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| Taha'a fiord |
When I recently discovered that the Paul Gauguin luxury cruise line was offering special discounted fares for Hawaiian residents on its cruises to Tahiti, I knew my time had finally arrived! A couple of phone calls, some online research and the entire trip was booked—with plenty of time to identify “the best of” everything: the best hotels, the best restaurants, the best beaches … even the best stops for washroom breaks.
Within moments of boarding a safari-like vehicle along with seven other passengers from the ship, I had talked my way into sitting next to “Alphonse,” our slightly dishevelled tour guide arrayed in mismatched tropical patterns. We spoke to each other in French, trading stories and laughs as he stopped at each landmark to point out its significance. Before too long, I learned that his uncle was the mayor, his cousin, a police officer, his sister, a government official—in short, he was “connected.” Then Alphonse invited me to immigrate to Taha’a!
He spoke proudly of his island’s history and topography, its vanilla and copra industries, but he became most animated on the subject of the French baguette. “This is a baguette box,” he explained, pointing to a long locked “mailbox” at the roadside of a small but charming thatched-roofed house. “The bread man in his truck drops off warm baguettes every morning to each home on the island. We import all our flour from France. No one goes hungry here. There are baguettes for everyone.”
As we continued on our way, he handed me a baguette he had wrapped and put into a bag under his seat. I thanked him and he smiled. “Now you can move to Taha’a because you understand the baguette.” I had no idea this was all it took to be considered one of the famille. We passed the odd car but mostly locals walking with baguettes under their arms or in canvas shoulder bags. Girls rode by with baguettes in paper bags carefully stowed in their wire bicycle baskets.
A round island with fjord-like inlets, Taha’a is known as “The Vanilla Island” for its numerous plantations of this black gold. Indeed, the rich, powerful aroma of vanilla perfumed the breeze as we drove almost the entire 42-mile coastal road through small villages, up into the hills for panoramic views of the deeply indented bays around the island, to the highlight of our tour: the vanilla bean farm.
When we arrived, we walked uphill to a makeshift outdoor classroom with a tarp roof, mismatched plastic chairs and a large blackboard mounted on a rickety wall. An older local woman welcomed us with a very sweet juice and asked us to take a seat. She then explained the process of growing and processing authentic vanilla, holding up long, freshly picked vanilla beans, harvested by hand. The timing, the laborious picking process and the long drying period make this a very expensive product, she explained. Then we walked walk up another hill to see the vanilla bean trees.
The tour ended in their gift shop—a primitive open-air building with long rickety tables displaying all things vanilla. It’s odd how being on holiday creates an overwhelming “must have” urge. Suddenly, my companion and I felt compelled to buy everything in sight—vanilla beans, vanilla extract, vanilla powder, vanilla paste, vanilla-infused balsamic vinegar, vanilla infused coffee, vanilla bean-scented soap, bath oil, body scrub, perfume, room spray and candles—and then to buy even more. Ironically, my partner prefers chocolate to vanilla and I much prefer coconut. But we were caught up in a shopping frenzy—until our cash ran low and common sense prevailed. No problem, we told each other; it will all make great gifts.
Before heading back to the tender to re-board our ship, I asked one of the farm owners if I could use their salle de bain. She smiled and pointed to a little building beside their house. As I walked past their tiny shack-like house, I couldn’t resist peeking in. A single open room held a bed covered with a worn quilt, a small stove, tiny vintage fridge, and a wooden shelf holding a few mismatched bowls, plates and drinking glasses. Adjacent to the house, in a small building, was the washroom. I opened the door to find an outdated washing machine and dryer, a toilet, a sink with a little shelf above it and a mirror above that. After using the facilities, I stood at the sink to wash my hands and noticed a very large cut-crystal bottle with an old-fashioned ball atomizer on the shelf. “Chanel No. 5” read its label, and it was the largest perfume bottle I had ever seen.
I walked back to the safari vehicle and thanked our hosts for their hospitality and the informative talk and tour. As I stepped into the vehicle, I turned to the farm owner and mentioned the perfume bottle. “Of course we have Chanel,” she exclaimed. “We may be tropical but we are French, madame, and everyone knows we French have style!”
No, we were certainly not anyplace resembling Hawaii—of any era. Perhaps the clue was in the name. It’s called French Polynesia after all, and it has a charm all its own.
Everything my travel companion and I read before the trip led us to expect Tahiti to be much like the Hawaii of old, like stepping back in time. But, as we visited one enchanted island after the other, we began to realize that we were quite mistaken.
On the fourth day of our cruise, we tendered into the small port of Taha’a, which has no airport and is only accessible by boat. While fishing and farming are its main industries, what seduces visitors are Taha’a’s pretty beaches, coral gardens, and the sandy motus (small deserted islands) that pepper the lagoon it shares with Raiatea. Our excursion on Taha’a was to be a tour of the island and a visit to a family owned and operated vanilla bean farm. (Taha’a produces about 80 percent of all the vanilla in Tahiti.)
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| Baguette box |
He spoke proudly of his island’s history and topography, its vanilla and copra industries, but he became most animated on the subject of the French baguette. “This is a baguette box,” he explained, pointing to a long locked “mailbox” at the roadside of a small but charming thatched-roofed house. “The bread man in his truck drops off warm baguettes every morning to each home on the island. We import all our flour from France. No one goes hungry here. There are baguettes for everyone.”
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| Baguettes at a Taha'a bakery |
A round island with fjord-like inlets, Taha’a is known as “The Vanilla Island” for its numerous plantations of this black gold. Indeed, the rich, powerful aroma of vanilla perfumed the breeze as we drove almost the entire 42-mile coastal road through small villages, up into the hills for panoramic views of the deeply indented bays around the island, to the highlight of our tour: the vanilla bean farm.
When we arrived, we walked uphill to a makeshift outdoor classroom with a tarp roof, mismatched plastic chairs and a large blackboard mounted on a rickety wall. An older local woman welcomed us with a very sweet juice and asked us to take a seat. She then explained the process of growing and processing authentic vanilla, holding up long, freshly picked vanilla beans, harvested by hand. The timing, the laborious picking process and the long drying period make this a very expensive product, she explained. Then we walked walk up another hill to see the vanilla bean trees.
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| Black gold: dried vanilla beans |
Before heading back to the tender to re-board our ship, I asked one of the farm owners if I could use their salle de bain. She smiled and pointed to a little building beside their house. As I walked past their tiny shack-like house, I couldn’t resist peeking in. A single open room held a bed covered with a worn quilt, a small stove, tiny vintage fridge, and a wooden shelf holding a few mismatched bowls, plates and drinking glasses. Adjacent to the house, in a small building, was the washroom. I opened the door to find an outdated washing machine and dryer, a toilet, a sink with a little shelf above it and a mirror above that. After using the facilities, I stood at the sink to wash my hands and noticed a very large cut-crystal bottle with an old-fashioned ball atomizer on the shelf. “Chanel No. 5” read its label, and it was the largest perfume bottle I had ever seen.
I walked back to the safari vehicle and thanked our hosts for their hospitality and the informative talk and tour. As I stepped into the vehicle, I turned to the farm owner and mentioned the perfume bottle. “Of course we have Chanel,” she exclaimed. “We may be tropical but we are French, madame, and everyone knows we French have style!”
No, we were certainly not anyplace resembling Hawaii—of any era. Perhaps the clue was in the name. It’s called French Polynesia after all, and it has a charm all its own.
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