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TAHITI PT. 1By Phil Trupp |
THE CHEERY, VOLUBLE FRENCH PASSENGERS ABOARD AIR FRANCE 070 STARE
RAPTLY THROUGH THE PORTS. IT TAKES A LOT TO SILENCE THE FRENCH: THE
SIGHT BELOW THE WINGS IS MORE THAN ENOUGH.
THE DARK PROFILE OF TAHITI RISES ABOVE THE PACIFIC LIKE AN
ANCIENT CATHEDRAL. SPIRES CANTED AT IMPOSSIBLE ANGLES, ITS
ramparts spiky as a witch's hat.
"Oh, tres bien," someone whispers.
There are sights in this world that defy conventional beauty, and Tahiti is one of them: it insists
on a world in which romance is immutable, the least perishable substance.
Tahiti's mountains, like the crest of a wave, lift into the clouds. It's as if the island is floating in
a sea of clouds, until the sun reaches higher and the mist parts and the sea unfolds calm and
clear, and the peaks of the volcanoes reach out against the sky and suddenly fall into deep
black valleys.
Across a narrow watery passage Tahiti's sister, Moorea, looms up like a shark's toothy jaw
against a pink, bleeding sky. I have to remind myself that this is real; we're here, in the
shadows of Jack London, Somerset Maugham, Robert Louis Stevenson, captains Cook and
Thigh-even Brando. These mythic islands-a half-dozen of which we'll explore- are the great
harbors of restless souls.
Though Tahiti was discovered in 1767 by the British commander Samuel Wallis, it took a
Frenchman to shape its image as the "island of love." The story goes that a year after Wallis's
arrival, a bare-breasted vahine paddled her canoe to the first French ship to anchor in these
waters. She climbed the quarterdeck, dropped the filmy pareo from her hips, and stood smiling
and naked before sailors who hadn't seen a woman for six months.
"I thought I was transported into the Garden of Eden," wrote Captain LouisAntoine de
Bougainville. Of course he discovered more than unashamed nakedness and "free love"; he
found a mythology of romance virtually immune to the antidote of reality. Bougainville had
sketched for a jaded Europe the outlines of what many others would later seek in this elusive
Tahiti-nui-i-te-val-uri-rau: Great Tahiti of the Many Colored Waters.
Seeking is one thing, finding is another, and at 6 a.m., beneath the lazy ceiling fans of the Faaa
aerodrome at Papeete, the air is warm and damp and jungly. There are fidgety, sweaty lines at
Customs, gendarmes, and bright, grinning posters. A pleasing confusion, an anachronism aimed
at the heart.
Mateata, from Tahiti Tourism, greets us in. her floral pareo. She inserts a tiny white Tiare
Tahiti, the floral emblem of Polynesia, behind my left ear.
"Right ear you are taken," Mateata says. "Left ear you are not."
Any objection I may have is drowned out by a ukulele band. The music isn't Lovely Hula
Hands, the laconic strains of which are, thanks to Don Ho, associated with Pactfic culture.
Tahitian music comes at you at a blazing bluegrass tempo while a washtub bass thumps like the
heartbeat of a sprinting leviathan.
"Not many Americans see our island," Mateata says. "In three days, Hawaii has more
visitors than we have all year."
By 7 a.m., we fly out of Papeete heading for Bora Bora. Of the 118 islands and atolls of French
Polynesia, Bora Bora is perhaps the most famous. Immortalized in James A. Michener's Tales
of the South Pacific, it was imprinted forever on our psyches by the later Broadway musical.
Michener called Bora Bora Bali Hai, "fare atua," House of the Gods. I have my own gods to
satisfy. In the meantime I hope to understand the nature of the ocean we'll be diving into for
the next two weeks.
The islands and atolls of French Polynesia account for less than 2,000 miles of dry land but
cover enough ocean to drown all of Western Europe. They are divided into five isolated
archipelagos: the Society Islands; the Australs (to the south); the Gambiers (southeast); the
Tuamotus and the Marquesas (to the north). These form the apex of the Polyne Detsian
Triangle, extending to New Zealand in the west and Hawaii to the north.
A few million years ago, this was Volcano Valley-a sprawling continent of geologic fury, the
violence of which Venturi can hardly be imagined-and Bora Bora, about 160 miles east
northwest of Papeete, is a perfect geologic reminder of what it must have been like.
This seven-million-year-old landfall is just about everybody's vision of the perfect South Sea
island. There is a main island about six miles long inside a relatively shallow lagoon.
Islets, called motus, are scattered about the lagoon; each is an exquisite South Sea
miniature-sand and palms slipping into opalescent waters. The dark walls of the volcano occupy
the center of the lagoon. Pofai Bay marks the site of the collapsed crater, with Toopua and
Toopuaiti as the eroded western walls. Mt. Pahia's impossibly rugged basaltic mass rises 1,800
feet behind Vaitape, and the cliffs of Otemanu soar 2,100 feet into the clouds.
A necklace of coral reef surrounds the volcano, and gaps in the reef, called passes, allow
oceanic tides to wash over the lagoon.
Diving at Bora Bora takes place both in the lagoon and the ocean side of the atoll. Each is a
unique environment. It's a bit disorienting to discover an absence of colorful soft corals. How
can such topside brilliance exist side-by-side with an almost monochromatic undersea world?
Claude Sibani, of Bora Bora's Calypso Club, explains: "It is nutrient-poor water, nearly 5,000
miles from any large landmass. You must go deep to see the real colors."
But you needn't go deep anywhere in French Polynesia to see big animals. If being in
mid-Pacific makes for a lack of color, it more than makes up for it by acting as a remote
feeding station for industrial-weight open-ocean creatures.
Dive No. 1, on a bleak rain-streaked morning, at a place called Manta Dance, is a perfect
example. Manta Dance is inside the lagoon, where visibility is limited to maybe 50 feet But
there's so much life orbiting around us that visibility isn't important.
At about 75 feet, Claude visits his "pet" moray eels Now, morays aren't that unusual. But here
at Bora Bora they're lined up in ranks-big, active, aggressively snapping at the chum Claude
carries on every dive. ;
The green and gray eels, about five to seven feet, wrap themselves around Claude, who is now
holding the chum in his teeth. My response is to tuck my fingers under my BC and stay out of
the way.
Suddenly the mantes appear-first one, then two more, then two others, until I simply lose count.
In that single startling encounter I see more mantes than I have seen (total) in a
quarter-century of island-hopping.
Back on the boat I ruminate over the numbers. Maybe it's a freak event, one of those
encounters no one quite believes. Yet we'll discover that this astonishing parade of mantes is
only a hint of what's to come later in the far atolls of the Tuamotus.
Our second dive is outside the lagoon along the ocean side of the atoll at a place called Moray
Valley. It's our first run through a pass. Running from the lagoon to the open sea is like going
from a millpond into a tempest. Swells, unbroken for thousands of miles, roar against the reef.
It makes the kind of waves surfers live for. But for divers in an open boat it's a bit humbling.
Claude anchors in a sheltered area, and again we are mugged by hungry, chum-seeking eels,
this time in substantially better visibility.
No one respects French divers more than I do. I was with them in the ancient days, before they
believed in BCs o' the U.S. Navy Dive Tables; before they accepted the fact that people who
aren't French might survive under water. They've always been dramatic, daring, and Claude is
true to form. H~ feeds the morays by holding bait in his mouth. He cuddles pets them, hugs,
swims with them, kisses them, provides cur very dental exams. Soon the eels are slithering
among the divers looking for Claude wannabes. Smaller fish, Moorish idols and magenta titan
triggers, swoop in for scraps then run for cover as the morays come slashing in.
Bora Bora is far from being a developed dive destination, and it benefits from its newness, its
possibilities. At the time of our visit, Claude had fewer than a dozen frequented sites. This
intrigues me. In every direction, from the lagoon (which drops to 180 feet in places) and all
along the outer atoll, there are virgin sites. There's a certain mystique, an
out-of-the-mainstream feeling that is the true stuff of South Pacific romance-and, if nothing
else, these islands are romantic: "Nave' nave'fenua"-land of delights.
So why won't the rain stop? It's summer: November through April. Northeast trades may
spawn cyclones. Yet I'm fascinated by this cold, sometimes horizontally blown rain. One minute
the scene is brilliant as any impressionist canvas; then it's a gray vault. Even the bougainvillea
and poinsettia seem leaden. It streaks past the windows of the little Air Tahiti ATR-72, which
carries us south through the Leeward Islands to our next destination.
Raiatea-Tahaa is 170 miles northwest of Tahiti and a short hop from Bora Bora. It's a big,
sprawling island (150 square miles) with mountains and deep valleys.
Originally called Havai'i, it's the second largest island in French Polynesia. The central town of
Uturoa, in the north, consists of a double row of colorful Chinese storefronts lining the main
drag. There's an open-air market, artful Chinese vendors, a pleasant harbor and a few more
shops; not many beaches, which may account in part for the island being on the fringes of
tourism. I like it. And as a dive destination Raiatea-Tahaa is wide open. Its miles of reef have
barely been touched. A wonderful new diver-oriented hotel, Hawaiki Nui, features over-water
bungalows with viewing ports cut into the floorboards. From inside the bungalow, 10 steps lead
directly to your own personal diving dock (with warm shower attached) and straight into the
lagoon.
Twenty yards out is a shallow shipwreck. The hotel was two weeks from opening at the time of
our visit last fall.
Not far away is the lively Chez Marie-France Hotel Pension de Famille, where Patrice and
MarieFrance Philip cater to mostly adventurous divers. Patrice Philip is a big, bluff man who
commands a staff of young French instructors. He holds forth on dive technique, history and
marketing. The Jean-Paul Sartre of plongee sous marine. He's a busy man.
His Raiatea Plongee, like most French dive operations, marches to the beat of the national
certifying organization, CMAS. U.S. procedures are also observed. But, explains Patrice, no
one is more exacting than the French.
"Not more than 59 feet deep for 'Level One' American divers," he proclaims. "And at all
times they will be with an instructor."
Level One is novice-about 20 open-water dives. Level Two goes to 96 feet, and on to Level
Four, where CMAS permits three divers to go to 162 feet. All are accompanied by a
divemaster.
Patrice allows two dives per day. If you're really hot, maybe you can wangle two tanks and a
night dive. Maybe. Thank goodness for Bernard Begliomini, who has volunteered on behalf of
Tahiti Sun Dive Centers to be our escort. He's joined us in RaiateaTahaa, and will return with
us to Tahiti, and on to Moorea where he runs Bathy's Club. A native of Cannes and the son of
a history professor, Bernard makes le plongee appear less regimental than it really is. If
Patrice Philip is a touch Napoleonic, Bernard neutralizes the seriousness with wry, offhand
remarks. His presence is much appreciated as we pile into an open boat.
We're wrapped in foul weather gear as we churn out to a pass at the northeastern tip of the
island. The sky is solid slate, the rain slants down like cold buckshot.
At the pass we plow into undulating, foamy hills. Waves swamp the bow. We take a steep angle
and fall abeam of the oncoming swells. Bernard peeks from under his flapping rain slicker and
gives me a look. In the stern, Patrice Philip grips the rudder with stoic determination. By the
time we're through the pass I'm cold, antsy.
"Alors," Bernard says. "Let's swim with the sharks!"
And there they are, about 60 feet below-I don't know how many: clouds of grays, white- and
black-tips circling in a big, dark swirl of torpedo shapes. They have transparent, unblinking
eyes. They are very near us, moving with quick, restless motions. Sharks are everywhere in
the Pacific but so many at once might give you pause.
But not Bernard or the CMAS instructors. They wade into the pack. I see Bernard, "loveless,
hold out a piece -of fish. In a blink, a seven-foot gray snatches it, shaking it as she zooms
beyond visibility.
Now the others are excited. The feeders chop bait. The water is a snowfall of flesh. The sharks
snap at the drifting bait and swim in smooth, quick circles.
One of the sharks, a male, reveals a strangely notched snout; it's as if a large triangle of flesh
has been excised, leaving a forked, snake-like leading edge. For whatever reason, he takes an
interest in me, though I am kneeling low between coral heads and doing my best to be cool.
Next to me is our senior diver, M. Bellard, who has the talent of smiling with a regulator
clamped between his teeth. He is smiling now, as if to ask, "Puis-j'avoir la carte?" May I see
the menu?
After a while the sharks are stuffed. Bernard holds a grisly fish head on his fin and flashes it at
them. For whatever reason they ignore it, and Mr. Notch-Nose is no longer scooting around
behind my back.
Now the little fish zoom in as the sharks drift away. The wrasses, butterflyfish, the seemingly
delicate creatures, form a cyclone of furious, greedy energy. What a contrast to the more
stately,: elegant sharks. ~.
"Well?" Bernard grins on the way back to the dock. It was a good show and he knows it.
"Extraordinaire!"
We hunker down for the ride back to Patrice Philip's dock. It's cold, and we're wrapped in
yellow slickers, but now the sea is following, and the sharks are happy, and soon we'll be warm
and dry.
I try to imagine the islands beyond Tahiti and Moorea: the Tuamotuan atolls of Rangiroa and
the island they call "the end of the world"-Manihi.
I look up. There, a hair above the mountain of Toomaru, temple of the great god Oro, a slash
of sunlight shimmers in the rain.
"You will see," Bernard shouts over the growling outboard. "It will amaze you. "
In that shivery, rain-soaked moment, none of us can possibly guess just how amazing it will be.