The lunacy, violence and exhaustion of the passage from New Zealand is finally beginning to subside. While it will never be forgotten, it will be shoved into a box deeply hidden somewhere in my brain and heart. And while I seem to perpetually fail at finding a real home, my true gypsy spirit has kicked in, which means that I am "full on" for whatever new adventures I come across every day.
The bureaucracy in French Polynesia is so completely absurd that rather than be bothered by it, I find myself almost enjoying the comical lengths to which one must go just to complete all the requirements. We had spent several days in Wellington at the French embassy there to acquire our long stay, resident visas for 6 months in FP. We thought that process to be arduous and frustrating, in addition to costly. Upon arrival here, we had to trek to the Port Captain, then to Customs, then to Immigration (where Geoff did not seem to meet the official's approval and was given an almost rude treatment). Then to the bank to pay a bond of over $3500. Then back to Geoff's para-military (police wannabe) friend, who grunted at Geoff and then proceeded to talk only to me... After a failed attempt to purchase duty free fuel, we then had to go back to the Port Captain for additional paperwork. Phew!
Unfortunately, upon checking fuel consumption calculations, we found that either there was water now in the fuel, or someone made a huge error in counting the amount added/subtracted to the starboard fuel tank. Rather than find out the answer the hard way while in some remote place, we decided that 50 gallons of diesel now had to be siphoned out of the tank into jerry jugs, taken ashore and disposed of in the appropriate facility ( yes, costing even more $). Tank was inspected and very little water found. We have no idea where this magic extra fuel came from, and so will have to forego a chance to give some real competition to the local fuel monopoly.
Back to the long stay visa. Although we had received the appropriate stamps for our passports from the embassy in Wellington, we now had to go buy an additional stamp from the post office (for approximately $100US!) and take that to yet another government office where we were told to leave everything and come back the next day.
Did I mention that the dinghy motor, which we had just had "fully serviced", did not work? There we were, stuck on a mooring a couple of kilometers from shore, with a dead motor and a couple of oars. This is one of the very hard things about this lifestyle -- we try to be as self-sufficient as possible in as many ways as possible, but sometimes have to count on someone else. Upon disassembling the motor, it turned out that despite a "full overhaul" the spark plugs had not been replaced and there was now lube oil streaming freely from the lower unit seal behind the propeller. After several man/days of motor dissection and analysis, Geoff has finally decided to give up on the motor, and we ended up buying a new, smaller motor, at very inflated French Polynesian prices.
We rowed to shore, took the 45 minute bus ride back to town and, Glory Hallelujah!, were given our long stay visa documents. Armed with these I trekked back to the airport to get a refund of our $3,500 bond. (Geoff wisely decided to remain working on GRACE). I took my number at the bank, waited in line for 20 minutes, got to the window and made my request. The teller then took the next 20 minutes to look up files, consult with her colleagues, and make copious copies (yet again) of all my documents, passports, visa etc. THEN she told me that I needed to back to Immigration (Geoff's buddy) and get two stamps on each paper. At this point it was almost lunchtime and the bank was about to close for two hours. "Come back after lunch."). I was able to get to Mr. Immigration, who could not have been more charming to me. He invited me to wait inside his air-conditioned office (we had been forced to wait outside when we visited immigration the first time). We discussed France and Colombia's chances at the World Cup, and he gave me the stamps I needed with no problem at all. (Speaking some French really does help a lot.) Back to the bank two hours later, and they did refund the bond -- after charging another processing fee -- and left me holding $3500 in cash as French Pacific Francs..... (I had paid the bond originally in US$.) Quite "amusing" as I walked back to the nearest bus stop.
As I approached the bus stop, a man came right up close to me -- clearly a vagrant, and there was no one else around. He asked where I was going, and which hotel I was staying at. I opted to be pleasant rather than be scared. I told him I was taking the bus south and that I was not staying at a hotel but with friends. I then asked HIM where he was heading. He told me he was going up into the hills about 5 km. I asked if the bus went there from here and he said "no". He walked there, but was just resting at the bus stop. I asked if he was ever able to hitch a ride and he replied "sometimes". As my bus approached I wished him "good luck" with getting a ride. He replied that he depends on "good attitude" rather than "good luck." What a smart man. I made it safely back to the boat armed with all my cash and a new respect for strangers.
There is a certain "aroma" in lesser developing countries... And while French Polynesia doesn't quite fit the LDC description, it certainly smells like other places I have lived. For some reason, the smell of burning garbage or tires brings back lovely and very pleasant associations for me back to my youth. Add in the omnipresent "tiare" flower blossoms placed behind one's left or right ear -- depending on one's sense of fidelity or availability-- and fruit trees bursting with juicy mango or papaya, the dirt roads filled with potholes and blown garbage, and in some ways I really do feel at home. I am already on a first name basis with the little dog who is owned by my favorite dirt road-side fruit purveyor.
The air here is heavy, hot and laden with moisture. Something about the tropics makes me feel almost ethereal, very sensuous or perhaps an extremely unholy mix of both. It is a wonderful feeling that I wish I could share.
The air here is heavy, hot and laden with moisture. Something about the tropics makes me feel almost ethereal, very sensuous or perhaps an extremely unholy mix of both. It is a wonderful feeling that I wish I could share.
Men are funny creatures, regardless of nationality. They seem to all respond very positively to a feminine creature who shares a passion for World Cup Football/Soccer and has a working knowledge of boats too. Even if the female in question is not a "cute young thing". Once a day (games here are only in the am), I treat myself to a trip to a local cafe/restaurant/bar to watch one of the day's World Cup matches. Sometimes I am the only woman, but when France played Switzerland there were three others in a crowd of men. By now the "regulars" are used to seeing me and share their insights into various plays. I was bowled over several days ago when the young Tahitian bartender insisted on buying my 'cafe au lait' for me. These sorts of things never happened to me when I was young, but then, when I was, I did not hang out at bars. Since I cannot watch the games with Chris and Peter, as we did when they were little, this is my substitute and "gypsy" way of finding a home too.
Work on GRACE continues perpetually. Sail chafe needs repairing, stuffed bearings on new block needs replacing, steering blocks need attention, as well as the usual engine, battery, and rigging work. Since we have had to order replacement parts and items from abroad, we anticipate yet another round of play with the local bureaucracy. Wish us "good attitude" as well as "good luck" -- we can use both.
