Chapter Five: Three Down, One To Go
“It is not long before most people want to explore some of the more remote islands.”
• • •
The Taporo wasn’t leaving at five or at any other time. Along with the Raromatai, and the third boat listed in Stefan’s book, it was currently lying in several hundred fathoms of water, somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean, halfway between Tahiti and the island of Bora Bora, some 150 miles distant.
“Where do you think Courtney got to?”
Stefan shrugged. He really was going to have to learn this.
“You didn’t see any sign of her last night?”
“No, noth-ing.” Stefan sounded bored. It wasn’t the first time that afternoon that Stuart had returned to this subject of conversation, but waiting on the dockside at Papeete for a new boat to appear that could transport them out to the islands, there was little else to speculate upon to fill the passing hours.
“Her bed hadn’t been slept in?”
“No.” It was agreement.
“Could she have gone with Jenny?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you think of that albino?”
“Al-bin-o?” It was a word that Stefan was not familiar with.
“The guy at the pool.” Stuart didn’t wait for an answer before offering his verdict, “Weird, really.”
“Umm.”
“When did that bloke say the boat would arrive?”
“Six.”
“What’s the time now?”
“Six.”
“OK.”
There was a long silence, before, “So where do you think Courtney got to?”
• • •
The boat left at nine and, by all accounts, that was pretty good going. Stuart had imagined himself leaving Tahiti in a colourful departure of floral garlands and fond farewells, watching the low mountainous silhouette of the island gradually disappearing in a glorious sunset. In fact, since his time in the South Pacific, he had yet to witness a sunset, glorious or otherwise. Distant as the bright star is, it always seemed to be in the wrong direction to capitalise on maximum aesthetic impact in the sunset department. He had been told that it would be different on Bora Bora. There, they specialised in glorious sunsets.
The boat was not how Stuart had imagined either. He had taken the ferry from England to France. Regularly. He had been from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight. Once, he even took a two day cruise across the North Sea from Harwich to Hamburg. This boat was not like any of those. This one was crowded. Big style.
There hadn’t been that many people to begin with. Stefan and himself almost seemed to have the landing bay to themselves while they waited for the arrival of the good ship Manuia from one of the distant Windward Islands. But as the lights of the approaching vessel became apparent, emerging around the dark headland, and motoring into the harbour, hitherto unseen hoards descended upon the quay. So many people, in fact, that Stuart began to doubt whether there would be room for them all on board.
“How many people is this boat supposed to carry?”
“Twen-ty pass-en-gers. That is what they said.” ‘They’. There was always that authoritative ‘they’. Even in paradise there is no escaping the mysterious ‘they’: the faceless minority that make the rules and dictate the lives of the rest; the policy-makers, the decision-takers, the ones in control. No need for conspiracy theories, no whispered talk of the Bilderberg Group or Bohemian Grove, at the docks in Tahiti, the ‘they’ had been only too obvious: two young women in a small booth, who sold tickets and handed out timetables.
“But there are hundreds here. We’ll never get on.” As if to emphasise this point, Stuart found himself pushed forcefully from behind, as a large, local woman, dragging behind her three small children and several bulging packages, barged past him, and ignoring the attempts at order that were being imposed on the passengers by a member of the Manuia’s crew who was valiantly attempting to restrict access up the gangplank, surmounted the wooden walkway and claimed her right of passage. It opened the floodgates. There was a stampede. Stuart was left still standing beside the old ferry, in the middle of a group of Tahitian onlookers who were waving joyously to friends and relatives who had successfully managed to clamber on board. Of Stefan there was no sign. Presumably he had grabbed his opportunity and scrambled aboard with the masses. Stuart thought he had also seen the familiar profile of Cedric, plus guitar and girlfriend at some stage during the chaotic embarkation. At least he still had his suitcase. He looked down at the increasingly grubby-looking valise. Some things you could always rely upon.
“Are you coming, or what?” Stuart felt his arm taken firmly by someone from behind and he was steered in the direction of the boat, which was showing signs of making an imminent departure. Two men were already working at hauling in the gangplank, so that Stuart had to jump a short gap in order to gain entrance, whilst others were untying various ropes from where they held the vessel fast against the dockside.
“My case,” Stuart cried.
The precious object was unceremoniously pitched on board by a burly islander, to land at Stuart’s feet.
“You really are going to have to ditch that.” Stuart turned to face his fellow embarkee and found himself looking into the face of his driver from the airport on the first evening. “Almost didn’t see you then, almost didn’t see you again now,” the Frenchman continued.
“You really are my lucky star,” said Stuart, half-sarcastically, not entirely sure if he had anything to thank the Frenchman for. Yes, he might be on board; but on board this floating bedlam, he was beginning to wonder if it might have been a false economy to travel by sea rather than by air.
“My name is Jan,” the driver introduced himself, “Are you going to Huahine?”
“No, Bora Bora,” Stuart said. He held out a formal hand of introduction, “I’m Stuart. With a ‘u’ ...” Bora Bora had evidently been the wrong answer to the earlier question though, because Jan had already turned away, leaving Stuart’s outstretched hand left suspended in mid-greeting, with a rather dismissive, “Oh, right. See you then.” He returned only to offer one further piece of advice, “Best find somewhere to sleep. Places fill up very quickly. And dump the suitcase.” Stuart watched the big man’s retreating form, his head shaking back and forth. Stuart could almost hear his contemptuous disbelief: “English.”
One piece of Gallic advice was certainly sage though: it was going to be hard to find somewhere to sleep. The ferry comprised one very large passenger room, empty of fittings and furniture except for a line of eight wooden bunk beds, which ran end-to-end, along the length of one wall. Every bunk appeared to be already occupied, most by more than one person, and several by whole families. A frizzy-haired Tahitian man, wearing a nameplate which seemed to identify him as one of the crew, stopped Stuart as he approached the nearest bed, demanding, “Billet?”
Stuart handed over his ticket, which was swiftly returned to him with a stern look and a directing finger. The sailor’s expression became more congenial on seeing Stuart’s lack of comprehension. He indicated the row of bunks behind him, explaining, “Première classe.” Second class travel evidently didn’t include a berth.
The floor of the cabin was already fast filling up with the prone bodies of Stuart’s fellow low-fare voyagers. Colourful raffia mats and spongy bedding rolls were unfurled on the hard, metal decking, each marking someone’s claim to their own few square feet of territory, each to be fiercely guarded against potential trespassers. There was not an inch of floor that didn’t seem to have had a prior claim made upon it. Stuart decided to return to the open deck. He was not down-hearted. The cabin was noisy and smelled of petrol fumes. Where was the romance in that? He would sleep outside, in the fresh air. Isn’t that what his literary heroes would have done? His Tahitian adventure would begin tonight.
One or two other people had evidently had the same idea, and the
seductive sound of the waves gently lapping against each side of the prow as the ferry made steady progress, was accompanied by the rhythmic noise of heavy snoring. Stuart stepped over several lifeless forms, difficult to detect in the almost total darkness. He had to move swiftly too, to avoid being struck by a large, metal gas canister, part of the cargo of the ferry, which had become detached from its fastenings and was now rolling back and forth across the deck, altering its direction with each fresh pitch of the boat. He watched horrified, yet fascinated, as it picked up speed, hurtling directly towards one of the slumbering passengers, striking the sleeping innocent a stunning blow on the head. Somehow sleeping under the stars had lost some of its appeal. Casting around, the only alternative accommodation was offered by a row of moulded, plastic chairs, set hard up against the main bulkhead. It seemed surprising that no one had beaten him to this apparent luxury, unless they too were reserved for first class passengers only.
No one moved forward to bar his way as he approached the seats. Admittedly, they would not have been his first preference location for seeing out an eighteen hour sea crossing - most of the seats were wet with spray and several had large chunks knocked out of the plastic, one in particular was split almost in two and looked as though it would give any occupant a painful pinch - but given the choice between the chairs and lying on the wooden deck waiting to be crowned by a homicidal gas canister, he knew which one he favoured.
They - it’s that ‘they’ again; ‘they’ get everywhere - talk about a sixth sense which can detect the presence of imminent danger. That uncomfortable feeling that all is not well; the little hairs standing up on the back of the neck; a directionless sensation of vague unease; a creeping paranoia. If this is all true, then Stuart’s sixth sense must have been taking a nap, because it needed the friendly intervention of a young, local girl, to point out that he was about to be hit by a falling car. Would it have been the first ever case of a road traffic accident at sea?
Stuart didn’t recall where he had been when the car had been loaded on board the Manuia, but it had been the cause of much hilarity on the dock side. First there was no crane, then there was a crane but no cargo, and finally there was a crane and cargo but no driver. In desperation, the boat’s skipper, his mind more focussed on shipping timetables than on heavy haulage equipment, had climbed up on the raised gantry and operated the apparatus himself. An ever-growing crowd had oo-ed and ah-ed as the car had been first grabbed, then winched skywards and finally swung out over the water, to be unceremoniously dropped with a resounding crash and a great shower of masonry, on to the roof of the bulkhead. The two front wheels of the vehicle teetered perilously close to the edge of the roof, threatening to roll forward and send the chassis toppling, nose first, on to the deck beneath. By some miracle, though, the car held fast and, with a satisfied rub of his hands at a job well done and with a modest smile towards his adoring public, the captain accepted the plaudits of the crowd and returned to his boat.
Now Stuart could see why no one was sitting on the row of chairs. In the heavy seas and large swells that the Manuia was likely to encounter during the night, wisely no one was prepared to risk the car shifting its position and landing in their lap.
It was a beaten man that returned to the relative safety of the cabin; a disillusioned romantic that sank down in one corner of the room, his legs drawn up tight into his chest, his back leaning against the unforgiving metal walls of the chamber; a weary traveller that closed his eyes and sunk into an automatic and very sound sleep.