Fara Way 9

Robyn and I were gone, before anyone could reconsider. We didn’t really know the way, but Julie had guided us to the soft coral path across the isthmus along Maka bay, and onto Raho’s western basket of earth that had formed the Itu'muta peninsula. We came to what appeared to be an enormous Zen sansui garden of raked white sand, out of which colossal black lava stones protruded. It was a Rotuman cemetery. A tall structure, about twelve feet high, consisting of four inward-leaning wooden poles with streams of red and yellow and purple cloth hanging from the close-tied cross pieces, had been recently erected to commemorate a new ancestral addition to the community. From there the trail climbed into rainforest, interspersed with plantations. A Rotuman myzomela, with its black upper plumage and bright scarlet belly, announced our entrance to one farmer’s yam patch. He provisioned us with mangos, and further directions through the bush. Exhilarated, walking alone together, the salt air of the most beautiful beach in the world’s last Eden, danced on our noses, where the light finally split the jungle. We broke through the canopy, to a breathtaking long scimitar of white sand below, fringed with towering palms, and niu and hifau trees, framed by purple green volcanic mountains, on a cerulean-spattered watercolor bay. Large schools of fish ran in every direction, but we only ran in one, over a rock bridge and along the caster sugar crescent, to the horizontal limbs of a massive fig tree in the middle, and shade. We rolled out our towels, and lay down together, together in the faint relief of an offshore breeze, and Fara ‘ nuff away from the constant attention of ‘Pear ta ma 'on maf,’ This Land Has Eyes. Or so I thought.

For the first five minutes of our intimacy, Vai’oa Beach was deserted. We were in heaven.

“I think I’ll go for a swim.” I said to Robyn and, collecting my snorkeling gear, began to cover the short distance to the water’s edge. I didn’t make it.

I had just put on my mask and was adjusting my snorkel, when I realized that there were now a few other human clusters that had magically appeared on the beach, one of which was moving quickly in my direction. Two young boys got to me first.

“You can’t swim yet.” One said.

“Huh?” I said. “Why?”

“You need to wait.” Said the other one. I looked out at the clearest bluest water in the Southern Sea, at the underwater coral forests, at the blazing schools of colored fish, at the only cool reprieve in sight.

“For what?” I asked.

“For the fishermen.” Said the first one.

“I need to wait for the fishermen, before I can go for a swim?” I asked.

“Yes.” The both said at the same time. It was about then that my inner renegade just about got the best of me. This is ludicrous, I thought. The heat was becoming ridiculous, the snorkeling looked brilliant, and some superstitious local custom required me to avoid the entire Pacific Ocean because it might affect the fate of a few fishermen who were nowhere to be seen. I turned around. Robyn just looked at me, waving her fan.“There’s no point.” I said, realizing the futility of resisting the social pressure to participate. “We’re still the ambassadors of something here.”

“How long will they be?” I asked. They shrugged. I was beaten. The land has teeth and knows the truth. There were now whole other villages coming out of the jungle, and spreading their pandanus mats under the palms.

Burning feet dragged my snorkeling gear and broken spirit, back to the towel beside Robyn.

“What was that all about?” She asked.

“We have to wait.” I said.

“For what?” She asked.

“For the fishermen.” I said. She asked me why. I had no answer.