Its official. Polynesian men are perfect. I know, I haven’t done an exhaustive study of the masculine Homo Sapiens and let us not forget I am 15 years married. But still, having been here two weeks I can let the womenfolk of England know that they are missing a trick, staying up there on the other side of the world.
Come and see these men, girls. They sail boats! They play the ukelele, sing folk songs brilliantly, dive to depths of about 40 feet dressed only in thongs, cook majestically and without aprons, harpoon fish and er, have astonishing tattoos over nigh-perfect bodies. What is it about Polynesian men and what’s more, how have they got this way? Oh, they also speak French, wear jewellery and sarongs in a remarkably cool way and are quite easy about lifting you out of a boat and carrying you bodily over a few metres of lagoon and coral.
The other interesting thing about these chaps is that they seem remarkably contented. Take Marcello, long blonde tresses, nut-coloured body covered with tattoos, a jawbone from a manta ray and a black pearl around his neck and a hibiscus behind his ear. He picked us up in a flower-festooned boat and took us to a deserted, Robinson-Crusoe style beach with a trestle table in the water. A small barbecue was on the go beside the table, on which Marcello began to grill six or seven langoustine. Had he bought them fresh from the Bora Bora market this morning? Hell, no.
He had harpooned them himself just now on the coral reef. Of course, they were delicious. After lunch, Marcello drove us out to the ocean. With his feet, because his hands were busy playing the ukelele. Just in case we got bored. When we arrived at the diving spot, he stripped off to a bright pink thong and dived in. While we weedy British types hovered around the boat, snorkeling, Marcello plunged down about 30 foot and patted a nearby lemon shark (circa 10 metres long) on the head. Need I go on?
Anyway, the point is that when he was taking us back to Le Meridien, (our fabulous hotel which clearly knows what a star old Marcello is, and sends him out with guests almost every day), he pointed out his house. It was on the other side of the lagoon. “Born there, brought up here,” he said, gesticulating to a distance of about 100 yards. Well, why bother going anywhere else? When we arrived at the jetty, his wife was waiting for him to take her home and cook her supper, I guess. An extremely middle class looking French woman who works at the hotel spa, she clearly knows where her bread is buttered.
Postscript. At a Mini-Heiva (local sing & dance show) in Tahiti tonight they had a Miss Mini-Heiva. Usual stuff. But then they had a Mini Mr-Heiva!! With another of these gorgeous hunks up there on stage. Sadly his ambitions were “to do something with electricity”, but never mind. He was young.
