Isle De Marquesas 10:30S 139:20W
Seaflute
Fri 19 May 2017 05:23
After 3223 nautical miles and seventeen days at sea, the crew of Sea Flute
were very glad to hear the cry “Land ahoy!” It was ten in the morning and
with thirty miles to run, I had been scanning the horizon with my binoculars
in the direction I knew the Island of Fatu Hiva to be. Rather than emerge
gradually from under the horizon, she suddenly revealed herself from beneath
a cloak of morning cloud draped around her mountainous shoulders. Even if
this vision had been much less dramatic, a welcome sight she would have been
anyway. No one had actually contracted cabin fever, but even this skipper,
who you know really loves to sail, was very happy at the prospect of setting
foot on dry land again. We were approaching Fatu Hiva from the East and so
first arrived at the south east corner of the island. As we got closer, the
full splendour of this magnificent island became apparent. Towering cliffs,
climbing vertically out of the sea, broken only by razor sharp ridges
running from peaks of four thousand feet, directly down to the ocean.
Vegetation clung impossibly to every inch of land. What had looked like
vertical lines of rock from a distance revealed themselves to be waterfalls
tumbling from lofty gulley’s, often not reaching the ocean, their bounty
blown to vapour by the prevailing easterly winds that accelerate around the
southern end of this land.
As we rounded the southern tip of the island, I knew there to be two
possible anchorages on the western side, both sheltered from the wind and
swell. One in the south called Baie Omoa and one in the north called Baie de
Hanavave or literally translates as the bay of Virgins. At first glance, the
west side of the island also looked impossibly steep and unyielding of a
safe anchorage. It took much scanning with binoculars to reveal anything
resembling a possible inlet or safe haven. Having researched this island
thoroughly, I had chosen the bay of Virgins in the north as our chosen
destination. We were within two miles of the approach waypoint before we
could see a break in the cliff line suggesting the opportunity to turn
inland. As we rounded the short promontory, we could then see half a dozen
yachts anchored at the terminus of a steep gorge running down to the sea.
The anchorage here is described as challenging due to the fact that the
depth of water in the bay is over five hundred metres deep running into a
narrow band of twenty five metres at the head of the valley. It’s essential
to establish good holding with your head to the valley to counter the very
strong gusts of up to fifty knots that funnel down the gorge on occasion.
The consequence of a slipping anchor in this environment doesn’t bear
thinking about. Tom and I quickly established a good spot with plenty of
swinging room and dropped the trusty Rockna in twenty five metres of depth.
We laid nearly all of our one hundred metres of chain and dug the hook in as
best we could. Satisfied with our security it was time to congratulate
ourselves on the completion of an amazing voyage, the longest for all of us,
completed without incident or equipment failure of any kind. We were then
able to take stock of our surroundings. Wow! If I were to sail for another
hundred years, I wouldn’t dare imagine I could find a more spectacular or
beautiful anchorage. Truly the stuff of dreams, the bay of virgins is like
something out of a child’s fairy story book. The small beach at the head of
the bay is split by a river which has cut the steep gorge. Either side of
the river is a small amount of flat land on which the small village of
Hanavave sits. Above the village, tower huge pinnacles of rock which were
obviously blown skyward by massive volcanic eruptions, that solidified in
crazy forms which I’d liken to a child’s sand castle created by drizzling
wet sand into fine towers.
A bottle of champagne chilled in the fridge in anticipation of our arrival
was quickly quaffed, as were several very cold beers. After seventeen days
of abstinence this was a welcome respite and we were soon champing at the
bit to get ashore and finally feel dry land beneath our feet.
The only place to land a dingy apart from the shoreline which was exposed to
the swell, was a small dock tucked behind a breakwater created to protect
the small fleet of open fishing boats owned by the villagers. The trick here
was to drop a stern anchor as you approach the dock, decant your passengers
with a bow line ashore, then allow the dingy to ride back on the stern
anchor to prevent it getting bashed against the dock wall, allowing enough
scope of course for the one metre of tidal range. Unlike the Caribbean,
there is no need to worry about dingy security here, other than its physical
wellbeing. The village of Hanavave is tiny with less than two hundred
inhabitants. We were warmly welcomed by everyone we met, from the fishermen
working on the dock, to the women and children we passed along the road. The
greeting in French Polynesia is “Ia Ora Na” it’s always delivered with a
beaming smile and translates literally as: “Welcome, I give you the best of
myself”. The thing that strikes you immediately, aside from how friendly
and helpful the people are, is how clean and tidy everything is. The gardens
are all neatly tended and the roadsides are positively manicured. We never
saw a piece of litter on the floor anywhere.
We stayed in Fatu Hiva for three days, totally illegally of course and
against the advice of the rally organisers. The local Gendarme however,
seemed totally relaxed about our presence and realises of course that if
yachts have to first check into Hiva Oa, the most southerly island with
clearance facilities, it’s most unlikely they will then make the sail south,
potentially against the prevailing wind, and thereby rob this little island
community of a valuable source of revenue.
We were keen to stretch our legs after weeks of limited movement on the boat
and so the following day joined a group from several other oysters who had
arrived with us, and shortly after us, to trek up to a cross on a peak,
overlooking the anchorage. It didn’t look too far, or even too high from the
bottom! What we hadn’t also factored in was climbing in thirty five degrees
of heat and about ninety per cent relative humidity! The final stage to the
top consisted of a vague track on a near vertical grassy slope and was
definitely at the upper end of Lindy’s altitude tolerance. Anyway, most of
us made it, especially the Sea Flute crew complete, and of course leading
the way once again! We were to pay for the experience with sore muscles for
the next few days to come, but the views were well worth the pain. Walking
along the valleys, we all commented on how difficult it was to determine the
difference between what was actually someone’s garden, and just natural
landscape. Beautiful flowers and fruit grow everywhere and the landscape was
so incredibly beautiful and perfect, it was as though it had been created
for a Chelsea flower show exhibit. We were told that we were free to pick up
any fruit that had fallen and we certainly took advantage of that,
collecting bags of lemons. Lindy stopped on one occasion to admire a chilli
bush growing in a garden. The old lady who owned the property saw her and
rushed to pull off a large branch of chillies and gave it to her; she then
gestured for her to wait and then came back with a handful of fresh herbs in
a bag. This was given freely and joyfully as a gift.
Everything in the village was picture postcard pretty, from the little open
church with its white painted corrugated iron roof, to the tiny primary
school with its brightly coloured murals painted around its walls. All the
ladies we passed wore magnolia blossom flowers behind their ears and this
was clearly not just for our benefit.
We were fortunately invited to a lunch provided by a lady called Desiree,
this had been organised by one of our Oyster gang. We went along to her
house which was a lovely bungalow set back from the road at the foot of the
hills. Her garden was full of colourful tropical flowers and fruit trees
burgeoning with exotic fruits from bananas, star fruit, papaya, bread fruit,
lemons and the wonderful pamplemousse. Pamplemousse is a fruit I had never
tasted before and translates in French as grapefruit, so I wasn’t desperate
to try it as grapefruit is certainly not one of my favourites. However, this
fruit is unlike any grapefruit I have ever tasted and is huge and delicious.
Lindy’s bartering skills came in handy, and a bag full of pamplemousse and
bananas was purchased for a few nail varnishes and a lipstick. Pamplemousse
is best eaten in swimming shorts. This allows you to fully appreciate biting
into a huge wedge of the fruit, which will result in the juice running down
your chest. When you’ve finished you simply jump into the sea to wash off.
Heaven!
Why is the pamplemousse not grown or sold in Europe?? There’s an opportunity
for someone. Once eaten, never forgotten. Needless to say we have left the
Marquesas with a large net full of these marvellous fruits.
Desiree’s lunch was delicious. She had mustered up a veritable feast in her
very basic kitchen. Her husband, a handsome man who appeared much younger
than her, was obviously the local boxing champ judging by all the trophies
that adorned the room, keeping company with the many religious artefacts
also there. Today though, he was content to act as kitchen assistant and
waiter and did a very good job serving with good humour. The lunch comprised
of Goat curry in coconut milk. Poisson Cru, which is a French Polynesian
version of ceviche. It is raw tuna in lemon juice, garlic and coconut milk
and various other ingredients, that give it a very unique flavour,
delicious. We had barbequed bread fruit, chicken and mango in coconut cream,
boiled rice and home-made lemonade. The portions were gigantic and we soon
came to realise this is the norm in French Polynesia, and probably accounts
for why most of the locals are very large in stature.
In the afternoon we had booked a local taxi to take us to a village on the
opposite side of the island, and we also considered it a good opportunity to
visit the interior. However when he announced he was not prepared to take
us, as he considered it “too dangerous, due to the recent heavy rainfall”,
we were lucky though, he had found someone who would be prepared to make the
journey! Lindy very quickly decided she was not especially keen to see the
interior, so we politely declined his offer of a substitute driver.
Although we would have wanted to stay a little longer, we were badly in need
of provisions and although there was a small shop (I use the word loosely)
in the village, it looked to only contain enough produce to supply the local
requirements and we didn’t want to denude them of these valuable goods.
Replenishment would only come once a week along with passengers on a small
ferry from Hiva Oa some fifty miles to the North, they in turn relied on a
cargo/passenger ship delivering goods from Tahiti once every two weeks.
At dusk on the evening before our departure, I took a dinghy ride along the
rocky shoreline to the west of the bay. I was drifting leisurely along this
amazing coast, marvelling at the rock formations, waterfalls, lava tunnels
and wild goats perched bizarrely on the most precarious ledges it must have
been possible to find! As I reached a rocky promontory, there was an obvious
current eddy and I was delighted to see a school of Manta rays circling and
scooping up the plankton and small jelly fish pushed to the surface by the
disturbance. I raced back to get Lindy, Tom and Rachael and we spent the
sunset watching these beautiful animals feed. We decided that an early
morning snorkelling trip back to this spot was essential and hoped they
would still be there. We were really lucky and on our return the following
morning, sure enough there they were. We took turns in snorkelling whilst
someone minded the tender, as tying off or anchoring was not an option in
this spot. Each of us was rewarded with the most amazing privilege of seeing
these giants glide past us so close we could have touched them. They didn’t
appear to be the least bit bothered by our presence unless they swam so
close to us without seeing us such that they needed to take swift evasive
action to avoid a collision. Lindy on one occasion thought she was going to
get swallowed whole, she was gazing directly down one Mantas gullet at very
close quarters before he sensed her presence and turned away. It’s
comforting to know these gentle giants only eat miniscule organisms, even
smaller than Lindy!
It was very hard to drag ourselves away from this wonderful spectacle but
our next passage beckoned and we were soon on our way to Hiva Oa.
We arrived in Hiva Oa late in the afternoon after the Gendarmerie had closed
so we were too late to eventually clear in. Our agent surprisingly, advised
us we were OK to go ashore, which was just as well as we had been invited
out to dinner by some friends, who were staying in a hotel on the island
with a “posh” restaurant, yippee!
The dinghy landing in Hiva Oa is just about the worst we have experienced so
far on our travels. The only option for getting ashore is a small wooden
platform which is about one and a half metres above the dingy at low tide.
Its underside is covered in rusty nails and bolts just perfect to puncture a
dinghy as it rides up underneath with the incoming swell. The trick once
again, is to decant your passengers as quickly as possible in between
swells. Thankfully they all managed a clean jump, their focus helped by the
knowledge that the bay is frequented by Bull sharks who particularly like
the murky water created by the rain run-off from the land. The tender is
then hauled away from the dock on a stern anchor and the lucky driver has to
make a herculean leap to the wooden platform, avoiding impaling oneself on
the rusty nails and falling bleeding into the ocean to be immediately
devoured by the waiting Bull sharks. I am prone to a little exaggeration at
times, but it is amazing what one will risk for the prospect of a good steak
and a bottle of fine red wine!
The following day, we had to brave the landing once more to visit the
Gendarmerie. Armed with ships papers, all crew and passports. French
officials are renowned for their officious nature and a particular distain
for the English cruiser; and this was prior to Brexit, so I dreaded what
could be in store for us. All crew had been briefed and rehearsed how we had
sailed directly here from the Galapagos Islands without stopping at any
other islands; this would hopefully avoid this skipper spending time in a
French Prison, which was in fact just next door to the Gendarmerie.
We’ve had some really welcome surprises on this trip but none more so than
on this morning and meeting the friendliest Frenchman I have ever met, who
was also the Gendarme who was to clear us in. The process took all of ten
minutes and the completion of one, yes just one form. No zarpe, hygiene
certificate, clearance document from last port, proof of insurance, nada.
How refreshing.
We bought some basic provisions from the small magazin in the village and
returned to the boat to prepare for our departure to Nuku Hiva that evening.
Lindy had suggested we take a night sail to avoid losing a day at sea. A
sensible decision and a sailor’s decision!
The hundred mile passage to Nuka Hiva that night was an absolute delight. We
had a full moon, flat sea and a moderate breeze. We had planned an early
morning arrival and duly fetched across the bay into the anchorage, where a
significant number of Oysters were already nestled, having complied with the
correct order of clearing in. Some of the less fortunate had needed to sail
directly here to get assistance from the Oyster team for repairs to furling
foils, water makers and generators along with an assortment of other
problems. Over the coming days as more of the fleet arrived with tails of
on-going repairs and breakages, I realised how lucky we have been, so far to
have fared so well.
The provisioning opportunities in NH were much more comprehensive, but salad
and fresh vegetables were still impossible to get hold of. The locals grow
only what they need for themselves and the deliveries from other islands
were pretty much pre ordered and pre sold.
There were only four dining opportunities on NH. One restaurant was on the
far side of the island which we would eventually visit on an island tour.
One restaurant attached to the only hotel on the island and although
reasonably good was eye wateringly expensive. Anyone would think they were
in the middle of the Pacific for goodness sake! The other two culinary
delights were a pizza bar and a café at the fishing dock, which although
would never pass any form of hygiene certification, knocked out a very
passable steak frite and even had WiFi of sorts. It was also the best place
to just sit and watch the world go by.
The following day, we took a tour with a local chap called Richard. His
steed was a Toyota pickup with covered bench seating in the rear which
reminded me very much of travelling around Thailand in a tuk tuk. His
driving style was also very similar, but at least this time we had working
brakes. He redeemed himself by being very knowledgeable about Polynesian
history, culture and the flora and fauna of the island.
The drive around the island was spectacular with stunning views around every
bend. If I had been able to let go of the bars of the Toyota without fear of
falling out, I may have taken some fantastic photographs. One of the
highlights of the tour was a stop at an ancient archaeological site dating
back to two hundred BC.
The stone bases of the settlements arranged in orderly fashion leading up to
the chieftains house, which in turn sat in front of the priests house. This
area was paved with red stones designating it tapoo (this is the origin of
the word taboo, which was wrongly recorded by early missionary settlers). As
a tapoo area, only royals and priests were allowed to walk there. This is
also where the human sacrifices took place. This was a grizzly factor in the
normal way of life for Polynesians, right up to the arrival of the Christian
missionaries in the late eighteenth century. Those sacrificed were normally
prisoners from a rival tribe, but could equally have been men women and
children from their own ranks who would often give themselves up or be given
up willingly, for the good of the tribe. The site was very evocative and
quite spooky nestled amongst the forest with a giant banyan tree at its
centre, complete with bone pit where prisoners were also kept in preparation
for sacrifice. The banyan tree is one of the largest in Asia and at one time
was festooned with hundreds of human skulls, until the Christian
missionaries again, “persuaded” them to remove these adornments.
The early Marquesians were obviously fierce warriors with a clear genetic
legacy from Taiwan and Papua New Guinea. At the time of the early European
explorer’s arrival, the islands had a population of over one hundred
thousand natives. Given the small amount of habitable land it’s no surprise
there was so much tribal rivalry and constant war. Unfortunately, the
Europeans also brought diseases, to which the islanders had no resistance,
predominantly smallpox and syphilis. The population of Polynesia was
virtually wiped out over the next three years and even today the population
has just recovered to over ten thousand.
We finished the tour at a lovely family run restaurant on the beach, which
as nice as it was would hardly warrant mention, other than the host tipped
some scraps into a small stream running alongside the restaurant terrace and
immediately the stream became alive with a mess of eels as thick as a man’s
arm and up to a metre long. It was really quite surprising to see. Equally
surprising was that as soon as the food was devoured by the writhing mass
they disappeared without a trace and this was into a relatively tiny stream.
A few days after our arrival, Oyster had organised a welcome event in
conjunction with the Marquesian tourist board. A fabulous day was had with
craft, food stalls and traditional dancing and drumming. The locals invited
us to join them in their outrigger canoes and I was very impressed with how
responsive and fast they are. Tom joined in the Marquesian version of the
Hakka and I must confess he doesn’t really have the stature for it and
certainly his tongue is nowhere near long enough! Rachael got to ride a
horse at last, even if it was just a short trot up the beach, but she was
pleased to have ridden one of the infamously tough Marquesian ponies who
were wandering all over the Island. Lindy made some jewellery from nuts and
beads and was of course very pleased with having produced some bling.
That night we had a Gala dinner, complete with speeches from local
dignitaries from the island and Tahiti. There was plenty more dancing which
was another stunning display of local culture. It’s very apparent there is a
strong drive to retain the old traditions and these displays are clearly not
a watered down version for the occasional visitor to these remote islands.
Once again it felt like a huge privilege to witness this first hand. Our
dinner was cooked in a fire pit where the meat is wrapped in banana leaves
and buried with hot stones dragged from a fire. This is then left for up to
five hours before being dug up ceremoniously and carried to the table. The
meat which consisted of goat and pork was succulent and very tasty. We also
had a mountain of sea food which included a crustacean that looked like a
giant woodlouse and try as I may, I couldn’t decipher the name of it even
after I’d asked several times. I have certainly never seen them before and
the taste is a cross between a muscle and an oyster.
A great night was had by all and Tom and Rachael were also able to dump the
old fogies and spend time with the other younger crews who were mostly off
duty that evening.
Once again and all too soon, it was time to leave. Refuelled and
provisioned, we are heading off to the Archipelago de Tuamotus, a beautiful
string of coral atolls six hundred miles to the south west.
Bye for now
Skipper Peds
