How I Spent My Spring Vacation, by TC, Grade 3

(Cuz' I didn't have time this week to do any research on important stuff.)

As some of you may have read in the intros to a couple of recent articles, I’ve been on vacation on one of the islands of French Polynesia and as I sat down to work on this week’s essay, my original intent was to write about something I saw there or something I thought I saw there. Here’s the thing, a lot of the island residents are tahu, which is Tahitian for, well, large.

Oh hell, I’m not going to blow smoke up their pareos (a delicate piece of fabric worn by women as a dress and men as a kind of loin cloth). Many are fat and they know it. And I’ve been there several times, so it’s not like my observation was based on a small sampling size.

Most French Polynesians grow up lean or relatively lean but as soon as many of them hit their twenties, many of them start to become more mango shaped. I originally thought this was because of a genetic predisposition towards insulin resistance and I planned on writing a dazzling expose on which cultures were cursed with this genetic trait and if there were any lessons we could learn by examining them.

Unfortunately for my plans, the only study on the subject shot down that theory faster than a coconut falling out of a tree. It seems The French Polynesian people are no more predisposed to insulin resistance than northern Europeans.

So what then is causing this apparent epidemic of obesity? Fresh ocean fish and fresh fruit, both healthy fare, are of course abundant, but vegetables are relatively scarce. Could that be the reason for their rotundity?

The islands are, of course, of volcanic origin, and most vegetables don’t grow well in freakin’ lava rock, regardless of how much inorganic mineral matter, organic matter, water, and detritus have accumulated on top of it over the centuries, not to mention that most vegetables aren’t native to the region and would require very specific conditions and care, making them especially vulnerable to diseases.

Shipping them to French Polynesia in sufficient quantities isn’t a viable option because it’s the most remote f-ing island chain in the world, so shipping costs are often prohibitive. Besides, vegetables have a limited shelf life and many couldn’t remain viable through long ocean journeys; they’d rot (or go mad from boredom and mercilessly bugger each other).

But all that obesity can’t be blamed on an overdose of fresh fruit and an underdose of lower- calorie and more insulin-friendly vegetables. Nope, the French Polynesians have been critically “Westernized” in that their normal diets have been largely replaced by imported crap foods that are high in sugar and fat. The people have also become more sedentary as many traditional practices like farming (mostly taro, yams, and breadfruit) and fishing have become more commercialized and thus less labor intensive. That, and I don’t think there’s a single gym on an any of the 118 atolls and islands that make up French Polynesia, with the exception of Tahiti, Moorea, and perhaps Raiatea.

So there goes the theme of my original article. The primary causes of their obesity seem to largely mirror our own (okay, okay, we do have access to plenty of fresh vegetables and gyms -- we just don’t eat/use them as often as we should).

That means I’ve got no bones on which to flesh out an article, at least nothing that falls into the categories I’m most known for, i.e., nutrition, medicine, health, weight loss, muscle building, supplements, drugs, masculinity, or making whoopee.

Therefore, I’ve decided to indulge myself and just write about some of the observations I made on my latest trip. First, a little travelog background info:

The wife and I spent a couple of weeks on Taha’a, one of the Society Islands in French Polynesia in the South Pacific Ocean. To be specific, we didn’t really stay on Taha’a, but on the atoll, or motu, that surrounds Taha’a. In between the motu and the island is an emerald-colored lagoon. The island itself, though, while having an area of roughly 35 square miles, has a small population, only about 5,300 people.

Here, from a travel website:

Taha’a is home to many fishes.

No shit. Let me get a little more specific than that.

Our home for two weeks was a thatched-roof bungalow that was supported by stone columns and hovered about 7 or 8 feet above the water. At the foot of the bed was a glass panel that allowed us to see the fishes below. I’m sure you’ve seen them in travel shows or in YouTube videos. Outside is a generous deck with a ladder that allows you to climb down into the lagoon. It’s cool because the lagoon is almost uniformly shallow and you can walk in chest-deep water for several hundred yards in almost any direction.

The bungalow, one of many that rise above the lagoon, is part of a French-owned resort that provides excellent dining, so the experience is half bourgeosie, half sauvage (untamed or natural).

Speaking of the French, most of the people who travel there are from France. Now, the French, in my experience, have never been particularly friendly to us American types, but it was much, much worse this time. I couldn’t get so much as a bon jour or a bon soir out of any of them. In fact, me saying hello usually caused them to make the same expression they’d make if someone was holding a small piece of merde underneath their noses.

Of course, the Japanese, Australian, Spanish, and German guests were cold to us, too. (I’ll give you three guesses as to what political situation, or politician, fostered those feelings of animosity towards Americans.)

The French Polynesians, however, were on the opposite end of the spectrum. My wife (aka “Road Bitch”) and I (aka “Blonde Thunder”) rented scooters and without exception, everyone we passed on the island dropped what they were doing to wave and shout the FP traditional greeting, Iorana (pronounced yo-rahn-ah), which simply means hello.

Anyhow, here’s where I go completely off-script. Rather than make this an outright travelog, I’m just going to list some of the observations I had. Here goes:

• Captain Kirk: Mr. Spock, ask Scotty how long it would take him to reproduce 100 flintlocks.

Scott: I didn’t get that exactly, Captain. 100 what?

Captain Kirk: 100…serpents. Serpents for the Garden of Eden.

No doubt you’re asking, “TC, what the eff does a quote from episode 19, season 2 of the original Star Trek series have to do with your vacation?” Replace flintlocks in the quote with jet skis and you have your answer. While the resort didn’t rent jet skis, you could rent them on the island for use in the lagoon, but why anyone would want to shatter the stillness, the quietness, the anti-technology-ness of one of the most serene places on earth baffles me. It seems akin to playing “Flight of the Bumblebee” on a tuba during a memorial service.

I wish the resort rented out bazookas, silent bazookas, so I could restore serenity and simultaneously provide some small, metallic, artificial reefs for corals to grow on.

• Oh, and since we’re on the topic of serenity, why would parents bring young children to one of the most romantic places on earth? Muck like land-based jet skis, their shrill screams, constant shouting, and general irreverence towards nature and French Polynesian decorum was maddening. What, was fucking Disneyland closed? Was Four Flags being renovated? Did all the Chuck E. Cheeses shut down?

We were having a romantic, candlelit dinner on the beach when a French kid, probably around 5 or 6 years old, eating with his parents a few tables down, got up onto the table and stood there like a goat standing on the roof of a toolshed while babbling in French. His father, the self-absorbed fool, did nothing except savor his foie gras. I would have gone Mr. Gower from “It’s a Wonderful Life” and cuffed young George Bailey’s, or in this case, young Georges’ ear, and thrown him into the lagoon, weighted down by several ripe pineapples.

• I was this close to getting a Polynesian-style tattoo, one that hopefully wouldn’t have made me look like some albino white man trying to appropriate their culture, but I chickened out…for good reason. The guy was actually going to boat out to the motu and give me a tattoo until I found out they do it the traditional way, i.e., tapping an ink-dipped needle (or stick or even bone) with a stone mallet. Think Steve McQueen giving the Polynesian chieftain a tattoo of a papillion in the eponymously named movie.

• When an eel tastes your thigh like a big pizza pie (with anchovies?), it’s a moray. Tip: When a moray eel nibbles on your leg, be very, very, still. The damn thing explored my leg for about five minutes.

• The camera switcher on IPhones should have safeguards. You know what I’m talking about, right? It’s the feature on the phone that flips the camera from the default front to the selfie-friendly back. Listen, for anyone that isn’t a 20-something Only Fans girl or masturbatory Instagram fodder, accidentally switching from the front to the back camera and seeing yourself close-up from some unfortunate angle, huge out-of-proportion Adam Driver nose and a face that’s as craggy as the late Harry Dean Stanton’s eyeballing you, can give an otherwise emotionally stable man or woman apoplexy and set them off on a Google hunt for the nearest plastic surgeon with at least a 4-star rating.

To prevent such mishaps, switching the camera on the phone from front to back should have the exact same number of safeguards as the nuclear football that accompanies the President wherever he goes.

• In Taha’a, and in many islands of French Polynesia, you’ll often see a long, cylindrical tube with a diameter of about 5 or 6 inches and one end open perched alongside their mailboxes. They’re not for the mail, though, but for the delivery of fresh baguettes, which is no doubt because of French influence. I could go for that here.

• There are no indigenous mammals in French Polynesia. Neither are there any snakes, frogs, or poisonous spiders. For that matter, there are surprisingly few species of birds and insects. It’s weird, really, given that the place has an ideal environment for most living things.

Here’s the reason: Some of the islands are the most remote bodies of land in the world (i.e., the closest countries are beaucoup miles away). That means it’s too far for most flying insects to inadvertently arrive, courtesy of storms or strong winds. The same for most birds. It’s also too far away for driftwood that might be carrying any still alive stowaway terrestrial bugs or mammals to reach their shores. Of course, as mentioned, Taha’a is home to many fishes.

• “Is it a floating coconut, or a HUMAN HEAD???” is Taha’a’s fastest growing game, or so I assume.

• Taha’s second fastest growing game, I think, is Nude Noodling. You simply float naked while holding onto a pool noodle. I’m quite skilled at it.

• French Polynesian massage therapists, unlike American massage therapists, are not afraid of the male butt. This was perhaps my most eye-opening observation. You get a massage in the States and the masseuse won’t touch any skin between the back of your knees and mid-back, not unless you go to one of those Vietnamese places on Central Avenue. But Tahitian masseuses? You leave feeling like your buttocks are twin loaves of sourdough bread that have been kneaded to perfection and are ready to pop in the oven.

• French Polynesian birds are in bad need of tailors.

• Sadly, the corals are bleaching. I’ve witnessed it year after year. Whereas the Coral Garden near the resort was resplendent with colors 15 years ago, it’s now a pale-ass version of its former self.

• While snorkeling, I spied a huge conical shell that I thought would make a cool memento. It was heavy with sand so I put it in the pocket of my swim trunks and trundled it back to my bungalow to wash it off under the shower on the deck. As I was hosing the thing off, I detected something moving near the aperture of the shell, perhaps the fleshy foot of the resident mollusk retracting further into its home. Alarmed that I’d picked up a still-living creature, I dropped it back into the lagoon.

Moments later, I Googled the thing. It turns out it was a Cone Snail, one of the most venomous creatures in the ocean, and I’d carried it back in my SHORTS! Had I been stung, I surely wouldn’t have been able to compete in the Nude Noodling finals.

• French Polynesia is home to a “third sex.” These men, called RaeRae or Mahu, are men who behave like women and consider themselves to be women and they’ve been part of the culture for thousands of years. Parents note that they’re “different” as children and raise them as women.

Many find themselves working in the hospitality profession, dressed as women. And you know what? Nobody gives a shit. They’re widely accepted and equally respected. Imagine that.

• Our bungalow had a spotlight underneath it and when we turned it on at night, it would attract hundreds of fishes, including the occasional reef shark. Apparently, fish move towards light because of a phenomenon known as phototaxis, a natural propensity to move towards light. Apparently, the light attracts plankton, which attracts small fish that in turn draw larger fish. Oddly enough, I could hear the ones in the photo below saying nom-nom-nom, just like the Cookie Monster. Really. it was loud as hell. Well maybe it was more like glug, glug, glug.

That’s all I have to say about that.

Back to nutrition stuff next week. Thanks for indulging me.

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