Learned Policemen

We read that a police chief in Mexico City has instigated a new regime for his troupe. He was reacting to the popularily held view of the police here as being corrupt, incompetent and lazy. He is asking them to read one book per month and has prepared a list of reccomendations that includes 'The Little Prince' and 'Don Quixote'. One drawback is the fact that 20 per cent of them are illiterate but there is no promotion without a test on the month's reading.

Maybe the Gardai should have 'The Third Policeman' on their precribed list. Any other suggestions?

Dave Allen RIP

Another good man gone today.

May he rest in peace, the man who said "I'm an atheist........Thank God".
He would have enjoyed Frederick the Great of Prussia's favourite prayer "Oh God, if there is one, have mercy on my soul, if I have one".

Order in the cashier.

A sign in a Mexican Cafe.

The flight to Mexico City from LA takes about 3 hours and was uneventful except that I learnt the Spanish word for stewardess....'Azafata'.It's good to know that I will be having a retired Azafata as a sister-in-law.

Flying low over a city of 25 million at night is a pretty sight especially Mexico with it's hills and mountains. On the ground it was the same old rigmarole though; taking off everything that agitates an Xray several times and queuing for immigration. Soonish we are at domestic departures and after an aborted trip out to the plane we are on board and the pilot explains that traffic is busy and 'It's just one of those days'. Reminded me of Suzie coming into Cork airport and the Aer Lingus pilot announcing 'The weather in Cork is good. It's raining.'

We arrive at the small airport of Oaxaca 45 mins later. Again a long delay for passengers from out of state. Out of state out of mind. It was reassuring to see all the procedures being done per usual except for extreme laissez-faire and inefficiency. Signs of the menaña culture already, a welcome relief from the 'and how are you today?' culture.

Don't even attempt to drive in Mexico. Thank God for the city council's wisdom in putting speed ramps on the airport road. It's a Grand Prix between each ramp and we are talking of cars that have seen their best days.

We arrived at the Casa Sierra Azul around midnight. This is a beautiful crumbling Spanish Colonial building, like so many others in the city. It sports a shady central courtyard, logia?, with fountains and flower pots. Off this is the first room we stayed in . It was spacious but had no window, only a fan that raced at breakneck RPM and was attached to the ceiling by a slender wire. This mad thing's acrobatic manouevering was too much for Mrs Poodlem who prefered a hot night to a possible beheading. Two mornings later we were awoken at 8.45 a.m., not a good hour for poodles, by a deafening banging on the roof above. Now we know why the fan achieved it's instability. This banging lasts all day and is due to two men on the roof with pickaxes. Maybe this is the Mexican equivalent of a break in.

We retreated to an upstairs 'mini-suite' . This is further away from the matitudinal axeing but it has other less welcome features, namely the bathroom. We are paying US Dollars 135 per night(!!!) to have a bathroom that smells uncannily like two week's supply of something that rhymes with 'height'.One needs to steel oneself for a trip to the shower. But even this gross lack of value cannot dent the delight at being in this city. I keep reminding Georgie of the sweet smells of India and how lucky we are to be here. And lucky we are. This is the 'old civilisation' mixed with voodoo catholicism. There is obviously terrible poverty especially in the barrios on the outskirts where people have built homes with no available water, but there is a wonderful relaxed graceful aura to the place, faded elegance and signs of modern culture and facilities being born out of the old way, all mixed up fairly harmoniously. The caveat being that this is a tourist's intuition after being in the country 5 days.

Our first 'desayuno' was taken on the square, which is traffic free, and full of outdoor cafes for us touristas. One could people watch all day. Negotiating the menu we skipped the 'divorced eggs' (one in a green sauce, one in a red), eschewed the grasshoper with guacomole and went for the 'yugurth with brain'.

The square, from morning to night, is peopled with the tiny Mixtec Indian people selling rugs, fans, combs, toys, balloons and sometimes, pitifully, a few pieces of chewing gum. These people really are tiny, maybe four foot tall at most. The elderly ladies have silver hair and are dressed in brightly coloured layers a la Mexican postcards. They seem exceedingly sun-wizened and ancient but we pondered that they may in fact look many years older than actually.

Our first experience of their music was from a little 6 year old boy who stood by our breakfast table, played a few bars of Mariachi on his squeeze box, and let out a couple of phrases of the most rasping intonation one could imagine. Why didn't I bring the mini disc that day? It comes with us all the time now and we have captured some gems.

Lots more to come on this place, our favourite of the whole journey. Perks too, he had his photo taken with a Mixtec street seller, a Danish couple and and a Parisian Vietnamese with her boyfriend. He was also caught canoodling with a life sized skeleton. They are big on them here. Much of the folk art is based on death's heads. Skeletons dancing, eating, rowing boats and generally horseing around. This theme predates the Spanish invasion and is also connected to the important 'Day of The Dead'. On this day the graveyards are visited and it is believed that the poor goners can enjoy a day out and sample again the earthly pleasures.

We have a lot to learn.

City of Angels

We'll gloss over the 8 hours spent in Papeete, 'twas only a pit stop. Mrs P and Camille and Darren got themselves dropped off in the centre de ville whilst Gubbins returned to the hotel with all the bags. Happy to do so as I took a a distinct allergy to Papeete. Feel sorry for people who save up to cross the globe to go there for their long dreamt holiday/honeymoon/money laundering. Maybe the island has hidden treasures. The junior poodles were glad to see REAL shops again after the stores of The Marquesas which resembled the general stores of Allihies 35 years ago except less well stocked and less well lit. Mac Donalds was visited.

At 12 midnight we set off for the airport where we queued and waited for the 2.30 fight to LA. It was 28 degrees at this time of night and seemed like 100 per cent humidad (skipping ahead to Mexico there).

The 8 hour trip on the modern Airbus was a dream after the hair raising Marquesan flight.

Georgie and I both thought that LA might be a lower part of our trip and how wrong we were. Certainly the security at the airport was all we expected but, once let out, we had a ball. This was maiñly (Spanish keyboard inserts a tilda) due to our hosts, Meiert and Sarah Avis, old and true friends. We stay in their new garden room, an old garage with it's own outdoor loo and shower overhung by lemon trees and paved with lovely Mexican tile details.

It really felt like home to see them again and good for Georgie to get to know them and the two boys. We aim to spend our last three days there before crossing the Atlantic.

Prejudices run deep in me as you know doubt read on these pages re. the evil empire called the USA (well who has been involved in more wars both overt and covert in the 20th century and who provides 25 per cent of the world pollution and refuses to sign Kyoto... stop it Tim you are starting to rave again). So here's a welcome little detail; on the bus into Santa Monica I couldn't find money to feed the automatic ticket machine, correct change only. 2 ladies, one white and one Hispanic, spontaneously offered me money. SO people are people wherever you go. Neo-con administrations are another matter.

An aside: tourist spotting this morning in the main square of Oaxaca (it takes one to spot one) I saw a fleet of maybe ten red headed American ladies in their forties and fifties. Was this a specialised tour for red heads? As they passed I noticed one had 'I'm a US star' written on the back of her T shirt. Just in case she dies on the Marquesas no doubt.

In LA we caught the virus again, the shopping virus. Try Abbot Kinney and Main Street O reader. We spent some time, well maybe two hours, in a shop called 'Goddess'. The Mexican girl was real welcoming, who wouldn't be when winterpoodles are out with their wallets, and made some jewellery for us. Meanwhile I photoed Perks sticking out of a pair of knickers with Goddess written on them. The indignities of being a stuffed monkey. In another shop he was photoed with the proprietor and also riding a stuffed dog.

The best part of the visit was spending time with Meiert and family and meeting up with Kate Purcell and kids Isabella and Mia. Also their friends Casey, friend of k d Lang, and an Indian godfather of the kids. As always there were many good laughs to be had with Kate who is two months away from giving the world a new being and looking great on it. We hope to see the Dad, Dr Bill, on our way back.

On a whim and with the advice of our hosts we decided to spend a week in Oaxaca, Southern Mexico and maintain the warm winds that we have become accustomed to.

Thus , we set out to LAX and lined up for the interminable X raying and screening. We have a wonderful picture of Perks proudly surmounting a sign that reads :

' Making any jokes or statements regarding bombs, and or threats during the screening process may be grounds for both criminal and civil penalties, all such matters will be taken seriously. We thank you for your restraint in this matter.'

Never have I been thanked for not joking. Have a nice day.

Accessing Previous Posts

You may read about our earlier travels by going to the archive buttons for December, January and Febuary.

Ova Hia Cont.

A few more comments from Hiva Oa for the screen before we move on East:

On a high ridge overlooking the main village, Atuona, is the 'steele' of Jacques Brel. It transpires he lived his last years on Hiva Oa and was a supporter of and activist for the islanders. His private plane is preserved at the Museum section dedicated to him at the village. That makes two celebrities on the island. In my book celebrities are more often unsung and unknown. I think of Dan and Madge Hanley and John Corby on the Beara peninsula. The celebrity cult is yet another import from good 'ole USA and is often fatuous. People become famous for being famous.

On this subject the director of our hotel on Nuku Hiva comes to mind. She told us a story from her days working on the packet that plied between Papeete and The Marquesa Islands. On approaching Nuku Hiva a gentleman passenger fell ill and died. Due to the extreme temperatures in those parts it became imperative to bury the poor blighter at once. She asked for permission to plant him from the authorities on Nuku Hiva who are jealous of the two celebrities on Hiva Oa. Their first question was 'Is he famous?'

On the peunltimate day of our stay we rented a little 4X4 jeep and drove East to a black sand beach for a swim. Well, it ended up that I was the only taker. I noticed one or two boys swimming down the shore so realised it might be safe. Only when I was beyond the surf did the poster from the village shop come into my mind. It portrays a whole raft of sharks that can be found in these waters. Our hotel director told me that the sharks only operate outside the surf. A quick retreat.

We then drove towards the most Westerly 'village'. It is purported to be a two hour drive for a mere 20 kilometres or so. This road is the most extreme I have ever negotiated. It was really just a rutted mud and stone track traversed by deep water routes (Africa?). We bounced , bumped and lurched along through some of the most dramatic mountain and cliff scenery to be found. Little conversation was possible. Nearly there and poor Camille informs us that she is motion sick. We have the whole trip backwards to do. My heart went out to her as motion sickness is one of the worst and she had restrained from telling us for fear of spoiling the day.

The last day Madame Poodlem and self went horse riding. We went to the home of a guide who sat us up on two gentle nags and we set off through the bush, up little used tracks down steep brush hillsides and finally up on a narrow ridge overlooking the mountains. I experienced that sinking feeling one gets prior to sliding off and being dragged by a foot caught in a stirrup over rocks . The plain fact is that Irish Gouldings were not born in the saddle, unlike our Marquesan host. He was the most charming of men who looked like he was part of his horse. He sauntered along with one hand on his hips (straight out of a Gauguin) and one swishing a sally nonchantly in the air. HE WASN'T HOLDING ON, or whatever the correct horse term is. As for self, I was gripping the saddle and keeping up a barrage of conversation with the horse along the lines of 'That's the boy, you know best, who'se a lovely fella, I'll let you do this bit, you know the way, steady now I said steady' and then I realised he probably didn't speak English so I switched to "bon cheval, tu es tres jolie, bon chance " etc. I noticed after a while that our guide didn't say a word to his horse but I did hear some giggling from Mrs Poodle from behind. She was as confident as a cat and loving the experience. I guess some people are born 20% horse.

Neither of us could walk proper for days. Both of us got our first sunburn in 3 months. The sun was intense at that height despite our 30 factor block. Now I know where John Wayne got his walk.

We ended up taking homemade lemonade at the home of our guide with his happy French wife, little boy (football mad), baby kitty and 8 dogs. They love animals.

Our last night was upon us and we chatted with a couple of fellow guests. He was a gent in his late fifties, aren't we all, who told the hotelier that he was born in England but seemed to prefer to speak French. His partner was a Spanish lady, elegant and understated in her dress as only the rich know how, with a rasping voice and a cigarette never far from her lips. He was always in longs and shoes and socks and white longslieved shirt. Hair slicked back and thinning. ( A very good bad Uncle 'o' for those in on that). They live in Madrid but he visits his farm in Oxford every few weeks. He told me that he had done the classic Circuit of Ireland last year in his MG TF. He could have done it in one of his more expensive cars (Alvis? Lagonda?) he confided but it was as well he didn't as "the man who looks after my cars" had to spend 7 thousand pounds repairing the road wear.

They were going to Courcheval to ski with 'various children from various marriages' after their roundworld trip. This seemed par for the course. Despite their studied boredom (very English) there was an air of quiet tension. The Latin and the Anglo Saxon. The ever present drink and cigarette might only last so long. Who knows? But it is fun to people watch.

So, bye bye to these remote islands, the smells , the mosquitos, the sweetie pies and sourpuss. Time to leave the little airport, landing place of frightened poodles, without so much as a doggie or cat goodbye. Up into the blue skies and Papeete and Los Angeles Ahoy.

Hiva Oa

Ova Hia

That's what Georgie calls Hiva Oa.

Our Hanakee Pearl Lodge Hotel is high above the bay and overlooks a giant mountain that dominates the village of Atuona below. Here are all the mod cons, especially pool. Here we were treated to Champagne and a Polynesian band on our arrival, still in shock from the air basket experience.

These islands have wild bantam like hens of magnificent plumage that riddle the place. They were introduced from distant time zone, Indonesia?, and have NOT reset their clocks. They actually cluck and crow 24 hours, maybe homesick. At three o'clock in the morning to a bird they start their crowing just outside our bungalows. Even the Director says he can't get back to sleep. Although I have not knowingly eaten meat since 1969 I was close to having Poulet au lait de coco.

The Director is an interesting character and new to the job. His previous assignements included many years working as a concert soloist, playing the flute. He retired because of Tinnitus which confirms my conviction that it is a high frequency disease and I don't mean the higher you get the more frequent it becomes. Piccolo players get it and pianists and whistle players as I know to my detriment. He has also worked in hospitality industries and spent 2 years as a butler. He has taken on the management of this remote spot with his wife and 5 year old child. He has a great sense of humour and French Bonhomie.

He was also related by marriage to the late French painter Francis Picabia and had stories of Duchamp and Calder amongst others. Since the age of 7 he practised the flute 7 hours a day. on our last night he gave as a small concert of classical favourites, Bach, Verdi and more. Absolutely superb playing, breath control, tone etc and such a surprise to be sitting above a remote bay listening to such a thing.

We asked about the islanders and what they did. He said "somewhere between very little and nothing". He also said they had everything they needed around them. If hungry one only needs to wander a little to find abundant fruit for the picking and fish to catch. There is little to spend money on and the export of Copra and Noni brings in cash.

It is very ill advised to make all these snap descriptions of places and especailly people based on a three day stay. But first impressions are not to be underestimated as much research shows when it comes to the attraction between the sexes. That said, we found the islanders of Hive Oa somewhat aloof, indifferent and closed to winterpoodles. More so than on Nuku Hiva.

The village Atuona houses the Paul Gauguin Musee, a very impressive set of connected houses built in the traditional style including the restored house where he lived. There are no originals on view but many legal fakes and some excellent display work tracking his stay on the island. It appears from what we heard that he spent much of the day drunk and if living today would be in jail for contravening the Mann Act several times over. A cantakerous rebellious type but completely genuine about his mission and vision. Some of the letters on display were heart rending to read. A sad tale but a great artist. Where have I heard that before (Mozart, Van Morrison, Munch etc).

Serving us at table we had another sweetheart of unknown gender and also a chamelelion lady who was dressed like a Diva, poured into a white dress with High heels and a flower behind the ear. She would cut you dead or give you a smile for no known reason. We called her Maria Callous.

More to come..........

The Blanching of Perkins

As you know, Perkins is a small stuffed monkey with white paws and hands. The rest of him is orange.

He didn't come out of his back basket for three days after the flight to Hiva Oa and we were more than surprised to see that he hadn't blanched completely. As for his minders.......

Georgina, Camille, Darren and self had one of the most frightening experiences of our lives:

The flight to Nuku Hiva from to Hiva Oa is supposed to be 35 mins in duration, but we soon realised that the visibility was worsening and the journey would lengthen. We were flying in cloud most of the time but after an hour or so I glimpsed some sea and then a bit of coastline with very low cloud on it. We soon realised we were traversing the side of the island and circling down to the sea every now and then. It was getting incredibly hot and humid and we were told in French that we would soon be landing, but nothing of the sort. Shortly after that the windscreen wipers packed up (we learnt later that the GPS had as well). After nearly two hours of this the pilot announced ' nous commencent nos dernier tosse'. Not knowing French at all well I took this to mean 'last throw of the dice'.


Night was on us and suddenly the pilot put us into a steep climb and we cleared the cloud at about 4 thousand feet. We then dived down into the dark cloud and miraculously emerged high on the island in a clearing where we could see runway lights and two big strobe lights to guide us in. With much buffeting we landed and taxied to the airport which was closed and unlit. After some time people arrived and after a further wait our hotel director turned up and his first words were "you have all had strong emotions". The passengers were hugging each other and I must admit I was shaking, having been rigid, speechless and drenched in sweat on the plane. Georgie thought I was going to have a heart attack. Me too. Camille and Darren were further up in the plane but were both very shook too. Camille said Darren didnt want to fly again, something we all felt.

The 35 minute flight took 2 hours 5 minutes. We also learned later that we could not return to Nuku HIva because their runway lights were inoperative.

Again my admiration for aviators and their skill and sang froid increased. I have never felt so strongly that the 'last toss' was upon us .

The hotel director assured us that the pilot had been one of France's best military pilots and had also been in the French Control (What that? Foreign Legion?). We heard that he was not well the next day although apparently unconnected to our jouney. Apparently.

This has been the lowpoint of our travels.

Leaving Huku Hiva

And on the fourth day the 4 X 4 arrived and four winterpoodles boarded. The 2 hour trip to the airport on the far end of the island 45 kilometres away was achieved in 1 and a half hours due to a new driver and dry 'roads'. On the top of the island we stopped to photograph a ravine where wild goats live and also spirits. Because of the latter tourists are barred from entry.

We arrived at the airport to find the airport bitch and her feline companion awaiting us again. They seem to be permanent residents.
We boarded the Twin Otter, about 14 of us, and took off into the low cloud. After maybe 20 minutes we landed at Oa Hive a small island nearby which has dramatic spires of black rock shooting into the sky. The airport building was more of a bus shelter with no animal attendents. The pilot and and passengers sat under a roof and chatted while we waited for some sort of clearance for Hiva Oa. After half an hour in the intense humidity and heat we reboarded and set off for Nuku Hiva again, skimming in low below the ever lower cloud base. Doggie and cat were waiting. Another wait. No water vailable. Hot!

Haiku of the week

Your mouth is moving
Up and down, emitting noise
I've lost interest.

Human Sacrifice

Yes, it did take place on the Marquesas and I think within the last 150 years. It seemed that every tribe was at war with every other one and it was quite accepted to nip into your neighbour's village and bring back a couple of 'long pig', sweet tasteing I'm told. Certainly there is still some eating of dog on some remoter islands or so our guide Jean-Pierre told us with a twinkle in his eye and a rub of his tummy. This charming man brought us on a three hour outing to his home village. There the main industry is not just copra but the picking, barelling and exporting of Noni fruit which grows abundantly. Behind the village, really just a strip of open sided corrugated iron huts with shiny 4X4s beside them, is the jungle of palm trees and bananas.

Jean-Pierre led us up a jungle path in intense humidity to a clearing where in ancient times unspeakable events occured on a sort of stone dais with strange carved figures inserted reminiscent of Sheila na Gigs but much more threatening . These are the Tikis that are abundant on the islands and are spirits or deities according to different versions. They all have big bug eyes like ET and wide threatening grins . Some sport vestiginal horns and all are meant to be aggressive and powerful. Personally, and Georgie concurs, I find them plain ugly but that is probably very un-PC .

In this jungle clearing the Gods got there on back on Georgie (see the mosquito article).

We drove to the house of a local sculptor and his family where we shown his wares laid out on a table. The room was very bare and sported a telly, the sacred heart and pictures of his children with crowns of flowers. A lovely dog and her tiny puppy lounged on the doorstep. The sculptor seemed indifferent to our prescence but the two beautiful little girls , maybe 4 and 5 year olds, where very inquisitive especially when Perks popped out of my pocket. They had their picture taken with him. Meanwhile we bought a necklace and a little wooden turtle from the enormous wife. There seem to be a prevalence of obesity on the islands. Longevity is not achieved. You are an old man at 50 and heading to the home of the goner in your sixties. It seems the climate is particularily hard on the lungs and also there are mozzie born diseases, our Jean-Pierre survived Dengue Fever in 1968. He also remembered a Tsunami in that year that took severeal cattle and horses but no people in his village.

We returned to Taiohae and he brought us to his house where we met his lovely wife, adopted baby from another island, and 24 year old daughter. The wife gave both of us a necklace made of local seeds and showed us how she fills 20 gallon drums with Noni fruit for export. The house consists of one large room, kitchen, bedroom, living room all contained within.

This was our only contact with islanders and even that had to be done through the medium of my embarassing school boy French . But what a wonderful day out. Little did we know what awaited us the next day on our trip to Hive Oa. That will be the subject of our next post.

Flora of Nuku Hiva

Our hotel on Nuku Hiva, The Pearl Lodge, is situated on a little plateau above the bay and looks onto the village of Taiohae . This prospect includes the crescent of surrounding craggy mountains rising to two thousand feet. The bungalows are secreted within a beautiful garden planted by an American lady who lives nearby. The original site was covered with Tamarind trees, large and strong with turd like pods that drop to the ground and confuse guests. Judicial felling took place and now one can see a sample of nearly all indigenous species. It reminded me of a tropical version of Dargle Gardens, being a woodland garden with mature flowering trees and shrubs.

The most dramatic trees that appear all over the island at the moment are the 'Flamboyents' or Royal Poinciana (Delonix Regia). They are large trees with fern like leaves and bright scarlet flowers. There is also a side variation with bright yellow flowers. On the top and middle sections of the island are straggly trees a bit like hazelnut bushes with fried egg shaped flowers in lemon yellow, wild Hibiscus. Mango trees, and some very ancient ones, are plentiful and other fruit trees include; Guavas, Nonis, Breadfruit, Papaya, Pamplemousse, Bananas (large plantations), and ginger.

In the gardens are to be seen fountains of Bouganvillea, hibiscus, monettes, Frangipani trees and Ylang Ylang. Also the lovely Oleander.

Higher up we saw some new plantings of Teak and Mohogany. For my first time I saw Balsa wood growing too and also the Pandanus (Terminalis), the fronds of which make the basketwork walls and ceilings of some habitations. There is also some remaining Sandalwood left although most was cut by the French and exported.

This is a gardeners paradise and of course you can achieve very quick results in the tropical climate. We are not far from the Equator.

Andrew Gina

The strange phenomenom of gender uncertainty crossed our minds on the two islands we visited. It was the general opinion of our party that there is a masculine look to the female islanders and this was born out by letters of Gauguin's that I read before visiting. He asserted that there was none of the 'tweezer' legs of the Parisian lady to be seen, the thigh continued uninterrupted to the foot that tends to be large in itself. His paintings bear out this physiognamy most faithfully. We felt we were walking amongst a caste from his paintings. But, what is more, some of the people who worked in the restaurants were hard to classify; they seemed to be men dressed in dresses and crowned with hats or crowns made of fresh flowers and had sweet high voices. They also fell in love with Perkins (our stuffed monkey, for new readers) and we have some photos to show.

So we have named the doubtful ones Andrew Gina (androgynes). By the way, that monkey was photoed today (4th March) in LA with 6 trained border collies one of whom is the American National Obedience Champion. So Blair has been outstripped.