Tahuata Island

I thought to myself that this small island, with no airport and only 600 inhabitants, might take me back to the Brel era; I was right. I stayed with Félix, the mayor of the municipality and headmaster of the small primary school. I slept in a very modest but clean room. The common areas consisted mainly of a large terrace overlooking equatorial vegetation and the Pacific Ocean, which roars day and night, and with a perfect angle for watching the sunsets, which are admittedly brief—you're practically on the equator.

The mayor's daughter-in-law and son are in charge of reception and food; I'm on half-board. Breakfast and dinner are plentiful and delicious. Local fish, meat, salad. I'm not the only guest: three young men are renovating the school cafeteria kitchen. A Frenchman recently settled in Tahiti following a life change that had become essential, and his two Tahitian assistants, one as outgoing as the other is discreet, but both are absolutely lovely…

Félix shares our meal, the blessing in the Marquesan language is de rigueur, no one drinks wine, except me, a glass or two per meal which I will not be charged for.

There's only one French resident on the island; the only visitors are sailors with a bad reputation, holed up in their boats, stingy, and looking down on the locals. Okay, I'm probably exaggerating a bit, since I don't have sea legs.

So I don't go unnoticed when I stroll around. Everyone greets me, and when a conversation starts, everyone uses the informal "tu" form. While the water is a divine 25°C and crystal clear, access to the dock isn't easy, as there's no beach. Actually, diving in is easy, but getting back in is a bit more complicated with the waves rising and falling, lapping at the slimy, slippery ladder. But that's how I feel, in paradise without hordes of tourists; I'm alone. Only the local kids come to frolic in this water where it's so pleasant to be tossed about. The older boys come to shake my hand with a touching air of growing adults. Some of the younger ones give me a high five with smiles that could melt the heart of the most depressed person.

The small village has a lively center where the beautiful church, the town hall, the school, and a rustic veranda are all located. Once or twice a month, the villagers come together to cook. It's an interesting tradition; it's essentially a large potluck where the meals are sold to raise funds for a cause. When I visited, it was for the renovation of the church in the neighboring village. It could also be for a charity or something else. It was a lovely moment of sharing where I was welcomed with genuine warmth, without any pomp or whispered politeness.

There's a rather charming little Protestant chapel, but here we're Catholic, and their church is truly magnificent, without the grandeur and coldness of ours. Perfectly triangular, with a wooden roof and walls of round stones cemented white. Very harmonious. But the important thing is what happens there: a lot of singing, in Polynesian, to traditional tunes accompanied by a large, typical drum, guitars, and a ukulele. The building's generous acoustics create a sense of unity, and one can't help but be swept away by this divine energy. It's enough to bring tears to your eyes, and that's no exaggeration. Truly very moving. Even the endless sermon of the African priest can't spoil the ceremony. I take the opportunity to observe the participants, who are wearing traditional colors, and the women, their headdresses adorned with vibrant flowers.

This was the highlight of my stay, punctuated by small encounters that are the very essence of slow-paced travel. To immortalize it, I got a tattoo from the village tattoo artist: a discreet turtle on my calf. The turtle is an important symbolic animal here; it's even found in the church, atop the triangular stained-glass window that stands behind the altar—no less—powerfully symbolizing the still-vibrant Marquesan culture. I had a brief immersion in it, and it's forever etched in my heart.

Complaining is not an option in the Marquesas Islands…