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 13 – Vendredi – Tiputa, Rangiroa

A couple of busy days have kept me from writing, but today a series of very impressive squalls with lots of lightning and torrential tropical rain are keeping me indoors. The rain started last night, and this morning there are deep puddles of standing water around the village. Some dramatic lightning strikes around the house shook things up, and the cisterns filled and overflowed. When it rains the Paumotu are happy, because that is their main water supply. There are wells, but the water in them is brackish and not really used unless the need is dire indeed.

I realize I have been writing a whole lot about spear fishing, and it is time to shift gears. Still, I have continued to accompany Hérvé daily for his fishing, as it really is part of food shopping here. He is also traveling to Papeete on Sunday to see his kids there, and is busy stashing fish in the freezer to bring with him for the clan. He certainly isn’t alone in that behavior; a lot of people bring a cooler as part of their luggage check-in at Air Tahiti and all of them are full of fish. The same coolers make the return trip full of meat and veggies, so there is this constant stream of food in and out of the islands that bypasses the commercial sector entirely. Family ties are incredibly important here, and this is one of the forms by which the family members look after each other. I should add that the family notion extends far beyond the parent/child units, and includes brothers, nieces, cousins etc. Indeed the term cousin is used in a very liberal way here, nobody makes a distinction between your aunt's daughter and a second cousin thrice removed. Family is family.



As I mentioned in a previous post, I spent a day with Hérvé’s uncle Aniki (pictured above) and his friend Florest gill netting on the shallow reef. The site is the shallow backreef I described in a previous post (Feb. 9th) adjacent to their beach hut at the mouth of the pass. The neighboring picture shows the pass with Tiputa to the left, and you can see the shallow reef as the gray zone between the white surf at the reef crest and the shoreline. (Aniki's house is just above and to the right of the big breaking swell nearest the pass, the first building off the road coming around the large coconut walk (or grove) toward the pass from the right). We meet them at 0630 at the hut where they are just finishing folding the nylon monofilament net for the morning’s set.

[The Tiputa Pass]

A few more words about Aniki and Florest (pictured at left) should be said here. Both gents look like they were sculpted from the roots of the earth. They are probably in their late 50’s but in a way seem completely ageless; powerfully built men with faces that look perpetually serene. Aniki in particular would blend right in with the Rasta community in Jamaica. Having spent quite a bit time there and having met some of the bredren (brethren in Patois) under similar circumstances, the big differences are language and the cap; religious Rastas keep their hair covered. Oh yes, and the similarity extends to smoking the herb (Rasta word), as there is clearly some serious paka (Hawaiian term for the same) being combusted in the hut. Not that this is a rare thing in Polynesia - paka is really wide spread.

Aniki and Florest both work with wood and coconut fibers to produce sculpture and jewelry, this in addition to fishing. Oh yes, and they make the didgeridoos and flutes around the place, primarily for their own use in the hut. At times they seem to retreat in almost a trance as they are harmonizing together and something else beyond and out of reach for us uninitiated. Though the language barrier keeps us from talking about much beyond fishing, they seem, I dunno, kind of sagely.

Setting the net is simple enough. Finding a big piece of rock next to the coral rubble beach, Aniki strides through the thigh-deep water toward the reef crest and 2 meter tall surf, ducking down at times to tuck the net behind some particular rock. The back reef resembles a swiftly flowing river because of all the water the surf is spilling over the reef. I follow him, struggling for balance while leaning into the current and searching for a footing. As the net approaches the reef crest and the strongest current, Aniki changes course and lays down the last 15 meters almost parallel to the reef. The operation is over in just a few minutes, and we repair to shore to wait. It is a good time to talk, and I record an interview with Aniki about his methods of fishing and the changes he has witnessed in the years past. Interestingly, though, he echoes other statements I’ve heard that the fish in the pass aren’t as numerous as they once were. The fishing in the shallow reef by net he says to be just as good as it ever was.

Every once in a while Aniki wades into the water some 40 meters upstream of the net and slowly walks toward the net while tossing rock around him. As they are chased into the net, I can see the sleek forms of fish dart from around rocks and shoot downstream toward the net. It is clear that they perceive the net, as most of them change course to swim parallel to it in the swiftly flowing water. Not all are as lucky, and every time Aniki goes on his fish herding missions he walks back along the net to check it. By the way, I should add that he walks barefoot. I repeat, he walks barefoot! For those of you who have explored shallow reef environments and coral rock and rubble shores, this will probably produce mental images of bloodied, mangled toes and lacerated soles, subsequent inevitable infection, gangrene, double amputation and a life hobbling about on crutches. Aniki, however, is unperturbed by such visions, and I refrain myself from asking to inspect the steel reinforcements that surely must be there. Then again, for a guy sculpted from the roots of the earth this must be completely normal.

So we spend the morning chatting, throwing rocks and inspecting the net. At around 10:00 Florest fetches a couple of coconuts, Aniki slices up a fish for some poisson cru with lime and a baguette materializes from someplace – cuisine maison for these guys. Oh, and Aniki takes a long pull on a bottle full of… fafaru. Characteristically, he offers it to me with a twinkle in his eye, but I simply don’t have the constitution to accept.




The morning isn’t exactly a bust, but the catch is not overwhelming. There is a single gorgeous surgeonfish (Ume) that Aniki carries back to the shore - in his mouth – for my viewing pleasure. I take some pictures and we return the fish to the water. Otherwise, the catch is some dozen parrotfish and mullets. The net comes up around 11:00 and Hérvé and I head out to do some spear fishing for the afternoon, intent on returning in the evening for the night set of the net.

We’re back at half past seven, and walk to this nice looking house a stone’s throw from the hut. This, I’m told, is Aniki’s house. Ok, so this is new information I try to square with the previous image I had. This is not the first time I find myself wondering exactly how is it that some of the people make their living around here. But I digress; there is a thread here that runs through the culture, the economy and the politics of modern Polynesia that warrants its own future entry on this blog.

Right, so on the patio Aniki and Florest are finishing folding the net, and we follow them on the dark beach. This time the net is set (with the help of a flashlight) some three hundred meters further away from the pass, and we sit down on the beach to wait. The moon rises early and full over the tall surf in magnificent orange before brightening to the silver glow that whitens the coral rubble beach and makes the breaking surf sparkle. I wade into the water and stand transfixed by the moment; the surf, the warm wind, the water and the sky combine and the island feels suspended somehow, immersed in these elements in a way that seems almost mystical. As I soak it all in, Aniki resumes his routine of checking the net, and this time the fish come in much more quickly. Nae nae (a small jack), vete (goatfish) and anae (mullet) make up the most of the catch. Aniki calls an end to fishing after about two hours and some twenty fish. You take what you need, you can come back when the need arises. He gives us half a dozen fish that Hérvé later shares with the family next door. We say our goodbyes, and make our way back to Hérvé’s house. It being now several hours past sunset, we quickly retire. Falling asleep I can hear the surf above the rustling of the coconut palms outside my open window.

February 10 – Mardi – Tiputa, Rangiroa

It has been a busy and productive three days! Hérvé and I are getting along famously, his house is a very comfortable place and I’m rather smitten with the village of Tiputa. There is a school in the village that serves the northern Tuamotu region, which means there are a lot of young people around. Right around the corner from the Mairie (municipal offices) and next to the school is the sports center, a roofed structure used for volleyball and footsal. For the uninitiated, footsal is a variant of soccer adapted for indoor play on smaller fields and with five players, popular enough around the world to have its own world cup. The local league is busy and I go watch a couple of highly entertaining games. There are stands, and these games are definitely events in Tiputa, complete with outdoor concession offerings and vocal audience participation.

I am getting the hang of spear fishing - we’ve been going out every day since I got here. Or so I though before today, before Hérvé announced we were going to fish the incoming current right at the mouth of the pass. Now, he didn’t mean the peak current but the period of slack water between the tides and the hour immediately following it – this gives me some comfort and indicates he is not totally crazy, as the lagoon of Rangiroa is huge and not a place I want to get swept out to either. Ok, so I’m willing to try, as this is something that is completely normal to these folks (ie. return from fishing is expected as a matter of course), and I don’t want to appear a complete wuss.




We go to the entry spot well ahead of time, as he wants to introduce me to his uncle and a friend, both by his description fishermen and artisans. I am curious, and get even more so as we approach a low thatched hut overlooking the mouth of the pass. Emanating from within is the sound of a duet between a didgeridoo and a nose flute, and as we duck in to the hut my eyes take in the sight of this magnificent rasta guy sitting on a low stool by a pile of woodchips blowing into his didgeridoo. The sound of the nose flute comes from another corner where another sagely looking man is totally engrossed in producing the notes. Eventually they notice us and a round of welcomes ensues. My few words of Tahitian create a favorable impression, and with Hérvé’s help I tell them about myself. They respond with an invitation to join them the next day for some fishing with a net right in front of the hut. It appears that the lunar cycle is right for fishing for a certain kind of parrotfish on the shallow reef and that these gentlemen are the only ones using a net on the shallow reef in Tiputa at the present. I am grateful for the opportunity.

At this point I should probably explain a bit about the terrain. The crest of the reef on the seaward side rings the island some 50-100 meters distant. Between the shallow crest (out of the water during low tide) and the island is a very shallow back reef environment that is a distinct habitat from the steep slope of the fore reef. Only about a meter or so deep, the back reef receives a continuous and massive flow of water from the swell that breaks over the reef crest and spills landward. This water must go someplace, and those places are mostly the shallow breaks between the motus. At the pass, the reef crest rounds the corners of the islands forming the pass and runs for a bit toward the center of the atoll, parallel to the pass. At about a third of the way in the reef closes in with the island, and at this point all the water piling in due to the surf up front spills into the pass. It is this back reef environment as it curves into the pass that we’ll fish tomorrow. Today Hérvé and I are going to fish the outer edge of the reef.


Ok, so I’m a bit nervous as we enter the water. Hérvé guides our progress across the back reef to the edge where several things are happening. Though we are a bit inside the pass, some of the surf still gets in and you don’t really want to be surprised by it. Another thing is that the back reef water is starting to spill into the pass. And then there is the fact that we are standing at the edge of the vertical fore reef slope. Hérvé pauses here in the waist-deep water, observes the current for some 5 minutes while I hang on as the occasional swell breaks around us. He pronounces things to be OK, we quickly pull on our fins and masks and fall forward into the blue.





If you have ever observed a front loading washing machine in action and wondered how it would feel to be inside – well I’ve got some insight. The water pouring into the pass from the back reef makes it necessary to keep swimming toward the reef crest. Get too close, and the occasional swell picks you up for a frothy ride right to the top of the reef crest. There are a lot of small air bubbles continually churned in at the top limiting visibility, so I keep losing sight of Hérvé. Eventually I figure it out, and just try to stay below the surface where the incoming ocean water is completely clear and the visibility is great. I am towing the tub, and since this is the sharkiest of the places in the pass, try to stick as close as I can to Hérvé to minimize his need to swim around with bleeding, speared fish.



He does his usual – with minimum fuss glides gracefully down the steep edge, peeks around the ledges, lies on top of them in wait. And, needless to say, brings home the bacon. Paihere, Tapatai, Naenae and Honae (different species of Jacks) start piling into the box, and eventually I manage to relax and get busy with my camera. The visibility is phenomenal, and I follow Hérvé as far down as I can. There are fish aplenty here. I’m attracted to large schools of Manini and Aupapa that seem rather indifferent to my presence. It is not a great place for photography, though, as keeping station without a lot of swimming is impossible, and swimming makes the camera move a lot. So eventually I just observe, observe Hérvé spear and the almost magical appearance of the sharks in the immediate aftermath. Today the only loss is to a very aggressive and large Oiri (Triggerfish) that manages to take three big bites out of the back of a large Tapatai as Hérvé surfaces towing it behind him at a shark-safe distance.


After an hour or so we head back toward our launching spot. However, conditions have changed with the speeding current and we have to let it carry us some 300 meters further down the pass to get out of the water. Not a problem, as Hérvé guides to his sister’s house on the water where we clean the fish and ourselves. He also demonstrates an interesting technique in fish cleaning on couple of small Naenae: first you gut the fish, then pull the skin off. After skinning, make a number of cuts (to the bone) both laterally and vertically on both sides. What is created is a fish ready for some lime juice, a bit of salt and perhaps some miti ha’arii (coconut milk) for a quick poisson cru on the run. Good stuff, too! At this point the afternoon has progressed to around 4:00 and we walk (ok, I stagger…) back to Hérvé’s house. All the young guys I see around are remarkably fit, and I am developing a keen understanding of exactly why this is. I’m looking forward to tomorrow and perhaps a bit more passive perch from which to observe the proceedings.

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.