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TAHITI PT. 2BY PHIL TRUPP |
WITH SHARKS, THE ONLY CONSTANT IS UNPREDICTABILITY - their
350-million-year-old Darwinian edge - and Bernard Begliomini, our utterly confident French
guide, handles them like a lion tamer. But lions in the circus aren't the same as sharks in the
wild waters of French Polynesia. In the open sea the Carcharhinidae run the show, sometimes
unnervingly.
Our open boat pitches through Raiatea's cold rain and heaving gray seas to the ocean side of
the atoll where the water breaks curling and white and all you hear is the sound of the waves
dying on the reef. Even before we hit the water we see sharks cruising the bottom like edgy
stalkers ready to pounce on their victims.
The sharks come in swarms (school is too polite a word). Big blacktips and grays, fat from the
abundance of t he lagoon, but still grimly voracious. They circle us, dart in and out, head
straight at us, then break off and swim away. Bernard places a large fish head on his swim fin
and offers it, casually. They rip at the bait, sawing with their razor teeth. They buzz the divers,
and snap at the chum drifting through the water like organic snow. In the feeding frenzy they
are chillingly focused on the bait; human interlopers are hotly scrutinized, but no one is
bumped, the sharky way of tasting food before consuming it.
"Sharks here are not dangerous," Bernard insists. There's plenty for them to eat in the
lagoon. In the open ocean, however, where there are no shallow meadows of protein, the
sharks go for the jugular. No one in his right mind wants to swim with them out there, except
Bernard, who dreams of mounting expeditions in the Gambiers to track man-eating tiger
sharks-in cages, of course.
After the nasty weather at Raiatea it's a welcome break to return to the main island of Tahiti.
It is, after all, the most historic landfall in French Polynesia, the island Captain Bougainville
called la Nouvelle Cythere-the earthly paradise-the island of Jack London, Somerset
Maugham, Paul Gauguin and Captains Cook, Wallis and _~ Thigh, and the madman, Fletcher
Christian.
And if it is true that the capital of Papeete ( pa -pay-EH-tay) is a crowded extravaganza, the
rest of Tahiti retains its soul. The rugged mountains prohibit development above a few hundred
feet, and the valleys are so remote that whole tribes are rumored to be isolated, perhaps still
undiscovered.
Oddly enough, sharks, though plenty of them are out there. It's a bit unexpected, and after
Raiatea and Bora Bora it's good to relax, turn down the tension, and take in the colors. We
encounter nothing really big except the hump-headed Sir Napoleon wrasses (Cheilinus
undulatus). One or two cruise by, scales glowing with a soft blue-green light. These creatures
with their prehistoric-looking lumpy foreheads, eyes as big as quarters and the grace of a sea
cow have been seriously depleted by local spearfishing.
We dive off the southern edge of the outer reef. There is a steep, nearly vertical wall starting
at 15 feet; it bottoms out thousands of feet below on the ocean side, where the diving is
essentially mountain climbing in reverse.
Bernard says French Polynesia has a modest diversity of marine life compared to other Pacific
islands; its location in the eastern Pacific is thousands of miles from Southeast Asia, the center
of dispersal for virtually all taxa. The reefs have been smacked by cyclones and the
coral-eating crown-of-thorns starfish. There are human pressures in the more touristy islands,
and the weather has been unusually warm, bleaching the shallows to an oatmeal colored
sameness.
Still, there are indications of a revival, says Frank Murphy, manager of U.C. Berkeley's
Richard Gump Biological Research Station. "This could be the recovery stage of what could be
called a natural cycle that has been exaggerated somewhat by human impact," Murphy
suggests.
We are invited to dive a spot called Shark Cave. Located on the outer reef, this is a rugged
wall with ledges and sharp overhangs. Shark Cave offers what Bernard describes as
"harmless" white tips and "friendly" morays- one of which mistook his hand for nice juicy bait
on a dive.
Tahiti's growing list of sites include fresh underwater springs near the outer reef, a blue hole in
the lagoon, a series of drop-offs and the Vaiau Cove, a convoluted tunnel through the reef
leading to a large room. The room turns into a series of grottoes, heavy with red mullet and
sweepers. Bernard considers it the most impressive dive on Tahiti's bulging peninsula, which
trails away like a comet's tail off the southeastern end of the island.
We dive two wrecks: an interisland freighter and a Catalina PBY seaplane; they're practically
on top of each other, and it's an easy 35-foot swim from the freighter to the PBY. The plane is
in fair condition and people squeeze into the cockpit for photo ops.
With so much tourism it's easy to lose the true feel of the island, but on our last night in
Papeete we attend a performance of traditional Tahitian music and dance. Even with the
commercial touches there is a certain purity, a timelessness. A modern Tahitian may laugh
when you ask about tupapaus (ghosts, demons), but you can't help feeling that deep in the
interior there are spirits we can't imagine.
Bernard is eager for us to visit his dive operation on Moorea, the heart-shaped island
separated from Tahiti by a narrow passage called the Sea of the Moon. The island is all that's
left of a volcano that once soared 6,000 feet above the sea.
Moorea is one of the most evocative landfalls in the Pacific. For centuries Polynesian chiefs
were buried in caves along the cliffs; most are still there. Stories of spirits are more real than
the fact of discovery by Europeans in 1767.
Here, Bernard is truly in his sharky element, slicing and dicing chum as the waters along the
northwest coast swell with life-chromic, lizardfish, soldiers, angels, and the silver and blue
triggerfish they call Picasso.
Then come the sharks, scores of them wandering in from the fringes: blacktips and lemons with
piggish, upturned snouts materialize out of nowhere. They orbit while the small fish tear at the
chum, at Bernard, at anything that moves. The sharks seem almost shy until it's time to snatch
the big prizes, like 10-pound bonito heads. And with the big chum comes mad ripping and
tearing, the twitching fins and less-than-reassuring inspection of the divers. The way they look
at you- you're meat, rubber-suited chum.
Yet, low against the sand, away from the others, I sense a strange freedom. In the midst of all
this predation the natural anxiety fades, the civilized self trails away. I am more alive but a
long way from trusting.
When the sun breaks through after a week of rain, Moorea's lagoon becomes a sheet of opal
cut through with gold and amethyst. The hills, green and spiky, wander into the clouds, and a
line of foam breaks audibly onto the reef. At noon the heat turns the air into a sheet of glass
with tropical images painted on it.
"Are you willing to go deep?" Bernard grins in that offhanded way of his. There's a site called
the Rose Garden which he thinks will prove that Polynesian coral can be "splendid."
The Rose Garden begins at 140 feet. No big deal for the deep-diving French. CMAS, the
French certifying agency, holds its instructors legally responsible for safety.
It's wonderful to descend through bright water, waiting for the first dreamy shapes to appear.
To make sure the nitrogen isn't playing mind games, I multiply by twos on the way down.
Suddenly the Rose Garden snaps into focus: a field of undulating, flowery corals stretching
across acres of sand. The "roses" are thick, healthy colonies, each petal big enough to hold a
man; the ambient water seems lit by an eerie bioluminescence.
The coral is pristine, an untouched plain of living matter spreading in every direction; it must
be hundreds of years old. The coral clusters descend, thick and heavy, down a steep, sandy
wall and disappear into the gloom. This reef is one of the best I've ever seen, anywhere.
"Cabbage coral," Bernard calls it later-the mundane Moztipora caliculata in its best colors.
Trust the French to turn a cabbage patch into a rose garden.
We leave Bernard in Moorea and head for the Tuamotus, the largest group of coral atolls in
the world. A little over an hour by air from Tahiti, it's hardcore Pacific outback-78 low, dry spits
of sand and palm arrayed over thousands of miles of ocean. Unlike Tahiti, Raiatea and
Moorea, the Tuamotus are flat. The remoteness of the archipelago qualifies for what the
French call au sauvage, the clean break with civilization Gauguin documented in his diary "Noa
Noa."
But au sauvage comes with hard realities: monster currents, sudden storms, deep water, zero
air-conditioning. A Tahitian lady whispers, "The guides out there, they are crazy." We are
warned, "Do not eat fish from the lagoons, they are poisoned."
Is the poisoning related to the French nuclear testing? The question hangs over French
Polynesia like an oath; mention it and "Noa Noa" becomes Touchy-Touchy. In any case, the
nuking hasn't discouraged tourism, particularly at Rangiroa, our first stop in this part of the
Pacific.
The second largest atoll in the Pacific (the largest is Kwajalein, in Micronesia), Rangi is more
than 40 miles long and nearly 20 miles wide. It's a showcase for Darwin's theory of atoll
formation: the mother volcano having sunk into the tectonic plate, leaving only a ghostly to
support a necklace of coral.
Rangi is not to be taken lightly. Even the promotional puff comes with a caveat: "Although
Rangiroa always has diveable sites, in any weather, the average conditions ... are not for the
inexperienced."
The sea runs a moderate to heavy swell even in good weather; at night you hear it exploding
against the reef like thunder. Current through the passes is five knots plus, and the reef drops
to nearly 5,000 feet on the ocean side. The huge lagoon is relatively shallow, fishy and provides
the only novice diving.
But people don't come this far for novice experiences. "Shooting the passes"-soaring with the
tide through the gaps in the reef-is the major attraction. Big creatures feed in the tidal flow,
and sites such as Avatoru and Tiputa passes are inhabited by schools of jacks, barracudas,
mantas, tuna and turtles.
Rangi is also shark heaven, made famous two decades ago by Theo W. Brown, the Australian
researcher who used the atoll as a base to develop his "sonic" shark repellent. Much of
Brown's work was lost in a cyclone. The sharks are still numerous, big and, at times, awfully
friendly.
To get the most out of Rangi it helps to be comfortable with depth and the whims of the French
instructors, some of whom think nothing of chewing you out if you don't obey their every
command. An outrageous scene occurs when one diver, a young woman, doesn't feel safe
following the instructor to 150 feet, a dive profile requiring 20 minutes of decompression. "You
must follow me!" the instructor growls. "I am the divemaster!"
Instructors emphasize the tricky nature of the passes and the fact that local knowledge is
everything. I agree; freelancing is dangerous. Still, the attitude is way out of bounds.
Our final stop is Manihi, a tiny atoll 90 miles north of Rangi. The guidebook calls it "the edge
of the world," and the remoteness is palpable the moment I step off the plane and cross the
scruffy, white-hot airstrip. Past the 5-by-11-mile ring of coral, sea and sky are vacant. The only
sounds are the wind and the swell crashing against the reef.
We stay in tin-roofed bungalows jutting over the lagoon at Kaina Village. Nights are spent
marveling at stars more brilliant than I've ever seen. The sharks carve luminous trails in the
dark water beneath the deck, bringing me back down to earth.
Manihi's diving is spectacular. Because there's no discernible human or natural impact on the
environment, the water has the clarity of mountain air and visibility is 150 to 200 feet; with sun
overhead it's virtual infinity.
With divemaster Gille Petre we dive the flanks of the sunken volcano. I try vainly to keep pace
with the always nosy sharks, give up and drop down a small opening in the rock and into deeper
water. Gille is above helping with the photographs. I'm free!
Razorback outcroppings circle the -cliff face like primitive icons. Far below is a wispy ledge of
sand, an ancient shore in the days when Manihi stood against the sea spewing lava into the
sky. Beyond the beach is the void, a straight shot into eternal night.
Our final exploration is La Passe Tairapa at the southwest tip of the atoll. We descend into
brilliant water to 80 feet, just outside the entrance to the pass. We negotiate a corner and head
in. The flood enters the lagoon at two or three knots. We stay close to the smooth scoured
bottom, flying through schools of feeding fish. Nurse sharks crowd the caves on either side of
the pass; I have never seen so many huddled together, jostling one another like commuters
impatient to board a train. I try hanging onto a rock, but the rising current whistles by like a
wind, transforming my body into flapping pennant.
Suddenly it appears out of nowhere: the not-quite-earthly triangular body of a huge manta ray.
Its wings move slowly, effortlessly, against the tide, its black eyes peering at us from the horny
protrusions on its head. Its mouth is wide open, ingesting plankton in the manner of baleen
whales.
The manta's wingspread is 10, maybe 12 feet across; attached to its spotted white underbelly,
remoras share the in-rushing feast. I struggle across the pass, grab another outcropping and
stare, amazed, as the manta closes in. I struggle to hold my station. The manta slips
effortlessly through the stream, its shadow passing over the marl bottom. It's a timeless
encounter, and in a few | moments the ghostly creature is gone.
We rise into the boil, the choppy flow at the end of the pass, and break into the sunlight. There
is a ring of white foam against the horizon, and the tiny green motus shine with a pitiless
beauty.
We've absorbed the rhythm of French Polynesia. But it's over, though certainly not finished. It
never can be, because in all of us there's an insular Tahiti.