Chapter Eleven: Every Man’s Dream
“Polynesians need little excuse to break into song and dance.”
• • •
Corrie was both right and wrong. There was room for them all. There just was not room for them all, comfortably.
Stuart should have realised the night before, that he would not be left alone to make his own way to the Bastille Day celebrations in Viatape - the main town on Bora Bora. Sometimes it is easier just not to resist and to give yourself up to other people’s decisions. He had withstood Norbert and Corrie’s initial invitation; he had easily refused Ian’s early morning, “Coming with us?”; he had deflected Stefan’s breakfast-time query, “Will you be join-ing us in the car this eve-n-ing?”; but by the time Mike had asked him, “What are you doing later?”, he had practically yelled, “I’m coming with you. In the car. I’m bloody coming with you in the car. All right?” Jenny was excited by the idea. He had arranged to meet her at Chez Pauline’s in the afternoon and to walk or hitch into town from there, but with the mid-afternoon sun high in the sky, and the prospect of a six-mile walk ahead of them, a chauffeur-driven ride suddenly took on a new appeal.
The big show started at eight, but they had all decided to get there early and have a few drinks before the evening’s organised entertainment. Norbert had driven. He had had the foresight to hire a large car, but even so it was a squash to cram Corrie, Ian and Mike across the back seat, with Stuart and Jenny forced together in the hatchback. Stefan had claimed the front passenger seat, based purely on length of leg, rather than on any other social consideration. Stuart had never been the best of passengers, and facing backwards, nose practically pressed up against the glass, watching as the winding road disappeared rapidly behind him, he felt the bile rising in his throat, ready to make a swift exit through his mouth. He concentrated hard, trying to keep his natural impulses under control. Think calm. Think cool. Calm. Cool. Breath deeply. In and out. And in and out. He would not be sick. He would not be sick. Jenny was saying something but he could not take in her words and at the same time maintain his equilibrium. It was more important not to disgrace himself in front of the group. He managed to smile weakly at Jenny and nod as though acknowledging her words. In and out. And in and out. Not sure how long he can contain this. Might have to ask for the car to be stopped. Get a breath of fresh air. In and out. He could make it. He could make it.
“OK, we’re here.” It was Norbert bringing the car to a halt.
And stop. Doors open. Clamber out. Great gasps of air. No one has noticed.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine,” Stuart answered Jenny. “Just a bit ... you know...”
“Car sick?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“It was stuffy, wasn’t it? Come on. Let’s get something to drink. You’ll be right as rain, with a beer inside of you.”
Viatape was packed. The whole island population and all of its visitors had descended on the tiny centre. Although adjoining the ocean, the docks and water were not immediately apparent from the bustling streets of the little town. Stuart’s impression was of numerous, brightly decorated boutiques, their doorways hung with hand-painted tee-shirts and tie-dyed, silky dresses fluttering like spectres in the breeze, modest racks of colourful postcards, their surfaces sticky from salt and sand, and carved wooden fishes, painted in glossy, primary colours, which still fell far short of the vibrancy of the natural hues of the underwater world they sought to imitate. There were bars with tables outside on the dry earth, and shops of provisions battened up with white clapboard shutters, making it impossible to distinguish grocer from ironmonger; butcher from banker.
“I think we ought to take our seats straight away,” suggested Mike, “It is already filling up.” He pointed towards a large open space in the town centre, surrounded on three sides by makeshift, tiered wooden stands, which effectively converted the square into a temporary arena which was apparently, judging by the volume of locals and tourists alike milling there, the focal point of the evening’s celebrations. “It might be hard to get ...” He counted the number in their party with a wagging finger, “six ... sorry, Ian, I mean seven seats together.”
The wooden benches were hard and uncomfortable and even before the extravaganza had actually begun, Stuart was already beginning to wish that everything was over and he could either decamp in a happy stupor in a local bar or alternatively return to his comfortable bed. Matters had not been made any better, by finding himself hemmed in by Ian on one side and Stefan on the other. Jenny was as far away from him as she possibly could be in a line of seven individuals - not by design, he was fairly certain, purely just unlucky dynamics - and even more annoyingly, she appeared to be engaged in animated conversation with the predatory Mike. It was always the same: the light, easy and fun conversation was always happening somewhere else, in this case as frustratingly close as a polite ‘after you, no, after you’ away. He sat, stoically, and silently, facing forwards, waiting for the joyous festivities to end. It was that awful travel dilemma again. You could not come all the way to Bora Bora and miss out on Tiurai, the great Bastille Day fiesta - your fellow travellers would not hear of it, your friends back home would not understand it, your conscience could not stand it - and yet, well, it was all a bit of a chore, really, wasn’t it? Far preferable would be a couple of cheap beers, perhaps read a few good chapters of your novel, and a bit of a snooze, somewhere safe and comfy. But you could do all that at home. So what were you doing half way around the world? It was all about culture. Soaking up the local culture. Oh God, it could be tedious being a world traveller. Just hope it is all worth it in the end. There must be some people for whom this is it. The dancing. The fancy costumes. The music. The beautiful women in their grass skirts - actually they were worth a second look. The rhythmic processions. The carefully constructed floats. The albino man standing in pride of place on the second float - the albino man. The tribal ceremonies. The marching bands. The speeches. The grand final parade. Stuart was self-critical and truthful enough to realise, that for him, tonight’s performance was all about half a dozen carefully framed photographs for the album to be viewed later with nostalgic detachment, a sense of belonging and not being the odd traveller out, and a numb bottom. One last announcement over the loud speaker and it was all over. Yes! Stuart was out of his seat and standing, impatient to leave. He felt like a parachute instructor marshalling his nervous novice jumpers, coaxing them to leave the plane: one-by-one he waved his companions past him and into the void beyond: “Come on, yes, up and go. Go, go, go, go, go.”
“Great, wasn’t it?” said Jenny, last in line.
“Great,” agreed Stuart.
“Did you see all the children dressed up?”
“Great,” agreed Stuart.
“And that little one that couldn’t keep in step.”
“Yes, great,”
“Do you fancy a drink?”
“Oh, God, yes. Great.” It was the most sincere thing he had said all evening.
• • •
The group was seated outside a small shack in a poorly lit side street, off the main road through Viatape. It had been the only place they had found that could accommodate them all. At the end of the street, in the bright lights of the main square, people still milled back and forth, in an endless bustle of unfocussed activity. In the distance there was the sound of whistles and music, and of someone talking unintelligibly but authoritatively through a loud-speaker.
“Cheers.” Stuart clinked his bottle against the one that Corrie held beside him. Jenny was still a million miles away at the opposite end of the table. Damn. Talking to Stefan. Damn. They all held bottles of local beer and a growing detritus of discarded glassware was quickly spreading across the surface of the bench table, like participants at a dirty dregs convention.
Mike and Corrie were talking about a couple who were universally known as ‘T
he Browns’, due to the commendable evenness and intensity of their suntan. They were actually Dutch - so Mike knew - travelling with their two small children - as was apparent to everyone - had not been home for eighteen months - according to Corrie - and were one of the very few people to use the camping facilities at Chez Pauline, rather than the dormitory accommodation favoured by the majority of the travellers.
“It must be strange for them to be away from their home for so long,” said Corrie.
“How long are you travelling for?” asked Mike.
“Maybe a year. Not longer. How about you?”
“I’m a free spirit. I haven’t decided. Not long, though,” he added, truthfully.
“Their youngest child must have been a tiny baby when they left.”
“Four months is what she told me,” chipped in Stuart.
“How do they manage for nappies and things? I just can’t imagine travelling with a small child, let alone a new-born baby.” said Corrie
“You haven’t got children?” asked Mike, suspiciously.
“No,” Corrie laughed.
“Oh no,” further emphasised Norbert, from where he had overheard their conversation from the other end of the table.
“I wouldn’t want to travel for so long,” said Corrie, returning to their earlier strand of conversation, “Everything would be different. Job. Friends. Everything. People don’t stand still just because you have gone away.”
“I don’t know,” disagreed Stuart, “I always used to find I would come back from a holiday and find nothing had changed. You know, you would always hope that something would happen while you were away - a difficult task would be done, or your boss would leave, or something dramatic would occur, but it never ever did.”
“Yes. But you are only talking about going away for a few weeks. A few years is something different.”
“Perhaps,” Stuart conceded. “Anyhow,” he continued, “where have your travels taken you and Norbert so far? I always like to hear other travellers’ tales.”
Mike looked like he was about to butt in and recount some of his own adventures, but instead sank back in his seat, clasping his beer bottle to his chest, saying, “Yes, go on, Corrie. I’d like to hear too.”
The normally confident-looking woman assumed a slightly bashful, coy air, not unattractive - very little that she did was unattractive - just, rather out-of-keeping with her usual demeanour. “I don’t know.”
“Why?” asked Mike, “Not done anything exciting?” He flashed a thin, challenging smile towards where Norbert sat, observing their chat.
“It’s not that,” said Corrie, “It’s more that I feel embarrassed to talk about events where we have been so fortunate. You know, all the lovely places we have been to and all the wonderful things we have seen. It just seems like showing off.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Mike, “What’s the point of going to all these great places if you can’t boast about them to your friends when you get back home.”
“Yes, go on,” coaxed Stuart, “We’d like to hear. And, after all, it’s not as though we are exactly stuck in some God forsaken backwater ourselves, is it? I mean, it doesn’t get much better than this. We’ve all been around a bit,” he added, hopeful of being able to gloss over the fact that for him French Polynesia was the first stop on a fairly conventional R.T.W. itinerary, and that less than one week ago would have found him back in the familiar comfort of his home, possessing only dreams not experiences. “I mean, everyone sticks to pretty much the same destinations, don’t they? If you are travelling west, you’ve got the States first of all, then perhaps a quick stopover on one of the islands, or Hawaii, or somewhere, then New Zealand, hang out in Australia for a while, perhaps Thailand on the way back. Doesn’t everyone ...”
“New Caledonia was very nice,” interrupted Corrie.
“New Caledonia?” Stuart quickly recovered from his surprise, and made a good stab at hiding his ignorance of the place, “Yes, I guess quite a few people choose to stop off there for a while.”
“Nouvelle-Calédonie,” said Mike, knowledgeably.
“Neue Cal-e-don-ie,” butted in Stefan, remarkably quick on the uptake for him.
“And Palau was really beautiful. Such blue water and fantastic little islands. You should see them from the air. Stunning. The diving was great too.”
“You dive?” asked Mike.
“Yes. And then we discovered this tiny little cay somewhere in the Solomon Islands. I’m not even sure it has a name. We couldn’t find it marked, even on the local maps. That was truly paradise. So isolated.”
“Wasn’t that where Robert Louis Stevenson was buried?” said Stuart, attempting to regain the high ground in the battle of geographical knowledge.
“No,” said Mike, dismissive, “You are thinking of Samoa.”
“But I think the place I found most exciting ...”
“You mean there is more?” said Stuart, unable to keep the tone of envy showing in his voice.
Corrie smiled, seeing that her initial fears had been justified, “Would you like me to stop?”
“No, no,” said Stuart, his good humour instantly restored, able to laugh at his own foibles, “Carry on. Just complete our misery.”
“OK. So the place I found most exciting was Easter Island. Actually it is the only reason that we have ended up here in Tahiti. You know that you can get to Easter Island from here on a round-trip. LAN Chile flights.”
“It’s expensive, though, isn’t it?” said Mike.
“Yes, but worth it,” said Corrie. “I had always wanted to go there.”
The whole table was now listening to Corrie’s account. “Where did you stay?” asked Ian.
“We were lucky,” Norbert took up the story, “We hadn’t booked anything in advance, but we were met at the airport by a young guy who took us to his family house. It was actually set up to accommodate a few travellers. Pretty cheap.”
“Chez Cecilia,” Corrie filled in the details.
“A word of advice, if you should be thinking of going,” continued Norbert, “Arrange to have your meals included with your accommodation, because you won’t find anywhere else to eat.”
“And the food was OK?” This was the level of Ian’s conversation: day-to-day; practical; keep to these sort of topics and he was happy.
“Basic,” said Corrie, “but OK.”
“And the Moai?” It was that Mike again. He was a clever bugger. Strip away all the bluff and there was an intelligent man struggling to be heard.
Corrie looked enraptured at the memory, “Just as I imagined. I can’t describe it. The experience was so ... I don’t know, powerful, emotional. You get a real sense of spirituality about the place.”
Ian was looking blank, “I’m sorry,” he interrupted, “Moai?”
“Big stone heads stuck in the ground,” said Mike, aggressively. His tone softened as he returned to Corrie, “Go on.”
“The most impressive sites are quite a distance from the airfield and the little town.”
“Did you have to hire a car then?” asked Stuart.
“No,” said Corrie, “We managed to hire a couple of horses instead.”
“You ride?” asked Mike.
“Yes. It was lovely. I’d recommend you all to visit if you have the time.”
“And the money,” Mike reiterated, resentfully.
“You can see some similar statues here,” said Jenny, who had sat silently throughout the previous discussion. “Not here, here.” she explained, pointing to the ground, “The best ones are not supposed to be on Bora Bora, but I think on Raiatea there are some very interesting old marae, if that is the sort of thing that turns you on.”
“Perhaps you could show me sometime,” suggested Mike, smiling knowingly at the innuendo implicit in Jenny’s turn of phrase.
“Not my thang,” said Jenny, putting Mike in his place, “As far as I am concerned old ruined temples are for
old ruined fossils. Sorry.” She bared her teeth in a false smile at the New Zealander, her expression softening as she looked at Stuart. They shared a silent “Well done”.
Stuart was pleased to see Mike’s annoyance at being humiliated and to witness his discomfort. He just wished that he was feeling a little more comfortable himself. For several minutes now he had been aware of a sharp, griping pain in his stomach. Unobserved, he had managed to slip one hand beneath the surface of the table, and run his fingers along the waistband of his shorts to see if they were too tight. They were, but the pain didn’t seem to have anything to do with that. It couldn’t have been anything he’d eaten. He hadn’t touched anything, not since lunchtime, in any case, and that had only been a simple meal of ham and bread, nothing too upsetting there. It wasn’t even as though he had had many beers. In England, he might have been able to put the pain down to a ‘bad pint’, but weak, bottled lager didn’t really seem to have the same potential for poisoning. He felt his guts make a sudden lurch again and realised that he was not in complete control of all of his internal organs. Somehow, instinctively, he knew, that this was going to get worse before it got better.
He tried to concentrate on the current discussions - Mike seemed to be talking to Ian about New Zealand; Corrie was saying something quiet and private to Norbert; both Stefan and Jenny were sipping their beers, not talking - but he found that it was all he could do to just stay silently in his seat, mentally focussing in order to prevent his stomach from making a long, drawn-out rumble. Or something worse! It was a hopeless battle, he knew. No amount of concentration could prevent the inevitable. He felt himself getting more and more tense. Don’t rumble, don’t rumble. The heat rising in his body. He felt his tee-shirt sticking to his back and beads of sweat clammy on his skin. Keep quiet, keep quiet. The heat spread up his spine, like mercury rising in a thermometer on a warm day. His armpits felt damp. He clasped his arms to his sides, hoping he could trap in any offensive, sweaty smells. Don’t rumble, keep calm. He was sitting bolt upright. Rigid. Someone must surely notice. Except they were all still engaged in their own private worlds. No one was aware of his discomfort. Oh God, keep quiet, or they soon would be. He wondered where the toilet in the bar was. He would just excuse himself. It would be all right. He could feel the heat reach up his neck and infuse his face. Someone must notice. He must have turned bright red. He placed a calming hand across his stomach. Don’t rumble. Just excuse yourself, get up, and go. It would be all right. Excuse, up, go.
Stuart made to rise from his seat, but was stopped by hearing Stefan calling his name from the far end of the table.
“Stu-art. Did you see Court-ney at the fest-i-val? Stu-art. Hey! I saw Court-ney in the crow-d.”
In his enthusiasm to attract Stuart’s attention, the young German leant forward, in the process accidentally upturning a full bottle of beer, directly into the seated Jenny’s lap.
“Shit!” Jenny stood up, pushing her chair away from her, so that it clattered backwards on the ground, brushing down her shorts with her hands, sending sprays of liquid into the air. The beer ran down her legs in rivulets, forming mini lakes in the earth around her shoes, and at the top of her shorts it formed a dark brown stain on the orange fabric.
Mike was also on his feet, laughing and pointing at Jenny’s damp midriff, “Every man’s dream,” he joked.
“What?” said Jenny, annoyed and bemused at the same time.
Mike explained, “Beer soaked crotch.”