reef. Running the same roiling gauntlet we stop just beyond, anchor the boat with what seems a purely symbolic small hook, and enter the water. I follow Baby as he fishes the edge of the reef, but soon start losing sight of him as he effortlessly glides down past 30, 40 feet. Eventually I give up trying to follow him and, sticking closer to the reef crest, content myself with inspecting the shallower reef instead. We get back around midday and clean the fish and the gear. Afterwards I take a small walk around Teahupoo as this is really my last day here.

The last evening turns into another party, thrown in my honor! More dancing and eating is followed by some farewell words and a dozen shell and flower necklaces are hung around my neck. Leaving seems like a cruel form of punishment.

The next day Estellio drives me to Keitapu’s house where I spend a delightful day with him, his wife Hillary and their two young sons. Keitapu takes me spearfishing on the reef in front of his house, and we enter the water via stairs leading down the six-foot drop from his patio to the water. I have a Pupuhi (speargun), a search image for Parai (a species of surgeonfish we’re after), some quick instruction as what not to do with the spear and we’re off. With a speargun in my hand I realize I must look at the reef very differently than my usual rote. Lots of diving on the reef looking at corals has really trained my eye to take in the fish as these mobile things that flit in and out of one’s field of view. Now I try to follow them, anticipate their moves. We arrive at the sport Keitapu has in mind, a 20’ deep section of the reef shoaling quickly so I can see the underside of the breaking swell to my left. He gets off the first shot just ahead of me and…a hit. Then another. And another. Turns out he is really good at this. It also turns out I am not. After many, many shots I manage to score a hit, but even then the fish seems only perturbed by the event as the spear somehow pushes it out of the way.



The consolation is some encouraging words from Keitapu and a first-hand initiation into the fine points of reef fish tasting. While we clean them, he cuts little morsels off the fish and I start understanding the vast differences both in texture and taste between the different species. Keitapu has shot about a dozen fish - half Parai and the other half a careful selection to illustrate the differences. The dinner is a truly exquisite affair with the Parai served raw as Poisson Cru with some lime juice, jalapeño peppers, garlic and a hint of salt. Needless to say all ingredients save the salt are from their garden. The rest of the fish are gently steamed to preserve the taste and texture differences. This is followed with a copious quantity of fresh fruit as Keitapu and Hillary warn me of the veggieless and fruitless future awaiting me in the Tuamotus. Once again I go to bed feeling like the day contained simply too much to fit in a mere 24 hours.

And now back on the boat. I invited Estellio and everyone else to come and visit the SEA ship in Papeete, and he was able to come together with some of the family and friends. Seven people in all, Estellio’s extended cab pick-up is loaded with three bunches of bananas, breadfruit, a box of avocados, papayas and some limes. Their gift to the ship!

Tomorrow it is off to the airport and to Rangiroa. I am to stay with someone named Hérve in the village of Tiputa, which is about the sum total I know about the immediate future. This has been an amazing week on all fronts, but now it’s off to the Tuamotus!

January 23

Amidst the cruise preparation onboard and the general shipboard existence that can be all-consuming, I have managed to get a couple of things done for the project. The big one: itinerary is now set, and the main travel tickets purchased. So in broad strokes, this is how my calendar will look:

January 28-Feb 5: 1st stop Teahupoo on the south shore of Tahiti Iti.

February 5: Back on the ship to repair broken gyrocompass.

February 6: Fight to Rangiroa.

February 14: Flight from Rangiroa to Manihi

February 19: Flight from Manihi to Papeete

February 20: Flight from Papeete to Tubuai

February 27: Flight from Tubuai to Papeete

March 28: Flight from Papeete to Nuku Hiva

March 14: Flight from Nuku Hiva to Papeete

Within each stop there will be some forms of boat travel, within the atolls and hopefully in the Marquesas between the islands as well. I must say that holding this piece of paper (the ticket and itinerary from Air Tahiti) has helped to translate the trip from a future plan to impending reality. One short overnight cruise around Moorea ahead and then…

So what is this place anyway?

OK, the plan is this. For the next three weeks I will be on board the Robert C. Seamans, involved in a couple of short collaborative programs we are doing here this year – more about those later. On or about January 27, I’ll leave the ship and start the fisheries project in earnest, but I thought I would use these first three weeks writing about topics that will give you a taste of what this place is about.

A Tahitian friend, Keitapu Maamaatuaiahutapu, whom I met on my first trip here, is helping me in my planning and practical arrangements in a very substantial way. He is a Ph.D. oceanographer as well, and has divided his time in the past four years between academia and politics – he is a professor at the University of French Polynesia and has served multiple times as the Minister of fisheries and marine resources. But beyond that he is an avid fisherman himself, and indeed a big part of the inspiration for my project here.

This much I know about my coming itinerary: I will visit five different islands in five different parts of this archipelago. Right, but perhaps I should acquaint you with the basics of the geography of these islands before going any further.

There are some nice reproductions of the map of French Polynesia overlaid with that of Europe. They cover roughly the same area, which gives you some idea how big this place really is in terms of distances (landmass, though, adds up to less than one Delaware). It consists of five major groups: the Marqueasas, the Tuamotus, the Gambier Islands, the Austral Islands and the Society Islands. The Society Islands further fall into the Windward and the Leeward groups, Tahiti and Moorea being the major Windward Islands.

What makes all these islands collectively the French Polynesia is an accident of the history of European colonial expansion. Let's just say that when the dust settled, France was left with lots of little islands while the Brits took the big places. Take out the word French, and you are left wondering what exactly is the Polynesia part about. It is a term that really reflects the struggle of the early European explorers from Cook on to understand the connections they perceived between the widely spaced islands in the western and central Pacific.

Indeed the connections are many among these islands. They were populated by the Polynesian Migration, a movement of people that started from around New Guinea and Indonesia some 3,000 years ago and reached the central Pacific islands sometime before 500 AD. The languages spoken are of the same language group, their mythologies are similar, as are early building methods. For all the similarities, though, there are some significant differences as well. I think it might be useful to think of the term Polynesian in the way one thinks of the term European – sharing many things certainly, but you wouldn’t want to suggest to a Frenchman that they are really just the same deal as Italians.

So there it is. A Tahitian and a Paumotu (someone from the Tuamotus) speak languages that are not readily mutually intelligible and think about the world in slightly different ways. And so I will now start using the word Polynesian a bit less and instead will refer to the islands themselves. And given that I am right now in Tahiti, I’ll start with mostly talking about Tahiti and the Tahitians.

Next up, some observations about Papeete.

So it begins

Here’s something worse than a mere blank page. A blank blog. And very little idea of where to start the narrative. I’m writing this sitting in a plane over the snowy Midwest, having just started a journey that I hope will take me to far corners of the distant archipelago of French Polynesia. Relating how that journey goes is what this blog is all about.

I do have a more specific mission for these travels than just sight seeing. Through the generous support of a pretty remarkable foundation, I’m setting out to take a look at the relationship between the people of the islands and the sea. Specifically how, and to what extent, they still extract a living from the ocean.

My motivation to do this? I have been lucky enough to be able to visit some of these islands in the past five years, on board the Sea Education Association (SEA) sailing research vessel Robert C. Seamans. Approaching the islands as we do after a passage of some three thousand miles of naught but blue water, they present a startling contrast to the surrounding tropical ocean. Contrast in both the abundance and diversity of life familiar to everybody who has dived or snorkeled on a coral reef. The surrounding ocean, though, is among the least productive waters in the world – described by some as an ocean desert.

Nowhere else in the world I’ve visited have I experienced such a palpable sense of remoteness than on a Pacific ocean atoll island. On the big ones the lagoon that forms the center of the island is big enough to visually project just a horizon – the other side somewhere beyond it. So you realize that you are essentially standing on this pile of coral rock and sand with some palm trees and low shrubs offering a vivid green contrast to all the hues of blues from the sea and the sky.

It is beautiful, but you quickly realize just how hostile of a place it is all the same. With the high points maybe 8 feet above water, there isn’t much of a fresh water table. With all the sand, the soil is not really suited for agriculture. So you quickly realize that the people of these islands really had to understand how to extract a living out of the sea. Because in the final analysis that is all there is.

Today many of these islands are starting to sprout a tourist economy and the realities of life have changed rapidly in the past 50 or so years. All of these islands suffered horrible losses from disease in the wake of the contact with Europeans. The population today is a fraction of what it was when Wallis, Cook and Bougainville first visited Tahiti in 1767 and 1768. Today, the outer islands are still slowly emptying as young people seek the opportunities that Papeete offers. My mission for the next three months is to visit a few of these islands, talk to the fishermen and try to document what of the traditional fishing techniques that are still around.

So much for the introduction. During the next three months I’ll be writing more about the islands themselves, their culture, the politics, the fishing and natural history - essentially anything interesting I can get my hands on. I hope you tag along!