The Influence
X. Polynesian Polyamory
Chapter 63
The alpha male, mouth wide open, lips pulled back and canines exposed, charges with arms the size of tree trunks, shrieking like it’s the end of the world. But instead of pouncing on the man and ripping him to shreds, the monkey stops, prevented by generations of conditioned behaviour, settles instead for aggressive posturing: snarling and lunging forward in a threat display, saliva dripping from the mouth, the powerful arms lashing out in mock attacks.
The man whimpers, petrified, eyes closed like a condemned man waiting for the trapdoor to open and the noose to halt the fall. A stain appears at his crotch and spreads down the trouser legs, urine dripping on the ground. Realising that he is still alive, he opens his eyes incredulously, pulls out a pistol from his jacket and shoots the monkey. The gun is quite small, barely visible in the man’s hand, and the sound it makes is unimpressive. Yet the result is anything but, at close range. The bullet slams into the monkey’s mouth, lifting the animal off the ground. As it exits the back of the head it sprays bone and brain fragments in a wide arch.
‘Don’t fuck with me. No one fucks with me,’ the man says, his voice high-pitched and trembling. Putting away the gun, he takes out his handkerchief and wipes his hands with it, is about to raise it to his face but a look at the soiled, wet cloth makes him drop it in disgust.
He grabs the trunk and steps through the doorway, savagely kicking the dead monkey to one side. A few more steps before he lets go of the handle. He pulls off the bowtie, fumbles briefly with the top shirt button. Impatient, he rips the shirt open, buttons flying. With a deep and satisfying breath he looks around and nods to himself, proceeds to drag the trunk towards the back of the ruin, one wheezing step at a time. The moonlight that shines through the dark, skeletal rafters is insufficient to illuminate his surroundings and the man uses a lighter to orient himself. Locating a pile of wooden boxes in one corner, he shuffles over and starts removing them, stacking them neatly on the side to begin with. The boxes are not very heavy but his breathing gets more painful with each one and after a while he just tosses them across the floor. With only a few boxes remaining, he kicks them into the corner until a hatch is revealed. He is tired and it takes him three attempts to lift it and rest it against the stacked boxes. He gets down on his knees, pulls out the lighter again and peers down. The flame does nothing to disperse the darkness below, other than to outline the top of a rickety ladder, the rest of it invisible.
‘Hello! Anyone home?’ he calls out tauntingly.
There is no reply from below. Not even an echo, as if the black void absorbed his voice. The man looks disappointed before he perceives a faint scratching sound and barely audible moaning.
‘Well, damn it, I’m very happy that you’re still around,’ he chuckles, which transforms into a drawn-out coughing fit. ‘So sorry about that, old chap. It’s bloody hard work, ruling the world. As you should know. I’ve got something here that belongs to you and it’s only fair that I return it. For safekeeping.’
The moans turns to squeals and squishy thumps.
The man’s face splits into a wide, ugly grin. ‘Don’t fret, old chap. I will make sure that you stay alive for as long as possible. In fact, I’m certain that it will also want you alive. Just give me a few minutes to catch my breath, will you. That’s the spirit.’
The man flops down on the floor, panting yet satisfied. He pulls out a hip flask and sucks on it greedily. Another mouthful before he takes out a knife and pours a few drops on the blade.
‘There, I’ve sterilised the surgical implement with the best possible whisky,’ he shouts down the hatch. ‘Just so you know, I care about your future well-being, old chap. And from what I’ve learned, you may well have a few choice second-hand experiences through it. On par with mine, no less. All in your mind, I’m afraid, rather than physical, but if what I’ve learned is correct, you will be in for a treat.’
The squealing is frenetic by now, the thumps get louder and faster until they merge into a single deep throbbing. The man smiles and nods in appreciation, holds the flask to his mouth until it is empty. He waits for the alcohol to start working its magic before he gets up.
‘Here it comes, your jolly prezzie,’ he says as he pushes the trunk to the opening. He is about to undo the lid hasp but stops, reconsidering. With a shrug, he lifts up the far end of the trunk and pushes it over the hole. It hovers precariously on one of the rungs for a moment before the wood gives up and breaks, and the trunk slides to the bottom with a dull thud.
Satisfied that the trunk has reached its final destination, the man starts his wobbly decent. He steps gingerly on the rungs, testing each one before allowing his full weight to rest on it.
Partway down, a grunt from above distracts him. He looks up, sees two monkey heads glaring at him.
‘Not had enough yet, you irritating vermin? Let me once again introduce you to my Italian friend.’
Shoving his hand inside the jacket, the man pulls on the pistol, precariously holding on to the ladder with one hand. It snags on the pocket lining and the man attempts to work it free, but the pistol is stuck. Enraged and swearing, he tugs on it with as much force as he can muster, loses his balance in the process and swings to one side of the ladder. The weight is too much for the stile. It snaps and as the man’s eyes bulge in horror the whole ladder collapses. He plummets down into the darkness, hits the bottom with a wet crunch and screams in pain.
Time passes as the screams turn to wails, then whimpers. The monkeys are getting fidgety. Or maybe bored – they’ve seen the expected outcome and it is hardly likely that the fat man will manage to climb out, injury or not. One of them walks around the opening, jumps up on the boxes and grabs the edge of the hatch. Shaking it, tentatively at first, then harder, the monkey finally pushes it, watching in satisfaction as it slams shut. The other monkey shrieks in approval.
‘No! Fuck, nooo!’ The man’s shouts are muffled. ‘Help me! Someone help me, please!’
The two monkeys retreat, climb the walls and join the rest of the troop. Like a captive audience watching a Greek tragedy unfold before them, they observe the hatch in silence while the sounds from below slowly fade, and finally stop.
‘He didn’t die.’
‘What?’
‘Tigran. He wasn’t killed by the monkey.’
We were lying on the warm black sand of the Pointe Vénus peninsula, in the shade of an impressive chestnut tree, its extensive network of tall, angular roots providing us with some privacy on the otherwise crowded beach. Even outside the main tourist season most of the beach was occupied and enjoyed by the locals, with a few French expat families here and there.
Kris had got our hotel to supply us with a hamper containing cheeses, hams and a baguette, as well as a cooler with an amazing Château Margaux, a dozen cans of Hinano beer, and a bottle of the potent and very tasty, locally produced Manutea rum. Most of it drunk by me before I dozed off, for once totally relaxed.
‘It’s as good as being on the Côte d’Azur, this place,’ Kris had said, ‘and we should enjoy it as much as we can. After all, we’re here for your convalescence and pleasure.’
I’d already had enough convalescence over the last three weeks, home in KL. But who can say no to an extended weekend in French Polynesia? My hands had healed, the blisters had almost disappeared, and I could walk without excessive pain if I moved my foot slowly enough to allow the skin and underlying tendons to recover. The only visible souvenirs from the fire were the crimson dots decorating my front, which didn’t bother me too much other than when the flecks of congealed tar got expelled from my body and moved out through the skin. Uncomfortable perchance, otherwise mainly itchy.
‘You saw Tigran? In another dream? But you seemed so relaxed.’ Kris looked at me in surprise, in the midst of applying cream to my foot which was resting in her lap. ‘Not like any of your previous dreams.’
‘This one wasn’t too bad. Or maybe I’m becoming hardened to this shit happening to me, when all I ever wanted was a simple and easy – well, relatively easy – life in Asia. If only it could be like this every day.’
‘Oh, lover, isn’t it just perfect here. And it will get even better, I promise you. As soon as we sort out the origin of your dreams and deal with it.’
‘Fuck my dreams. They’re irrelevant, and if I hadn’t mentioned them to begin with, a lot of bad things would never have happened.’ I was adamant. ‘What I need to do instead is sort out the Chinese bastard. And his dyke partner.’
Kris thought this over, pouring the last of the wine for herself into one of the crystal glasses kindly provided by the hotel.
‘Yes, we do need to deal with Cecil, I agree with that. Although I’m not sure that Edwina is aware of his activities. And I do object to you calling her a dyke. It’s crude and unnecessary, and not very constructive. You wouldn’t call me a dyke, would you?’
‘Why not?’
Kris shook her head, the corners of her mouth twitching with the beginning of a smile. ‘Dickhead.’
‘Dyke.’
‘Degenerate.’
‘Delicious doll.’
‘Drunken deviate.’
‘Okay, you win. I am too drunk for further alliteration. But still proud to be called a deviate.’
I sat up and pulled out the bottle of rum. Great stuff, ever so lightly scented with vanilla. ‘How about we go for a swim, to cool off?’ I asked, getting up and taking a swig.
‘Monsieur, s’il vous plaît?’ A young uniformed cop appeared out of nowhere. ‘C’est interdit ici, l’alcool.’
‘What exactly should I be pleased about?’ I replied cheerfully. ‘Surely it’s not illegal to drink l’alcool here, we’re on French territory, aren’t we? And you Frenchies drink all the time, everyone knows that.’
‘Monsieur, you are very drunk already,’ the cop informed me stiffly as he switched to English. ‘According to local law, you must not consume alcool in a public place, please.’
‘Ah, sorry, man. I didn’t know that. We’re just having a good time here. Got here yesterday, only staying for a couple of days and taking the opportunity to sample these delicious French products. But surely wine is okay? It would be uncivilised to eat cheese without a decent Bordeaux.’
‘Which I’ve just finished,’ Kris said as she looked away, apparently addressing one of the tree roots.
‘Damn. We might as well go back to the hotel, then. Or,’ I looked at the cop, evaluating his potential sense of humour, ‘we can stay here and smoke a joint instead.’
Kris rolled her eyes in exasperation.
‘Ah, mon dieu, that is a different matter altogether,’ the cop replied sternly. ‘In that case, I will ‘ave to confiscate it immediately.’ Then he looked around discreetly and winked. ‘And arrest you for not offering to share it with me.’
‘My apologies, we weren’t aware of the local customs.’ I laughed and was relieved to see Kris relaxing.
‘I’m Pierre, at your service. Going off duty very soon. If I may join you then, and sample your… cigarettes?’
The man whimpers, petrified, eyes closed like a condemned man waiting for the trapdoor to open and the noose to halt the fall. A stain appears at his crotch and spreads down the trouser legs, urine dripping on the ground. Realising that he is still alive, he opens his eyes incredulously, pulls out a pistol from his jacket and shoots the monkey. The gun is quite small, barely visible in the man’s hand, and the sound it makes is unimpressive. Yet the result is anything but, at close range. The bullet slams into the monkey’s mouth, lifting the animal off the ground. As it exits the back of the head it sprays bone and brain fragments in a wide arch.
‘Don’t fuck with me. No one fucks with me,’ the man says, his voice high-pitched and trembling. Putting away the gun, he takes out his handkerchief and wipes his hands with it, is about to raise it to his face but a look at the soiled, wet cloth makes him drop it in disgust.
He grabs the trunk and steps through the doorway, savagely kicking the dead monkey to one side. A few more steps before he lets go of the handle. He pulls off the bowtie, fumbles briefly with the top shirt button. Impatient, he rips the shirt open, buttons flying. With a deep and satisfying breath he looks around and nods to himself, proceeds to drag the trunk towards the back of the ruin, one wheezing step at a time. The moonlight that shines through the dark, skeletal rafters is insufficient to illuminate his surroundings and the man uses a lighter to orient himself. Locating a pile of wooden boxes in one corner, he shuffles over and starts removing them, stacking them neatly on the side to begin with. The boxes are not very heavy but his breathing gets more painful with each one and after a while he just tosses them across the floor. With only a few boxes remaining, he kicks them into the corner until a hatch is revealed. He is tired and it takes him three attempts to lift it and rest it against the stacked boxes. He gets down on his knees, pulls out the lighter again and peers down. The flame does nothing to disperse the darkness below, other than to outline the top of a rickety ladder, the rest of it invisible.
‘Hello! Anyone home?’ he calls out tauntingly.
There is no reply from below. Not even an echo, as if the black void absorbed his voice. The man looks disappointed before he perceives a faint scratching sound and barely audible moaning.
‘Well, damn it, I’m very happy that you’re still around,’ he chuckles, which transforms into a drawn-out coughing fit. ‘So sorry about that, old chap. It’s bloody hard work, ruling the world. As you should know. I’ve got something here that belongs to you and it’s only fair that I return it. For safekeeping.’
The moans turns to squeals and squishy thumps.
The man’s face splits into a wide, ugly grin. ‘Don’t fret, old chap. I will make sure that you stay alive for as long as possible. In fact, I’m certain that it will also want you alive. Just give me a few minutes to catch my breath, will you. That’s the spirit.’
The man flops down on the floor, panting yet satisfied. He pulls out a hip flask and sucks on it greedily. Another mouthful before he takes out a knife and pours a few drops on the blade.
‘There, I’ve sterilised the surgical implement with the best possible whisky,’ he shouts down the hatch. ‘Just so you know, I care about your future well-being, old chap. And from what I’ve learned, you may well have a few choice second-hand experiences through it. On par with mine, no less. All in your mind, I’m afraid, rather than physical, but if what I’ve learned is correct, you will be in for a treat.’
The squealing is frenetic by now, the thumps get louder and faster until they merge into a single deep throbbing. The man smiles and nods in appreciation, holds the flask to his mouth until it is empty. He waits for the alcohol to start working its magic before he gets up.
‘Here it comes, your jolly prezzie,’ he says as he pushes the trunk to the opening. He is about to undo the lid hasp but stops, reconsidering. With a shrug, he lifts up the far end of the trunk and pushes it over the hole. It hovers precariously on one of the rungs for a moment before the wood gives up and breaks, and the trunk slides to the bottom with a dull thud.
Satisfied that the trunk has reached its final destination, the man starts his wobbly decent. He steps gingerly on the rungs, testing each one before allowing his full weight to rest on it.
Partway down, a grunt from above distracts him. He looks up, sees two monkey heads glaring at him.
‘Not had enough yet, you irritating vermin? Let me once again introduce you to my Italian friend.’
Shoving his hand inside the jacket, the man pulls on the pistol, precariously holding on to the ladder with one hand. It snags on the pocket lining and the man attempts to work it free, but the pistol is stuck. Enraged and swearing, he tugs on it with as much force as he can muster, loses his balance in the process and swings to one side of the ladder. The weight is too much for the stile. It snaps and as the man’s eyes bulge in horror the whole ladder collapses. He plummets down into the darkness, hits the bottom with a wet crunch and screams in pain.
Time passes as the screams turn to wails, then whimpers. The monkeys are getting fidgety. Or maybe bored – they’ve seen the expected outcome and it is hardly likely that the fat man will manage to climb out, injury or not. One of them walks around the opening, jumps up on the boxes and grabs the edge of the hatch. Shaking it, tentatively at first, then harder, the monkey finally pushes it, watching in satisfaction as it slams shut. The other monkey shrieks in approval.
‘No! Fuck, nooo!’ The man’s shouts are muffled. ‘Help me! Someone help me, please!’
The two monkeys retreat, climb the walls and join the rest of the troop. Like a captive audience watching a Greek tragedy unfold before them, they observe the hatch in silence while the sounds from below slowly fade, and finally stop.
‘He didn’t die.’
‘What?’
‘Tigran. He wasn’t killed by the monkey.’
We were lying on the warm black sand of the Pointe Vénus peninsula, in the shade of an impressive chestnut tree, its extensive network of tall, angular roots providing us with some privacy on the otherwise crowded beach. Even outside the main tourist season most of the beach was occupied and enjoyed by the locals, with a few French expat families here and there.
Kris had got our hotel to supply us with a hamper containing cheeses, hams and a baguette, as well as a cooler with an amazing Château Margaux, a dozen cans of Hinano beer, and a bottle of the potent and very tasty, locally produced Manutea rum. Most of it drunk by me before I dozed off, for once totally relaxed.
‘It’s as good as being on the Côte d’Azur, this place,’ Kris had said, ‘and we should enjoy it as much as we can. After all, we’re here for your convalescence and pleasure.’
I’d already had enough convalescence over the last three weeks, home in KL. But who can say no to an extended weekend in French Polynesia? My hands had healed, the blisters had almost disappeared, and I could walk without excessive pain if I moved my foot slowly enough to allow the skin and underlying tendons to recover. The only visible souvenirs from the fire were the crimson dots decorating my front, which didn’t bother me too much other than when the flecks of congealed tar got expelled from my body and moved out through the skin. Uncomfortable perchance, otherwise mainly itchy.
‘You saw Tigran? In another dream? But you seemed so relaxed.’ Kris looked at me in surprise, in the midst of applying cream to my foot which was resting in her lap. ‘Not like any of your previous dreams.’
‘This one wasn’t too bad. Or maybe I’m becoming hardened to this shit happening to me, when all I ever wanted was a simple and easy – well, relatively easy – life in Asia. If only it could be like this every day.’
‘Oh, lover, isn’t it just perfect here. And it will get even better, I promise you. As soon as we sort out the origin of your dreams and deal with it.’
‘Fuck my dreams. They’re irrelevant, and if I hadn’t mentioned them to begin with, a lot of bad things would never have happened.’ I was adamant. ‘What I need to do instead is sort out the Chinese bastard. And his dyke partner.’
Kris thought this over, pouring the last of the wine for herself into one of the crystal glasses kindly provided by the hotel.
‘Yes, we do need to deal with Cecil, I agree with that. Although I’m not sure that Edwina is aware of his activities. And I do object to you calling her a dyke. It’s crude and unnecessary, and not very constructive. You wouldn’t call me a dyke, would you?’
‘Why not?’
Kris shook her head, the corners of her mouth twitching with the beginning of a smile. ‘Dickhead.’
‘Dyke.’
‘Degenerate.’
‘Delicious doll.’
‘Drunken deviate.’
‘Okay, you win. I am too drunk for further alliteration. But still proud to be called a deviate.’
I sat up and pulled out the bottle of rum. Great stuff, ever so lightly scented with vanilla. ‘How about we go for a swim, to cool off?’ I asked, getting up and taking a swig.
‘Monsieur, s’il vous plaît?’ A young uniformed cop appeared out of nowhere. ‘C’est interdit ici, l’alcool.’
‘What exactly should I be pleased about?’ I replied cheerfully. ‘Surely it’s not illegal to drink l’alcool here, we’re on French territory, aren’t we? And you Frenchies drink all the time, everyone knows that.’
‘Monsieur, you are very drunk already,’ the cop informed me stiffly as he switched to English. ‘According to local law, you must not consume alcool in a public place, please.’
‘Ah, sorry, man. I didn’t know that. We’re just having a good time here. Got here yesterday, only staying for a couple of days and taking the opportunity to sample these delicious French products. But surely wine is okay? It would be uncivilised to eat cheese without a decent Bordeaux.’
‘Which I’ve just finished,’ Kris said as she looked away, apparently addressing one of the tree roots.
‘Damn. We might as well go back to the hotel, then. Or,’ I looked at the cop, evaluating his potential sense of humour, ‘we can stay here and smoke a joint instead.’
Kris rolled her eyes in exasperation.
‘Ah, mon dieu, that is a different matter altogether,’ the cop replied sternly. ‘In that case, I will ‘ave to confiscate it immediately.’ Then he looked around discreetly and winked. ‘And arrest you for not offering to share it with me.’
‘My apologies, we weren’t aware of the local customs.’ I laughed and was relieved to see Kris relaxing.
‘I’m Pierre, at your service. Going off duty very soon. If I may join you then, and sample your… cigarettes?’
Chapter 64
‘That was a fun party Pierre invited us to,’ Kris said from somewhere far away, ‘at least for some of us.’
‘Yeah,’ I replied on autopilot, my brain split into tiny, excruciatingly painful fragments by several jackhammers methodically working their way through my skull, ‘not too bad. Now can you please leave me be, I’m suffering. As I’m about to die I prefer to do it on my own, in a dignified manner.’
‘Bollocks. I’m hungry. How about a petit déjeuner complet, served in the room?’ Kris was persistent. ‘With two eggs done to our preference. I’ll want mine lightly fried with the yolks still runny, and–’
I started retching.
‘Perhaps not… Anyway, it’s probably too late for breakfast,’ she continued cheerfully. ‘Maybe we could order a steak tartare instead? And a light Beaujolais to go with it.’
‘I thought you loved me,’ I gasped, curled up in the bed and pulled the sheet over my head.
‘But I do, darling. That’s why I’m trying to revive you, as you’re my driver for the day. Remember? We’re supposed to do a tour of the island. See the sights. Visit the museums. Check out the scenic spots.’
‘Just leave me here to die, please,’ I wailed. ‘Go find a tour guide. And when you come back tonight, remember that I want a sea burial.’
‘Ha, you’re the architect of your own demise. No one forced you to drink a bottle of rum–’
‘Aargh! Enough!’
‘…and have a joint permanently stuck in your mouth as if it was glued in place. How many did you go through? No, better not answer, I prefer not to know.’
‘I was only having–’
‘A good time, you were about to say? As in when you lined up a posse of girls and sprinkled coke on their tits. Then licked it off.’
‘You’re just making that up to make me feel worse,’ I complained, still hiding under the sheet, then had a vague, unsettling memory of commenting on the size, shape and texture of multiple nipples proffered. ‘Fuck, did I offend anyone?’
‘No, darling, fortunately for you we all loved it.’
‘We…?’
‘Oh yes, I was one of the girls you chose for the contest.’
‘There, you see – you’re always on my mind,’ I said quickly, very much relieved to have survived that and considering myself lucky that Kris hadn’t emasculated me for even thinking about staging a bit of nipple tasting fun.
‘Of course, darling. I know that. Even when you lick the nipples of strange women.’
‘So maybe I was a bit too enthusiastic. I’m sorry.’ I pulled the sheet down and looked sheepishly at Kris. ‘I just got into the mood.’
‘Yes, you did. You and a French cop, of all people.’ She laughed then disappeared under the sheet, saying something about getting me fully awake.
‘Yeah,’ I replied on autopilot, my brain split into tiny, excruciatingly painful fragments by several jackhammers methodically working their way through my skull, ‘not too bad. Now can you please leave me be, I’m suffering. As I’m about to die I prefer to do it on my own, in a dignified manner.’
‘Bollocks. I’m hungry. How about a petit déjeuner complet, served in the room?’ Kris was persistent. ‘With two eggs done to our preference. I’ll want mine lightly fried with the yolks still runny, and–’
I started retching.
‘Perhaps not… Anyway, it’s probably too late for breakfast,’ she continued cheerfully. ‘Maybe we could order a steak tartare instead? And a light Beaujolais to go with it.’
‘I thought you loved me,’ I gasped, curled up in the bed and pulled the sheet over my head.
‘But I do, darling. That’s why I’m trying to revive you, as you’re my driver for the day. Remember? We’re supposed to do a tour of the island. See the sights. Visit the museums. Check out the scenic spots.’
‘Just leave me here to die, please,’ I wailed. ‘Go find a tour guide. And when you come back tonight, remember that I want a sea burial.’
‘Ha, you’re the architect of your own demise. No one forced you to drink a bottle of rum–’
‘Aargh! Enough!’
‘…and have a joint permanently stuck in your mouth as if it was glued in place. How many did you go through? No, better not answer, I prefer not to know.’
‘I was only having–’
‘A good time, you were about to say? As in when you lined up a posse of girls and sprinkled coke on their tits. Then licked it off.’
‘You’re just making that up to make me feel worse,’ I complained, still hiding under the sheet, then had a vague, unsettling memory of commenting on the size, shape and texture of multiple nipples proffered. ‘Fuck, did I offend anyone?’
‘No, darling, fortunately for you we all loved it.’
‘We…?’
‘Oh yes, I was one of the girls you chose for the contest.’
‘There, you see – you’re always on my mind,’ I said quickly, very much relieved to have survived that and considering myself lucky that Kris hadn’t emasculated me for even thinking about staging a bit of nipple tasting fun.
‘Of course, darling. I know that. Even when you lick the nipples of strange women.’
‘So maybe I was a bit too enthusiastic. I’m sorry.’ I pulled the sheet down and looked sheepishly at Kris. ‘I just got into the mood.’
‘Yes, you did. You and a French cop, of all people.’ She laughed then disappeared under the sheet, saying something about getting me fully awake.
●
When you think of Tahiti you imagine something truly exotic, don’t you? Quaint villages surrounded by lush, tropical vegetation, fronted by a black sandy beach dotted with coconut palms, beyond it an inviting turquoise sea with colourful fish frolicking in the shallows, darting fearlessly in and out of their pristine reef shelters. Picturesque towns with one wobbly foot in their colonial past, the other one stepping towards the future, all the time firmly holding on to the local heritage. Low rise, wooden buildings, reminiscent of an era gone by, yet here and there offering the latest hi-tech gadgets and French fashion from dilapidated storefronts. Friendly, proud and beautiful Polynesians, always ready to greet you with a wide, honest smile. And everyone – locals, expats and visitors alike – settled down to a slow and comfortable pace of life. Spending most of their time chilling out, eating and drinking well, and dancing the sensual tāmūrē before making love on the beach under starry skies.
Forget it. Pape’ete is a monstrosity, very likely devised by a bunch of failed French architects and city planners, shunned by the authorities and excommunicated from the Catholic church, and quite possibly forced into exile following their disastrous development of downtown Nice in the late 1960s.
Unbelievably ugly high-rise office blocks, executed in crumbling-concrete-chic, line the prestigious seaside avenue, still named after a local Tahitian queen, Pōmare (instead of – as you would expect – something like Boulevard Général de Gaulle), with nearly all of the original buildings levelled to the ground. A permanent, heart attack-inducing traffic jam along the whole length of said boulevard does nothing to improve one’s mood. And, oh yes, let’s not forget the scores of once proud Polynesians lining the sidewalks, begging, as this is nowadays their only means of income.
See, the Frenchies like to retain their colonies – particularly in a place like French Polynesia, where they can play masters of the world, detonating nuclear devices at will deep down under faraway atolls that no one has heard of, discretely displacing thousands of indigenous people and making those islands uninhabitable for generations to come. And to make sure the region stays within French control, the authorities offer the best jobs, and hugely inflated salaries, to any French national willing to relocate to la Polynésie française. This forces many Tahitians to beg as they can’t afford the steadily rising living costs on the islands they once called their own. But to be fair to people like Pierre, chilling out and not really doing anything other than collecting his salary – it’s not his fault. I’d probably do it myself if given the opportunity to have an easy life in a place blessed with eternal spring, and be paid bloody well for it. As long as I voted correctly in each election.
I’ll have to rectify my earlier comment about colonies: France pretends not to have these any more, as that doesn’t sit well nowadays with the spirit of free, sovereign nations. Thus, the French colonies are called either départements et régions d’outre-mer – overseas departments and regions, if in the West Indies or Indian Ocean – or simply pays d’outre-mer – overseas countries – in the Pacific, giving them a whiff of legitimacy which they don’t deserve. A colony is still a colony by any other fancy name you choose to call it. A remnant of a colonial past when any country with enough guns and missionaries was legally allowed to subdue any available – and let’s not forget it – commercially viable piece of land. Usually by claiming that it was ‘civilising’ the people and ‘enlightening’ them through religion, be it Christianity or Islam. Gauguin himself was sorely disappointed on his initial arrival in Pape’ete in 1891, having yearned for a genuine, primitive idyll and instead finding a ridiculously commercial and artificial society, nothing more than an extension of France.
Anyway, having recovered sufficiently from my sudden and very much unexpected ailment, and after a coffee and croissant in the hotel restaurant, I was reasonably set to take charge of the Suzuki Jimny that Kris had rented for the duration of our stay. As she’d being concerned about my sore left foot, it was equipped with an auto gearbox. A wannabe off-road car with an auto gearbox? I’d never come across such nonsense before, but had to admit that it was helpful in my condition.
It took me nearly a full hour to negotiate the Pape’ete traffic, without even once honking the horn in frustration – courtesy of the first of the fat joints that Kris had thoughtfully rolled in advance of our journey – before we managed to leave the town proper and the airport behind us. This cheered me up no end, having finally lost sight of the big hotel chain monstrosities lining the shores, most of them enclosed within tall, ugly stone walls and topped by barbed wire. Something for Trump to come and be inspired by, we joked, before agreeing that the idiot probably doesn’t even have a passport.
Continuing south along the west coast, I was warming to rural Tahiti. The road was impeccably maintained, as you would expect of any major French road, and lined with communities throughout our route. These appeared to be the genuine thing. No concrete building as far as I could see, only wood and coral blocks and thatch. And a bit of corrugated iron here and there, but that was to be expected. Best of all, barely any grumpy, stressed European faces in sight, and the locals looking positively happy, smiling and waving at us whenever we slowed down. Which was often. For once I was a very cautious driver, taking care to avoid running over dogs that were everywhere, either snoozing or slowly crossing the road with a contemptuous sideways glance at me. Two of them even blocked our way in one of the villages, at first lovingly sniffing and licking each others’ arses – canine foreplay, I assumed – then proceeding to copulate in joyous abandonment. I actually stopped then, switched off the engine, and waited, zen-like, for them to finish while I enjoyed the rest of a spliff. As did the other drivers (not sure about them also chilling out with a spliff, though); none of us even honking our horns.
‘I suggest we check out this place,’ Kris said as we stopped at a red light somewhere around Puna’auia. She looked up from her phone and pointed at a flaking board giving directions to the Musée de Tahiti et des Îles. ‘We need to get off at the next roundabout and follow the signs.’
‘I thought you wanted to see the Gauguin place,’ I commented whilst delicately negotiating the intersection and its collection of moped riders and dogs, none of them bothered by the changing colours of the traffic lights.
‘No point in going there,’ Kris replied sadly. ‘I’ve just found out that some jerks have put up a tacky art museum in its place. And there’s no mention of his house anywhere. Never mind the fact that this so-called museum seems to be permanently closed.’
‘That’s a shame, but look at it from the bright side. You already have a Gauguin sketch, and I doubt they would’ve had any of his original works for sale there.’
‘You’re such a materialist sometimes,’ Kris shook her head in disapproval. ‘Having a fragment of an artist’s work is not the same as visiting the place where it was created. Breathing in the atmosphere, experiencing the light, getting inside his head–’
‘Or her head.’
‘Her head, thank you for being gender aware but in this case I’m pretty sure that Gauguin was a cisgender male. Why do you always have to–’ Kris stopped and exclaimed, ‘Turn here, to the right!’
I drove the rest of the way without saying anything, just followed Kris’ instructions until we arrived at the museum parking lot, nearly empty. The museum itself was a collection of very modern, ugly, single-storey buildings, boring even from the outside. I, however, optimistically eyed the beach at its other end, hoping to get a couple of hours’ R&R there on my own, while Kris did the full tourist tour, oohing and aahing her way through the museum. Alas, no such luck.
‘Come on, how long does it take to park the bloody car?’ Kris’ patience level seemed to be as close to zero as to not even register on any scale.
‘I’m making sure that the car will remain in shadow, and thus stay cool enough for you, regardless of how many hours you decide to waste… sorry, I mean spend in there.’
‘For your information, you sad bourgeois, this museum has the finest collection of Polynesian artefacts anywhere in the–’
‘Sorry, did you just say artefacts?’ I asked darkly, recalling a memory of her suggesting that we go to Tahiti on another pointless pursuit of the origin of my dreams. ‘Because if you did, and this is what I think it’s about, and the reason why you brought me to Tahiti, then Houston, we’ve got a problem. A major one.’
‘No, darling.’ Kris radiated pure innocence. ‘Not at all. I just thought that we would find the museum interesting. They may even have a seashell section for you. And if there happens to be anything related to our… artefact in there, surely that would be a bonus? To maybe understand it, and for you to hopefully stop having those nightmares.’
Devious woman, or what?
Forget it. Pape’ete is a monstrosity, very likely devised by a bunch of failed French architects and city planners, shunned by the authorities and excommunicated from the Catholic church, and quite possibly forced into exile following their disastrous development of downtown Nice in the late 1960s.
Unbelievably ugly high-rise office blocks, executed in crumbling-concrete-chic, line the prestigious seaside avenue, still named after a local Tahitian queen, Pōmare (instead of – as you would expect – something like Boulevard Général de Gaulle), with nearly all of the original buildings levelled to the ground. A permanent, heart attack-inducing traffic jam along the whole length of said boulevard does nothing to improve one’s mood. And, oh yes, let’s not forget the scores of once proud Polynesians lining the sidewalks, begging, as this is nowadays their only means of income.
See, the Frenchies like to retain their colonies – particularly in a place like French Polynesia, where they can play masters of the world, detonating nuclear devices at will deep down under faraway atolls that no one has heard of, discretely displacing thousands of indigenous people and making those islands uninhabitable for generations to come. And to make sure the region stays within French control, the authorities offer the best jobs, and hugely inflated salaries, to any French national willing to relocate to la Polynésie française. This forces many Tahitians to beg as they can’t afford the steadily rising living costs on the islands they once called their own. But to be fair to people like Pierre, chilling out and not really doing anything other than collecting his salary – it’s not his fault. I’d probably do it myself if given the opportunity to have an easy life in a place blessed with eternal spring, and be paid bloody well for it. As long as I voted correctly in each election.
I’ll have to rectify my earlier comment about colonies: France pretends not to have these any more, as that doesn’t sit well nowadays with the spirit of free, sovereign nations. Thus, the French colonies are called either départements et régions d’outre-mer – overseas departments and regions, if in the West Indies or Indian Ocean – or simply pays d’outre-mer – overseas countries – in the Pacific, giving them a whiff of legitimacy which they don’t deserve. A colony is still a colony by any other fancy name you choose to call it. A remnant of a colonial past when any country with enough guns and missionaries was legally allowed to subdue any available – and let’s not forget it – commercially viable piece of land. Usually by claiming that it was ‘civilising’ the people and ‘enlightening’ them through religion, be it Christianity or Islam. Gauguin himself was sorely disappointed on his initial arrival in Pape’ete in 1891, having yearned for a genuine, primitive idyll and instead finding a ridiculously commercial and artificial society, nothing more than an extension of France.
Anyway, having recovered sufficiently from my sudden and very much unexpected ailment, and after a coffee and croissant in the hotel restaurant, I was reasonably set to take charge of the Suzuki Jimny that Kris had rented for the duration of our stay. As she’d being concerned about my sore left foot, it was equipped with an auto gearbox. A wannabe off-road car with an auto gearbox? I’d never come across such nonsense before, but had to admit that it was helpful in my condition.
It took me nearly a full hour to negotiate the Pape’ete traffic, without even once honking the horn in frustration – courtesy of the first of the fat joints that Kris had thoughtfully rolled in advance of our journey – before we managed to leave the town proper and the airport behind us. This cheered me up no end, having finally lost sight of the big hotel chain monstrosities lining the shores, most of them enclosed within tall, ugly stone walls and topped by barbed wire. Something for Trump to come and be inspired by, we joked, before agreeing that the idiot probably doesn’t even have a passport.
Continuing south along the west coast, I was warming to rural Tahiti. The road was impeccably maintained, as you would expect of any major French road, and lined with communities throughout our route. These appeared to be the genuine thing. No concrete building as far as I could see, only wood and coral blocks and thatch. And a bit of corrugated iron here and there, but that was to be expected. Best of all, barely any grumpy, stressed European faces in sight, and the locals looking positively happy, smiling and waving at us whenever we slowed down. Which was often. For once I was a very cautious driver, taking care to avoid running over dogs that were everywhere, either snoozing or slowly crossing the road with a contemptuous sideways glance at me. Two of them even blocked our way in one of the villages, at first lovingly sniffing and licking each others’ arses – canine foreplay, I assumed – then proceeding to copulate in joyous abandonment. I actually stopped then, switched off the engine, and waited, zen-like, for them to finish while I enjoyed the rest of a spliff. As did the other drivers (not sure about them also chilling out with a spliff, though); none of us even honking our horns.
‘I suggest we check out this place,’ Kris said as we stopped at a red light somewhere around Puna’auia. She looked up from her phone and pointed at a flaking board giving directions to the Musée de Tahiti et des Îles. ‘We need to get off at the next roundabout and follow the signs.’
‘I thought you wanted to see the Gauguin place,’ I commented whilst delicately negotiating the intersection and its collection of moped riders and dogs, none of them bothered by the changing colours of the traffic lights.
‘No point in going there,’ Kris replied sadly. ‘I’ve just found out that some jerks have put up a tacky art museum in its place. And there’s no mention of his house anywhere. Never mind the fact that this so-called museum seems to be permanently closed.’
‘That’s a shame, but look at it from the bright side. You already have a Gauguin sketch, and I doubt they would’ve had any of his original works for sale there.’
‘You’re such a materialist sometimes,’ Kris shook her head in disapproval. ‘Having a fragment of an artist’s work is not the same as visiting the place where it was created. Breathing in the atmosphere, experiencing the light, getting inside his head–’
‘Or her head.’
‘Her head, thank you for being gender aware but in this case I’m pretty sure that Gauguin was a cisgender male. Why do you always have to–’ Kris stopped and exclaimed, ‘Turn here, to the right!’
I drove the rest of the way without saying anything, just followed Kris’ instructions until we arrived at the museum parking lot, nearly empty. The museum itself was a collection of very modern, ugly, single-storey buildings, boring even from the outside. I, however, optimistically eyed the beach at its other end, hoping to get a couple of hours’ R&R there on my own, while Kris did the full tourist tour, oohing and aahing her way through the museum. Alas, no such luck.
‘Come on, how long does it take to park the bloody car?’ Kris’ patience level seemed to be as close to zero as to not even register on any scale.
‘I’m making sure that the car will remain in shadow, and thus stay cool enough for you, regardless of how many hours you decide to waste… sorry, I mean spend in there.’
‘For your information, you sad bourgeois, this museum has the finest collection of Polynesian artefacts anywhere in the–’
‘Sorry, did you just say artefacts?’ I asked darkly, recalling a memory of her suggesting that we go to Tahiti on another pointless pursuit of the origin of my dreams. ‘Because if you did, and this is what I think it’s about, and the reason why you brought me to Tahiti, then Houston, we’ve got a problem. A major one.’
‘No, darling.’ Kris radiated pure innocence. ‘Not at all. I just thought that we would find the museum interesting. They may even have a seashell section for you. And if there happens to be anything related to our… artefact in there, surely that would be a bonus? To maybe understand it, and for you to hopefully stop having those nightmares.’
Devious woman, or what?