We’re heading into the jungle. The abandoned village of Omoa was already almost uninhabited 80 years ago, when the young and daring Thor Heyerdahl lived on Fatu Hiva with his wife. Now Omoa is abandoned. A 17-kilometre trail leads there across the island’s main mountain ridge. They say the climb to an altitude of almost a kilometre is not difficult, but the descent...
That is where we are setting off right now. We will have to spend the night under the stars on the western shore, exposed to the trade winds. As is only fitting on the day of a hike, it has been raining since the middle of the night, and the crew did not get enough sleep because yesterday evening they sailed the yacht to the main village to watch Marquesan dancing. The Polynesians were closing the festival commemorating the French Revolution, so our village had football and the traditional French game with iron balls (we can’t for the life of us remember what it is called), while in the island’s main village—which takes half a day to reach overland but about an hour by sea—they were once again dancing in bright, elaborate costumes made of grass and leaves. When else will Polynesia dance with such ceremony and beauty? Kon-Tiki alone knows.
So, after stuffing ourselves with local dishes, we had to weigh anchor. Of the traditional fare, the standouts were meat baked in banana leaves in an earth oven, and Marquesan-style ceviche made with raw fish, vegetables, lemon juice and coconut milk. Mmmm... But the red fe’i bananas made famous by Heyerdahl—and the other, yellow bananas too, to be honest—are an acquired taste. The yellow ones are somewhat like pumpkin, while the red ones reek of home brew. Still, they are a rarity: the illustrious Thor wrote that even in the 1930s fe’i no longer grew on Tahiti or Hiva Oa, though they could still be found here. And we found them too.
On our return to “our bay”—as we call Hanavave, the most beautiful bay in the world—the junior crew member fell asleep on the little settee in the saloon, while Nastya cheerfully did anchor duty. We anchored in pitch darkness. Three times at first, and then another three times at midnight. For our first attempts had not gone well.
And now we are heading inland in the rain. So we will have no contact whatsoever for two or three days, not even by satellite. If the junior crew member gets very tired today, we will have to spend not one but two nights in the abandoned village and make our way back without the group of young, sprightly comrades—the crews of two yachts. One is Brazilian, the other Canadian, but bears the proud name Smetana. Who named their boat “Sour Cream,” and why, and how our hike went—we will tell you next time, when we return from the jungle.
We are always so happy to receive news and letters from you, friends! For now, this is our only link with the wider world. Wishing everyone wonderful adventures!