On with the show!

7 June 2010

Today it was difficult deciding which would be a worse way to die while jet skiing:

A. Being the last one in line, dumping my jet, nobody notices, my body goes bouncing and breaking across the water like a skipping stone carelessly thrown along the surface.... And I get eaten by a shark.

B. Clipping along on my jet at a brisk 35 mph, the wind in my hair, crashing into a coral reef bed, careening into, and being knocked unconscious by, said coral reef bed, sinking through the waves...And I get eaten by a shark.

C. Getting eaten by a shark (obviously, said shark flew up and out of the water, chomping me right off my jet.)

Quite obviously, none of these scenarios took place today....but that doesn't mean they weren't all three clanging about in my head like warning bells during our 2 hour jet ski adventure... But I digress...

As if a week in absolute paradise isn't more than a girl could ever hope for, Susie graciously afforded me the opportunity to receive a traditional Polynesian massage this morning. We journeyed into the jungle, past the beach bungalows and jungle huts with their personal jacuzzis, all the while appreciating the beauty surrounding us. After a 5 minute walk, we came upon the Manea Spa. A man-made building so cleverly hidden among the palms and tropical flowers, I've never seen. It seemed as though this place had always been here, and all of the surrounding trees and buildings had grown up around it. A brook runs along the front of this enchanted place, its surface covered to overlapping with lily pads and flowers. Given a pareo (sarong) and shown into a waiting room looking out past the brook, which wound its way around the whole building, and into the wilderness, I waited... I was soon escorted into a glass enclosed room for my massage.

Polynesian massage is my new love. Unlike Swedish or American massage, they focus on moving bad energy out of the body and bringing positive energy in. I left that room a new woman...a woman drenched from head to toe in monoi oil, for one, but a woman with a newfound respect for the strength that lies in the hands of a tiny Polynesian woman....I wonder if she'll fit in my suitcase...?

I somehow managed, through my monoi induced haze, to make my way back to the bungalow, where Matt was ready for some snorkel action before we headed out on our jet ski/Imightgeteatenbyashark adventure!

Wet met with our guide, Andre, just before 1pm, he explained the ins and outs and basics of how not to kill yourself and others via jet ski, and then we were off!

Andre took us moderately slowly out past the farthest bungalow, steadily towards the raging, midnight blue Pacific. Stopping just before 2 buoys, he told us we were floating on the threshold of what islanders call "the point". This is the one and only place in the atoll of Bora Bora that ships pass in and out transporting goods and tourists. We did not go out past the point, but, instead, made a wide zig-zagging berth for the opposite side of the main island of Bora Bora.

The words to describe the varying shades of blue do not exist in any vocabulary, photo, dream or narrative. If it really were possible for Mary Poppins to jump into chalk drawings, then I like to think we jet skied through a watercolor painting today. The depths of water varied so drastically, it seemed as though strips of aqua met walls of absolute darkness with airbrushed precision.

We paused briefly in a relatively circular area of mountain and surrounding islands, where Andre explained to us that we were currently floating on top of the mouth of the volcano that formed the island of Bora Bora and the surrounding atoll. The area was roughly 50 miles across and seemingly bottomless. Still trying to grasp the magnitude of the volcano that lay dormant below our floating jets, we sped away to the next part of the island. It would seem, there is no end to the beauty and majesty in this remote part of the world.

During the course of our first hour, we circled the main island of Bora Bora, stopping once on a sandy beach to give our derrières a break. We anchored out and floated on our backs in the waist deep water, until a dog belonging to a local artist swam out to greet us. Andre informed us that the dog (he didn't know the dog's name) often greets him around this time of day at this part of the beach. When he had had enough, the dog paddled back to shore, and we mounted our waiting jets to explore more of the southern side of the island.

I don't have the proper vocabulary to describe the varying beauty, greens and blues, but I can say that no postcard, film or photo has ever/will ever do justice to the Eden that is Bora Bora.

Sadly, our afternoon came to a close and we headed back to the bungalow in a frenzied fit of joy. Since it was still relatively early and sunny, Matt and I decided snorkeling was in order. We made it a bit further out today, but not quite all the way into the dark blue waters looming past our bungalow.

When dinner time rolled around, we all made our way up to the main part of the resort for dinner in the outdoor restaurant. Now addicted to the best raw tuna we'd ever eaten, we headed to the Polynesian buffet being offered that night in conjunction with a traditional Polynesian luau. Personally, I was hoping for a giant pig being roasted on a stick over a grave-sized pit, but the Mahi Mahi was quite a satisfying runner up.

The show began with 4 young Polynesian men in traditional costume, who were soon joined by the same number of women. Their numbers grew to include 3 more of each men and women, and the show was spellbinding. I didn't know whether to watch the hips and skirts flying around at lightning speed, the strong, bronzed arms and legs telling a story of war or the delight in all of the faces of the performers over sharing their history and heritage. There was a band of drummers driving all of the dancers forward in their fever pitch movements, lead by a solo voice which seemed to resonate from the very earth we sat on, mesmerizing all who drew near enough to be enveloped by the beauty of the scene before us.

All too soon, the dances came to an end. Keeping with the spirit of sharing their heritage, the dancers wove in and out of the crowd, choosing resort guests to join the dance on stage. For some reason, maybe it was my wild island hair, I was pulled out of my seat, away from my espresso and led up to the stage and taken thru the movements of the hula by a man-child no older than my youngest brother... He showed me the arms bit, encouraged my hip shaking, and danced around me like a smiling, circling, friendly vulture.

In the end, I did my best Beyonce and took my seat in the crowd as quickly as possible!