Blackwattle and the Floating Coconuts

by Nancy Knudsen on 13 Aug 2007 There's one thing that I really don't like about sailing among the islands of Polynesia.

It's the coconuts.

They float around the lagoons and out to sea. It seems that everywhere you look you see another floating coconut. And the problem is it's just too hard to tell the difference between a coconut and a dead body.

I can see myself in the dock: 'Yes Your Honour. No Your Honour. Yes, it's true Your Honour, yes I did see him and I didn't try to save him. I thought he was a coconut.'

I can seem him looking down his red bulbous nose: 'Murder by negligence' The hammer slams down and he's not even angry. 'Ten years.'

So here I am, sailing away from the lovely Moorea to the twin islands of Raiatea and Taha'a, checking out all the floating coconuts in case there's a body attached. It's only an overnight sail, and at least by nightfall I am pretty sure they are all coconuts.

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There's a harmony about these islands – each island is different, but the theme is the same – rainforest, lagoons, gentle people, palm trees leaning to kiss the water (not forgetting the floating coconuts). You might be dealt a different hand, but it's the same game and the same pack of cards each time.

We enjoy Taha'a by bicycle. It's an island that doesn't seem to be at all inhabited for more than 20 metres from the shore. The mountains rise too steeply, and life is good on the water anyway.

Known as the vanilla island, we see vanilla growing wild among the profusion of other tropical flowers. It's swampy land, very low, with coconut crabs by the thousand and a prolific bird life - roosters crowing, children screaming and running.

There are pearl farms all around as well, and a friendly, if expensive yacht club – the Taravana Yacht Club – to provide a pleasant transition between the water and the land.

The twin island of Raitaea is enclosed in a mutually shared lagoon – like a womb with two very special babies kept safely. As we decide to go explore Raiatea, the wind rises above 25 knots and we seek shelter in a small marina.

Now it's time to see the town, the pleasant small port of Uturoa, and we go wandering.

We watch the locals watching us along the town wharf, watch the old men playing that traditional French game of Boule, and check out the local craft shops:

'I was born here' she says in clipped French accented tones, her crinkled old blue eyes matching her graceful blue dress. 'My father was English and my mother was Polynesian, so I know a lot about our Polynesian lifestyle and the old ways.' She chats on, telling us stories about the wonderful art works in her shop. ' You know,' and her tone becomes confidential.' When the missionaries came and started to break up all the Tikis, our people took them to the passes and threw them in the water to protect them from the missionaries.'
'The passes?' I query.
'The passes into the lagoon.' she explains, her pale eyes piercing with intensity, holding my glance. 'The passes into the lagoons are sacred places. You must never fish in the pass. You can fish just outside the pass, or just inside the pass, but you must respect the pass. So our people knew straight away that the safest place, the place to show respect for the Tikis, was down in the deep waters of the pass.'

She goes on with her tales, showing us art works made of shells, sea urchins, fish bone, wood of various types, pearl shell in a hundred different ways, sand, stone, polished rock, bark and leaves. We spend a long time talking to this fascinating old woman. How richly rewarding it is to have these chance acquaintances - but she WON'T let me take her photo.

It's time to provision again, and celebrate a birthday.

Then it will be off to Bora Bora – the most famed of all the French Polynesian islands – I wonder will it live up to these other islands that we have enjoyed so much?

Memories of Raiatea and Taha'a: