Boring Bora?

I found a lot of island snobbery about "overdeveloped" French Polynesia in my travels through the South Pacific. And once I got to Tahiti, I discovered that people there tended to sneer at Bora Bora for the same reason. Philippe, the excellent host at the guesthouse I stayed at in Moorea, called it Boring Bora.

And it seemed that they had good reason for their scoffing. Bora Bora is less than half the size of Moorea, but it hosts nine major resorts against Moorea's three.

So when I stepped off the plane, I was expecting to find a beautiful island overrun by tourists.

My first view of the island proved that the beautiful part was certainly true.

 

Bora Bora is a sunken volcano. Only the central peak still rises above the water, surrounded by a fringing reef of coral motus broken in only one place.

Since the main island is fairly small and mountainous, the airport is located on one of the motus and reachable only by boat. Most of the resorts have their own shuttles, but since I was staying at a small guesthouse on the main island, I had to wait for the public ferry to Vaitape.

Vaitape is a small village that is the largest settlement on Bora Bora. The ferry from the airport takes about 25 minutes and offers lovely, ever-changing views of the island. 

 

The resorts are almost all built on the motus in the lagoon. The main island is less crowded and even less developed than Moorea. It turned out to be the perfect place for my last four days, quiet, peaceful, and beautiful.

 

I arrived at sunset, about two hours late because of the Air Tahiti strike, but Marc-André Zani, the owner of Bora Bora Bungalove, was still there, waiting to pick me up. 

 

The guesthouse is self-service, with a full kitchen, so our first stop was the market for groceries. The market was well-stocked, and Marc-André advised me on the best bargains on wine. I was very pleased to find an excellent selection of French cheeses and meats. I bought a French rosé, some Serrano ham, a couple cheeses, and some crackers. 

 

Feeling the Love

 

Bora Bora Bungalove sits on a bay on the northwest side of the island. The property is rustically beautiful with just two bungalows for guests in addition to the Zanis' house.

My room came with a private dining area and sunning deck over the bay. The scruffy tom was a permanent fixture, especially when I was eating.

Marc-André and his wife, Annette, have several cats and dogs, including Nina the fishing dog, seen here. Nina sits for hours either on the deck or in the water watching the fish swim by. Then, when the time is right, she pounces. Mostly she comes up with nothing but sand, but Marc-André says she sometimes catches fish as well as rays and octopi. She's not so fond of the octopi because of the way they wrap their tentacles around her muzzle.

Marc-André is a former chef who has lived and worked in the US and France. About 20 years ago, he answered an ad for a chef at the Hotel Bora Bora and has never looked back. A few years ago, he decided to quit the restaurant business and pursue  his lifelong dream of being an artist. His house and the bungalows are filled with his colorful artwork.

This was my bathroom, complete with outdoor shower. It was awesome showering in hot water in a cool rain.

I fell in love with these two fish that he painted. Luckily, they were small enough to fit in my suitcase.

I really like his naive and colorful style.

Especially this landscape which I found reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night.

 

It seemed fitting that I would end my dream trip at a place owned by someone whose dream had brought him to the same place. 

 

Marc-André and I discussed our love for bandes dessinées (graphic novels), especially those by Jean Giraud, better known by his pseudonym, Mœbius.  Warmed by this commonality, our conversation turned deeper; we talked of dreams and his journey as a chef that took him from France to Florida, Georgia, California, and finally Bora Bora. He talked about deciding to give up being a chef to become an artist. I was moved by his decision to follow his heart. And felt confirmed in my ongoing efforts to follow mine.

I got up the next morning just in time to watch a brief rain squall pass by. Nina was already out fishing. 

I spent most of my first day on the island watching the sun and clouds track across the sky.

By the end of the day, I felt recharged by the silence and the calm unfolding of nature.

 

I was no longer just waiting to go home. I was at home in the now, content just to be.

 

Visiting the Octopus' Garden

The next day, I was ready to move again. I started the day with a lagoon cruise and snorkeling trip. We made a complete circumnavigation of the main island. Sudden squalls of cool rain kept passing through, adding further interest to the ever-changing views of the distinctive central peak.

One of the highlights of the trip was a chance to play with the friendly stingrays. The guides feed them, and so they swarm all over you when you get in the water. There are so many of them that you can't keep track of where they all are. While you're watching one, you suddenly feel the slippery, spongy tapping of wings on your back, followed by the the powerful suction of a mouth trying to inhale food. You turn and find a frantically flapping creature looking at you longingly with large, soulful black eyes. It's simultaneously endearing and weird.

 

The snorkeling was quite good, with clear, shallow water and lots of colorful fish. When I returned to the boat, I was introduced to a new passenger, a very patient octopus.

I was able to develop a more intimate acquaintance with the creature before our guide released it. It jetted leisurely away, seemingly unfazed by its brief time among the strange creatures of the air.

 

The following day, I went for the last two dives of my trip. Once again, I was the only diver on the boat. In fact, it was just me and Patrick, one of the owners of Dive N'Smile. Patrick told me that we needed to leave early in order to be first on the dive sites. And so we were.

 

Conditions were poor for the manta cleaning station, but we dove on a site where we could see smaller rays. Patrick led me through a cleft in the rocks and we crouched on the bottom as a school of 15-20 spotted eagle rays wheeled above and around us.

 

Unfortunately, neither of us had a camera. That was my last dive, number 49 of the trip. I was reluctant to get off the boat. I had a feeling of accomplishment: I had done what I had set out to do, and I was ready to go home, and yet. And yet I was sad to say goodbye to the beautiful underwater world I had spent two months exploring.

 

The Guns of Bora Bora

 

Since I had to wait a day after my last dive to fly, I had planned to spend the last day of my trip exploring the island.

 

A bit of history: In early1942, when the Japanese advance across the southern Pacific seemed unstoppable, the United States chose Bora Bora as a base to protect the supply lines to Australia.  Nearly 7,000 men descended on the tiny island. The small passage into the lagoon was blasted out to accommodate warships and freighters. Defensive fortifications were constructed. Seven coastal defense guns were set up at strategic points around the island to protect it against attack.

Most of the guns are now inaccessible. One was recently "stolen" by one of the island's hereditary chiefs and now decorates his front yard. Two are still in place at the end of a dirt road that winds up the slope of the island's central peak.

 Well, it's dirt when it hasn't been raining.

 

I could have taken a jeep tour of the site, but I decided to borrow a bike from Marc-André and explore on my own. I parked the bike at the foot of the steep, rocky road to the battery and started to climb.

 

The minute I left the coastal road, the temperature and the humidity rose considerably. I was soon drenched in sweat and at times ankle deep in mud. Still, I pushed on, occasionally wedging myself into the thick foliage to avoid being splashed by four-wheelers filled with smiling tourists.

The uphill climb was intense, but at last I reached a plateau with magnificent views of the island and the lagoon.

 

The road wound back into the forest. I followed, not knowing how far I needed to go, sweating and trying to avoid the worst of the mud.

Then, just as I was wondering how much further I wanted to walk, I looked up.

As in the Solomons, there were no signs, no historical markers, just the guns themselves.

Someone must do some kind of maintenance to keep the forest from completely overgrowing the guns, but there was no sign of anybody anywhere around, just the guns and the trees and the sky. 

On the way down, I managed to find enough pools of water to get rid of most of the mud. I had shopping to do.

But first, one last lunch of yellowtail carpaccio with a chilled glass of white Burgundy.

 

The Last Supper

 

Unless you take a boat out to one of the resorts, there are few dining choices in Bora Bora. I decided that I would make my own dinner on my last night. 

After lunch, I pedaled into Vaitape to buy ingredients. I managed to find a leek, some pasta, more Serrano ham, a block of Parmesan cheese, a head of garlic, and a big bunch of fresh basil. 

 

That evening I stir-fried everything, poured it over the pasta, and topped it with cheese and the whole bunch of basil. I ate it as the sun set over the bay, accompanied by a nicely-chilled bottle of tart rosé. It was a delicious end to the trip.

And that was the morning and the evening of my last day in paradise.

 

The Long Road Home

 

The next morning, Marc-André drove me to the ferry. We  embraced and said goodbye. He is a mad man of the very best kind, and I am very pleased to have met him. 

He later sent me a link to his YouTube videos. Here are two of them. He is a crazed individual, which makes him my kind of person.

 

The ferry ride to the airport was bittersweet. I looked back at the island, marveling at its beauty, regretting that the adventure was almost over, and at the same time looking forward to getting home.

At the airport, I found I wasn't the only traveler waiting in line for the plane.

One last look at Bora Bora before the long journey home.

 

And it was a long way. To keep the cost of airfare down, I elected not to fly back directly from Tahiti. So here's what I had to look forward to: an hour-long flight from Bora Bora to Tahiti, a four-hour layover in Papeete, followed by a six-hour flight to Auckland. In New Zealand, I had an 11-hour, overnight layover. 

 

I stayed at an airport hotel, then took a three-hour flight to Fiji, where I hand a nine-hour layover  before an 11-hour flight to LA. Then the home stretch: a two-and-a-half-hour layover in LA, a two-and-a-half-hour flight to Seattle with a one-hour layover and, finally, an hour-and-a-half flight to Boise. 

 

It was a long ending to a long trip. 

 

And then I was home, and all too soon it felt as if I'd never left. 

 

P.