Photographer / WriterTanya Laketext layer

Tahiti

In the drink

Published in The Sydney Morning Herald, Travel Section, August 12, 2006

Cheap thrills ... mixing with manta rays is one way to spend time, and not much money, in Tahiti.
Cheap thrills … mixing with manta rays is one way to spend time, and not much money, in Tahiti.
Photo: Tanya Lake

Destination: Pacific Islands

Tanya Lake learns the tricks of swimming with sharks and other creatures in Tahiti.

When underwater in the middle of a shark feeding frenzy, you should keep your arms close to your body. I’m sure they’ve told me this, it’s just that I don’t understand French. So when the fearless Tahitian boat captain jumps off the boat into a group of sharks fighting for pieces of bloodied fish, so do I.

I am especially keen as I have my underwater camera and can’t wait to get shots in the light-filled shallow waters off the island of Moorea. Beneath the surface the lemon reef sharks are a frenzy of activity and when I reach for the safety of the anchor chain, my arm no longer close to my body, they come close. Too close. And so it is back to the safety of the boat and the looks of disdain from my fellow tourists. Well, they are French. And dry. And stylish in tiny shorts and bikinis. As the token daggy Aussie, I drip all over the floor and dampen the style factor in my full-length rash vest, broad hat and zinc cream.

At the next stop enormous manta rays glide through the crystal clear water like spacecraft, zeroing in on our captain (who is overboard before the boat stops). He catches a seagull, passing the terrified bird to a young boy before playfully kissing each ray and then holding on for a ride. It doesn’t seem too kosher (it’s not good to touch marine animals, let alone feed them) so I decide to play it safe this time.

The French style-mongers jump in, swimming with the mantas as if it is as commonplace as their morning cafe au lait. I climb back into the water and, when my hyperventilating subsides, the rays brush against me, their skin surprisingly soft. Like playful puppies, they dance around us, their chainsaw-like tails hitting my legs (I discover they don’t sting you), causing me to perform an involuntary jump onto the back of the nearest upright human. It is a Tahitian boy, who graciously carries me back to the boat, amid a flood of French words I interpret as either “Yes, you will die soon” or “No, you will be fine”.

It is not until I spy lunch being prepared on a tiny island nearby that I muster the courage to dive off the boat again. The Tahitian dish of poisson cru (raw tuna marinated in lime and coconut milk) is a taste sensation and in two days I am an addict. At about $10 a dish, it is a daily staple.

The $10 shark-and-manta tour – a low-key affair advertised on the ­noticeboard of the huts I am staying at on Moorea – is the highlight of my trip. I have arrived in Tahiti with only $84, determined to stay for the week.

I have the holiday of a lifetime, proving Tahiti can be done on the cheap. The huts I stay in (Camping Moorea) are right on the water and only $8 a night. The supermarkets have fresh baguettes (50 cents) which, along with the fresh avocados, bananas and mangoes (and, of course, oh-so-Euro laughing-cow cheese), make a tasty picnic lunch.

I hire a bicycle ($5 a day) and ride it around the island of Moorea (65 kilometres and relatively flat). This gives me an overview of the place, if not an appreciation for the viciousness of the guard dogs the French love to keep on all their tropical outposts. I have caught the ferry to Moorea from Papeete, the uninspiring capital of the main island of Tahiti ($15 and one hour). On this ferry I meet some other tight-arse travellers, all looking stoked about living it up in a paradise that’s not on the average backpacker radar.

Getting the public bus on Tahiti is a cinch (if you are patient). One goes clockwise around the island and the other anti-clockwise.

While I wait for this bus, some young outboard riggers ask me if I will make up their numbers in a race. I look at the scene of giant Polynesian men with their painted canoes and handcrafted oars. How can I resist? No one is bothered that I am the only woman in a boat of eight paddlers. The man at the back calls out when we must swap sides with our oars and I quickly learn to keep my head down and listen carefully if I am to keep in time.

We glide with such speed that we are soon at the outer reef, where the crashing waves are bigger than they appear to be from the shore. We are just a few kilometres up from Teahupoo (“Chopes”), the famous surf break I have been waiting to catch the bus to and the only place in the world where the water is sucked so fast from under the wave that it crashes onto the reef below sea level.

After the race (we come second), I agree to meet up with one of the families for dinner. Hearing that I want to go to Teahupoo, they laugh. “Only Australians ever want to go there .¿.¿. There is no road; after the bus you will have to walk.” They look at my surfboard. “Or you can paddle.”

Maybe they take pity on me, for a crew decides to take me there. It is a lovely journey. We stop for swims in waterholes and marvel at the high mountains behind us, which are often covered in cloud or waterfalls. Teahupoo is flat and muddy (as it is the mouth of a river). The wave breaks so far out that most pro surfers get a lift out rather than paddle for half an hour. I am surprised to see huts along the shore even though the road has ended. What a peaceful existence – if the roar of the ocean doesn’t keep you awake at night, that is.

The next day I have to work – a gruelling assignment of photo-reportage for a French magazine on the national brewery, Hinano Beer. They also make me try the beer. Yeah, I know, I know. Each bottle and can – with the famous label of a cross-legged woman in a red sarong, with a tiare flower in her hair – rolls past on the production line, a parade of the symbols of paradise: beautiful woman, tropical island, beer … My head spins. It is hot! I realise I have to take it easy on the liquid of choice if I am to keep the images in focus.

I have supper with the French manager, Laurent. Argentinian steak, French wine and avocados from the tree outside. The bossa nova rhythms of Jaoa Gilberto float in the humid air. He tells me how, after living in paradise for a while, it no longer feels like paradise. He moved to Tahiti 10 years ago and has recently separated from his wife. Now he can’t find a “decent woman”. I think of all the beautiful Tahitian women I have seen. “But you are on the island of Gauguin’s dreams! Surrounded by some of the most beautiful women in the world.”

“Alas,” he bemoans. “I am French, they are Polynesian. We do not mix.”

You can lead a man to paradise, it seems, but paradise really is a state of mind.

Destination Tahiti

GETTING THERE
Hideaway Holidays has direct non-stop flights with Air Tahiti three times a week from Sydney to Papeete from $777 return (plus taxes) but you must book a minimum of two nights in a hotel to get this fare. Qantas also flies direct to Papeete from $1292 return (plus taxes).

MORE INFORMATION
http://www.hideawayholidays.com.au
www.qantas.com.au

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