Chapter Two: Soft Cheese And Hard Sell
“The warmth of the Polynesian welcome is world renowned.”
• • •
He had not realised that Courtney was blonde until he woke up beside her the next morning. It was a minor discovery, but at least it was a secure fact; something tangible that he could hang on to. At that moment he felt like he didn’t have many other anchors to reality. There were other - greater - discoveries he was going to have to make this morning, if he was going to be able to grab this vacation by the scruff of its neck and get on with the task of enjoying it. A start would be to discover the answer to, ‘where am I?’ Stuart shut his eyes again. Later. The big questions could wait till later.
He was lying on a thin mattress on a hard floor. That much he could tell with his eyes closed. There was the sound of the sea: strange that he hadn’t noticed that last night. There was a pleasant smell too. Not perfume, not flowers, just something fresh and clean. There was the gentle touch of a breeze on his cheeks too. Not the chill air of Northern Europe, but a cooling caress, on skin that would have felt uncomfortably warm otherwise. Four senses were signalling ‘safe, safe’. Perhaps it was all right to open his eyes again too.
Next to Courtney he could now see the German chap he had travelled in the truck with. Both of them were still asleep. The German was snoring. Or was that actually Courtney? Women shouldn’t snore. It did not fit in with his aesthetic ideal of them. What was the other guy’s name? He could not quite remember, not to worry, it would come back to him.
It had taken another fifteen minutes the previous night before the truck had veered off the main carriageway and skidded across a short expanse of dusty scrubland, giving some indication that the culmination of their drive was very close. Stuart who, having accustomed himself to the rhythmic vibrations of the old vehicle and having accepted that his fate was in the hands of others - a decision which instantly made him feel more relaxed about the situation - had been nodding off to sleep, initially assumed that the Frenchman had dozed off at the wheel and that they were all careering helplessly off the traffic lane and into the verge. There was a thud, and then the truck straightened up again and was bumping along a narrow side road, the trees so close on one side that the branches struck and scraped along the metal of the van and caused his companions to shift their positions or risk being hit. The ocean, which had been a constant companion since Papeete – the highway never being further than the sound of a lapping wave distant from the water’s edge - had disappeared a mile or so back, and with it so went the last landmark.
It had reached a stage where Stuart was not sure if he was more nervous about the continual progress into the unknown, or the moment when he knew the truck was going to stop, the ignition would be turned off, and he would have to face up to where – and why – he had been brought. Hostage Situation. He couldn’t get the two words out of his mind. He pictured a dark sack being thrust over his head, a lengthy captivity perhaps culminating in a TV appeal, and photos of him, bruised face beside a local newspaper to indicate that he was still alive. But what then? A happy family reunion or an ominous silence? A silence which would stretch from days, into weeks, into months. A silence which would ultimately be replaced by forgotten.
A silence which was being broken by the sound of snoring. It was Courtney. The German guy was awake. Much like himself, he was looking shifty. He was trying not to make himself look too conspicuous, but he was definitely awake. Stuart watched, through half-closed lids, as his fellow captive eased himself to a sitting position, blinked, looked around, and then slowly, silently stretched out his arm, searching, his hand fumbling around until it alighted upon a garment strewn on the floor, and after a hasty search withdrew a small, plastic package from one of the pockets. The young man cast around himself, part-guiltily, part-protective of his newly discovered bounty and, only after convincing himself that the coast was clear, proceeded to peel back the top layer from his find and dig his fingers into the small container. A sticky resin ran down his hands and landed with a dollop onto the floor. Stuart continued to watch from his prone position, confident that he was unobserved.
“That’s disgusting.”
It was an American voice. An American female voice. A rather raucous, American female voice. Courtney was awake.
The German looked startled, before breaking into a sheepish grin, “I had heard that things were ex-pen-sive here. I though that it might be worth sav-ing the air-line food in case I got des-per-ate.”
“You must be desperate to eat that. What is it?” Courtney pointed at the congealed, yellow blob.
“It was cheese, but it is so hot, it has melt-ed.”
Courtney sat up laughing, “And what else have you saved from the flight? Sugar sachets? Sick bag?”
Stefan looked puzzled, not quite understanding the words. Stuart decided that he was missing out on a potential traveller-bonding session and thought it time to make his presence known. “You may laugh,” he said, “but don’t come running to me when you run out of moist lemon hand-wipes and complimentary comfort socks.”
“Not you too,” said Courtney, good-humouredly.
Stefan, his forehead wrinkled with concentration, had finally caught on to the subject of the conversation, “I al-ways keep the duty free mag-a-zine. Then I know what to buy on the way home.”
There was a silence before both Stuart and Courtney burst out laughing.
Yes! Before he had been just an anonymous pawn-nerd. Now he was the king.
It was Stuart who came to Stefan’s rescue. He could sympathise with how he would feel in the same situation, after all, he had been there often enough himself. Here he was, a young man, alone, away from anyone that knew him - knew his past; his modest history - anyone that had preconceived ideas about the kind of person he was: the same people that did not know him at all. Here he had a chance to be himself. Whoever that might be. Not to reinvent exactly, but to find out just who it is who has lived for so many years concealed beneath the layers of nurture and expectation. It was an opportunity to live out some dreams. Except here he was making all the same mistakes again. Perhaps you can never run far enough away to escape yourself?
Stuart’s attempt to ease Stefan’s embarrassment was by relating his own duty free magazine anecdote - not something that everyone could boast of possessing in their narrative repertoire, and a story that Stuart was secretly rather proud to be able to pull out and use at this particularly apt moment. “I remember on one flight I was on, you could buy this blow-up life-size doll. It was meant to be a security thing. You know, you sit it next to you in your car if you are alone and it makes it look like you have a passenger with you, or you can leave it in a parked car to stop people breaking in. As if. I wondered why they had it for sale on a flight. Is it for lonely people to sit next to them? Or is it for…”
Courtney, who had been looking less amused as the anecdote progressed, finally broke in, her voice one of high-pitched indignation, “I have one of them. They are actually very useful.”
Yes! The king has his queen. As a means to easing Stefan’s discomfort the story could not have been more successful.
“You just arrived?”
The newcomer was young and female and very ginger: ginger hair, ginger dress, ginger freckles, and ginger spirit. Ginger beer? Her bubbly approach appeared the very effervescent antipathy to the flat conversation of the other three. Plus she could obviously speak English. Stuart and Courtney pounced upon her with their questions like hungry wolves. Stefan circled like a vulture, ready to scavenge any morsel of conversation, should there be any oratorical meat left on the carcass.
“Yes, where are we?”
“We arrived last night.”
“We came in the truck.”
“We had no idea where we were going.”
“What is this place?”
“Where are we?”
Ginger ignored the most urgent questi
on, and held out a hand of welcome, “Hi, I’m Jenny (could have been worse, could have been Ginny: could have been Geri!) It’s nice to meet you too.”
Stuart, realising their previous rudeness, acted as spokesman for the group. “I’m sorry. You know what it’s like when you first arrive. We haven’t quite settled into the pace here yet. I’m still operating on London time. You know, quick, quick, answer, answer, can’t wait. You sound like you’re from somewhere up north.”
“Huddersfield. Just can’t get away from us Brits can you,” Jenny replied.
“I’m Stuart, by the way. With a ‘u’ ‘a’.”
“Withayooay? Oh, right, with a ‘u’ ‘a’.”
While the introductions had been going on, Stefan was taking an opportunity to properly take in his surroundings for the first time. Things were looking better than he had imagined. Strange, but better than he had imagined. He was - they all were - lying on a large open-air balcony of what appeared to be a sizeable, colonial-style mansion: stone, white-washed, and rather crumbling. One storey below him there was the sea, but seemingly so close that is appeared to be lapping at his side. The sky was blue above him. There were palm trees in the distance. The beach might be black volcanic ash rather than sand, but it was a sort of paradise. Like Stuart, he was lying on a thin, once-white mattress; unlike Stuart, he realised, with something like horror, that he was wearing only a pair of flimsy boxer shorts. A rather threadbare sheet had evidently slipped off him at some point in the night, exposing to all his dazzlingly white, sun-starved chest, although, he was thankful to note, nothing more scandalous.
Stuart had been continuing his story to Jenny, “We all just got bundled in here last night. It was pitch black. No idea where we were. Shoes off. I’ve no idea where they are. Up some stairs. A big room full of snores, and then here.” He spread his arms out wide to embrace his surroundings, before ending rather weakly and with something like surprise, “Pretty nice actually.”
Stefan was feeling slightly at a disadvantage in his minimalist garb. He noticed that both Stuart and Courtney must have had the foresight not to have stripped off before they went to sleep the previous night, and both were still wearing the crumpled clothes that they had worn on the flight. He pulled the sheet further around him, while at the same time slowly reaching out for the pile of clothes that were at the foot of his mattress.
“Here let me.” Jenny bent over to help him, the loose neck of her dress gaping wide open as she scooped up the garments off the floor. Ginger nipples too.
“Thank you,” Stefan mouthed.
Jenny returned to Stuart. “Well for starters you’re at a place called Venus Point, near Mahina, it’s about ten miles out of Papeete. And this is Hiti Mahana Beach Club. All the travellers end up here. It is Tahiti backpack Mecca. I’m probably not the best person to ask about anything else. I’ve only been here a few days myself. Some of the others ...” She looked around her, but other than one or two still slumbering forms there was no one else in sight, “seem to practically live here. Actually, I was thinking of exploring the island today. Hire a car. Any of you want to join me? It’s pretty expensive to do it on your own.”
Courtney, who had been unusually quiet, silently assessing the new female ... what? - not rival, she hardly considered either Stuart or Stefan worth fighting over - presence perhaps, found her voice, “Sounds good. Count me in.”
Stuart was thrown into a dilemma by the invitation. Explore versus Expensive. Adventure versus Dosh. Good Opportunity To Meet New People And See New Things versus Travelling For The Next Six Months On A Limited Budget And Don’t Want To Blow It All On The First Day. “Yes, go on then.”
Stefan was still dreaming ginger dreams, “Yes please.”
“We’ll probably never see her again, mate. You were a mug to lend her that money.”
Having initially felt confident that his loan was in safe hands - “Just lend me four thousand Francs for the car hire, I’ll give it back to you later.” - Stefan was beginning to feel less sure. He had allowed Stuart’s cynicism to seep into him, “Do you really think so?”
The two men were washed, dressed and sitting in white plastic, garden chairs, on the dark sands, outside the main communal block at Hiti Mahana, enjoying the morning sunshine. From somewhere inside there was the sound of billiard balls clicking and a game of pool in progress. Courtney had disappeared inside the building twenty minutes earlier with the intention of finding “a secure place to store her luggage” and had not yet reemerged. Meanwhile Stefan and Stuart had been talking about Jenny and their proposed island excursion.
Stuart was already talking like the world-weary, experienced traveller, “Classic scenario, I’m afraid. Read about it all the time in the colour supplements.”
Colour supplements. Stefan mouthed the words silently; experimentally.
“Pretty girl, new arrival, perhaps a little naïve.” Stuart paused to indicate his choice of words were aimed specifically at Stefan, and did not include himself in a catch-all philosophy of recently-arrived travellers. “Get chatting. All very pleasant. Uses a bit of charm. Perhaps shows a bit of leg. Am I right?” Stefan nodded, miserably. “Then, bang!” Stuart smacked his hands together, “The hard sell. The big steal. The velvet rub-down. Borrows your money today, with the promise of goods tomorrow, and that's the last you ever see ... Jenny. Hi! We were just talking about you. Everything fixed up?”
Jenny pulled up another chair and joined the two men. “Yes, all sorted. The car’s sitting out front. A Renault. We’ve got to have it back by five this evening.” She turned to Stefan, at the same time pulling out her bum-bag from where it had been concealed beneath the clothing at her waist. She counted out four crisp notes and handed them to him, “I think that’s the right amount. I passed an A.T.M. on the way back after I’d topped the car up with petrol. God! You’ve really got to watch the drivers here. They’re maniacs! Do you both drive?”
Stefan nodded, pocketing his money, with a smug look towards Stuart.
Stuart blustered, “I do, but ... Is it an automatic? I haven’t driven anything but an automatic for a while.”
“It’s manual.”
“Oh, well ...”
“Never mind,” Jenny interrupted, “the rest of us can drive. How about you, Courtney?” They all turned, as the blonde woman reemerged from the reception hut, shutting the mesh door behind her.
“What?”
“Do you drive?”
“Are you kidding me. I’m American. Does the Pope pray? Hand me over the keys.”