The Marquises

 The Marquises; Hiva Oa, Fatu Hiva, Nuku Hiva and Ua Pou is the first cluster of islands we encounter arriving in French Polynesia in mid April. The names melt like m n m’s on my pallet, bright and sweet.

We are far away from home and the Marquises feels otherworldly. At sunset drums pound from the valley and plumes of smoke drift up from the hills. There is an eerie intensity to the sound travelling across the bay. Something from days gone by.

Before sunrise a group of outriggers glide by in the pale morning light. Singing trails their wake, ethereal and foreign. I stick my head out the hatch and as in a dream I see a boat disappear in the mist.

We arrive to the island of Fatu Hiva, for Easter and go to 8 a.m. mass, dressed in our rumpled Sunday best. The Chapel is filled with locals and cruisers. Tropical flowers adorn the church and women’s’ hair, splashes of red, yellow, orange and pink. Looking out the open-air windows, the hillside is a jumble of Hibiscus, Bougainville and Gardenia.   Half the congregation is in the choir singing with perfect pitch and collective vigor. A man covered with tattoos beats a drum in accompaniment. It is a powerful synergy of Polynesian and Catholic ritual.

Fatu Hiva is rated one of the top three anchorages in the world. Four thousand foot high volcanic mountains crash down to the bay and stone pillars rise up like monoliths from the sea.  Some days the wind rushes down the mountains like giant exhalations, gusting up to 40 knots. Miraj swings back and forth on her chain but the anchor stays put in the sandy bottom.

Two Manta Rays visit the bay one afternoon and we jump in to the water. They are curious and swim above and beneath us, almost touching, undulant and filled with grace.

Outside the town of Taiohae, on the island of Nuku Hiva ,we drop the hook  in what once was an enormous crater, in the company of 60 boats.  Taiohae is the administrative center of the Marquises and we submit Bill’s application for a long stay visa in Polynesia.

The French language wafts through the air, fluid and sensual, mingling with the scent of fresh baguettes and croissants stacked in the bakery every morning.

French Polynesia receives one billion Euros yearly form France and the infrastructure is impressive, perfectly maintained cement roads, docks in good repair and quaint tourist centers.  In return France has access to deep-water harbors and a chance to pay for past nuclear transgressions.

At dawn fishermen arrive with a bounty of tuna, gutting them on worn wooden tables in the harbor. The entrails fly in to the water where black tipped sharks fight for the spoils.

 Next-door the vegetable market is in full swing showcasing bananas, papayas, pamplemousses, tomatoes and 2-feet long green and purple beans. We fill up our empty stores salivating at the sight of so much fresh food.

There is fiber optic Wi-Fi in Taiohae and the café’s at the dock is full of cruisers gorging on Internet after months of limited connection.  This is a chance to download charts and references for the remote upcoming islands of the Tuomotos, trouble shoot boat problems, connect with friends and family at home and study the current weather.  

  It is also a place to meet old and new cruising friends, discuss past adventures and share a meal. I spend the morning conversing with a young Norwegian sailor who has reached this outpost by train, bus and sailboat. He is currently sleeping in a hammock on the beach but is joining an 80-year-old single handler as crew to Tahiti.

An English couple tells us the story of how they hit the head of a 60-foot long sleeping sperm whale outside Galapagos. The whale woke up and bumped the hull hard a second time trying to get away.  Out on deck the crew saw blood in the water and the creature breaching the water a mere 10 feet from the boat. It gave them a scare, but luckily the boat was undamaged.

The hiking is stunning in the Marquises. We follow winding paths through fertile valleys, wander up steep volcanic hillsides and cross over to the village in the next valley. We follow a gorge until it dead ends in to a tremendous waterfall and swim in the pool below surrounded on three sides by vertical rock rising 2400 feet.

 Three to six hundred year-old stone platforms, pae paes, and carved stone figures, tikis, are scattered along our path partly hidden beneath a tangle of vegetation. 90 percent of the native population was killed, mostly by disease, when the white man arrived 200 years ago. The power of the ancient fiefdoms lingers in the ruins and we pass in reverent silence.  

Immaculate settlements and farms are sprinkled in the valleys. People live off the land, harvesting coconuts, growing fruit and vegetables, hunting goats and wild pigs and fishing.  Walking by we are invited in for fresh fruit and a conversation. The generosity and gentleness of the people is touching and it gives us a taste of a different way of life.

 One morning we encounter Tikia, a large, muscular, barefoot man, with a fierce expression. His face and bare chest are covered in intricate tattoos, a six-inch long seashell pierces his ear and he wears three machetes and a knife around his waist.  Abruptly was how we stopped!  We came to know him and his family over the next couple days, and he was a lovely man.  Always working and in motion on his farm, he spoke loudly, laughing at everything, even his own sneezes, exclaiming in incomprehensible syllables at all the amazing things happening around him.

              In the afternoon his lovely wife Kua cooks us a meal of fresh caught lobster and river-shrimp, served over a green papaya/guava salad. Tikia and their son Matheu de-husks coconuts nearby while a pot full of fish heads simmers over an open fire. Filled by an exceptional meal we follow the path back to our anchorage our moved by the soul of the Marquises.