Day Seven: Landlocked

Today was a day of business. It wasn't meant to be, it just sort of worked out that way.

There were certain objectives: go back to pearl farm for free oysters, fill up the tank for the dinghy, go to bank, go to grocery store, go to fruit stand.

It doesn't sound like five hours worth of work, does it? Still...

We picked up Jennifer from the Amelia, in "Spicy" the dinghy. I had sat between her and her husband, Gene, on our pizza night and she and her son had been involved in the Spinnaker Flying. They were loaning us enough fuel for the dinghy to get to town and needed to hit the grocery store as well.

We started off going to the oyster farm, which was about halfway to town. It was a surprisingly long trip, since there were four of us and we were moving against the current. Have I mentioned that that the atoll is 48 mies long and 18 miles wide? The farm is probably about five miles away from the Kia Ora resort, where we are anchored. We were returning there because the proprietor, Stefan, had told us that if we wanted to bring us a bucket, they would fill it with oysters who were not being returned to the sea for more pearls. They keep the oyster shells, of course, but there are only so many oysters that the staff can eat on a given day. We had to clean them, of course.

While dropping off the bucket, the others do a little more shopping now that they've had time to think about it. I wander a bit, but there is only so long that looking at pearls is interesting for me. I find a book on pearl making and flip through it, reinforcing the information I had learned the previous day.

Objective one accomplished, we head back into Spicy and push off, wondering again how much the staff makes each year to do such a specialized, but highly repetitive job. Oyster technicians spend two years training before being allowed to do the surgery that inserts the nucleus that becomes a pearl, so it isn't exactly the kind of job you pick up because you have no other options.

We take the dinghy another five miles or so and anchor in town. This is the farthest down the atoll that I've been to date, and it actually feels something like a town for once. The ladies go off to find the bank while Bill and I go to find the gas station. We're offered the grocery/luggage/cart to carry the gas tanks on, but we wave it away. It won't be that far to the station, after all.

The station turns out to be almost a mile away. Not a problem walking to it, but rather grueling on the way back with full gas tanks. I am forcefully reminded of the trip down the hill from the airport motel with all my luggage. About halfway back we succeed in flagging down a van that takes us the rest of the way into town. We dump the tanks into the dinghy and immediately head to a small snack shop and get a couple of the local beers. It's fairly good stuff, but not something that will go on my short list.

As we meet up with the ladies, Bill and I sit on a stoop and pet some very old dogs who are suffering from what looks like mange. Across the road, we see the sea developing white caps. It is decided that Bill will take the dinghy back to Creola, keeping it as light as possible, and I'll walk back with the ladies, stopping at the grocery store and fruit stand along the way. Bill's adventure, as I would learn later, would involve navigating waves that were an easy four feet from crest to trough.

I find out where the bank is, and that the travel agent is right next to it, but that the bank and everything else closed a few minutes earlier. Everything pretty much closes from 11am-2:30pm in Rangiroa. Despite hearing that the ATM machine is highly finicky, only giving Linda money after a third attempt and never giving Jennifer anything, I decide to check it out before we head to find food. My own magical tech powers work once again, just like at the office, and I get my cash without the slightest hiccup (much to the slightly indignant surprise of my companions). My error was in once again misplacing the conversion rate so that I picked up around $300 instead of $30.

We make the long walk down to the grocery store and find it closed. The pizza place is open, however, so we head over there to grab some lunch and find out how long until the store opens. This is where we find out that things reopen at 2:30. We order salads and pizza and bide our time. A very pregnant cat begs for table scraps and I discover that she's quite keen on mushrooms. By the time we finish, it's not much closer to store opening time, so we wander down the road to the fruit stand, which doesn't close. I start to worry about my sunscreen.

Pickings are sparse, although there is a deal on cherries, all the way from California. I spend most of my time hovering in shady areas. I've gone seven days without serious sunburn, and I don't want to break that streak.

We end up sitting in front of the grocery store until it opens and we're able to fill up the cart. We start walking down the road back towards the resort. As you may have guessed, there is really only one road in Rangiroa, and then little side paths to individual locations. If anyone is going your way, you'll find them. We keep our thumbs out, but as we are three with luggage, we're not an attractive option. A pickup truck pulls over finally and we jump in the back. They are not going as far as we are, but any little bit helps. They get us a mile or so down the road and drop us off at the power station. We resume our walk, with me veering to the far side of the road in order to walk in the shade as often as possible. We make it past the airport before a blue economy car speeds by, slows down a quarter mile ahead of us, turns and comes back. A woman and her two kids offers a ride, but there's no way we can all fit in the car. Immediately, there is a struggle for who will be more noble. Finally Linda and I get Jennifer in the car with all the groceries and send them off to the hotel. The odds are in our favor to get another ride, since there are now only two of us, or so we think.

We end up walking all the way back to the resort from there. We meet up with Jennifer who has been feeding the kids from the car our chips. The little girl with her is probably about seven years old and is wearing nothing but underwear and flip-flops. Here, in a midst of a resort where patrons are spending $575 a night to sleep on the beach, the poverty of the average resident is stark and sobering. The language barrier only enhances the effect, as we're barely able to say more than "hello" to her and her own bewilderment at our gibberish is quite apparent.

Bill eventually sees us on the dock and brings the dinghy over to get us back to our respective boats in order to unload groceries. Gene is on Creola with Bill, cleaning the oysters from the farm and we end up spending the early evening together, eating them. At least, they eat them. I am still too stuffed from the pizza at lunch to consider eating anything. Gene, I learn, is a songwriter who has several country-western hits under his belt. A shame that I already have all the songs for Sweetie Tanya accounted for, as I'd love to hit him up for a tune. We talk about the project, however, and he's intrigued at the multi-artist route we're taking, which in his mind may be the best way to move out of the stylistic rut that makes musicals so unappealing to him. I hope he's right.

The Amelia returns to their boat and the Creola plays a few more rounds of the dice game "Farkle" before turning in.