May 30

Written by:
5/30/2010 7:54 PM 

A week ago, back hunched over, grey haired, I saw the ancient one making her shrine to the Virgin. The porcelain figure could have come from any nativity scene, but the alter was all palm frond with a palm wood base and arch roof woven with a skill lost to most of the Polynesians. Trekking to the waterfall and hill with the cross on it I never gave the alter much thought. The missionaries were very successful here and the islanders are considerably more devout than most of the cruisers.

A 28 ft Bristol Channel Cutter arrived yesterday flying the largest American flag I’ve ever seen on a personal yacht. Be humble is my personal motto, but these two were loud and proud and I was happy to welcome the only other U.S. flagged boat to Fatu Hiva. Around 3:00 p.m. we took the launches into the wharf to have a look around. I was only a few minutes ahead of my new friends but the islanders had already loaded me with three rum shots, half a glass of wine, and a hand rolled cigarette before my new friends had even rounded the corner of the break water.

For a few hours we sat by the waterside and the same locals who usually wanted to trade goat meat for beer and rum on the boat were plying us with their hard won drinks and we all danced in the fading light. Without argument we followed the crowd up to a local’s house for more wine and a roast sucking pig that was never to materialize. Apparently, today is the French Polynesian’s Mother’s Day and along with worshiping the Virgin every mom on the island had a pretty good buzz on.

Eventually the crew of BCC Destarte and I made our way back to the waterfront when I briefly lost them. Amazingly, I found myself staring at the same Virgin Mary shrine done up in flashing lights and a family of Polynesians ushering me into their buffet style dining table uttering one English word, eat, eat, eat.

I tried to politely refuse the roast goat, pizza, pasta, and other delicacies when the local school teacher picked up a paper towel, loaded it with enough food to feed the U.S. Pacific Fleet and bade me sit and eat. The heartwarming gesture was amplified by the 3, 4, and 5 year old kids who offered me a palm frond so that I could join in the war of smacking one another harmlessly with the giant leafs.

When I’d devoured the food on my paper towel and smacked the kids repeatedly between bites the same beautiful, Polynesian school teacher loaded my plate again with no less than 15 pieces of coffee, cashew, and chocolate cake. She would take no refusal.

It was good in this moment I couldn’t speak French. For all that I wanted to say, had the words been there, I think the emotion welling up from my heart would have betrayed me. The mothers of the island don’t just celebrate with their own families, but reach out to become the mother of any lost soul they find along the way. Cook, Slocum, and Moitessier be damned. The Polynesia of old has nothing to compete with the people of the islands today.