Impressions-The First Two Weeks of Tahiti Life: Completely Random

First Moments
Walking down the stairs of the plane onto the tarmac while shepherding sleepy, confused boys who had just been woken up. The cacophony of ukuleles, foreign tongues, foreign sounds. Salty sauna. Waves of hot humidity. Tropical. Sweat pouring down my back. It was dark, but the small airport seemed lively. Confused. Anxious. Trying to carry multiple bags, backpacks and two fussing children—Isaac and clinging Dylan. Thankfully Benjamin slept walked with Eric, but he walked. I didn’t know where to focus. Someone handed me a Tiare flower, but I didn’t have hands to put it anywhere properly. It smelled lovely. I worried about getting through customs and what they might demand or reject. Eric was fussing about getting through immigration. He had a packet with all of our visas and paperwork, but you just don’t know things like this until its over. Flutters in my stomach. This is it. What will this be like? Can I do this? Comforting children. Yelling at Eric who had gotten to a different spot without us.


We became part of a mass of travel-worn people moving into lines. Suddenly this woman was beaming a thermometer at me and chattering something. Health department officials. Checking for swine flu symptoms. Thankfully none of us had a fever, although because Eric was already hot, flustered and worried with beads of sweat on his forehead, they repeated the scan a couple of times to get an accurate reading. Had we shown signs of illness we would have been like the poor girl in days earlier who ended up in quarantine, tested positive for the H1N1 virus and missed most of her honeymoon. Maybe with such caution and the heat, we have escaped that flu.

Now we’ve schlepped, pulled carried everyone and we’re standing in front of a box with windows. An immigration official in uniform sits behind the glass and examines our documents. Shuffling. Typing on the computer. It seems to take forever. Others have scooted through and have already retrieved their baggage. It’s all right Isaac. We’re in Tahiti. It’s all right.

Then Bienvenue we’re through. We’ve been accepted and processed. Now Benjamin and Eric get over to the carousel to collect our eight bags and duffels plus the box for the lab. We make a train of the rickety luggage carts. A duffel tumbles to the ground. We pick it up and rearrange. I finally get my stroller again and settle the two little boys and our mountain of carry-ons into it. I get the bag with our food commodities and practically have the customs officials laughing at my eagerness to disclose all. They just keep waving me on. They see us, the three little boys, the tower of bags. They’re amused by our fluster. We’re practically the last people to get it all gathered and go through customs. They’re ready to be home. They wave us through. No questions. No worries. We must have looked honest—or they took pity on two frazzled parents.

We get out the automatic sliding doors. Journey over. Eric’s colleagues are graciously waiting to drive us to the house. Bethany and Eliane have already been to the house and left us some basic food supplies and made sure everything is in order.

Heat. Hot. Waiting for Eric to get the baggage into Herve’s truck. The boys and I will follow with Bethany in the university Land Rover.

Down the way in the open air of the open airport building. Drums, dancing, singing, whooping celebration. Flashes of yellow skirts. Men and Women exhuberant. Frolicking rhythms leap, surge and invite shouts and affirmation of the joy of being. Being together. Being here. A group has gathered to welcome someone home. Embraces. Laughter. Glee. Drums. Dancing. Swift hips. Happy hands. Joyous voices. A fete on the spot at the airport. Cheering. Even the disgruntled boys watch and smile. We are entranced and calmed by their enthusiasm and liveliness. Drums. Singing. Dancing. Jubliant. Heart-pounding, heart-lifting, light-hearted. We are here. We’ve passed through that gate. This will be our home too. Drums beg dancing. Tap your foot. Boys start swaying. Our hearts drum; our souls sing; a memory dances. The boys mimic this the next day. We are here. Bienvenue. Maeva.


What’s Like Camping
1. The grated with a criss-cross pattern perpetually open windows at the top section of each of the bathrooms. When we first walked through the house I was stunned. “Eric. I thought there was a mosquito problem in Tahiti. So why are the windows in the bathroom OPEN!” He muttered something about mosquitoes not entering the house at a point that high. I muttered something back. Can’t change those windows anyhow. We for sure couldn’t change those windows at midnight Tahiti time and even much, much later on our old time. I suppose it helps to dissipate smells. And moisture. Wouldn’t want that smell of a camp latrine in the house now would we. (Eric says to make sure and let you know that we do have running water, hot water, flushing toilets and the standard household ammenties minus a toaster, tv, microwave, dryer, radio, cd player, and until the city employees get around to us internet and phone). Besides, the screens we do have in the house are nothing to write home about (even though I am) and screens are hardly common here. We see many wide open sans screen windows—church, schools, home.
2. The smell of everything wood in the house. You know the smell of wood that just never gets completely dried out? That smell. Like a camp cabin. Dank.
3. The cabinets in the kitchen that have multiple doors but are completely open to each other on the inside. I just don’t know where I’m going to put onions so that they won’t smell up everything else. Only one set of cabinets right above the stove do not have some kind of funny cleaner, air freshener smell. I’ve stashed anything that might take on odor (like boxes of cereal and the flour) there.
4. Black feet and the dirt, dirt, dirt. Sand and dirt. It doesn’t matter how many times you sweep the tile floors of the house and take off shoes before entering the house, the floors are gritty and our feet quickly turn black. I don’t think they’ll lose this black sheen until we live somewhere not here. It mostly doesn’t matter, except that I wish we didn’t end up with grit and sand in our beds as well.
5. The primitive look of too many of the houses that we pass on our way—more cabins than houses—constant reminders of how grateful we are for our accommodations. We have a lovely, roomy, airy, modern house.
6. Chaotic development, pock-mocked roads, rough and tumble yards.
7. Campfires. I mean fires. Every day. Different spots. Different yards. Very, very common. At some point in the day, that smoke smell drifts into the house. Sometimes you cough on it as you’re out and about. I guess it’s the easiest way to deal with rubbish. Trash, fast-growing vegetation, etc. The garbage gets picked up twice a week and yet the dump fire acrid smoke is a constant.
8. The being somewhere in between a vacation and living here feeling. It is home for us, but not our permanent home. We get to play here, but we’re also here to work and learn.
9. Creative cooking. I made Snicker Doodles with my mom’s recipe but without any correct measuring apparatus. We burned the bottom of the first batch in our propane oven but succeeded with the rest. We celebrated with fanfare those cookies make with multiple variables—different flour, heat and guesstimation. I’m very proud of this and all the other culinary successes I’ve had without any help from Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart.
10. Geckos in the closets. Do geckos chirp? If we had internet we might know.
11. Incessant crowing with the occasional riff of ambulance sirens.

What Makes This So Much More Than Camping
1. A consecrated period of time. We have certain, specific goals and a dedicated amount of time in which to achieve them. There will be a beginning and an end to this experience. We wake up each day present and aware.
2. An assurance that it is right for us to be here.
3. We like it here and we’re happy. We’ve got everything that is essential and more. We’ve got no complaints. Some things are just different.
4. The joy and delight we daily experience with our boys and as a couple—the intensity of a new beginning and vastly different experiences.
5. We are our own best companions here having left our loved ones on a far distant shore. We share in the joys and trials together. We are learning a new language and the culture of this place together.
6. We daily witness the hand of God in our lives.