The Condominium Beach Club

After viewing the dark brown Polynesian style bungalow sitting over by
the flower field that Claude and Barbara were about to rip apart and
rebuild we all strolled through the thick tropical grass to the white
coral beach with the leaning-over palm trees anchoring it. This was
the look, Les Tipaniers bar/restaurant deck leaning over the beach too
like the palms, bright turquoise lagoon water lapping the sand and a
few scattered bathers soaking it all in. What do you do now, explode
into this idyllic scene, yes, in your mind, your body is in slow and
smooth gear as it is washed over by the soft sunny air, colors, and
sounds. In the little spider-like shade spot directly below the
nearby palm tree a couple is comfortably lying about, beach chair
backs up, straw hats, sunglasses, and the look of tropical
savoir-faire. I am introduced to Marie France and Michel, both of
them well tanned, sporting their elegant senior beach attire. It is
before noon, so they haven't retreated to their bungalow yet for the
noon meal and Radio Polynesia's world news program. Introduction
greetings taken care of, Claude immediately gets into a lively
conversation with them, obviously a continuation of an earlier
debriefing. His French is sounding great, I'm still getting used to
the local accents, Barbara is all ears and beautiful smiles, learning
a lot and hoping for translations later.

Barbara and I wade into the lagoon, Claude can't pull himself away
from Michel and Marie France, so much to talk about, and later I find
out how much that really is, but for now I figure Claude is just
strengthening his French language wings way beyond the remnants he
hung on to while spending so many years in the states. Gradually the
lagoon water deepens, for a long time it only goes up to my knees, the
next drop is to the waist, then it's dive in and swim to the slightly
darker magic blue water out by the buoy, not far from where the
transient gringo gunk hole sailors anchor for the night. In the
distance we can see Claude wading into the light green shallow area,
water-walking his way out to us, finally, oops, he stops again and
talks with the big kahuna Tahitian windsurfer/kiteboarder guy who
considers himself prince of the beach, he probably would have been in
a perfect world. Finally, when Claude arrives at our three meter deep
outpost we all doggie paddle as he fills us in on the latest
condominium news up-dates, a.k.a. local beach colony gossip. Everyone
needs a handsome, older wiser couple, full of island stories
themselves, for perspective. That is how we find out about some of
the naughty and bad form moves made and planned by our immediate next
door neighbor Pierre, who is also retired and should be part of the
wise elder club, but has not paid his karmic dues yet for gaining the
12th ranking (highest in France) pension level for being a tax
investigator for 40 years; this could take some time.

Marie France and Michel taught school on small islands in the Pacific
and Indian oceans, they also have worked in France, doing the standard
five year rotation gig. Now they enjoy a double (due to the
living-in-Polynesia-hardship-policy) pension and have worked out a
very comfortable routine. Claude and Barbara drifted into their lives
by accident when they bought a bungalow in the same beachside group of
condos next to the classic old Tipaniers resort. Michel speaks a
beautiful French, but in English simply gets much enjoyment out of his
phrase "I am a businessman, Merry Christmas", which he portends is
the extent of his English and his business acumen. But this is not to
say that he isn't a very intelligent and intuitive guy, look at his
beach routine. He likes to see things how they are, and know what he
is seeing. He knew he was getting something new and fresh with Claude
and Barbara, something good, something the condos needed. At the same
time, his old beach confidant Pierre seemed to be getting a little
whacky and overtly displaying some of his darker Frenchisms. Michel
knows what these are, just like I know Americanisms, and did not like
to see his new friends smudged around in them. All of this just gets
more and more tangled up with the fact that Claude and Barbara have
new ideas for some of the remodeling they are going to do here, and
the ideas are darn good, "ouch!" says the curmudgeon neighbor Pierre,
"that will make my place look bad, I don't like that". Even though a
few months earlier when Claude and Barbara were looking a Pierre's
place to buy he made a very big deal about how in French Polynesia you
can do whatever you want to you place without asking for anyone's
permission.

As time goes by we see Marie France and Michel on the beach, converse
more and more with them. Because of our big work load we don't get to
the beach as much as we would like, but some days the couple comes
over and takes a look at our progress. After a while we are all
invited over for a meal, a full-on dinner. This is more than perfect,
as our time and our kitchen have been ground down to nothing in the
past days. We all shower, dress up (sort of) and saunter over to
their bungalow just before sunset around six. Oh, we are welcomed
royally. The little deck is completely filled by the table and five
chairs. We bow, hug and kiss then take our seats. Conversation
begins immediately, Michel reminds us "I am a businessman, Merry
Christmas", then we start telling little stories. Out comes some
Martini, for Claude a Scotch, he needs to relax, lots of big changes
and money issues on his mind. Marie France, in her elegant black
evening gown with dangling necklaces and bracelets, serves us the
drinks and hors-d'oeuvres, then sits down and joins in. After a while
Marie France gets up and retrieves another treat, a big soup for us
all, excellent, we need food and drink quite badly. After eating,
drinking, and much more conversation Marie France goes in to serve
another course she prepared earlier, this time I notice how quickly
and thoroughly she whisked up the plates and silverware from the last
course and instantly washed, dried and put them away while getting out
the next course at the same time, all the while the rest of us are
yakking away.

Several bottles of rather good French wine and a wonderfully tasty
chicken dish and rice pilaf go down very well, I couldn't have eaten
more. But I had to, for after this course was magically whisked away,
washed and stored, out came a big plate of cheeses with breads and
crackers. The night is black now, we can hear the little waves
lapping up on the coral beach, there don't seem to be any mosquitoes,
and the neighbors are quietly busy with their own dinner affair. We
sampled each cheese, with wine of course. Thinking that this was the
end of the amazing meal would have been quite natural, unless you saw
the very French looking apple pie (home baked in Polynesia where apple
trees are more than rare) that Marie France brought out. This
couldn't be true, what a joy, this meal would give us all the stamina
to complete this remodel and bounce back up from the constant jabs and
jeers donated by Pierre. I will never forget Marie France, wearing
her elegant gown, graciously joining in conversation at this meal she
prepared and then doing all of the dishes and clean-up in-between time
all the while.

Michel had his turn at amazing our little audience of newcomers when
he came over one day holding a drawing he had made of the original
bungalow designs and then the modifications Pierre made which
attempted to and succeeded to claim several square meters of Claude's
deck. This was something that could not be accepted as correct and as
far as Michel was concerned it did not represent the qualities of a
decent Frenchman. He did not want us to think that this was par for
the course. Of course we did find this out on our own in other ways
by the many conversations we had with other neighbors, but Michel felt
particularly close to this chicane as he saw it all happen and heard
the boasting about how it was done. As time went on Claude discovered
more and more how precise and clear Michel's help was in ironing out
the myriad details of becoming a true resident and homeowner on
Moorea. In a sense Michel was no longer retired at this point, he had
a mission, help Claude and Barbara float their Polynesian paradise
dream and get the French reputation back along side that of these
newly arrived Americans who might prove to be the exact unknown
element needed on the island these days to keep the sanity level
reasonable therefore preventing premature departures and suicides.

I was driven to the little Moorea airport by Michel when my 30 day
sentence was over. He knew exactly how long it would take so he drove
slowly and cautiously on the dark little road around the big bays.
His little Peugeot hatchback seemed like a very practical car, small,
but 100% car, all gadgets on board. That was a rare ride, on that
island bike and foot were my main movers and I liked it that way. To
get from the grimy remodel job to the beautiful beach with the
professional sunbathers on it I had but only to cross a couple hundred
feet of lawn and there it all was, the blue lagoon. Marie France and
Michel relaxing back on their towels and rests, showing me how one
should truly take it easy when the time comes. Smell the roses, enjoy
the warm sand, wade in the lagoon. Do it all at least once and never
forget it. In the bathtub I close my eyes and drift back to the palms
leaning over the water, the big breakers roaring far off in the
distance on the barrier reef, the tern flying by with the green water
reflecting on its belly making it look like a new species. I would
like to take a whole semester class at the condominium beach club,
learning beach etiquette their way; let everything else go, at least
during the day.

Beware of Stumps

Old trees, removed, almost completely, can still send fresh messages,
like the hand of God they can reach out and grab your ankle, pull you
down. The bluegrass tune Nineteen Staples has yet to be written
reminding us how God's hand can seemingly do these things at the most
inopportune times, in slow motion. If Bill Dwyer of the Dwyer Family
Band is reading this right now with his leg suspended out in front of
him, sipping a refreshing drink, then he is chilling, just as the
doctor ordered. Good man, stay put, let your world of colossal
projects take a rest, watch the rest of the family move around as you
stay still (normally his rate of activity is so high everyone else
must appear to be moving in slow motion, now it's his turn). Bill
Dwyer, the same guy who will hop on his bike and ride to Port Angeles
and back for a kid's school book, glided into the park thinking he was
going to jump out of his bike and into his guitar to begin the
evening's party music while we all enjoyed the latest sunset of the
continental United States. Instead that little stump quietly sent him
down, pushed the steel pedal into his calf opening it up. Dazed we
loaded him into a pickup truck and his wife drove him to the emergency
room. Nineteen staples.

Port Townsend is an eclectic little family, a colorful and diverse
group of it celebrated Sophia's birthday out at the beach that evening
with a potluck bar-b-que. Being that the climate of this town
attracts excellent musicians, a neighbor musician who noticed the
party came over, heard of the accident, picked up Bill's guitar and
playing with the two kids (young adults on mando and fiddle) the group
was reformed, the music went on with the party. Just before it was
too dark to remain, after everyone had gone and cleanup was completed,
Bill's wife drove him by. His attitude was very positive as his lower
calf was thickly padded white, they didn't give him crutches because
he is not supposed to walk, did you hear that Bill? The
electrician/plumber will just have to do his thing without you. Don't
forget, climate change is working in your favor, normally we'd be
hustling right now because the rains are coming, but I don't think so,
looks like another hot and dry day outside with many more to come.
Life here continues in its artistic form, the heavy influx of recent
retirees being the biggest threat to the community by the raising
house prices but not the wages. So us preemptive retirees, a.k.a.
artists and carpenters, must stay on our toes by continually
improvising and reinventing.

We could leave and find something better somewhere else, but where
else do places like this happen? El Bolson in Argentine Patagonia,
where else? That is the dilemma, we are forced to remain and become
trappers and pioneers of the new frontiers of the ether that has yet
to be explained. All the while taking abuse and misunderstanding from
our off-spring and oft too many peers, oh well, no one ever said we
were obligated to be comprehendible, it can help at times, but should
be dialed in carefully, being incomprehensible to many can actually
buy you time, and what is more valuable than time other than love?
The irony here is that one of the most tricky things to comprehend is
love, it's best not too, if someone is out cold on you, move on. You
and they will have opportunities until death, maybe longer, who knows?
Only problem is that we are human, and that means things just get
more complicated than that.

After ripping out a quick letter to the county commissioners, and most
importantly delivering it personally to their office, a parks official
called me quite quickly and informed me that cones will be put on the
stumps today and they will be ground down next week. Wow, I couldn't
help congratulating myself about the pen being mightier than the
sword. Then, coincidentally, on the same day, I decided to quickly
spray some little dots on our street at the 8 foot off-set mark from
the water lines to give myself a guide when the sub-contractors come
to tear-up the street to put in the sewer. Just as I went out and
started spraying a city truck pulled up and out came the city
engineer. I just jumped into the scene, showed him my perception of
where the pipe must go in order to save the row of 12 one hundred foot
tall fir trees lining our street. We had a good talk, so it seems, of
course he'll have a good talk with the sub-contractors and house
owners that are being forced to put in this sewer because the renters
in their house blew out the septic system too. Oh well, I did make it
quite clear that this job is going to be closely watched and better
not go like a few other jobs I have seen the past year. If necessary
I'm ready for some non-violent resistance if the trench seems to be
going in the direction the engineer and I agreed was not wise if the
trees are to survive. More on this later. Beware of trees and those
who like them too.

My Life in PT End of Summer 2006

There is nothing like Port Townsend, Washington, not on the West Coast
of North America or South America, or in the heartlands for that
matter. It's not fair to compare Tahiti or Moorea to anywhere, not
possible, anyway, it's really hard to get there and that will never
change. Here in Port Townsend we are in our own time zone, where all
of the numbers on the clock are either islands or volcanoes. It used
to be they would turn white in the winter, now it's more likely
they'll turn gray and wet. Who knows, if we're lucky this winter will
have some of those beautiful Arctic highs where it's crystal clear,
crystal cold, and fresh, especially good after a good snowing.

The sacrifice one pays for living here is the weak job market, so
ideally you order a mysterious bank account or money tree of some sort
for yourself as early as possible, then everything might be fine. But
I have to admit that up until now I have not noticed any people with
money being happier or in many cases as happy as those without. It's
all in the head. I always believed work should be as close to fun as
possible, even hard work like remodel carpentry. It is possible, I
know that, it just means moving with the flow, that's all.

Of course trial and error are the preferred methods to discovering the
flow, and because the flow has so many dimensions and our eyes can
easily get locked into a particular zoom, one can loose that dang
flow, ouch, that can hurt. Here in Port Townsend one can take on the
task to at least find some of the trickles that go to the flow, we've
surrounded ourselves with ice cold water, dark forested islands, and
two-mile high volcanoes, there's nowhere else to go but here now.

Socks, hats, scarves, long underwear, gloves, and vests were all
designed for us, especially if you live on the northern edge of town
facing the straights like us. That's why we don't bat an eye at
wearing any of that stuff anytime of the year. On the other hand, a
few days ago I rode my bike from home all the way out to the autoparts
store on the highway IN SHORTS WITHOUT A SHIRT AND WAS HOT! This is
the biggest indicator of climate change I have ever experienced.
Along with that when taking walks on the beach below the cliffs at
North Beach I see many new gardens of trees plopped onto the beach,
they were once 200 feet above as part of a forest.

Saturday is Sophia's big 21st birthday party at North Beach Park,
we'll see the longest and latest sunset in the continental United
States as a treat foretelling of a great future for her as she leaves
for her final years at Columbia in New York. Mr. Ivy, a.k.a. Noah
Potato, has way too many important dates and appointments in Santa
Barbara to make it to this fuddy duddy party in our little out of the
way hippie dippie town. Mr. Z Business truly has too tight of a
schedule to make it here from LA Cyberlandifornia, otherwise I know
he'd be here. Oh well, maybe those Polynesian islands really aren't
so far away, anyone who visits has to be special otherwise don't
bother coming.

The Wet Clean-Up

"We need a wet clean-up in front of the milk department, please."
That means I'm home, or whatever. The parking lot here at the Safeway
strip mall in Silverdale-the-Malltown is bigger than the airport in
Papeete, the Safeway check-out area is probably bigger than the Moorea
airport, can't say exactly because I'm not going inside. Penny is
shopping at the Texas Glad Rags store across the ocean of black
asphalt from Safeway. Cars, lights, black asphalt lagoons with white
stripe eels frozen solid on the surface, big shiny cars galore
floating on top, completely still with all sorts of signs and wires in
the background. At the Moorea airport they don't check ID, or bags,
they give you a number printed on a paper card, like "4", that's your
boarding pass. The flight on the colorfully painted little double
otter to Papeete takes about 15 minutes. That airport is looking more
like the real thing, sort of.

Most of the people I see are brown and other not white colors, all
sizes, some tanned beauties on vacation with their surfboards or large
wheeled bags. Like Honolulu, the airport is open-air and the big
Tahiti Nui and Hawaiian Air planes lined up at the gates are stuffing
themselves full with passengers going back to the landworld. Every
Saturday around midnight there are several big flights heading to Los
Angeles (Paris), Honolulu, New York, Melbourne, and Tokyo. These are
the meat wagons, hauling tourists and traveling Polynesians across the
blue water to the green and black land. Everyone arrives blurry-eyed
ready to begin a new day at their destination, for me that meant a 7
hour break where I squeeze down to Waikiki for some vacation sand
between my toes followed by another across the water flight, this time
the water is more gray than blue, especially as you near the
Washington coast.

I know there was almost nothing but clouds covering the ocean because
I really made an effort to check it out, but most passengers did as
told and blinded their windows so that the incredibly bad Disney movie
could better be seen. Crazy, all those clouds to look at, and the sun
was out there too. Only one person occasionally peaked up their
window to look out, I was stuck in the middle row of seats. At least
I had a nice Waikiki beach walk and quick swim in the warm water, no
lagoon though. Lots of tourists, gringos and Japs*, all cramming there
way onto the narrow strip of beach that I remember from 1962 when I
visited this place with Grandma Dentzel on our way to the orient.
There were no high-rises, the Moana Hotel was the biggest structure
and the rest was a palm covered field all the way to Diamond Head with
a couple of small one or two story hotels mixed in, not any more.

*please take this as you would "Brits" for Brittons, merely trying to shorten the words (sorry if it offends).

More than anything it was the cars and roads of Honolulu that shocked
me upon arrival; Tahiti is not like that, anywhere. The big concrete
and steel buildings, the business of empire all about really made
southern Polynesia look like a true boonies, only thing is French
Polynesia is on a more human scale. It's harder to get around, more
expensive to get things not grown or made locally, but calmer,
quieter, cleaner, lighter, slower, smaller, and far far away. Of
course the same problems found in the north exist in Polynesia, only
the vast amount of water surrounding every island and community makes
some sort of hard to define difference, the magnetic or energy or
cosmic balance is not the same as when engulfed by continental land.

Took a city bus to the ferry terminal, then another bus to the transit
center in Poulsbo, then Jefferson Transit to Port Townsend. Felt
pretty comfortable returning here, even though it is serious
carculture too, the scale is small, distances are small and there is
always the well known Port Townsend Time, similar to Island Time, much
better than Mainland Time. As expected most everything was the same,
just a little drier, not quite as green as when I left, they have had
a lot of nice warm weather this summer, actually there is probably a
drought going on right now. Still, here in the empire you can get
just about anything you want for a pretty good price, well monetary
price that is, the high price part of this deal is the lack of
serenity and constant competition for whatever, the feeling that you
must buy to have and to not run out. The bigger the house, the more
you need, well at least the more you can fill it up, and that just
happens naturally, just like smoking cigarettes, you naturally want
another one shortly after you finish the last one.

Looking around at roads and for sale signs sure gives one a bleak
prospect for the state of this planet in 100 years, what will be left?
Of course you can't put lines on the ocean itself, boundaries of some
sort yes, but more importantly the ocean is the final dumping ground
for almost every nasty thing that is humanly made possible, eventually
all the stuff will run there. So, enjoy the land of many islands now,
its days are numbered, whether it sinks below the future's murky water
or just suffocates from an anaerobic sea doesn't really matter, no one
seems to be slowing down on any of the basic problem making exercises,
if left to the military the planet will be a no man's land well before
100 years. This is the gift all people of the older generations are
giving to the younger generations, the excuse of not knowing does not
fly, it is known, but too uncomfortable to act upon. Sorry kids, you
do the wet clean-up, we're busy enjoying the last of the good stuff we
got a taste of before you came along. Isn't that the American way,
deficit spending?

While at the mall I notice a lot of people that look Polynesian, also
many other minority types. This whole shopping area would not be here
were it not for the military bases nearby. Lots of these people are
military, young people seeking a job, an occupation, an identity, a
life out of poverty. It must feel very good to be shopping here and
just be able to buy gobs and gobs of stuff, as often as you wish.
Cell phone booths, car dealerships, big box stores, every single one
of them, you know the names, cover the once happy green valley opening
up to the sound. It is not like this on the islands, it might take a
few generations before people realize that this is all a distraction,
do we have a few generations? Well, we have "now", that's about it.
Time to go to bed.

--

My Tahitian Brother

It wasn't until "late" last night that I was able to pry myself away
from the beach walk sunset, glass of red French wine on C and B's deck
w/moonrise, then long extended dinner with hors'd'oeurves, followed by
an old French movie that probably never made it to the USA. Late here
is around 9 PM, because we get up so early, same with cold here is
below 70 degrees when you have to put on long pants and long sleeve
shirt, still no socks; a flannel sheet would be good for a blanket
instead of the thin cotton one. On the bike ride to the village the
crabs were also responding to the big moonlight, running across the
road, showing a lot of ownership.

The little outdoor restaurant next to the wi-fi place was closed so
using one of those chairs and tables for my little office was for me,
no need to buy a $4 mini glass of canned grapefruit juice. Across the
little garden trail on the other side of the village I could see the
lights of La Iguana, the classic old veranda style colonial
bar/restaurant, French music just loud enough for me to enjoy, swizzle
stick customers sprinkled about on the comfortable stools, big chairs
and couches. I didn't see Humphrey Bogart; he was probably in the
back room making some deals with the black pearl traders. I noticed a
light flashing around in the darkened closed area I am occupying, a
big, long grayish-haired Tahitian man quietly rolls up next to me.
Says he is the night watchman, will be there until 5 AM. He's glad
I'm there and says to stay as long as I want; his name is Leon, very
mellow. We talk for a bit, agree that staying up with the news is a
waste of time and using the Internet to communicate with family is
about all it's good for. He tells me to come back anytime and hang
out there; we both knew that during the day when this place is open
neither one of us could afford to be a customer.

Claude too has bumped into many Tahitian brothers, more and more as
the stay is longer. Sisters too, with their long cotton wraps and
flowers in their hair, often with a big one on the side (depends on
marital status), guys too can have flowers in their hair. Gaston the
plumber and his crew of tattooed and necklaced dudes doing the palm
slap and knuckle touch have slowly completed their big below ground
tank and graywater system here. Tahitian Claude, a big long haired
guy, probably knows Leon, our age 50x, is a builder artist, works a
lot with local woods, pandanus roofs, tiki style structures, gets a
lot of business with the tourist industry. He became very concerned
when he heard of our Claude's problems with the spoiled French
bureaucrats living next door. It was then that we realized that the
problem was finished regardless of the dumb threats. All Tahitian
Claude has to do is go over there and politely tell them not to bother
his friend Our Claude, that's it, over. (Just heard today that Bruno
and Carol are moving into an apartment in Papeete, closer to his work
and Lulu, their 3 year old, will have more friends.)

Riding my bike back from the village I inadvertently tandemed with a
bent over kind of ragged Tahitian guy, he asked me if I wanted to buy
any pot or coke, I shook my head no, then he asked for some money so
he could buy a coke, I told him sorry, we parted ways. I guess if I
was a smaller, frailer person I might have been a little scared about
that kind of dark messenger, but I looked at him, then at me, and
realized I could easily squash him if he got weird. The Tahitians
speak French of course, just like Mexicans speak Spanish, but they
also speak Tahitian and it is nice to know that if you speak English
they love it because it means that you are not part of the repressive
French colonial regime. The Tahitians are fine with everyone,
including the many French speaking Chinese, but are always wary of the
French.

Big Round Silvery Moon Orb

We knew it was coming, Moorea's modest lagoon tides were unusually
low, hidden chunks of coral reef were exposed, little sand islands
popped up, the beach was slightly bigger. The night before was cloudy
so you couldn't see much of the big white ball, although it did make
the dogs howl and cats jump around. Tonight it was completely clear,
full of the brightest big stars while waiting for the moon to peek up
over the rugged ridge of the jagged little green mountains that make
this island (we look at these, we never climb in them). When the moon
did rise above the ridge it was huge, much too big, how could we make
it through a clear night with that hanging over us. My only thought
was that it was doing the same thing over other places I knew and
people I love, my family and friends, dealing with this same big white
thing many thousands of miles to the north and east or west of us.

Here it is almost like daytime it is so bright and easy to see, the
trees provide shade and the white coral beach looks completely normal,
just a little bluish. Off in the distance the waves keep breaking on
the barrier reef, you can hear that drone of the surf twenty-four
hours a day. In the water tropical fish are swimming around just like
in the day. Down along the shore there are lights from the Tiki
resorts (whose drumming and dancing shows we occasionally hear while
we linger on our deck) with moon lit silhouettes of palm trees doing
their leaning over the water thing. A couple of gringo boats, one
trimaran, one catamaran, bob around at anchor just off of our beach.
Claude and I swam out to them earlier today and got the low down on
this one guy's trip; our age, single or whatever, from Texas, been
bumming on this beater trimaran since 1999, eats well, takes it easy,
does some charter, knew the people on the other boat from the
Marquises and Ecuador, picks up and drops of chicks on occasion, so he
says (his beer belly wasn't commenting).

All of the little bungalows here are lit up with this sunny moon with
our building project standing out as the break through design idea.
Our shed thing, that everyone else has, is now cleanly attached to an
"outdoor" kitchen, separated by a five foot wide breezeway which leads
to the new deck where we sit to watch the sun or moon rise, facing the
field of Tahitian flower bushes. One thing that was on the to-do list
that got done, only took twice as long as we thought, was ripping out
the poo poo brown wood grid and opaque fiberglass window in front of
the big shower stall and replacing it with sixty glass bricks, six of
them turquoise blue made in Italy, the rest bubble pattern French.
The moon shone on this, with all of its meticulous grouting work and
trim, the big ugly pile of dirt and rocks from the gray water tanks
put in the ground were also cleared and a happy little winding path
sculpted in its place. These Society Islands are one unusual society,
that all zaps me when I see things like the bright white zinc oxide
coated nipples of the bare breasted, well bounced-up, tanned and
stacked French woman lying there in the white coral sand, dark brown
skin with two funny looking jumping full moons with volcanoes sticking
up resting calmly there in the gentle warm breeze.

In fact the moon makes it so much like day I think I'll go down to the
beach right now and test the water. After making a last minute wine
run before the store in the village closed and a check in with
tiki.net where I got to chat with Sophia again, Claude and I had a
dinner of boiled potatoes with olive oil while we watched a cheesy
Catherine Deneuve movie (she's in her 20's), fortunately my eyes
crashed down and I keeled over and landed on my floor mattress for a
good nap. Barbara also conked out quite early after a day of glass
brick grouting, we'll all probably be up around 5:30 or so waiting for
the sun to peek over the jagged ridge and the Tahitian ladies picking
blossoms at the palm bordered flower plantation to begin another day
of pulling this remodel together with a mixture of American, French,
and Tahitian guys smoothly doing their thing.

Old French Ways vs. Something Else from the West Coast

Gosh, what a grand opportunity, we have run up against some people
with out a vision, with lots of property and money, and they loudly
insist that we know nothing and can do nothing, right here in
paradise. We will have to learn some big things with this group.
Guess it's not a coincidence that the team consists Pierre, a retired
French colonial bureaucrat (tax collector with out a constituency any
more) who prides himself on having reached the 12th (highest) level of
pension and also to have perfected the technique of sleeping with his
eyes open while sitting in an office chair, and his son Bruno who is
at a much lower civil service level now in the same bureaucracy but
working his way up as fast as he can. Bruno has almost perfected
saying "et voila" after all of his hollow pronouncements and
proclamations, use it sometime and see how it works, or doesn't. The
poor wife and daughter-in-law is quite reasonable when in public, but
must play along with her husband and in-laws whenever they are chewing
over "the big issue".

The first big blow-out came when Pierre, who bought the little
bungalow for his son (he owns 16 apartments in Paris and he and his
wife get the 200% pension with no taxes because of their "hardship" of
living here in French Polynesia) came over and ranted, raved and
threatened to take us to justice over futzing with the portion of our
deck that he fenced into his son's deck zone, his argument was you
bought the place "as is" and that was that. These taunts have been
going on for a while, the big property line hub-bub where we all
agreed to go 50/50 on a survey and they backed down (having an
objective definition of this line might hurt them more than help),
then there was the Xeroxed page from the French Polynesian law book
that said condominium neighbors have to have an agreement on
construction. We were supposed to receive a copy of that to get us to
straighten out, the copy never appeared. The night before Bruno had
said that he did not care what we did on our side of the property
line, well, we agreed to that, isn't that an agreement? Then the next
night he came over with two hand written copies of his same letter
stating that he officially is not in agreement with what we are doing,
he demanded that Claude sign the paper and return one copy, he didn't,
that really got the steam rising. Then Bruno's dad, Pierre did his
sticking out the tongue thing and "I don't know you" line to one of
the old time neighbors who thinks our place is great.

Michelle and Marie France, in their 70's elegant retired people who
hang at the beach, are really glad to see us doing our design,
Michelle even made a drawing of how Bruno encroached upon our space by
building a kitchen with a stove, sink, and washer under Claude's roof,
imagine that! Well, most of the people around here, Chinatown, French
retirees, Tahitians, and investment rental people, all like the fact
that this place has no building codes, permits, inspections, or taxes,
AND WANT TO KEEP IT THAT WAY. So Bruno has gotten the word, in fact,
I don't believe anyone was joking when the possibility of serious
physical harm could result in further annoyances. This did not come
from us, but there are people here, French gangster types and Tahitian
tabu types that do not want any government people coming near this
little community, we like that. It feels like a general libertarian
attitude, not liberal or conservative, beyond both, maybe not the best
mode for corporations, but at this small scale it seems to work.

This long story has been shortened, but some of the extreme Frenchness
of it all is better than any movie or TV show. On the surface the
whole thing has to do with real estate, therefore money. But
underneath, the father/son dynamic seems to be in bad shape. The
mother, Franca, came over here a couple of times and in a very loud
and clear French told us all off in a variety of ways, standing right
in our faces while we worked, on Claude's property. Eventually she
huffed off to the beach, on her way back she smiled at everyone and
said how much better she felt and hoped we felt better too…is this
normal?

Our Other Friends

Usually I get completely away from our lagoon-front work-zone about once a day, sometimes mid-day, sometimes not until evening. Using the cruiser bike is the quickest way, bouncing with those big fat tires over the little island ring road to the village. So far I haven’t hit any crabs, but they always get my attention, sometimes there are so many of these land crabs popping in and out of their holes, crabbeling their way across to other holes, that the palm covered road shoulders appear to be moving like the ripples in the lagoon. These are big light gray crabs bigger than my fist. They seem to be quite comfortable scurrying around those palm fields and hiding in their holes, haven’t yet seen any squished ones on the road.

The most amazing domestic animals around here are the poultry. Contrary to the savaged and desperate looking chickens eking out an existence in the Andes or the Amazon, the hens and roosters hanging out around here are tall, clean, colorful and very healthy looking. Beautiful deep reds, white, orange, curly long tail feathers, well tapered necks and perfect beaks. No scrawny featherless crouching beggars, these birds rule here, they might even be the direct descendents of the rosignol used for the French made skis. We are reminded of that their sovergnty each morning, little herds of them run around in just about every open area there is. Fortunately for use they choose to eat the cockroaches and centipedes and whatever else of the local bug population we don’t really want to see, too bad they don’t eat mosquitoes.

In our little lagoon zone there are several little clutches of mommy hens with little troops of chickies weaving in and out of mommys’ legs and the colorful bushes as they all look for munchies. These little families usually start out with about eight or ten members, by the end of the first week that has been cut in half, by the end of the first month the numbers are very low. The poultry population seems to be in perfect balance. After the first months of life, the chickies get big enough to survive the daily dangers, until the Tahitian owner comes along who is preparing for dinner. The ready-to-eat size are bartered, you see them being toted around between legs on mopeds and bicycles on their way to service.

You have to look pretty hard to find the bigger nasty bugs but when you score, the experience is universal, shriek! I couldn’t get over how fast those long wormy centipedes could cruise. First of all they are big and fat with a long stripe down their purple body. Their head has some nasty looking pinchers especially when it’s doing its defense stance thing, opening them up and staring at you. All of those little legs, at least one hundred of them, work fast giving it the mobility to crawl up or down anything, especially your barefooted leg. The cockroaches aren’t so special, just the regular big bug that moves as it pleases and stays out of sight, a nice meal for the chickens.

While lying in the white coral sand on the lagoon shore I saw the most beautiful lime green tern fly across my view, wow, no one ever told me about those. When I saw the next one I figured it out, the bright turquoise green water of the lagoon was reflecting up on the bird’s puffy white plumage. Other birds around here are the myna, typical of India and everywhere in between, they make their collection of screeches and yammering. Lots of little birds with crests or mixed colorful plumage jump around in the bushes and palms of the fields, if I had time to hike around more I’m sure there would be lots of discoveries made, these islands are a happy abundant refuge out in the middle of the ocean.

Our little cat is not looking like those generally seen on the American west coast, he’s Tahitian. His head is a little pointier, his coat has more spots on it than stripes, sort of like a little leopard, most of all his attitude is very laid back. He can lie on his back with legs spread out and head to the side, sleeping right in the middle of a busy room under construction. He hangs out on top of our tools or at the top of a lonely post looking down at everyone doing the building thing. In the evening he just pushes his way into you and does the purr things with great skill.

It’s the furry coated (usually pedigree) pet dogs that some of these French people have that I feel sorry for, they are being held hostage down here with clothing on them that would do fine somewhere in the foothills of the alps but looks pretty silly in the tropics, poor doggies. The Tahitians have their dogs too, short haired, healthy looking but very slow and passive. I guess sometimes they come out on the road and scare tourists, but all I’ve ever seen is tired looking mutts just hanging out on the sidelines, nothing to be afraid of.

Fishies abound in the little lagoon, long silvery clear needlefish, angelfish with bright colorful stripes, deep dark iridescent blue fish with lacy fins, and even plenty of Hawaii’s state fish the Humu-humu-nuku-nuku-apu-aa. Supposedly, just over by the little motu islands nearby our lagoon beach are manta rays, friendly ones, that swim around and jump out of the water doing tricks for the tourists in the glass bottom boats, haven’t been there or done that yet.