Tahiti, the France at the end of the world?

I thought I'd find myself in a faraway France in the South Pacific, but no, this is Polynesia, French Polynesia certainly, but first and foremost Polynesia with its indigenous population from Asia who still speak their language, part of a large family spread across the Pacific. They have their own president and their own laws. While everyone, except for a few elderly people, speaks French, they don't have a Parisian or Radio-Canada accent. More so than in Quebec, the informal "tu" is the norm, and snobbery is reserved for a few metropolitan French people who haven't yet realized that the colonial empire is well and truly dead.

But while coconut palms, mango trees, and banana trees abound, it's not a banana republic. France and its sprawling institutions offer a plethora of jobs, many of which are filled by Polynesians. On Hiva Oa, Brel's island, I was astonished by the omnipresence of various republican institutions: the town hall, of course, but also a kind of regional council, the prefecture, the gendarmerie, the municipal police, the clinic, the schools, the middle school, and others. On the tiny island of Tahuata, the school principal, Félix, a native of the island with whom I was staying, confirmed that all his staff are Polynesian.

The roads, parks, and recreational areas are immaculate. The lush nature is kept in check by an army of attendants whirring their weeders. Poverty is discreet. All this comes at a price; the cost of living is similar to that of us polar French.

What sets it apart from the metropolis is the warm welcome from the locals. Greetings and shouts of "Oranas" (a local term for greetings) fly from people you meet, and conversations spring up about anything and everything. It's truly touching and a little overwhelming, but very pleasant, especially for a solo traveler. Tourism is the primary economic driver of this almost-country, and the tradition of offering flower garlands to visitors is a genuine expression of hospitality.

The two-speed society

While life in the Marquesas Islands is largely confined to the Marquesan community, Raiatea is different. As the regional capital, it boasts a hospital, a school, and other institutions where many French expatriates work; a community that lives somewhat apart. For example, my hosts cater exclusively to a Caucasian clientele: she offers yoga and fitness training, he freediving.

The ferry terminal, the heart of the island, perfectly illustrates this reality. In the center are the tourist shops: on one side, the French bakery/café with its predominantly white clientele, and on the other, the Chinese restaurant with its more diverse clientele. People often eat there in large groups, without much discretion, and laughter fills the air.

The difference in wealth between the two groups can be seen, but it is less striking than in North America or in metropolitan France.

The Polynesians stubbornly cling to their Quebecois way of life: their shops stay open at lunchtime, they eat at noon and 6 p.m., there's only one dish where quantity takes precedence over refinement, and it's served informally everywhere. A charming touch: often the waitress addresses me by humming rather than speaking.

So I decided to count this territory as my 51st country visited. I did the same for Greenland; I hope Trump doesn't notice…