Tahiti – Hiva Oa (Marquesas)

Distance, like time, is relative, but unless you are talking galaxies, the Pacific ocean is in the 'pretty bloody massive' category. The entirety of the world's land mass would fit into it, as would all the other oceans combined. La mere grande. And dotted around it, covering thousands of square miles, (the internet here isn't fast enough for me to check exactly) lie several groups of islands that collectively make up French Polynesia. In the north east of this colonial territory lie Marquesas Islands, six in total, the second biggest of which is called Hiva Oa. Hiva Oa's largest 'town' has 2000 people, a tiny harbour and an airfield, and within this harbour is a boat, and within this boat is a cat. This cat that has bitten me once (on the ankle), but I now feel like we have come to rest a place of mutual disregard, except for the odd miaowing conversation, that I always have the final say in.



the cat is licking her paws and I am writing to you.



I had never heard of the Marquesa Islands before the name was dropped in an email to me – 'in december we will be in the marquesas for a cultural festival that happens every 4 years, and is the coming together of the 6 islands in the chain. It is kind of a big deal. We will then be doing a Big Trip to asia. If you want to sail with us, meet us there'. These the words of Tom, accordionist and captain of a boat I stayed on several years ago in La Paz, Mexico that I had reconnected with on a cold scarborough day last winter. Their blog had shown them in Tahiti, all lagoons and spear-gunned 4ft tuna, and there didn't seem to be any good reason for me not be there too. So, in short, I did my best to make it happen, and sure enough...



The couple of months spent in Vancouver with my grandma and fam, and then in California with Uncle Rich, Travis, and old Santa Cruz pals, formed a happy pre-season set of fixtures before the adventure proper began.



So the flight to the marquesas felt like a beginning. I had been going on about wanting to get outside my comfort zone and this was now it – no familiar faces, new language (french, which I have been working on for a couple of months but it is hard), new sets of skills, consistent heat, the potential for disruption of bodily functions, no decent cheese. But more than that, giving away my freedom to move at will to the captain and the wind. And even more than that, having no clear end point (the boat aims to be in borneo in july, but then I will be in borneo, and it will be july) and no regular way to fill/spend/pass/complete the days.

Being busy, which I invariably was in london as was everyone I knew, leaves little time for reflection or self-development, but it certainly makes time pass quickly, which in some circumstances is no bad thing.







The airport was straight of the Rum Diaries, or stories of colonial journeys to africa in the 50s and 60s. There was torrential rain as we got off the plane, and we got handed an umbrella on the top step for the walk to the 'terminal building' which was basically a corrugated iron room with a timetable of flights and freight prices on the wall. Nice. The rain (mbira calabash acting as a makeshift hat) made it easy to hitch to the

dock where, as instructed, I waved in the direction of the 20 or so assembled boats and looked generally purposeful. Out from behind one of the boats rowed tom, a blue eyed frenchman with a broad and only slightly cheeky grin. The drink here is rum with lime, brown sugar and a bit of water, and the rest of the crew were kneedeep in a lunchtime indulgence. Friendly and, I could tell straight away, a diverse set of dudes.

That evening they threw a party for my arrival (there may have been a party anyway, but this is my interpretation), and as darkness fell and the edge came off the heat, dingys arrived one by one by the side of the beat, bearing the cast of characters on this particular stage. Mostly men, all french, all French, all with (mostly metaphorical) salt in the creases of their skin, eyes chiseled deep from hours watching the horizon. Everyone there had sailed thousands of miles to get here, often alone, and after weeks or months would sail thousands more – south west to tahiti, east to panama, west to indonesia or the philippines. They were together tonight and were happy of that, but the transitory nature of our party was absolute.




And there was music! I had been told in advance of Romano the accordion player. If Angus had spent 15 years on a boat, I imagine he would play like Romano. Two nights before I came they had played the internationale and had complaints, so now every hour, or in fact in every break in the music or conversation, this revolutionary anthem was sung in french as loud and raucously as possible, just to piss off the complaining boats. And in between we played klezmer and gypsy tunes, searching for a common repertoire and banging out some classics, or improvising, or passing the guitar to lily for some french ballads. Romano plays accordion tight but in a way which always makes you feel like he is on the edge, pushing himself and you, and this is exciting, melodies coming mid way through progressions that I did my best to weave around and extrapolate, sudden double times and rubato. And then he would open his mouth and sing, a husky, staccato but tuneful voice, each syllable dismissed as the inevitable truth somewhere between his throat and lips. Eyes blazing with fire, rum and an indignation that the painful words he sang were so accurate. (check the song). He was from Marseilles, where the canons point not out to see, against invading armies, but inland against their own government, and like many solo sailors in the harbour, literally sailed away from a society that didn't allow him to live in a way he felt meaningful and just. First along the canals from holland to the south of france (who knew you could do that! Definitely up for doing that sometime), italy, down the coast of africa to cape verde, then across the atlantic, 9 years in colombia and panama, and now here. And in the future? He is not sure, and he is not looking too far into it. As he told me as we walked back from the village the other night,'i do not yet know my place on this earth'.



But anyway, first big jam for a while (or a 'cool minute' as they would say in california) and I was loving it, and it eased the difficulty I was having following the french conversation. Not having that input of language allowed me to take a step back and see the people around me, and enjoy the process one has when with a new group of people in which individual personalities slowly rise to the surface among the group. Olivier, a tall, skinny, handsome belgian with neck-length lank grey hair and huge blue eyes whose entry to the party consists of a sustained and apparently hilarious attack on one of the younger crew's newly grown moustache. Michael, always grinning, always passing the rum, spent the whole night playing the djembe almost in time with an enthusiasm that could not be dampened by romano's protestations and accusations of incompetence. Lily, one of only two girls in the gathering, with a no nonsense attitude and voice as sweet as you could find simile for, who listened as there was a general agreement that everyone on the boat at that particular moment was in love with, and bore this love with broad shoulders and another song.



There was no bed for me those first nights as the old crew had not yet left, so I slept where I am sitting now, on the roof in the middle of the boat, looking at the stars and a new moon, feeling like I had arrived and the signs were positive. That this would not be an easy journey, but definitely a journey I wanted to be on.