Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
We lay tied up to the offside of 'Inspire' for two days, then with the enthusiastic help of all hands reachable we were hauled and shouted and gesticulated into a position stern on to the end of the wharf with two anchors laid forward and stern lines run diagonally to each corner of the wharf. The stern lay about ten feet off the end of the pier, necessitating a Styx-like ferry procedure with our dinghy with each of us playing a wobbly off-balance Charon in his turn, but differing mainly in the two-way nature of our trips.
We were relieved at the relative privacy of our new moorings. While tied up alongside the 'Inspire' we felt we were living in a goldfish bowl. Five or six or more of the local youths were at all times draped over the rail of the 'Inspire', staring down through the hatches as we went through our daily routine like zoological exhibits. The craving for fresh fruit and vegetables acquired at sea was nipped with despatch, however. From early morning until late evening smiling native girls arrived at the wharf carrying gifts of oranges, tomatoes, coconuts, pawpaws, grapefruit, bananas and other wonderful fruits of many kinds, pleased and shyly satisfied with our smiles and exclamations of pleasure as the only payment they would accept. So abundant were the delicious fruits that there was no regular market maintained and they could be acquired merely for the asking.
The third night, while Joe was at the Rarotonga Hotel writing some letters I heard a faint call from the dock. I went to the companionway and looked through the hatch. I could barely make out the figure of the young native girl standing in the dusk in her loose cotton dress.
'Hello! Who's that?' I said.
'It's Kiri!' came the soft reply. Kiri? Which one was she, I wondered; there had been so many around for the previous couple of days that it was quite confusing.
'What do you want, Kiri?' I asked, stupid ass that I am.
'I have a present for you, Ron! May I come over?'
'Yeah, I guess so! Just a minute! I climbed out on deck then lowered myself into the dinghy, untied it, and standing upright I pulled myself and the wobbly little craft hand over hand by the overhead rope to the end of the wharf. She jmped in and sat down and I pulled us back.
Once on deck I took a closer look at my cargo. I recognized her as an extremely shy little girl who had always stayed at the outside edge of the little group of visitors to our boat. She was quite light-skinned and of a more delicate build than the rest of the saucy full-blown Polynesian beauties we had seen her with, and was dressed in very shabby clothes that had been washed and rewashed until they were virtually threadbare. I guessed she was about seventeen. Although she was by no means beautiful her shy, innocent manner and pathetic lack of artfulness gave her a soft, wistful appeal that touched me strangely. We went below and sat on the bunk in the saloon.
'So you're Kiri, eh?' I said, brilliantly.
'Yes, and I have brought this for you!' She reached into the pocket of her ill-fitting jacket and took out a beautiful golden cowrie shell, polished until it shone like bone-rubbed leather. She handed it to me then looked down shyly.
'It's very pretty!' I said. 'Thank you, Kiri! Where did it come from?'
'I don't know for sure. One of the islands. My Daddy gave it to me. I have had it a long time.'
I looked at her sitting on the edge of the bunk with her enormous soft brown eyes looking at me in the manner of a tame doe. Long dark brown braids lay draped along each side of her slender neck and down over the full swell of her breasts, almost to her hands, clasped loosely in her lap.
'Where do you live, Kiri?' I asked.
'Past Avatiu a mile or so, on a farm with my Daddy.'
'I see! And where's your Mommy?'
'She died two years ago!'
'Oh, I'm sorry!'
We sat for a while saying nothing. I wondered why she would take the trouble to come so far at this time of night to give me such a simple but charming gift. When a possible reason finally presented itself to my travel-weary brain I reached up and turned out the Coleman lamp.
Her love-making was as ingenuous and artless as she was herself, but this seemed incidental at the time, as my psyche re-affirmed a motivation that had been too long overshadowed by the baser instincts of shelter and self-preservation. Since I felt we had also exhausted our conversational potential, I took her back to the wharf shortly after I got the Coleman lamp going again.
One night during the week Joe and I attended a dance given in honour of a visiting official from New Zealand. I introduced myself to, danced with, and invited back to the boat an extremely good-looking Polynesian girl. She was tall, voluptuous, had flashing white teeth and jet-black hair that tumbled unhindered over her shoulders to her slim waist. She was simply stunning and I felt that I was ingratiating myself effectively into her admiring approval. However, my great and good friend and trusty shipmate returned to the boat, modestly and unassumingly sweet-talked his way into her good graces and ended up taking her home. She was either a very good lay or a very good cook or both, because the only times I saw him during the next week and a half were when he came back to the boat to change his shorts. He made a timely visit one day not long before I had returned to the boat to find the sink sideboard covered with luncheon detritus. There was a half-used loaf of bread drying out on the cutting board, an open tin of butter, the remains of a ripe tomato, a plethora of bread crumbs and a scattering of unwashed kitchen utensils.
'I suppose you expected the little elves to come along and magically clean up the mess you left behind!' I said caustically. I'll admit he looked moderately embarrassed.
'I was planning to come back and clean it up later,' he muttered.
'Sit down a minute,' I said. "I've got something to tell you!' I made no effort to conceal my anger.
'"You'd better pay attention, because I'm going to tell you this only once! If I ever come back to the boat again and find a mess like that I guarantee I'm going to throw everyhing I find overboard, cutlery included. I kid you not; you hear what I'm saying?' Joe's face flushed and he went over and began to clean up the galley.
'I suppose you were in a hurry to get back to that babe you hijacked from me after the dance we went to!' I said.
'What the hell are you talking about?' he protested.
'Listen, shithead! I brought that young lady back to the boat without any goddam help from you. I was getting along beautifully when you came waltzing in all alone and took over the conversation prior to having the guts to take off with her just as though I was your dutiful pimp. I don't suppose she's ever heard the old expression "You gotta go home with the guy what brung ya!" and you never did a goddam thing to enlighten her!'
'You're just jealous because she likes me more than she likes you!' he said smugly. I had to admit that he showed a remarkable grasp of the facts.
'I've come to a conclusion about you!' I said.
'Oh yeah, and what's that?'
'I've concluded that you are an arrogant, back-stabbing "swipe-your-shipmate's girl-friend" prick of the first water who doesn't know the basic rules of shipboard behaviour!'
Joe turned to me and opened his mouth as though about to defend himself, then thought better of it, finished cleaning up the galley and left the boat without another word. If I hadn't been poking that sweet young thing from up past Avatiu on a regular nighly basis I would have been really cranky. After all, it was the principal of the thing!
Kiri came to the boat a few more times but the relationship seemed to lack sufficient variety and range of mutual interest to be self-sustaining. To phrase it more simply, I seemed to get caught up more quickly than she did. I fell into the habit of leaving the boat dark as dusk fell. When Kiri called from the jetty I would lie on my back with my hands behind my head and look up through the hatch at the stars, swimming in small circles like glowworms in a puddle of blue. After the first few minutes the plaintive wistfulness with which she called my name became edged with pique. She knew I must be aboard because the dinghy was tied at the stern.
She came again each night for three nights in a row but I just looked at the stars; then she quit coming and I never saw her again. I thought later that Joe was probably not the only shit in the jungle! In retrospect, it seems hard to believe but at the time there seemed to be no reasonable alternative. Even a traditionally superb dessert like wild strawberries and fresh double cream would seem to lose its flavour if eaten nightly for a couple of weeks. Of course the analogy is purely for the purpose of illustration and should not be construed literally.
I set off early one morning for a two or three day hike around the island. I dropped my backpack into the dinghy safely enough, but my heavy walking boots must have made me clumsier than usual for when I attempted to step into the dinghy it shot aside like a ripe banana skin and I plunged headlong into the water. I had my movie camera in one hand and miraculously kept it dry by holding it in the air as I measured my length in the water next to the dinghy. I hauled myself onto the yacht and tried once again, successfully this time and was soon ashore hosing down with fresh water. As I walked along the shore road through Avarua my clothes were drying quickly in the warm morning sun. At Avatiu I waded out and waved farewell to Andre Bowmeister, a twenty-seven year old Dutch boy who had sailed his thirty-five foot cutter 'Seven Seas' alone from Holland and was clearing now for Aitutaki. I saw him out of sight, then went on again.
The women washing clothes or gardening by their neat palm-thatched shacks stopped to smile and wave as I went by. It was pleasant walking on the smooth dirt road, flanked by the red flame of the hibiscus bushes against the green lushness of purau and banana and papaya leaves. Sometimes the delicate fragrance of frangipani drifted across my path and I searched in the greenery for the creamy star of the blossom with its lemon-yellow centre. The comical mynah birds with their yellow beaks and knowing eyes were everywhere, talking in thin raucous voices as they stepped pompously across the roadway.
Past Teaiti Point and Teara Vaka I walked till I came to Black Rock with its great lava boulders tumbled into the sea and where I left the road and climbed up the steep road behind. There I could look out on the curve of the surf below, breaking on the reef far out from the shore and past that again to the flat metallic sheen of the sun on the ocean beyond. Inland were the great groves of coconut palms bordering the beach road, and toward the mountains, the low swamps with here and there a plantation with a patchwork of banana and orange trees. As I retraced my steps down the hillside I kicked at ripe coconuts lying ungathered where they had fallen from the trees.
I rounded the northwestern shoulder of the island and walked south toward Arorangi. After passing the big orange-packing shed I left the road and walked through the forest to the beach, where I removed my boots and slung them from my pack. Then I ambled along, through the warm tan-coloured coral sand, squinting against the glare of the sun and stopping now and again to examine a particularly interesting shell. When I reached Temuriavai it was late afternoon and I had no inclination to go farther. I dumped my sack on the sand and sat down with my back propped against it, looking out toward the lagoon.
There was a constant roaring as from a distant waterfall as the great swells dashed themselves unceasingly against the fringing reef a mile offshore. Indeed, they resembled waterfalls, as each crest built up and then broke and poured down like the lip of an inland cataract; but only for a moment, till crest and all collapsed in a white meringue of foam as the wave crashed against the living reef. Occasionally a wave bigger than the others would break and throw towers of white spray twenty-five or thirty feet in the air with a booming like a battle cannonade and always, just behind, in the dark blue water between the white collar of the reef and the horizon, another monster hunched and bulged its shoulders ready to hurl itself in vain against the barrier. Yet just inside, the seas had lost their power and lay gently above the shallow bottom in a pale green, limpid layer that could send only the most timid of ripples to lap against the shore.
The sun was dropping lower now and had tempered its midday fire to a brassy copper disk, no longer hot against my skin but still bright enough to turn my eyes. I had stopped near an open-sided fishing shack, half-thinking to throw my bedroll there, but I noticed now that several native men had gathered by it, smoking and talking after the day's work. There was some bread and cheese in my bag so I pulled it out and started to eat as I gazed at the splendid marine landscape before me. How often in the past had I said I would some day lie on a distant coral strand on a South Pacific isle? And here I was, and here it was and for the life of me I could not feel shortchanged. It was all I had anticipated and more.
My tonsils were clamoring for wine after the bread and cheese but there was none. Instead I stripped the husk from a coconut I had tied to my pack, then, with my knife-whetting steel I tapped it round and round the top, till the shell split and I lifted it off as neatly as the top of a hard-boiled egg. The crack had run down the side a bit and some of the contents dripped down over my hands but most was saved and I tilted my head and drank it in a long slow draught. It was clear and sweet-tasting and the bit that trickled down my chin was as cool as spring water. Then I pried off chunks of the juicy white inner flesh and munched them for dessert.
I looked up at the sound of hoofbeats drumming against the sand and saw a young boy race by on a pony, skirting the water's edge, shouting for more speed as he shot past. Then came a lovely young girl, no more than six or seven, wearing only dark blue shorts, riding one pony and leading another, while far behind a yearling colt tried in vain to keep pace. The child's skin was chocolate-coloured, and her heavy blue-black hair flew back from her face as she rode by with perfect ease.
Predictably, my long-envisioned idyll was beginning to pale about this time; the sand fleas had discovered me and were not respecting my presence and the setting sun was warmer than I expected. My bum was getting sore! So much for romantic visions! Only one man remained by the hut now, and as I glanced his way he beckoned me over. I rose and approached and he said, pointing to the shed, 'You sleep here!' I thanked him and went back for my pack. When I returned he was on his hands and knees sweeping bits of wood and coral away to clear a place in the sand at one end of the covered space.
The hut was about eighteen feet long and nine feet wide. Heavy coconut posts supported the roof, five to a side, and although it was without walls the roof of the hut came down to about three feet from the ground, making it necessary to stoop low to enter. Although of somewhat rough appearance outside, the roof inside showed the regular close pattern of the woven palm fronds.
We talked in a simple fashion for some time; his English was only fair but he spoke no French and I spoke no Polynesian. I was greatly surprised when a young woman arrived carrying a bowl and a plate with sliced bread. I felt it improper to try to explain that I was not hungry since I had so recently eaten so I ate some bread and drank from the bowl which they said contained coffee; a luke-warm sickly-sweet concoction. The young woman left, then the man, who was middle-aged, said he would return shortly.
'My friend, you wait here, I go get mats for sleep!'
'It's all right,' I said, "I have blankets!'
'No! For me! I sleep here with you tonight! Talk together!'
'Fine!' I said, 'wonderful!' and he left the shack.
There were no potted palms in which to pour the remainder of my drink, but there were some real ones nearby so I disposed guiltily of all but a few drops then waited for my host's return. He was soon back, bearing a huge woven grass mat which he spread on the floor. I laid my blanket on a part of it then adjusted my rucksack for a pillow, but soon the young woman reappeard carrying a large white pillow which she insisted I have for my head. She also carried a guitar, which she began strumming, humming softly the melodious Polynesian chants known to all the island vahines. A younger man appeared and sat on the mat; my host introduced him as Tirei, his own name being Miru. I told them my name and we all shook hands. Later, two more men arrived and squatted in the group, their faces lit by the flame of the candle I had stuck in the sand and shielded by an old oil tin. As they talked in their native tongue I made no more effort at conversation, content to lie with my hands behind my head, listening to the melodious voice of the woman who sat at my feet. She wore a snow-white pareu over which her hair fell in long black ripples and I found it difficult to keep my eyes from the lovely dark face with the glistening white of her eyes and teeth heightened by the flickering candle light.
Some fishermen came and lashed on home-made sandals made of purau bark, then walked out into the lagoon where we could see them, far out on the reef, bending and thrusting their spears, etched against the black night by the light of the kerosene lamps they carried. Later, they returned, carrying dozens of tiny fish, no bigger than a man's hand and of many varieties and colourations. It was a perfect tropical setting! By casting my eyes back I could look up at Antares, blod-red ruby, the heart of the Scorpion, lying gracefully across the Milky Way, the two most beautiful of all the heavenly constellations.
The soothing music, the distant booming of the surf carried to us by the cool night breeze and the melodious trilling of the tree locusts must have combined like a subtle soporific potion for I drowsed off quite soundly. When I awoke briefly sometime later, only Miru remained, using the pareu of his daughter for a blanket. I blew out the candle and returned to my dreams. When I wakened again it was just light and I lay watching as the rising sun, still invisible, turned the bars of clouds at the mountain tops to pink and gold and back again. Miru was standing at the water's edge talking to an early fisherman. I packed my gear and was lacing on my boots when the young woman arrived with my morning 'coffee'. I shared it with Miru. He asked me to wait then, so I stood with the early fishermen until he came back with a bag of tomatoes. I gave him a can of meat and a tin box full of wax matches he had admired, then shook hands all round, shouldered my pack and set off down the road, whistling.
— The End —