February 25 – Mercredi – Tupuai

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!

[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.

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).

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.

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 11 – Jeudi – Tiputa, Rangiroa

Reflections on spear fishing.

For us from the higher latitudes and areas with really productive coastal waters, it seems implausible that fishing with spears could be a significant or effective means to collect fish. And I suppose if you take an industrial trawler with a crew of six and compare the amount of fish caught per person per unit time, the spear fishing effort looks modest at best. But then again, a coral reef is a very different kind of place to fish. The nature of the corals themselves make using a piece of gear contacting the bottom a hazardous enterprise at best – nets will snag and tear unless set by hand. Another large difference is the fish. Their diversity is tremendous, and while some species are pretty easy to catch by hook, others can be all but impossible. And they all taste different, so if you really want to eat, say, Oiri (Triggerfish), the most effective way to go get it actually is by spear.

And the quantities caught are not necessarily that modest either. I interviewed one professional fisherman in Rangiroa who reported catching around 90 Parai (a species of surgeonfish) per week for the local hotel. Given that these fish can reach two or more kg (5 pounds) in weight, the weekly catch can easily exceed 400 pounds and the monthly catch is likely well over half a ton of this one fish. By one fisherman. Multiply this by some tens of people in Tiputa and Avatoru, and the amounts start to become pretty significant.

So the pluses are these: you get to select exactly what you want to catch and your equipment investment is very small (spear gun, mask, snorkel, fins, plastic tote, a knife). The downside is you better like being in the water. And you better start early, because the kind of skill I see these people exhibit comes only with childhood conditioning and training.

Is spear fishing a traditional technique of fishing, though? I’ve been trying to get some answers about how long the current form with the rubber strap powered guns (pupuhi) has been around here, and how much it differed from the preceding method. The answers I’ve been getting from people in their 60’s and 70’s is pretty consistent among the islands. The preceding technique employed a spear called patia, some 2.5 meters long over all. The first two meters was a wooden handle constructed from Puru or Aito trees, and the last 50 cm was the barbed steel spear. The reach of this weapon would have been about two meters plus the length of the arm thrust used to deliver it to the target. The transition between the two occurred sometime between 1965 and 1970, almost simultaneously on all the islands I have visited.

It is useful to think about the advantages of the modern pupuhi over patia. The velocity of the spear (auri) delivered from pupuhi is faster than the fish escape response, and the reach of the weapon is much higher – up to 5 meters or so. To put it in practical terms, even I can catch a fish with pupuhi. Toss in the outboard motor and the ability to range further faster, the game has changed dramatically since the late 60’s on the spear fishing front. To a person, the current generation of spear fishermen does not think it possible to catch fish with patia today. This is an interesting measure of the number of possible changes.

Perhaps fish behavior has changed. I’m not an expert in this field and so don’t know how likely this is. Certainly fish learn, but often their curiosity brings them to within range of the pupuhi so any change certainly hasn’t been universal. Then again it seems from my casual observations that places with the most fishing effort also has the most easily spooked fish. Why would patia fishing not have had the same effect on fish? The sound of the spear?

Maybe the current generation of fishermen are just softer, slower or less talented than the people of old. This seems unlikely. Certainly they are trained in and used to the modern technique, but it seems really unlikely to me that they could have much success with the patia however skilled they were in its use in the environment they are fishing. What much success means here is completely open to question; perhaps in the days of old you went fishing and didn’t expect to catch anything necessarily, whereas today the expectation is to come home with a whole pile of fish. It would be really interesting to put a patia in the hands of a good spear fisherman for a month and see what happens!

What all the fishermen seem to agree on is that there is less fish. Some blame scuba divers and the resulting bubbles, some blame global warming, some blame themselves. My working hypothesis is that there is just less fish and the ones that are there are smaller, so the nature of the problem is likely the lack of suitable targets to hit with a patia.

And finally, how traditional a way of fishing is the use of the patia? Without a mask, hitting a fish underwater seems impossible, so this method is likely no older than pearl diving, introduced sometime in the mid 1800’s (I’ll check this date – a bit unsure of it) with the use of glass-faced underwater goggles. We do know that spears have been in use for much longer, used for fish in the shallow back reefs where you can hit them from the surface. There are many written accounts of this fishing technique in the post European contact period, and there is a long archaeological record of spear tips from all around the Polynesian islands.

That is probably enough on this topic. Just a sample of the kinds of things I’ve been thinking about.

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.

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 30th - Vendredi – Teahupoo

So here is the scene. I’m writing this from the verandah of the parish house of the Teahupoo’s St. Benoit catholic church, where I will be staying for the next six days. What you have to picture is a building of which 1/3 forms a large open space that opens directly to the sea. And I do mean directly, as there is but a ten-foot strip of gravelly sand between the balustrade and the water. Some half-mile distant is the reef, with the famous Teahupoo surf break about a mile away to the left. Behind the house and less than half a mile away start the deep eroded slopes of the ancient volcano that formed this island, now covered in the exuberant
lush greens of the Tahitian landscape. To say this place is gorgeous seems inadequate.

I just came back from the first outing, this with Jean Sulpis who is a local spear fisherman. Actually he is not making his living from spear fishing, but like many people around town he puts a lot of the food on the table by his spear gun. And did I mention his is good at it?


I had never really seen spear fishing first hand, and the term “fishing” here seems a misnomer. It really is hunting more than anything else, creeping on the bottom, using ledges and coral boulders for camouflage, waiting for the fish to come within reach. While holding your breath, of course… We got up at 0430 (in the dark), had a bite to eat and then paddled the va’a (outrigger canoe) to the reef cut. I ask Jean which way we are headed and he responds by gesturing primarily upward. This is followed by a brief stop during which he prays. I assume this is for a good catch, but combined by the previous gesturing and getting a good look at the surf on the Teahupoo pass, I increasingly dread it is simply for a safe return.


We slip into the water as the rising sun is casting its first rays over the mountains of Tahiti Iti. Jean immediately begins fishing, approaching the reef break from the shallow water to peek over the edge. He lies on the bottom motionless, at times using his hand to creep forward - the spear gun pointing forward and at the ready. I am so focused on him that I completely fail to see the fish his first shot hits – an Uhu, or parrotfish some 30cm in length. He kills the fish at the surface by a quick stab of the tip of the spear just behind the eye to the brain. He then threads the fish on a stout nylon line around his waist, and proceeds to go after the next one. Fish are scarce this morning apparently, and, before long, we have swum some distance from the anchored canoe. Jean motions me to go fetch it and tow it behind, emphasizing the motions with “la pirogue, la pirogue” (the canoe, the canoe). I sprint back, happy to be of some use.

At this point Jean abandons the reef edge and starts fishing almost in the surf. I guess I should mention something about the surf to those who, like me, know next to nothing about surfing. See, this is quite possibly the most famous surfing spot in the world right now. It is hard to appreciate it this early morning when the sea seems pretty placid. There is something about the reef near the pass, gently curving to an almost South-North orientation, that forms an almighty wave when the long swell from the distant Southern Ocean storms roll in. After all, there is naught but water between us and Antarctica (all right, some small islands I’ll be visiting later…) so the swell can travel long distances without disturbance. The Teahupoo wave, at its highest reaches well over 7-8 m I’m told, and is one of the places where the top surfers in the world gather every May to establish the rightful pecking order of surfing stardom.

Back to fishing, however! This monster wave leaves its mark underwater as well, flattening pretty much all growth forms of coral toward the reef crest, and scouring deep drainage channels into the reef matrix, running perpendicular to the reef crest toward deep water. It is these sheer-walled channels some one to two meters in depth that Jean is now fishing. Alas, he is doing it so close to the reef crest that even the present gentle 1 to 2 meter swell occasionally breaks right over him. I remain further seaward in deeper water with the canoe in tow, visions of the canoe catching a wave and being deposited in bits over the reef crest – with yours truly in tow – helping to enforce a respectful distance.


Jean’s fish count is now up to about 7 or 8, and we have swum a good mile down the reef. He comes to the canoe; we pile in and start paddling further south, toward the next pass and into the building wind and waves. I am proud to report that my watery education that commenced at an early age in rowing boats of the Savo-district in Finland comes handy, and I can produce a controlled movement forward in the canoe all by myself as Jean bails. I can only assume this is how he has always done things, but the canoe begins to feel more like those James Bond two-seater micro-subs, albeit man-powered, than a proper Archimedean vessel of conveyance. I paddle, he bails and we inch along the reef finally reaching the next pass and scoot in behind the reef. He makes some noises of relief and, with an international gesture, mops his brow with his forearm. I’m sensing he’s perhaps trying to impress me just a bit and this might not be his average day’s fishing journey.

He fishes the edge of the pass, approaching the very abrupt fall-off of the reef from about 2 meters depth to goodness knows how deep. I’ve never been a particularly good free-diver as a restricted eustachian tube means I can’t equalize the pressure in my ear fast enough to make it very deep. Jean, however, is truly impressive. He gracefully glides down and vanishes into the blue for almost two minutes at a time. He is from Ua Pou in the Marquesas Islands, and says over there they fish even deeper.

Eventually the sun gets high enough to put an end to his efforts – the height of day is not good for fishing. This time we are running with the wind in the protection of the reef and the paddle back to the house is a positive joy. We get back around 11:00 and sit down for a Tahitian breakfast of papaya (with some lime), avocado, baguette, coffee and fried fish. Not a bad start for the day!

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!