14 - The number of days I will spend among the islands.

How would you split them?  (Yes i speak english & french)

 

here's a little bit about me :)

 

I like:

 

• Vegetarian, whole, natural foods
• Outdoor sports
• Relaxing in the Sun
• Solitary Meditation & Yoga
• Social scene
• Authentic 'real-life' experiences

 

I enjoy:

 

• Peace
• Tranquility
• Natural beauty
• Buying local & supporting vendors & markets

 

Feel free to suggest anything you enjoy doing (especially if you live among the islands) - even stuff you think a tourist wouldn't be into - I'm not your typical visitor I guess.

 

 

 

Hi everyone

I am very interested in finding out more about traditional Tahitian religious customs, traditions, and legends.

 

I am planning a visit to the islands shortly and have been reading what I can find on the internet, and in libraries about Tahiti and it's islands.

 

Any information you might offer would be helpful including:

 

• Places to visit
• Groups/Oganizations
• Personal Stories

 

This will be my first visit to the island, and I am most interested in authentic traditional cultural aspects & experiences of the islands.

 

Thanks again, and looking forward to hearing your ideas & suggestions

 

-

Hey, ‘Bones,’ ” my brother, Parker, asked me, "what are you going to be for Halloween?" The elementary school party started at 7:00 PM. The winner of the prize for the most original costume got two free tickets for the Sunday matinee. Parker was dressed and ready to go. I watched him parade in front of the mirror in his pirate costume. He's so handsome, I thought. All the girls in the fifth and sixth grades were madly in love with him. I'd spent the afternoon defending myself from his rubber dagger.
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" I'm not going!" I replied.

" Why not?"

" No costume."

"That's dumb," he said. "You hardly need a costume. You're already a perfect scarecrow!" I was used to these observations. Furthermore, he spoke the truth. At twelve, I was already six feet tall and weighed eighty-nine pounds. Tack on red hair and freckles and it added up to one thing: I was a scarecrow.

School days were charged with searing taunts. "Down in front." "How's the weather up there?" "Are those skis or shoes?" It was hard to smile back, and even harder to make friends.
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I tried plastering my hair down flat on the top of my head and prying the heels off my shoes. I took scalding hot baths, hoping I'd shrink. In bed at night, I put my feet against the footboard, hands against the headboard and pushed, hoping to press myself back together. Nothing worked. So I saved nickels and dimes in a cider jug to pay the future surgeon who would find fame in Ripley's Believe It or Not by cutting six inches of bone from the legs of the tallest girl in the world and making her the same height as everybody else.

"When I grow up," I told Parker, as he brandished his cutlass in front of the mirror, "I'm going to live on an island where there's no one to stare." My brother raised his eye patch and looked at me hard.

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"Sounds awful," he said, and left for the party.

Alone, I listened to the cheerless night and pictured the costumes my classmates had bought. I had tried on a few, too, but nothing fit. I could picture my classmates in their costumes, having a wonderful time. As I wandered about the house, I remembered happier days-before Mommy and Daddy were separated. When Daddy lived with us, he always made me feel loved and wanted. Seeing him now for short visits wasn't the same. The more I brooded, the more my self-pity grew.

Then I spotted a broomstick standing in the kitchen corner. Maybe I could make a costume, I thought. Outside, a sheet and pillowcase billowed on the clothesline. I could be a witch or a ghost. Then my gaze fell on the back of the cellar door. My father's old plaid work shirt, faded overalls, jacket and cap were hanging right where he had left them.
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"I could be a hobo," I murmured as I buried my face in the dusty clothes. But Parker's taunt kept coming back at me. "You're a scarecrow." As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. Well then, a scarecrow was what I'd be. The closer I got to the school, the louder the cheers and clapping became, and the more my fears grew. What if they laughed at me? Worse still, what if they didn't do anything? Hiding behind the tool shed next to the gym, I pulled everything out of the pillowcase and started to dress. Because I was so tall, I could peek through the high window and see everybody taking turns on the stage in quest of the coveted prize. Ghosts, princesses, monsters, cowboys, soldiers and brides-they were all there, clad in store-bought costumes, fragile dreams for one night. My teeth were chattering. Would they clap for me? Would they whistle and cheer? My stomach ached from anticipation.
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I'll run home! I decided. No one would know I had been there. But Parker came on stage and glanced at the window. It was too late. He had seen me. If I left now, he'd call me chicken. I watched him bow to the audience and listened to the squeals from the girls as he leaped on chairs and tables and parried with his sword. Next, a small gorilla climbed on top of a ladder and ate a banana. Lincoln gave a brief address. Cleopatra danced with a rubber snake in her hands, and a soldier marched and twirled his gun. Only Tarzan remained.

Maneuvering carefully through the entrance, I went in, held my breath and prayed, Please, God, don't let me make a fool of myself. The applause was so loud for the King of the jungle when he gave his call and swung on a curtain rope that no one seemed to notice me walk slowly to the center of the stage. A pillowcase covered my head. With arms outstretched and hands clutching the broomstick inserted through the sleeves of an old plaid shirt, I wore a felt hat and faded overalls stuffed with straw. The room was suddenly still.
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Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered. The only sound I heard was the hammering of my own heart. I'm going to die, I thought, right here in front of everybody. The world was tilting, and my ears were ringing when the hood slid down my nose, just enough so I could peer through the eyeholes. And that's when I saw my classmates for the first time, as they really were. Petite blonde fairies with golden wands-and steel braces on their teeth. A baseball hero with a bat and mitt-and bottle-thick eyeglasses. A boxer with fighting gloves-sitting in a wheelchair. Someone asked, "Hey, who is that?" "Parker's sister!" They looked at one another, surprise brightening their faces. Clapping and cheering filled the room.

 My friend Peggy and I had both been to Paris before, but always as chaperones for youth groups or part of adult groups, seeing all the usual tourist sites and hearing the same tour guide recitations. This would be the first time on our own -- without responsibilities and free to go anywhere and try anything.
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On previous trips we had seen all the famous monuments and "tourist sights." The guidebooks claimed that locals were rude and indifferent to visitors but there had to be more to the people of Paris than that. This time we wanted to find the real Parisians.
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We spent some time exploring small shops and lesser-known museums and churches. We walked along canals and down narrow lanes, seeing a different Paris, but still not making any real contact with the people of this magnificent city.

One evening, with the help of the night clerk at our quaint hotel, we found a tiny cafe known only to locals. Nestled inside a dark passage, its unlit sign read, "Chez Maurice." We peeked in the small window on the door to see a small room with half a dozen tables, each with enough chairs for eight patrons. We opened the heavy door and went inside.
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We were greeted by a burly proprietor, whose smile faded when he discovered we were foreigners with a limited command of the French language. He turned his back and retreated to the kitchen, muttering under his breath and slowly shaking his head from side to side. Not a good start.

A moment passed and a young woman led us to our seats at the other end of a table already occupied by an elderly couple. She gave us two menus.

For a few minutes we struggled to recall a few French words, but discovered that the descriptions of each dish were too much for us.
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Our table mates noticed our dilemma. The old man leaned over and began explaining each dish, one at a time. Since he spoke very little English, his translations took the form of elaborate gestures and animal sounds. A fish entree was depicted as a fish swimming upstream, jumping and splashing in the water. For the beef dish, he pretended that his hands were horns on the side of his head, accompanied by a 'mooing' sound.

When the young waitress returned, we placed our order and our new 'friends' gave her explicit instructions on how to prepare the food and what side dishes we should have. Despite our limited ability to speak the other's language, we continued our lively conversation throughout the meal. We discovered that they were in their seventies and had been sweethearts for about ten years. She lived nearby in Paris, while he lived in the country. They met here once a week to share a pleasant dinner. Frankly, I have no idea how we understood each other, but we talked about the beauty of Paris, our lives and families, and of course, our other travels.
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Near the end of the evening, a flower vendor made her way through the cafe. We watched as the old gentleman purchased a bouquet. Artfully, he plucked two flowers from the bunch, presented the bouquet to his lady, and gave her a kiss. Then, bowing smartly in our direction, he held out a rose, one for each of us.

We had found our Paris.

"Just a few more minutes…please Mommy!"
Although my own children were grown, I found myself turning instinctively in the direction of the little voice. He was trailing after his mother, looking reluctantly over his shoulder at a display of remote control toys in the large department store.

He couldn't have been more than four years old. With chubby checks and wispy blond hair going in several directions, he trotted behind his mother down the main aisle of the department store. His boots caught my eye. They were green. Really green. Bright, shiny, Kermit-the-Frog, green. Obviously new and a little too big, the boots stopped just below his knees leaving a hint of dimpled legs disappearing into rumpled shorts. Perfect boots for the rainy transition from summer to fall.
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He stopped abruptly at a display of full-length mirrors, lifting one foot at a time, grinning and admiring his boots until his mother called for him to catch up to her. Dressed in a suit, heels clicking on the tile floor, she was tossing items into her cart as she and her son made their way to the checkout lanes at the front of the store.

I smiled at the picture he made clumping noisily behind his mother. I found myself wondering if she had just picked him up from daycare after a busy day in an office somewhere. I sighed as I selected an item and put it in my own cart. My days of trying to juggle a full time job and two small children had been busy, sometimes even hectic, but I missed them.
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Finishing my own shopping, I forgot about the little boy and his mother until I stepped outside the store. There a panorama unfolded before me. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, perforating the numerous puddles in the parking lot. Several mothers with their small children were hurrying in and out of the department store. The children were, of course, making beelines to the puddles that dotted their way from the cars to the store's entrance. The mothers were right behind them, scolding.

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"Ge"You'll ruin your shoes!"

"What's the matter with you? Are you deaf? I said, GET OUT OF THAT PUDDLE!"

And so it continued. The children were being pulled away from the puddles and hurried along. All except for one…the little green-booted boy.

He and his mother were not rushing anywhere. The boy was happily splashing away in the largest puddle in the parking lot, oblivious to the rain and to the people coming and going. His wispy hair was plastered to his head and a huge smile was plastered on his face. And his mother? She put up her umbrella, adjusted her packages and waited. Not scolding, not rushing. Just watching.
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As she fished her car keys out of her purse, the boy, hearing the familiar jingling, paused in mid-splash and looked up.

"Just a few more minutes? Please Mommy?" He begged.

She hesitated, and then she smiled at him.

"Okay!" she responded and adjusted her packages again.
By the time I got to my car, loaded my packages and was ready to ease out of my parking space, the green-booted boy and his mother were walking toward their car, smiling and talking.

How much time did that "few more minutes" take out of her day? Probably about five. Not so much time out of a busy day. So what if she got home a little later than she had planned?

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What a contrast the boy and his mother were to the other families I had just seen. What volumes that "few more minutes" spoke to that little boy about his value to his mother. Nothing in her universe was so pressing that it couldn't wait a few more minutes to let her young son try out his new boots-an important event in the life of How many times had my children begged for "just a few more minutes"? Had I smiled and waited like the mother of the green booted boy? Or had I scolded?

Just a few more minutes. Everything I have read about time management for working mothers can be summed up in one picture. The picture of that young mother standing under her umbrella, arms full of packages, smiling her assent to a wet, green-booted boy who had asked her the universal time management question for working mothers everywhere,

"Just a few more minutes?"

 It was the night before Christmas, and all through the evening I reminisced, fondly reliving past Christmases spent with my family. As a second year nursing student, just nineteen, this was to be the first time I wouldn’t be home on Christmas. Although I knew I would someday be working on Christmas, I never expected to feel this lonely.
Secluded in my room, I yearned for the mouth-watering aromas of mom’s freshly baked cookies, hot chocolate and love. The absence of the usual giggling, slamming doors and ringing telephones made the dormitory seem cold and empty. The unappetizing smell of disinfectant replaced my visions of cookies and cocoa.
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Standing in front of the mirror, I conversed with my reflection. “You wanted to be a nurse didn’t you? Well, you’re almost a nurse. Now is your chance to find out what Christmas spirit really means.” Determined to make the best of it, I turned in early.

“I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me...” My faithful clock-radio announced reveille as I slowly dragged myself out of a toasty-warm bed. I trudged across the snow-filled street and grabbed a quick breakfast in the cafeteria before reporting for duty on the medical-surgical unit.
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As I prepared to take vital signs on my first patient, I was startled by a robust voice that came from behind. “Merry Christmas to you. Want anything from the cafeteria? I’m headed that way Missy.” As I took the stethoscope out of my ears and turned around, from the dimly lit room I could see a gigantic, roly-poly elderly gentleman with long, curly hair, all decked out in a bright red, plaid shirt tucked haphazardly into baggy red trousers. The trousers appeared to be held up by only two, wide, fire-engine-red suspenders that had long since outlived their elasticity. This Santa Claus facsimile was standing in the doorway waiting patiently for an answer to his query. The only thing missing was the beard.

As I looked toward the bright hallway lights from the darkened room, I thought for a moment that I was dreaming. “No thanks,” I responded. “I just came on duty. I’ll grab something at lunch.”
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Before disappearing down the hall he added, “Name’s George. Just let me know what I can do for you, Missy. I’ll be right back.”

As I cared for my patients, George was right alongside. I watched him spread holiday cheer as he became a guest to the patients who had no visitors that day. When trays arrived he knew who needed assistance and who needed to be fed. He read letters and cards to those whose eyes could no longer see the letters on a printed page. George’s powerful body and tender hands were always ready to help hold, turn, pull-up or lift a patient. He was a “gopher” who made countless trips to the supply room for the “needs of the moment.”

George also knew when to call for help. While reading a letter to Mr. Jenkins, George noticed that the patient suddenly started to “look funny” and instantly ran to the nurse’s station to summon aid. Thanks to George’s swift action, we managed to reverse the effects of an impending diabetic coma.
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Jovial George clearly enjoyed helping others while he spread cheer and told jokes -- the same jokes, over and over again, all day long, one patient at a time. We all enjoyed his presence that Christmas day.

When I finally took my lunch break, I was surprised to find the cafeteria elaborately decorated for the season. I sat down next to one of the staff nurses from the unit. During lunch with Andrea, I had the chance to ask a burning question. “Who is this George fellow? And why is he here on Christmas Day?”

“About ten years ago, George’s wife became seriously ill. He spent almost every waking moment by her side. Those two lovebirds were so devoted to one another. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.” Andrea stopped for a few moments, sipping her coffee in silence, before continuing.
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“George started to visit other patients while his wife was sleeping or having treatments. He was here so much that he seemed to take naturally to helping out wherever he could.”

My natural curiosity made me ask, “Does he have any family?”

A serious look came over Andrea’s face as she continued. “They never had children, and as far as I know, there are no relatives. But you see, George watched his wife suffer for a very long time. He shared every second of her pain and anguish. On Christmas Eve night, after I prepared his wife forleep, they prayed together. During the prayer, George promised his wife that if God would take away her misery that night, by taking her ‘home,’ he would spend the rest of his life as a Christmas volunteer.”

Andrea and I finished our lunch in silence.