February 23 – Lundi – Tupuai

This time I think I’m going to lose it. I mean I just can’t see not losing it. Even before placing the tasty morsel in my mouth, the mere sight of it in the bowl proffered to me is enough to start a little retch in my stomach. Alas, this is my first day with my new hosts in Tupuai, and the impulse to do right by them is mighty so in it goes and it…is…ghastly! We are talking about a strip of raw sea cucumber served in a mixture of lime juice and, yes, fafaru. (For an explanation of fafaru, please the post from Feb. 1) The texture is that of rubber bands, eraser bits and snail slime inside of a small hot water bottle you are trying to chew through. It is chewy. It is gooey. It is occasionally crunchy and always tough. The lime makes my mouth pucker and the fafaru fills my whole head with the essence of rotten fish. So I try to concentrate my thoughts on things like the taxman and Sarah Palin’s 2012 presidential campaign and the task at hand: Do not throw up all over the inside of this rather nice big late model Ford pickup truck. Eventually my hosts’ attention is drawn to their interlocutor on the other side of the car, and I can fling (with extreme prejudice) the still-intact sea cucumber bit out the window, smile and smack my lips in appreciation as the attention eventually returns to me. Whew.

With this introduction it is my intention to dwell for a bit on my culinary adventures thus far, and the diet around here in general. No pictures with this one, I’m afraid, as in a role of a guest I find taking pictures of the things on my plate just a bit too weird. Here’s a partial list of what I’ve eaten so far, though. Fish; boiled, fried, dried, salted, rotted and raw. Lobster; baked, roasted, rotted (in fafaru). Coconut Crab. Snails. Limpets. Turtle. Yes, turtle - unlucky for the turtle, it does make one good stew and is traditionally (though currently illegally) eaten all over Polynesia. I have reached a point where, when offered the gizzard of a goatfish or the gonads of an urchin, I can just pop the thing in my mouth and dwell on the texture and taste without many of my prejudices of old.

Some prejudices are harder to overcome than others, though. In Rangiroa I started partaking in the lovely Tahitian habit of saying grace before meals. I even developed my very own silent prayer I uttered before sampling a dish of unknown identity: Please, dear God, don’t let it be Dog. Yes, they eat dog around here, and yes, I hear it reported that it too tastes good in a stew. And tell you what, there are plenty enough dogs around! Further, after a few restless nights punctuated with the inevitable dogfights around town and the loud and persistent protest of every canine around to the passage of some nocturnal interloper, I find even this prejudice start to recede. Oh, and I also know why you kill chickens by wringing their necks. Because you bloody want to, is why! Yes, the cocks call their cock-a-doodle-doos at dawn – and every other fracking hour one is trying to catch some sleep. Yes, wringing their necks is the only way of extracting some justice in a land where you sleep with the windows always open.



The veggies are fewer in number than the animal options; uru (breadfruit) and taro are just about all that are regularly eaten, with lots of French fries in the menu in the local fast food joints. Green things seem out of fashion pretty universally. Oh, and bread. Lots and lots of bread, really cheap (but good) baguettes, subsidized by the French taxpayers and available in every village fresh every morning for the ridiculous price of about 70 cents. Also rice, a lot of rice. As a matter of fact you could say that the modern Tahitian food is dominated by starch and fat. After a month of eating at family tables I do understand clearly now why there are so many big – and I mean scary big – people around.



So many big people and so much diabetes and heart disease, in fact, that it has attracted international attention. I have the good fortune to have my stay in Tupuai coincide with the public delivery of the preliminary report of a comprehensive multi-island study of the diet/disease interaction in Polynesia, conducted by a team from Lavalle University from Quebec. Since the public presentation is conducted in French I miss a fair amount of the message and so can’t quote many details but: The picture is not good, obesity is rampant across almost all age groups and exercise is rare. Interestingly, many people I talk to afterwards blame their genes rather than diet, whereas the study finds the diet to explain 100% of the observed disease patterns. Denial is a universal defense mechanism, I find.

Ok, so I won’t dwell too much on the sights I’ve seen, but a couple of snapshots. Children and some adults assembling a Dagwood-style pile from wheat crackers and Nutella. And then they dunk this in a bowl of Milo, milk and sugar, eventually allowing the tails of the sugar sandwich to meld with the liquid sugar in the bowl to form this pap that is then spooned up with good appetite. Now I’m not saying this is any worse that some General Mills or Nabisco products on the shelves in the US, but it is a pretty peculiar thing to see.

Another accepted food group are the various forms of canned oinks and moos commonly served in stews and as side dishes. I’m talking of course of Spam and all the other related potted meat products that just haven’t formed any part of my diet at any time in my life (Thank you, Mother!), and consequently find it amazing people eat the stuff when they do have many other good, affordable options around. Yes, I’ve tried them all when offered, and I reluctantly concede that they are actually a little better than fafaru.

While I’m at this, I might as well mention the liquid food group. Polynesians drink significant quantities of beer. Right, I’m sure you spotted the generalization in the statement above, for not everyone drinks that much (particularly the women) but boy do some guys make up for it and keep the average up! When you hear someone declare they only had two beers over the weekend, this actually refers to the number of cases they consumed – I’m not making this up! In my experience the guys on these islands make happy drunks very happy to share their beer with you. The scary part for the casual observer is the grim determination with which they keep downing the brews – there is no let-up, it is all go, go, go until either the beer or the drinker go out. The next day begins with a beer, and this bender can last well into Monday, which is casually known here as the “petit Dimanche” (the small Sunday).

A friend of Hérvé’s who showed up at the house around nine o’clock on Friday, the day before our departure, offers a good illustration of this behavior. He is in his late forties, a heavy-set guy who spills out from the front seat of his large pick-up that slowly creeps up the driveway. Hérvé knows what is coming, and carries three chairs out to the porch as soon as he recognizes the arriving truck. The friend spills out of the truck, staggers to the porch and wordlessly collapses on the empty chair - all the while holding a can of Hinano. He looks kind of morose, actually downright frightening in this inebriated state, but his face dissolves into this absolutely radiant and sweet smile when Hérvé introduces me to him. It turns out that the missus threw him out of the house, and he is here for a refuge – a situation I gather is not unusual. Long story short, another hour and a half and pass at a clip of about a beer every 15 minutes. At this point he runs out, staggers back to the truck and returns with a small box of Zumuva wine, a product exactly as bad as the name suggests.

At around eleven the talk turns to music, and Hérvé announces that a) the friend is a really good ukulele player and b) with his guitar and singing, they make one sweet Paumotu duo. Trouble is, the uke is back at the house and, despite my vocal pleas to the contrary, Hérvé and the friend pile into the truck and, with a few course corrections involving gear changes, back out of the long, dark drive. I resolve not to risk my own neck in this endeavor, because the friend is truly blotto. When he first proposes fetching the uke, I think he is just joking. Now, I don’t think him capable of finding his own butt with two hands at this stage of the night, and don’t really expect to see the two of them back anytime soon. Imagine my surprise then, when the headlights re-appear some twenty minutes later, miss all the palm trees and come to a halt in front of the house.

So now picture this. The friend sits slumped in a plastic lawn chair, occasionally threatening to roll right out of it. He is, as I mentioned, a stocky guy, with big hands and thick fingers worn leathery and calloused by cutting copra. His eyes are but thin slits, for all purposes closed, and he fumbles and almost drops the uke as he reaches for it. Yet somehow, once secure in place, his fingers know where to go, his face takes on a Buddha-like serenity and indeed the two of them play absolutely beautiful tunes together. I am astounded by this display of grace and mentally re-calibrate the performance scale for practiced drunks. I record them for a while, but eventually have to head to bed and leave the two friends playing together on the porch. Next morning they are both up early, but while Hérvé goes for a bottle of aspirin, his friend shuffles over to the truck and opens another box of Zumuva for breakfast.

Alas, this behavior does not always lead to mellow tunes; domestic violence and casual bar fights are apparently all too common, not to mention the economic hardships families suffer in this place of exorbitantly expensive beer. Alcohol abuse in Polynesia is a phenomenon that has been around since European contact, and fast solutions to the problem seem unlikely. I hasten to remind that the behavior is not universal, just distressingly common.

This post started in Tupuai, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten way off the track. I’ll get back on track with the next post, on some very interesting experiences both on and off the water on this beautiful island.

February 1st – Dimanche – Teahupoo

On Tahitian hospitality.

I am writing this late in the evening of another amazing day. No fishing, no water-based adventures, but cultural immersion instead. Last night was the birthday of Gineta, my hostess here. Her family and friends gathered around to celebrate. Present were some thirty people - sisters, in-laws, friends, all with kids of varying ages. But before I get to that, I should describe the situation here a bit better.

My hosts are Estellio and Gineta, a couple in their late forties/early fifties. They have three kids, and formally live in the town of Taravao about a fifteen minute drive away. Estellio works for the Service de Peche (fisheries service), and has generously promised to both arrange for housing and some contacts with the local fishing community. Gineta does all the cooking and together they take care of the Parish House. Indeed it was Estellio who largely built this house and, because of the small size of the congregation (only some six families), has somewhat the run of it. He prefers this place to his house in Taravao in that it is directly on the water in a setting reminiscent of his home on the atoll of Rangiroa. And after being here a couple of days I can only concur – this is a very nice little corner of paradise. Together they maintain the kitchen, work the orchards around the church, and generally keep the place up.

Since I arrived there has been a steady stream of friends coming and hanging out during the afternoon hours. Jean, the spear fisherman, and his wife Joana are here quite a bit as are cousin Louisa and her husband, the deacon Ernest. You put these six people around a table and what follows is much hilarity. I understand absolutely none of the rapid flow of Frehitian (French and Tahitian mixed evenly), but the peals of laughter are enough to bring a smile to my face. Everyone seems absolutely nonplussed by the presence of this strange person in their circle, and I quickly relax and am content to try to snatch a few words of the conversation here and there.

Right, and I should mention that Jean and Joana are complete Elvis nuts. I mean name-your-son-Elvis kind of Elvis nuts. Jean apparently in earlier life wore his hair Elvis style, and can do a mean Elvis air guitar complete with the moves. Why do I tell you this? Because the substantial boom box in the corner churns out a continuous soundtrack of Elvis. Elvis on infinite repeat. And not the young Elvis either I’m afraid, but the worst excesses of the Fat Elvis during the darkest moments of his Las Vegas career. I hope not to offend anyone by saying this, but a drug overdose seems like the next logical step for what pours out of the speakers. The juxtaposition of this and the life and people around me is something to behold.

Moving on, however, to the birthday soirée. The spread of the table was as lavish as it was broad in scope. The modern Tahitian family is a mélange of Polynesia and Europe, and accordingly on the table is everything from a potato salad to traditional Paumotu-style grilled fish. Potato salad being fairly familiar to us all, let me describe the traditional Tahitian end of the menu. The staples are uru (breadfruit), taro, various fish, coconut milk and, more recent additions, corned beef and baguette. The uru is roasted whole over a fire, peeled and served in chunks from which you break a piece of your liking with your fingers. Taro is boiled, with the coconut milk poured over everything on the plate. By the way, there are various kinds of coconut milk, none of which bear much resemblance to the Thai-style product found canned in American supermarkets. One variety is prepared fresh, tonight by the teenage girls. A fresh coconut is split and grated, the resulting pulp then squeezed through a cheesecloth to yield the product. It is lighter both in consistency and taste from the Thai variety. Another style is fermented for a few days and kept refrigerated, having a slightly tangy taste.

The fish. Where to begin? Prepared every imaginable way from completely raw with a bit of salt and lime juice to being tossed on the fire whole and turned until appropriately charred on both sides. In the case of Oiri, a species of trigger fish, the raw liver is inserted under the charred skin just before cooking is finished, the oily liver melting into the flesh for some extra flavor. Some fish are just tossed into the pot and boiled, others steamed, but in no case are any particular spices inserted into the cooking process.

Perhaps the most peculiar of these dishes is Fafaru. You start with some small fish, even lobster, which you place in a jar with some seawater. You then leave this jar sitting around sealed for four to five days – and did I mention the contents are dead at this time? You then carefully open the container and decant the liquid portion, this being the product (part A) of the process. Only then do you secure a perfectly good parrot fish (Uhu), tuna (Ahe), trevally (Paihere), or any other fish you might have on hand at the time. You then skin the fresh fish, fillet it into bite size morsels and pour part A liberally over the pile of it. Let the two mellow for few hours and…eat. Yes, I have tried it and yes, it does taste just as revolting as it sounds. Mind over matter, however, and if you avoid breathing and concentrate on Elvis crooning Moody Blue in the background you quickly realize that there are worse things in the world. I submit that this dish truly is one of the Kings of the Land of Acquired Tastes.

Overall Tahitian food is uncomplicated with subtle flavors coming wholly from the ingredients themselves rather than added spices or sauces. Provided you like fish it is really very good!

After dinner follows a performance. The young women of the family come out one after another to perform the classic Tahitian hula, complete with wreaths of flowers and colorful, not-too-covering dress. The dance is clearly and deeply part of this culture, yet I still find myself startled by the sensuality of the dance in this setting of family and friends. Clearly this is not Kansas, where a 16-year old girl would probably find herself grounded for a month should her parents see her perform a dance like this! The party goes on in a rather mellow way until about midnight as people drift off, leaving me eventually listening to the surf and the echoes of the mournful voice of Elvis still bouncing inside my head.

Sunday we go to church, where the priest does me the courtesy of saying a few introductory words and a summary of the sermon in English. Once again the generosity and hospitality shines through as after the service I am ushered to the head of the table, taking precedence even over the priest. He sits to my right and speaks very good English. We speak about modern Tahiti and the political troubles brewing in the Polynesian Assembly. After the breakfast preparations commence for an afternoon traditional family lunch/dinner, and I am ushered out the door with Louisa on an errand to do, well, I’m not sure exactly what, but options seem limited so I go along.

See, Louisa and I do not really have a common language. I mean there is a ton of good will and a real desire on my part to learn Tahitian, the intensity of which is only exceeded by Louisa’s determination to have me speaking fluently by the time we get back. Accordingly, she points out every plant on the roadside and loudly repeats the Tahitian name of each twice before moving on to the next plant we flash by in the car. I try to make the most of the opportunity by repeating each name twice, but the situation is utterly hopeless and my head soon swims with a cloud of syllables disconnected from each other; never mind of any particular meaning. My fallback position is the grin-and-nod routine. And grin I do, until it hurts. And eventually all the defenses and the verbal person gives way to a more primal grunting and pointing animal, and we establish some level of communication on this more limited plane.

So I get a tour of Taravao and its environs, the local schools, waterfalls, picnic spots, neighbors and relatives houses until I’m anxiously glancing at my watch as the hour draws past midday. We go to Louisa’s house to get some coconuts and mangoes, then to her daughter’s house to get some Taro and some other places for flowers and eventually I am emphatically pointing at my watch that now points at two o’clock. I get my point across and we get back to Teahupoo where Louisa is met with some reproachful looks from all the gathered family. Everyone has arrived, and much of the food is on the table; people had started worrying. I feel both mollified and indignant.

What follows is an eight-hour eating, drinking (not to excess), hanging out session during which I have time to talk to lots of people about, well, everything and anything. Lots of people want to hear about Obama. Some teenagers want to talk about the environment and their worries about Tahiti. Some people tell me about their relatives in LA and Hawaii. I hear about Jean’s older brother who went to Hollywood with the film crew of the Marlon Brando movie Mutiny on the Bounty some forty years ago as a very young man and had a career there. More dancing and eating until around eight o'clock people start drifting off and by 10:00 the place is silent. I sit up for a while listening to the surf on the reef and watching the lightning from a passing storm. Language may be an issue, but these people can certainly make one feel comfortable and at home.