Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
A Tahitian woman with her small daughter, about seven or eight years old, settled on a grass mat in the only free corner available. We were not long clear of the reef before they were both sick and and they remained violently so all through the twelve hour trip. It was a pathetic sight, but amusing, as always, to the unaffected, especially when they were passing the bucket back and forth in quick succession, sometimes even crowding their heads together simultaneously in their anti-peristaltic misery. At first I sat on the poles supporting the fish, but later crawled up on top of our luggage and drowsed uncomfortably, watching the sparks flying back from the overheated diesel exhaust.
We passed the looming outline of Moorea about midnight and drew up to the long, curving waterfront of Papeete at 3:00 a.m. Stern lines were secured and the engine stilled. It was suddenly quiet and I felt a sense of anticlimax as I stepped ashore. My dreams of our arrival in Tahiti had not materialized just as I had visualized them, but then dreams rarely do. As soon as the boat was secured by the stern to the stone quayside the unloading began, so we lent a hand by way of paying our passage. Jean would not hear of our paying cash for our transportation and protested vehemently when we raised the subject. Men set out directly for the market with the fish-laden poles swinging between their shoulders. Everything was ashore in about twenty minutes. We were tired and dirty but it was too early to look for a place to stay. We decided that a place to wash up would be the next best thing in the meantime.
Jean explained to us that there was a large public wash house a couple of hundred yards along the waterfront just west of the Post Office. It was actually for women to use to do their laundry, but we were not inclined to quibble. He insisted that our belongings would be quite safe aboard until we had found a place to stay later in the day, so we grabbed a couple of towels and a bar of soap and set off for the wash house. It consisted of a covered area in which there were a number of large concrete pools through which cold fresh water ran continuously. We would have preferred warm water, but decided to make the best of it and so splashed around gingerly for five or ten minutes then dried ourselves and headed back to the boat.
Jean was just locking up the cabin of the boat when we arrived. He was going to go home for a few hours of sleep but assured us that he would be back around 9:00 a.m. He suggested we might find the market interesting and gave us directions for reaching it.
It was not yet 6:00 a.m. when we reached the market place, but it was already jammed with early shoppers. It covered a small city block, an area about seventy-five yards square, completely enclosed by a high iron fence and covered over by a corrugated iron roof. We discovered later that almost the entire fresh produce of the city was marketed each day from this small centre. Jammed with stalls, it displayed every kind of fish, meats, fruits and vegetables available from the sea and the gardens of the surrounding islands.
We walked slowly along the aisles watching the frantic, noisy bargaining between the stall-keepers and the shoppers. Later, we crossed the street to a Chinese restaurant and had coffee and rolls. Long before Jean's arrival we were back at the waterfront, watching some young Chinese boys fishing for small fry with tiny hooks and bits of wet bread. The time dragged by as we waited for him to return to his boat so we could retrieve our belongings and get settled. When he finally arrived he was driving a black Renault. A gendarme, equipped with a bicycle arrived about the same time and informed us that our presence was required at the customs house. If we would be kind enough to come along at once with our belongings it would be most appreciated. We agreed readily, assuming that the alternative would be 'The Bastille'.
Once again Jean came to the rescue and helped us pile everything into the back seat and the trunk of his car and we drove off down the Quai Bir-Hackeim to see the local Douanes. Considering that we had ignored every regulation in the book, including having arrived without visas or money in the Banque de L'Indo Chine, we were dealt with quite hospitably and didn't end up in jail! The customs officials and the Chef du Port were most sympathetic regarding the loss of our boat. I was required to leave my rifle, which I had greased and wrapped in plastic, in bond at the customs. The several hundred rounds of ammunition in an old Anchor Powdered Milk tin, given to me when we left New Zealand, were also put under lock and key.
Following our little visit with Customs and the Chef du Port we were directed to the local office of the Surete over on the Avenue Bruat. The inspector who interviewed us was very much interested in our financial situation and our immediate plans. We were to let him know our address as soon as we were settled. I thought sanctimoniously of George, the Australian with the lack of money. The inspector also hoped we understood that a month would be a satisfactory length of stay and perhaps we should make plans to assure that our visit did not greatly exceed this period. Then he took our passports and wished us a happy visit. Thanks a lot!
Our next concern was to change some money so we headed over to the Bank of Indo-China and joined the queue of people at the great iron gate outside of the building. The gate was opened a few minutes after we arrived and the line moved inside to start waiting again. Three quarters of an hour must have passed before we had reached the counter, filled out all of the necessary forms and swapped some of our New Zealand pounds for French Oceanic francs. While we were standing in line a very pretty Polynesian girl entered the bank and handed Joe a note. It was handwritten on a sheet of paper that had 'American Consul' printed at its head. It said that our presence was requested at the sender's residence as soon as our business was concluded. The grapevine seemed to be functioning very well in Papeete that morning. The message was signed by Oscar Nordman.
The address given was close to the Postes et Telegraph, so we went there first to send telegrams to our families. We were close to a month overdue so figured we'd better get messages away before all of our best fishing tackle was divided up by mourning friends and relations.
We had gone gone only a block or two toward Nordman's when we were intercepted by another man on a bicycle. He was wearing a khaki-coloured uniform and turned out to be a messenger from the telegraph office whom had obviously been alerted when we identified ourselves to the P&T personnel. After confirming that it was Joe, he handed him a sealed envelope. Joe was standing at road level and I was up on the concrete sidewalk above and slightly behind him as he nervously opened the envelope. Since I was a member of the crew, I took the liberty of reading the message over his shoulder.
| Mr. Joe Jarrett, Captain Ship "The Wren", PAPEETE, Tahiti Please wire immediately your intentions regarding my daughter's ruined health. Gordon Keaton |
Joe stood frozen in position for a full thirty seconds before reacting. Meanwhile I had been reflecting on the information session we'd had in Auckland about birth control some weeks previously (for the benefit of his girl friend's "friend", of course!).
'Take a look at this!' he said grimly, handing me the telegram. Notwithstanding the fact that I'd already read the missive and was fully aware of its implications, I took it and pretended to read it carefully for the sake of protocol.
'Jesus!' he exclaimed, 'do you think she was that worried about me?'
'I don't think so!' I replied slowly. He took back the telegraph and studied it intently once more. The colour suddenly rushed back to his face.
'Migawd!' he croaked, 'surely she isn't....' he was having difficulty articulating his thoughts.
'Is 'pregnant' the word you're trying to think of?' I said, making a superb effort to keep a straight face.
'Good Lord! I'm afraid that may be what it means.'
'Trust me,' I said, 'that's what it means all right! By the way, congratulations........ 'Pop'!'
I must say he did the 'right thing' and sent her enough money to pay her way to Suva where I saw him some weeks later. He had booked a passage on the flying boat several weeks hence to arrive in Suva a few days before her arrival. He seemed happy enough; his sweetheart was indeed 'infanticipating' so I didn't see her, since she was 'in accouchement' in the approved Victorian manner.
We walked on over to Nordman's and were greeted cordially by a heavy-set white-haired man whom I judged was well into his sixties. I had heard of Oscar before I left New Zealand and knew, in fact, that there was no American Consul in Papeete. Oscar never really came out and stated flatly that he was the American Consul but he made a heap of inferences, of which the use of the letterhead was the most obtuse. He seemed anxious to have us stay as his guests until we had made more permanent arrangements. If this should take a week, or even ten days, we were not to worry, there was lots of room and lots of food, so we could just relax and enjoy his hospitality.
We required very little urging when we discovered that the stunning creature who delivered the note to Joe at the bank was a permanent figure in the 'consulate', and had an assistant who was equally attractive from all standpoints. We were taken to a large room on the second floor and told to consider this our island home.
'What a caper!' I said to Joe as we unpacked our things. 'It sure pays to travel with an American. All the prestige of the American State Department is evidenced by this heart-warming reception to the islands!'
'Seems to be the case,' Joe said, 'I wouldn't count on it, though!'
'Amen! I got news for you, old buddy,' I went on. 'I don't think this guy is the American Consul at all!'
'The same thought struck me,' Joe said, straightening up. 'There's something that just doesn't seem to ring true about all of this.'
'Well, no use snapping the jockstrap that supports us, I guess. Let's play it by ear and see what develops!' I said, mixing my metaphors egregiously.
Joe agreed that this strategy had a small degree of merit, so we performed a couple of ablutions, powdered up pitwise, and went down to engage our host in witty conversation. Lunch was just being served so we adjourned to the dining room where we were served by the two young retainers. I barely managed to keep my eyes on my food long enought to convince Oscar that this wasn't the first time in my life I'd used a knife and fork. The old fellow had more questions than a quizmaster and kept Joe busy answering them throughout the meal. I detected a definite mercenary tone to some of the inquiries but attributed this more to chance than to deliberate design.
When we had finished lunch, we went out and sat on the screened-in verandah and watched the traffic along the quayside. There was some automobile and foot traffic but at least seventy-five percent of the transportation was on bicycles. Most of them had been fitted with conversion kits consisting of a tiny gasoline engine and two little shiny black fuel tanks above the front wheel. The forward movement was derived by direct friction between a spinning set of gears against the side of the front tire and sent the bicycle along at about twenty miles an hour. The buzzing of these little 'Solo' motors was a constant overtone to the sounds of Papeete.
Oscar Nordman was proud of Papeete and I suppose justly so. Although it was unlike our idea of a modern town, it had undoubtedly come far during the sixty years he had spent on the island.
'Thirteen thousand people in this town,' he said. 'We have electric lights, modern plumbing and many miles of paved streets. There's a library and a good museum; you must visit our museum, there is a giant tortoise there over one hundred years old!'
I remarked on the number of automobiles on the streets.
"Over two thousand at the last count,' he said with obvious satisfaction, 'and more arriving with each boat!' That comment rather depressed me, but I realized that Oscar had--- due to his various commercial interests in the town--- a different perspective; I wondered if he now included the salvaging of "The Wren".
'I have taken the liberty of inviting a friend of mine from the local salvage company to discuss your boat,' he said. Think of the devil, I thought to myself.
'Thanks a lot,' said Joe, 'I'll look forward to meeting him.'
'He should be here very shortly,' said our host.
When the gentleman arrived we found him to be a spare, balding man of very distinguished appearance, sporting a black moustache and dressed immaculately in a mustard-coloured tropical linen suit. The complete 'dude', he wore an expensive panama hat and carried a shiny black walking stick. He had been in the islands for many years, although not, apparently, as long as Oscar, who was, we found out, born in Papeete. After a few minutes of courteous chit-chat the matter of "The Wren" came up. Since my initial suggestions to Joe had been rejected, I no longer considered this any of my business. I excused myself and walked over to the waterfront where Jean was working on the engine of his boat. He wiped his hands very carefully, then shook hands with me as he welcomed me aboard. That was, I believe, the fifth time we had shaken hands that day, and it was only about 3:00 p.m. I was exposed to this charming custom all the while I was in Papeete although not all of the Frenchmen were as conscientious about handshaking as Jean Guyonnet.
When Joe joined me later I sensed from his expression that his conversation with the salveur had not exactly buoyed him up.
'Not too encouraging?' I asked.
'They want a hell of a lot more money than I've got!' he replied. He didn't tell me what numbers were involved but mentioned that one alternative was to assign the salvage rights to the salvage company for a small sum. Whether he did that in the end I never found out. He never mentioned "The Wren" again and I never questioned him about her. I heard a couple of years later that the Pacific Islands Monthly had reported an attempt to salvage her, but I have never had any verification of this. I hope the attempt was made and was successful. The real damage was very slight and she was far too pretty a little boat to spend her days rotting on an island reef through no fault of her own.
One evening Joe and I strolled along the waterfront, examining the yachts and exchanging a word or two with their occupants. Just opposite the Stewart Hotel we stopped by a beautiful white yacht that far surpassed anything we had seen previously. Seated in lounge chairs on the stern deck were a man and an attractive island girl.
'Evenin' men!' he said. 'Settle your asses aboard, we'll buy you a li'l drinkie!' We walked down the solid, well-painted gangplank and introduced ourselves.
'Walter's my name, Walter Jackson. This here's Marie Annette, she was the sweet little thing who gave me this!' He pointed to his right eye, which sported as magnificent a shiner as I had seen in a long time.
'What did you do to earn that?' I asked.
'Don't really know!' he said, fingering it gingerly. 'I should say I don't remember; she doesn't need much of an excuse at any time, frankly!'
'Why worry about a little love tap, darling?' said Marie Annette, flashing a dazzling white smile.
'The reason I worry is that your love taps are so forceful, dear! If you ever strike me in anger I'll be a case for the coroner! Now what'll you boys have?' We asked for and got gin and tonic, then sat on the stern deck and chatted as the traffic flowed along the quayside in a colourful noisy stream.
We learned that Walter was a native of Los Angeles who had sailed out to the islands with the owners, a wealthy couple from Cleveland. They had flown home some four months previously and he had been retained at full salary to watch and maintain the boat.
'This is a bit of an occasion, boys,' he said, mixing us another drink. 'The owners are returning next week, so I'm locking her up and leaving on the boat for Panama. Why don't you join us for supper, then come over to Quinn's for my little going-away party?'
'Sounds great!' I said.
'Count me in!' said Joe.
'It tears me up to leave this place, men, it really does! I can't explain why, really, but just remember my words when it comes time for you to leave. You'll know what I mean then!'
'Walter is a great sentimentalist,' said Marie Annette, laughing.
'That's true, especially where you're concerned, baby!' He bent and kissed her on the forehead. A while later a tall girl in a flowered dress stopped her bicycle at the head of the gangplank and came aboard.
'Ah, Francine!' cried Marie Annette happily, rising to meet her. 'She does not speak English!' she said, turning to us, 'but you will find her a most charming person!' Francine, we found out later, was of mixed Poynesian, Oriental and Caucasian ancestry. Her skin was golden yellow, but she had the thick, blue-black hair of the Tahitian, tied in long braids that fell to her waist. Her soft brown eyes seemed to occupy most of her face, but, unfortunately, she seemed to be about seven months pregnant and someone else was occupying most of her tummy.
About seven o'clock we all walked over to the Chinese cafe Walter favoured on the Rue Paul Gauguin behind the market place. A sign on the front wall said 'Maa Tinito'. When I saw the Paul Gaugin sign I was reminded of the simple fellow who claimed to be Gaugin's son and wandered the streets carrying a beach ball and asking tourists if they would like to take his photograph, (for a price, of course).
''Maa Tinito" means 'Chinese food' in Tahitian,' Walter stated gratuitously. The set-up inside was pretty basic; chairs and tables and a couple of waitresses and that was about all. The food was good , though, and not too expensive, and we washed it down with a couple of bottles of French vin ordinaire. About nine o'clock we walked over to Quinn's, only a couple of blocks away. Quinn's Tahitian Hut is not the most pretentious of bars in Papeete, but it is the best known, and there is always lots of action.
The horseshoe bar surrounding the bandstand at the front of the bar was filling up about the time we arrived. Most of the booths along each side of the dance hall that comprised the rest of the hut were still unoccupied. We sat up at the bar and ordered red wine again.
'Where's the can, Walter? I asked.
'See the swinging doors down at the far end of the dance floor? That's it!' I walked down to the swinging doors he had indicated and pushed through; I found myself in a concrete room about fifteen feet square. Perforated pipes about five feet from floor level poured a continuous stream of water down all four walls and into a sewer opening in the centre of the floor. A steel grid raised about two inches above floor level provided a relatively dry walking surface. A doorway at the back of the room opened into a small cubicle with a porcelain-lined hole in the floor. A pair of enormous raised white pads in the shape of oversized footprints flanked the aperture. There was no door to this sophisticated water closet.
I had taken all this in at a glance. What I had also taken in at a glance was the presence of two young vahines squatting in the centre of the room, with their skirts tucked up around their knees. They seemed quite unconcerned by my presence.
'That cunning bastard!' I muttered to myself, wheeling and heading back through the swinging doors. I walked over to another door in the back corner of the hall and went through; it led into a store room. This was getting somewhat confusing. I returned to the bar where Walter greeted me with a broad smile.
'You were right the first time!' he chuckled.
'But there were a couple of Tahitian dolls in there!' I protested.
'You'll get used to it,' he said. In fact, I did get used to it. I became accustomed to walking along a roadway late at night and hearing one of the vahines casually say "Haere te piss!" and then hiking up her skirt, squatting unconcernedly beside the roadway, and letting fly!
In the weeks that followed our first visit to Quinn's I found that this was one of the favourite pastimes of the regulars at Quinn's. When the infrequent liner or airship landed a new batch of tourists, they invariably found their way to the Tahitian Hut. The visiting women would sit sipping their Cinzano and soda at the bar, exuding the very essence of sophistication. Eventually they had to make the little trip to 'the lady's room'. The reactions of the tourist women were varied, but the reaction of the barfly contingent was always the same---a roar of raucous laughter!
By about 10:00 p.m. most of the booths at the sides of the dance floor were filled with parties of six or eight people and others stood two or three deep around the bar. There were several dozen people dancing to a selection of fox trots that blared through the loudspeakers.
Following an intermission at about ten-thirty, one of the girls at the bar went into the storage room at the back of the building. There was scattered applause and a few whistles aa she crossed the floor.
'That's Georgine!' said Walter, 'now you're going to see the Tahitian 'tamure' danced as it should be danced.'
A minute or two passed, then, at a cry from the band leader, the loud, rhythmic throbbing of the Tahitian dance surged through the hall. Almost at the same instant, the door flew open and Georgine came gliding into the spotlight. She never actually took a step, but the rapid shifting of her feet seemed to propel her across the floor as though she were on coasters. Other than the flower in her hair, her brief brassiere and grass dancing skirt comprised her whole costume. The skirt hung very low on her hips and its golden fibres swayed and trembled with every motion of her brown body. To attempt to describe the Tahitian tamure in words is, I feel, tantamount to transmitting the effect of the French cancan by means of an algebraic formula.
The appeal to the senses of the primitive rhythms of the drum music, the sensual figure of Georgine with her glistening golden body, waist-length black hair and gleaming thighs, the enthusiastic shouts of the audience as her hips and abdomen vibrated and writhed with unbelievable speed; the whole wild, unrestrained tempo of the performance combined to produce an effect that writers from the time of Melville and Stevenson have tried to capture in words, never with complete success. There was wild applause at the conclusion of Georgine's performance. As she left the floor we turned back to our drinks.
'We call her 'Bendix' for fairly obvious reasons,' Walter said. 'Care to meet her?'
'Are you kidding?' I said. When I met her I found she was as exciting to be with as she was to watch. She spoke only a few words of English but her ebullient spirits and friendly good humour gave her tremendous personal appeal. Unfortunately she was spending her time with the owner of an American yacht tied up at the quay. I turned my attention to a little girl called Muri from Bora-Bora. This island, in the Leeward Islands of the Society Group, was occupied during World War II by American troops. I bought her a bottle of beer and opened the conversation with a fatuous question about how did she enjoy living in Papeete.
'Whassamatta you?' she said, with a lecherous laugh.
'Whatta you mean?'
'I mean whassamata you?' she repeated. 'You don't like me?'
'Sure, I like you, I like you fine!'
'Bullshit! you like my ass, ha ha ha! You wanna fuck?'
'Pardon me?'
'Whassamatta you? You deaf?'
'No, you just sorta surprised me, that's all!'
'Okay! You come on! Catch a room, screw like a sonabitch! Okay?'
'Yeah! Okay, I guess!' We went to a little hotel in one of the side streets back of the market where I paid a few francs for a room. The fact that we had no luggage was not questioned. We left about an hour later, since Muri didn't want to miss too much of the action at Quinn's. I had no objection; I was in a very agreeable mood, in fact. On the way back she told me she was eighteen; that would have made her about seven years old at the time the American troops pulled out. She was a bit too young to share in any of the material good fortune visited upon her older sisters by the troops but I thought at least she had a matchless opportunity to learn the English language, as spoken by the American army.
When we got back to Quinn's I bought her some cigarettes and a beer and sent her to join her girl friends. I'd given her no money nor had she asked for any.
'Be seeing you, eh Muri?' I said.
'Oh yeah? Bullshit! Not if I see you first, you goddam sonofabitch! Ha ha !'
See what I mean? Spoken like a trooper!
Walter's boat was scheduled to leave late the following afternoon. Everyone congregated at Quinn's again prior to boat time to make their final farewells. He must have made a good many friends because people kept arriving right up until boat time. As each person arrived they placed a huge lei of tiare tahiti or frangipani, or some other exotic flower around his neck, at the same time giving him an affectionate kiss. The atmosphere was soon marvellously fragrant but the leis were gradually obscuring Walter's face from view. He was understandably moved by the display of affection and when he finally left for the boat, only his tear-brimmed eyes and the top of his head were visible above the mountain of flora that encircled him.
There were more embraces at the foot of the gangplank. One of the ship's officers finally managed to remove the unhappy fellow from Marie Annette's arms and led him gently up the sloping incline to the deck. Once aboard, Walter immediately turned his doleful countenance shoreward once more. As the liner gradually eased away from the dock, he worked his way backward, till he stood at the highest point of the boat, his solitary figure a classic study in the agony of parting. He never moved until the boat was too far from shore to be clearly visible. By this time every one else, including Marie Annette, was heading back to Quinn's. I was glad it was over; I can't stand to see a grown man cry.
Whether the paucity of Joe's wallet had any effect on our patron's attitude or whether it was sheer coincidence I can not hazard an opinion, but an atmosphere of chill had set in shortly after the previous afternoon's salvage meeting. Joe told me that Oscar had made it clear to him that it would be much easier for everyone if we found some other accomodation; he suggested the following day as a suitable deadline.
'That puts us right back where we started, sorta, doesn't it?'
'It's a pretty sudden change of pace, seems to me!' Joe said.
'I think I've figured out what the inscription over the front door means, though; it's Tahitian for 'Here today, gone tomorrow!' Fortunately, packing our bags consisted of about six swift movements and a glance under the bed, so the prospect of moving on did not depress me a great deal.
'I'm getting sick of this place, anyway,' I told Joe, 'his bedbugs don't get along with my bedbugs!'
That evening we met a native taxi driver named Mati. He told us our troubles were over; stick with him and he would have accomodation for us in a trice. The following morning we loaded our gear aboard Mati's Renault and set out on our search. After examining a number of rooms we agreed to try a suite on the second floor of a house a few blocks from downtown. After two days of 'No Visitors Permitted', I was convinced that it was not for me. I had some preconceived ideas about how I was going to conduct my affairs in Tahiti, and came to the conclusion that they were not going to reach their ultimate flowering on this barren ground. Joe was content, however, and decided to keep the room.
'Back to the drawing board, Mati!' I said when I saw him again, and he took it under advisement. The following day he told me he thought he had what I wanted but it was not close in to town.
'Suits me fine!' I said, 'the farther the better!' We got into the taxi and drove east past the shipyard and out along the road toward Point Venus. We entered Fautaua and drove on until we'd left Papeete about two miles behind. Then Mati made a couple of turns and stopped in front of a yard on which stood a modern five-room house with a concrete foundation, a shingled roof and painted siding. I expressed my satisfaction to Mati, but he shook his head and drew my attention to a small hut located at the back and to one side of the lot. It was a typical Tahitian-style home with a combination of thatching and corrugated iron on the roof and woven matting for the walls. There were no glass windows. Wooden shutters hinged from the top swung down at night and were propped open by wooden sticks during the day. As we went down the path, Mati explained that the property was owned by Monsieur Maoni, an old timer of Tahiti who had fought for the French in Europe in World War One. He had recently built the modern home at the front of the property and was renting it to two young Chinese couples. If I were satisfied with the accomodation I was to stay with Monsieur Maoni, who was approaching us that very moment.
When the necessary introductions were concluded, M. Maoni led us across the little cobblestone-covered patio into the front room. There were a couple of hand-hewn chairs and a vintage mantel radio set and little else in this room. To the left of the entranceway and with windows overlooking the patio was the guest room. There was a chair, a chest of drawers with a mirror, and a large brass double bed that squeaked somewhat when I checked it out (the source of 'le bruit d'amour') but was otherwise just fine.
M. Maoni's room was farther back and on the other side of the hut with a small living room between. A large table sat next to the living room window which looked over a back yard containing a profusion of tropical flowers. Sighting through the plumeria and bougainvillea I could make out a quaint privy (known as the fare tutu, (far-ay too-too) nestling in the greenery at the back of the property.
Behind the living room was a kitchen containing a table and two chairs, and a large food storage cupboard with a wire mesh door fastened by a wooden peg. The legs of the cupboard stood in tins partially filled with kerosene. A door at one side of the kitchen led to the garden and on another wall a shuttered window, outside of which was a sink and tap, opened toward the back of the hut. A drain line led from the sink to a ditch that ran along from the rear of the house to the creek bed at the back of the property. Tropical trees and vines crowded down to the edge of the yard on all sides, giving the little house an air of privacy and isolation.
M. Maoni was a small Tahitian man of indeterminate age whose brown face was wrinkled by a good-natured smile which I took to be his habitual expression. Only a few wisps of grey hair remained on his head which was usually covered by a wide-brimmed pandanus hat. He seemed somewhat embarrassed when the subject of rent came up. After some discussion it was agreed that I would buy my share of the food and compensate M. Maoni the sum of one thousand francs monthly, just a little less than sixteen dollars! I gave him five hundred francs on the spot, which he accepted somewhat apologetically, then, after unloading my belongings, I drove back to town with Mati, who was very pleased with his success as a go-between.
When we had been about a week in Papeete I bumped into Joe at Etablissements Donald, the trading company that services most of the Society Islands and maintains a large department store on the Quai du Commerce.
'How goes it, son?' I enquired.
'Okay! I've been doing some painting!'
'Good! How're you fixed for models?' I asked, 'I'd be glad to pose for you. Reasonable rates.'
'No need for that,' he said, with a faint smile of derision. 'What makes you ask?'
'Just checking,' I said with a grin. I had heard from Marie Annette that Joe had been painting the pregnant Chinese-Tahitian girl, Francine.
'Word gets around, doesn't it?' he said, rather sheepishly.
'It's the coconut telegraph, boy; you can't fight it!'
The fact that Francine was in the last month of pregnancy made me fairly sure the painter-model relationship was platonic, but it nevertheless was an encouraging sign. Joe had been in a blue funk ever since we'd hit the reef a month before and it looked like there was no hope for the boy yet. We arranged to meet again around five o'clock at Au Col Bleu. We had a couple of glasses of wine then ate supper at the Yacht Club. Later on we toured the bars again and ended up at Quinn's. The girls who frequented the other bars were marvellous to observe but were usually from one of the well-established Papeete families and it was a case of 'Look, but don't touch!' The girls around Quinn's, on the other hand, were from the outer islands and less closely chaperoned.
They came into Papeete from widely scattered islands; Bora-Bora, Mehetia, Huahine and many others. Usually sixteen or seventeen years of age, they stayed in and around Papeete for two or three years of the gay life, then usually returned to their home villages to marry and settle into a normal life. While in Papeete, most of them didn't have a real home to call their own, but bunked in wherever they could, sometimes two or three to a bed. If no room was available they curled up and slept on the sidewalk. No one could convince them that they were not living the gayest, most fun-filled existence in the world. In fact, in most cases, they were. That night I walked home with a saucy little Tahitian who called herself Louise. That wasn't her real name, but it was considered to be 'de rigeur' to assume an American name.
When I awakened in the morning it was late and Monsieur Maoni had long since had his breakfast and gone into the Papeete market to do his shopping for the day. He had a black imitation leather shopping bag which he hung from the handlebars as he pedalled slowly along on his vintage bicycle. Since there was very little refrigeration in Papeete, I suppose this daily marketing was a necessity. In M. Maoni's case, however, the morning trip to Papeete was a social ritual. Although I never went with him, I'm sure he had many friends whom he looked forward to seeing each day. Except for the preparation of the meals, he had very little else to do.
I plugged in the hot plate under the coffee pot then went went in and showered. When I had dried myself and shaved I poured myself a cup of thick brew and added a spoonful of the rich, dark unrefined sugar from the tin on the table. I cut a slice of dark bread and replaced the loaf in the pantry, then spread some tinned butter on the bread. This was my routine breakfast in Fautaua and I never yearned for bacon and eggs.
After breakfast I went into the living room and sat down in front of my typewriter at the big table. When I had been plinking away for ten or fifteen minutes a pair of pudgy brown hands covered my eyes and I heard a long, throaty chuckle close to my ear. I removed the hands and continued typing. Then a warm brown arm encircled my neck and a pair of lips began to nibble at my right ear. More low pitched, vibrant chuckling ensued. I reached back until my hand encountered what felt like a firm naked thigh. A little higher was what felt like flimsy pareu cloth. I took a good grip and tugged firmly.
'Auwe!' cried my tormentor, and jumped away. I gave one more good tug and as I turned my head I saw a bare brown form charge back to the bedroom, all of the feminine giblets and appurtenances splendidly a-jiggle, and waist-length black hair streaming out behind. I tossed the pareu over the back of the chair. Louise reappeared in a moment draped modestly in the bedsheet and headed for the shower, still chortling happily about our encounter. This sudden display of modesty was typical of the unpredictable moods of the Tahitian female.
When she emerged from the shower, black hair dripping, she had my yellow flowered pareu wrapped high above her breasts. She poured a cup of coffee and sat across from me, then said something in Tahitian and laughed happily again. When I asked her to speak French she said 'Phoosh!' and waved her hand in a gesture of indifference. She was often too lazy to to talk in French and at such times I would just bear with her rambling on. She was usually just talking to hear herself anyway.
I went on writing until M. Maoni came back then changed into slacks and a nylon shirt and put on my plastic sandals. Louise changed into her dress and we said goodbye to M. Maoni and walked down the front path to the road. It was nearly noon and the young Chinese boys were home for lunch and their siesta so we waved at them and their wives as we passed. The girls exchanged 'Auwes' and laughed. I found out some time later that Tahitian appearances can be deceiving. I was asking M. Maoni if he thought the young married couples in the main house took exception to Louise's frequent overnight sojourns.
'What married couples?' he asked.
'The young folks in the house!' I said. After shaking with mirth for some thirty or forty seconds he recovered himself sufficiently to state that the young couples in question were not married, never had been, and so far as he could see, never would be. If they decided they were no longer sufficiently interested in each other to continue the relationship, they were free to leave at any time. I thought the system had merit. As far as any children were concerned, this was not considered to be a problem, since there were dozens of Chinese-Tahitian families vieing constantly to adopt the illegitimate children born to the Tahitian girls. But 'illegitimate' is a misnomer since there are technically no such children in Tahiti.
We took our time walking to town. I had my movie camera with me and took a shot of Louise picking a large hibiscus and tucking it behind her ear. She changed it from one side to the other and as I kept filming she became increasingly more self-conscious. As her embarrassment increased she waved her hands to make me stop shooting, then covered her face and finally stuck out her tongue and turned her back on me and flounced away, blushing furiously and giggling uncontrollably. I value this short strip of film as one of my most precious souvenirs of the irrepressible good humour, charm, and infectious gayety with which these incomparable Tahitian elves wrap men from the world over around their adorable little fingers. However pudgy those little fingers may be!
Some little boys were teasing land crabs along the side of the drainage ditch and we stopped to watch them. They had bits of paper tied to pieces of string five or six feet long. They would toss the paper out near one of the holes by the edge of the canal. As soon as the lure hit the ground a crab the size of a saucer would scuttle out with great speed and seize it in its powerful claws; then the string was pulled back carefully and the unsuspecting crab would be dragged along for two or three feet before realizing that it was being fooled. It would then release the paper and scutttle back to its burrow to the accompaniment of derisive childish laughter. Then the game would begin all over again. There's no denying that this was the type of fishing that would appeal to Simple Simon but I reluctantly admit that I found it rather fascinating.
As we walked on into town, Louise was hailed frequently from windows and doorways and almost without exception the cry was 'Auwe!' The word 'Auwe' in Tahitian apparently has many meanings depending on the tone used and the facial expressions that accompany it. Its second syllable is greatly emphasized and it sounds like this--'aahh-oooo-ay!' The best way I could describe its meaning on the morning in question is to say that it combined the meanings of a dirty old man delivering a low-pitched wolf whistle on a street corner and a little girl pointing her finger and chanting 'Shame, shame, double shame, don't forget your mother's name!' We weathered the good-natured verbal gauntlet, however, and arrived finally at Quinn's.
A dozen or so of Louise's girl friends were crowded into two of the booths on one side of the dance floor and the horseshoe bar still had a dozen or so late shoppers and tourists perched on the stools. Hoots of laughter and more cries of 'Auwe!' greeted us and Louise ran to join her buddies as though it had been ten years instead of ten hours since she had last seen them.
Joe was at the bar talking to Coco the bartender, so I joined them. Little Pua was stretched out on the shelf at the back of the bar, with her feet propped up against the record player turntable. The strains of 'Boite de la Hellaby' roared from the loudspeakers above the bandstand.
Pua was one of the most attractive lttle vahines I saw in all my time in the islands. When I first saw her she was perched in her favourite spot behind the bar wearing blue denim pants that had been cut off and rolled up until they were the shortest of shorts. They had been washed and rewashed until they were pale blue and soft and they covered the nicest, roundest, firmest little rear end that ever decorated a bar shelf south of the line. Two long golden-brown limbs tapered downward and a velvety waist and tummy curved upward from her magnificent loins. A halter and bra of flowered pareu cloth covered her delightfully adequate breasts. She wore a tiny straw hat with a large red flower in it above one of the most puckish little faces imaginable. Great black eyes and full sensuous lips broke in a broad smile to reveal a double row of snow-white teeth with just two unfortunate features, and they were both front teeth and they were both missing.
Many Tahitians have very light complexions, and skin that has been protected from the sun is often almost white. When Pua propped her legs against the record player she revealed a narrow margin of just such cloistered flesh next to the edge of her white nylon panties, just next to the rolled-up edge of the blue denim pants, just next to that little round bottom I've been telling you about. It gave promise of similar smooth, warm areas, the thought of which left me flushed and trembling. And she wouldn't give me the time of day.
'I think she's ugly!' Joe said one day, taking a sip of his wine.
'Ugly?' I protested. 'How the hell can you say that? Looka that superb little body, and those eyes! You must be clean outa your skull, man! You better get a checkup!'
'I don't see how you can think she's attractive with her two front teeth missing like that. Her upper lip's crooked, too!'
'That's just part of what makes her so cute, you dumb clot! I don't care what you think, anyway! As far as I'm concerned she's still the greatest thing since jellybeans!' Pua was well aware that she was the topic of conversation but maintained her air of bored indifference.
When we first arrived in Tahiti the girls at Quinn's were just finishing a three-day party with some sailors from a French merchant vessel. Most of the girls were showing slight signs of fatigue when the boat left but those members of the ship's crew who had not folded up previously were literally carried aboard the ship. I found later that I had to husband my physical resources most carefully to avoid exhaustion from the merciless pace set by the young ladies of the Tahitian night club set. Pua had disappeared following the departure of the French ship and the horrible thought that she might have stowed aboard had crossed the minds of her admirers several times.
'Ask her where she's been the last two weeks, Coco!' I said.
'She's been at home!' Coco replied. 'She comes and goes a lot.'
'Ask her where she lives; maybe she'll let me go with her next time she goes home!' The girls spoke rapidly in Tahitian.
'Her home is in Tiarei,' Coco told us, 'but she says she doesn't need any company!' I sighed resignedly. Tiarei was a little village on an island on the leeward side of Tahiti. I felt that a few weeks in Pua's company listening to the surf pounding on the reef vying with the sound of the blood pounding in my ears would be very therapeutic.
I felt a tug at my arm and a stern voice said 'Rrronn!' It was Louise; she had been tending a bit toward possessiveness of late and when she rolled her 'r,s' I knew she was getting ready to defend what she imagined to be her private interests.
'Moni pour moi!' she demanded.
'Pourquoi?' I asked.
'Te pia! Ava ava! Beer and cigarettes!' She adopted her most imploring expression. I took out my wallet and removed a twenty franc note and handed it to her. She took it with an expression of disgust and held out her hand for more. I started to put the wallet back but she grabbed it and we tugged and wrestled for e few moments until I said, 'Okay, okay, you win! Combien?'
'Cent francs!' she stated, with an air of finality. I withdrew a hundred franc note and held it toward her.
'Gimme back!' I said, pointing to the twenty franc note.
'Aahhh!' she complained. I started to replace the hundred francs. She quickly handed me the twenty and grabbed the hundred and started back to the booths.
'Louise, haere mai! Come here!' I said. She turned back but stayed suspiciously out of range. I handed her another hundred franc note. She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me then ran back to her friends waving the bills in the air and giggling happily.
I had some things to buy so I finished my drink and left. When I was returning to Quinn's about an hour later I met Louise on the street with three of the other girls.
'Ron,' she said shyly, 'Moni pour moi?'
'Pourquoi?' I said.
'Ava ava!' she replied, giggling.
'What the hell,' I said angrily, 'I just gave you money for cigarettes an hour ago! What happened to them?' She motioned to her friends; they were were all puffing happily on the cigarettes I had funded.
'Oh, all right,' I said. We were near a tobacco store so I went in and bought a pack of cigarettes and gave them to her. She stuck them in her purse and walked on happily.
I think the greatest single difference between the Tahitian mind and the American or European mind is the attitude with respect to material things. My reaction in the first few weeks to Louise's spending habits was one of extreme annoyance. I tried to get her to save some of the money I gave her so she would have some for the next day. If she would not give cigarettes to everyone in range she would have more for herself. This reasoning, of course, was completely alien to her whole viewpoint. For hundreds of years Polynesians have lived for the day with little thought for tomorrow. And well they could, with all of life's needs abundantly at hand and no way available to store them if they wanted to.
When the first white men came to the islands they were amazed to find that anything they expressed a liking for was immediately given to them. This is what made Tahiti the beachcomber's paradise. Any wandering outcast had merely to pick the village he wanted and then live indefinitely off the kindness and hospitality of the easygoing Tahitians. Now there are a series of complex regulations set up by the French government to prevent the islands of French Oceania from becoming overrun by soldiers of fortune. The fact that we ignored most of them without ending up in the Bastille was more the result of dumb luck than of shrewd planning.
— The End —