29 - From Here to Eternity (Moorea)

Papeete to Moorea, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 21 april 2003

I arrived at the ungodly hour of 2:40am. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw hefty Polynesian men playing tiny ukeleles to welcome us, and svelte gorgeous ladies in hibiscus-printed dresses distributing miniscule fragrant jasmine buds. Nice touch, but at this hour? The huge, macho Tahitian Customs guys stamping our passports all had tiny jasmine flowers tucked behind their ears too. Eeeww.

I wanted to wait til daybreak to head to Moorea island. I tried to stay awake at the airport but finally, I fell asleep on the hard seats. When I woke up, a Tahitian woman in the typical loud hibiscus-printed primary-coloured dress sitting next to me, started telling me she had been watching my bags and that I should be careful with my stuff. I smiled sheepishly. Merci, I thanked her. OK, another language now. And one that I did not know.

A conversation of gestures, noises and sporadic Spanish vocabulary thrown in, hoping they were similar to French, ensued. In the end, I figured she said there were buses to town, but yet she shook her head when I paraphrased my understanding. My French was limited to numbers, ‘bonbons’ and ‘champignons’. Not very useful now, I’m afraid.

She finally waved down a guy whose job was to receive tourists at the airport for various five-star hotels and this one spoke English and instructed me accordingly.

I headed to the main road to try and catch a Le Truck. This was the typical public transport in Tahiti. They basically looked like trucks. On the Le Truck, I asked a few other tourists if they knew where to get off for the Moorea Ferry Terminal. They were heading the same way too. Great. They were Go, Junko from Japan/USA, and Greg from Australia.

Go and Junko had booked themselves in a US$140-per night beach bungalow in Moorea. Greg and I opted for a slightly cheaper resort - dormitory beds for US$13 a night.

I had changed some Tahitian francs at LAX airport but I did not have enough to pay for three nights. As it was Easter weekend, everything was shut. The receptionist decided to take US dollars from me instead.

Greg had a weird story. He brought along no US dollars or travellers’ cheques with him, relying entirely on his card. But the card could not work at any of the machines. He tried to do a cash-advance-over-the-counter at the bank at the airport and the guy claimed it was not possible at that branch. With every bank shut for Easter, Greg simply had no means of getting any francs. The guy at the bank counter amazingly LENT him 20,000 Polynesian Francs (about US$200), took a photocopy of his passport and made Greg promise to return the money just before he leaves Tahiti.

I had worked in a bank for six years. I assure you this is the ONLY compassionate bank-related story anyone will ever get to hear.

This was really the tail-end of my trip. I was not interested to do this or that sight, hire kayaks or snorkels, or whatever. Nonono. I just wanted to merely exist for three more days.

We took the scenic route along the beach to walk to Go and Junko’s resort. Some places were fenced off but the sea being so shallow, we just waded across the water to get around.

The beach in front of their resort was way better. One could not really swim because of the corals all over and the water was not deep enough to kick one’s legs properly. The water was wonderfully warm and super clear to see the fishes and corals. In the far distance, one could see the enormous crashing Pacific waves but they broke very far off because of the corals and never made it to the beach. In other words, this was paradise.

I shut down my brain and drifted in the water.



Moorea, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 22 april 2003

Today was the end of the Easter holidays. Greg had looked forward to going to the bank nearby and doing a cash advance so that he would have money to pay back the guy at the bank. Meanwhile, I calculated that I needed another US$15 worth of francs to survive the next few days.

As it turned out, that bank could neither provide cash advance nor currency change. The staff was there mainly to look surly, tap something on the computer and pretend to use the telephone. We had to go to Cook’s Bay at another end of the island.

The automatic Change Machine would zap US$5 for every transaction. If I needed US$15, I had to feed in US$20. That would be 25% commission!!!! My card could not work on the withdrawal machines either. We later learnt from a French tourist that only her French credit card worked. Most mysterious.

To help out my situation, Greg and I decided to buy US$20 worth of groceries from the supermarket and I would pay with my credit card and he would give me francs in return. Great, we would feed on French loaves and Nutella for breakfast, and spaghetti for dinner the next few days.

With my money issues sorted out, I shut down my brain and read thrashy novels by the beach.

That night over spaghetti, I found out that Greg had been on five or six Round-The-World trips over the years. Gosh. He was definitely NOT a lister and was so humble and unassuming that I only learnt about this now. I had to coax stories out from him. I really appreciated him telling me this and I enjoyed his stories tremendously. I knew this Round-The-World would not be the one and only one. And to hear that he had done several really encouraged me. It might be possible for me too. Ah, a wonderful dream.



Moorea, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 23 april 2003

There were too many roosters on this island.

Some people could exist for their entire life. I existed for two days and felt I was ready to start LIVING again, but not too strenuously, sil vous plait.

Greg read that, according to the guide-book, there was a ‘fairly easy’ walk from the Ferry Point to Cook’s Bay. 2 hours, 5 kms, that sounded alright. I asked if I could join him and so we set off on the bus to the Ferry Point.

Unfortunately, it rained just when we arrived at the Ferry Point. We only set off after an hour’s wait when the rain subsided.

The trail was horribly muddy right at the start. We followed the red markers painted on trees or plastic tapes tied to trunks and started ascending up a slope. Greg only had flip-flops on. With the earlier rain, the climb was difficult and very slippery. Many times, we had to use roots embedded in the mud like rungs of a ladder to climb up.

After an hour of very sweaty and exhausting climb, we reached the top of the ridge. Walking across the edge to the left, we arrived at a view-point and found ourselves right at the bottom of two very impressive peaks.

Moorea had some very astounding and dramatic mountain peaks scattered all over and to burst through the foliage and be met with this sight, I was utterly floored. “This is TREMENDOUSLY PHENOMENAL!!”, I yelled. We were awed by the fantastic view around us, for we could see Tahiti island, the bays and the spectacular mountains around Cook’s Bay. Yes, the tough work was all worthwhile. Greg confessed smilingly that he had started to have doubts but agreed with me this was worth it. The poor thing was suffering more from the climb because of unsuitable footwear.

Now, we had to descend on the other side of the ridge… which was even worse. We slipped several times and Greg knocked his elbow badly. We came to a point where it was so steep it was like plunging to death. This did not look right. I saw no plastic tapes in a distance and was afraid if we went down this way and it was the wrong route, there was NO WAY we could climb back up. I got worried but there appeared to be no other route and so we carefully crawled down.

We managed to leave the jungle without tragedy after the very stressful and difficult journey downhill. And Greg… oops, I am sorry, the Legendary Greg did it in flip-flops. ‘Fairly easy’, my foot!

We returned to the hostel by hitching. I started to have really bad stomach aches upon our return. French loaf, Nutella and biscuits. What could go wrong?



Moorea to Papeete, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 24 april 2003

Woke up with no more stomach pains but there were still too many roosters on this island.

After yesterday, we deserved a brainless day today at the beach. At one point, from the clear shallow water, Greg spotted a huge black something moving against the currents. It was a ray! He had spotted one two days ago but nobody was nearby for him to point it out. This time, he pointed it out from the beach and everyone saw it. It was gigantic and very graceful. I waded in the water to follow it for a while. It was fantastic to see a ray!! Wow, I was really pleased with this final, perfect present.

I would be flying out of Tahiti tonight to Melbourne, Australia. While I would be transitting in Melbourne, I had about 4 hours to kill. Since Greg is from Melbourne, I asked him for transportation details to the city centre, if I so choose to head there from the airport. He suggested I take the SKYBUS to Spencer City Station and then, find my way to Bourke Street.

“OK, so when I arrive at Spencer City, I just have to ask someone: ¿Dónde está Bourke Street? [‘Where is Bourke Street?’ in Spanish] And I can go there by walking?” I clarified.

“Right.”

“Except that I have to ask that in Australian.” I pointed out.

“Yes, that would be: ¿Dónde está Bourke Street, mate? [‘Where is Bourke Street?’ in Australian]”

I was all set to tackle Melbourne.



Papeete, FRENCH POLYNESIA to Auckland, NEW ZEALAND - 25 april 2003

I sat and read at the Tahiti airport since 5pm yesterday and only boarded the plane at 1am this morning. I barely got a chance to experience 25 April before…



Auckland, NEW ZEALAND to Melbourne, AUSTRALIA to SINGAPORE - 26 april 2003

…it was zapped from me when we crossed the International Date Line.

It was payback time. The hours I had been earning slowly the past 12 months… time to return them.

I took a series of planes to Auckland, New Zealand and Melbourne, Australia.

Australia was picky about everything. One of the questions on the Declaration Form was if I had any soil, or articles attached with soil with me. Sure, I had. I had gone hiking and slipped down muddy slopes a few days ago in Moorea. My sandals were still covered with mud. I very honestly ticked ‘Yes, mate’ to that and was ushered to the Quarantine Room.

I was told to take off my sandals and take a seat. The Quarantine guy washed my sandals and returned them, dripping wet. I had a muddy dress from my hike in Viñales, Cuba and a muddy pair of pants I had on where I did several slipperoos in Moorea. Do you guys do free laundry here? Nah, I was not going to confess those and so I fled the scene.

I found out the price of the SKYBUS to town and it was not worth it for so few hours and so I stayed put at the airport.

And then, I took my final flight back to Singapore.

Well, at this moment, allow me to share a few humble verses, inspired from the various points of my trip.

---- * * * ----

A minaret against the sunset
A yodelling call to the evening prayer
Incense smoke, lighted candles
Joss papers burn in the temple pyre

Yak-butter lamps flicker on the altar
‘Wind horse’ papers strewn across the pass
Prayer wheels creak as they spin clock-wise
Fluttering in the wind, white and yellow scarves

Faded Bodhisattvas with missing arms
A thousand Buddhas peer out of caves
A wall that snakes forever into the mist
Brick by brick, stacked up by slaves

---- * * * ----

Undulating grasslands
Stretched endlessly for miles
Emerging from gers,
Curious gentle smiles

The shifting wind
The stirring dust
The thunderous hooves
The silent stars

These meat-eaters, these warriors
Galloping across the hills on their stallions
Survived the harshness, lived the desert
Once widely feared and so valiant

---- * * * ----

Four days three nights, bulleting west
Siberia in my hair, soot on my face
Lulled by the rhythmic ‘TUK-tuk-TUK-tuk’
Towards the orange sunset, we chased

‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’
Tongue-twisting, four syllables
Surly and sour looks
Coaxed a smile out? It’s a miracle

Onion-domed churches, clashing in colours
State treasure, opulence in abundance
Soviet-era statues, abandoned in parks
Metro stations, grand and elegant

---- * * * ----

Sun-drenched bodies, brown and baking
All shapes and sizes, decked out in bikinis
The curved beaches, the warm Atlantic
The party never ends, it stretches to infinity

In this land, the music plays on
Feathers and sequins gyrate to samba
A radio here, a street band there
Booming oludum alternates with suave bossa nova

A limitless coastline, the odd mountains
An impenetrable jungle that knows no peers
Crystalline rivers, blue subterranean lakes
And a waterfall that brings tears

---- * * * ----

A gracious twirl, a sensual slide
Quivering voices from the cracking gramaphone
Passion and nostalgia, that is tango
Musical poetry performed with tearful moans

Red-hot charcoal and that sizzling sound
Comes the smell of unmistakable asados
Yerba mate fills the gourd
The bitter the better, so prefers the gauchos

Relentless wind beats on the pampas
The majestic glacier, one swoons and faints
Amidst the mighty Andes, emerges Aconcagua
Seven colours on a mountain, swirls like paints

---- * * * ----

Turqoise lakes patrolled by guanacos
Savage wind tortures and tosses
Vertical peaks that tower over you
Enigmatic ‘Horns’, sculpted by nature forces

An island with wooden churches and palofitos
Good old fishermen haul in the day’s catches
A climb up the volcano, blinded by whiteness
Confused by the snow, the clouds and the smoke it belches

Hissing and bubbling, the geysers awaken
In the distant salt lake, the flamingoes feast
Vicuñas relish the freedom of the altiplano
Sparsely populated by Indians who chew coca leaves

---- * * * ----

Stone ruins, trapping enigmas and legends
Messages encoded in beads and threads
Dried-up mummies in frozen screams
Intricate textiles, now in shreds

Multiple cultures from epochs ago
Rose from the coast, highlands, jungles and deserts
Slowly taken over by the mighty Incas
Only to be silenced forever by the bearded Spaniards

Mysterious drawings criss-crossed the plains
Boats of reed sail the highest lake
Silent sarcophagi perched on cliffs
A network of trails, through the mountains they snake

---- * * * ----

One country, three currencies
The land that is Castro and cigars
Crumbling colonial houses
And classic Chevrolet cars

Where everyone is meant to be equal
Every business, state-controlled
Food products, weighed and rationed
Rules and regulations, to be followed

Be surprised by the contrasts
Be shocked by the disparities
Be humbled by their lives
Be touched by their sincerities

---- * * * ----

If they sound incomplete, it is because they are. To be honest, I do not know how to end them. To end them with a flourish is as if to say, this is how the country is. But the truth is, I, like any other travellers, am merely a passer-by, some essence of the places at those moments rubbed off a little as I flitted around the peripherals. These are my impressions then and I am sure they will evolve.

I hope that for the past twelve months, I had shared the flavour of things, triggered some wonderful memories, inspired a few to dust off their bags, hit the roads and have their own experiences. Only then will anyone understand what I am talking about.

Twelve months
Eleven diaries
Ten languages
Nine airlines
Eight inspiring books
Seven-ty-nine rolls of films (oh well)
Six haircuts
Five visas
Four Equator-crossing
Three continents
Two ‘White Nights’
One World
Infinite Smiles

Today, I complete my circle. This is not the end. This is the beginning. From here to eternity, may the magic runs to infinity.