Those Who Know

by Olivia Beyaert (France)

Making a local connection French Polynesia

I had never seen Fabien this stressed. Yet we had been travelling together for six months before ending on the Tahiti harbour. But this day was different. When we started exploring the world in January 2019, we did not even discuss about what we wanted our voyage to look like. Nor was there a question of budget. Simplicity seemed obvious for both of us. So, when my youngest sister, whom I had not seen since she left France two years ago, insisted on visiting her in Bora Bora, I could barely imagine Fabien and I would ever get so close. It was the 25th of June and, as far as I remember, everybody around us had their arms tightly folded and an anxious look on their face. My watch indicated 3:52 pm: we had already been waiting for two hours. Ten official passengers with actual tickets had been invited to board on the cargo half an hour ago. Fabien was going around and around in circles, his thin military backpack still strapped to his back. We were attending a real ballet of pallet-trucks filling the cargo up with goods and parcels. They were almost ready to deliver to the most luxurious palaces of French Polynesia. Sometimes, in an outburst of anger, one of the ballerinas would shout: “Go away! There’s no room for you!” We kept waiting: what else did we have to do anyway? It was now 18:15, the sun was setting, and the wharf was empty. There were just two cars parked right beside us, which still had to be loaded by the cranes. The back door of the ship was left open, but an impenetrable wall of wooden and metal containers was annihilating the last bits of hope we had. A young man, who seemed to be the captain’s right-hand man, headed towards us. Avoiding any eye contact at first, he finally lost the fight a few steps over: “We can not take you on-board anymore. If we get inspected, we risk big.” I struggled not to cry: to me, it was over. I was already giving up on our boat-stop adventure. “Oli, look around us.” Said Fabien. “Why would the locals stay? Let’s wait till the cargo leaves.” I had good reason to trust him. Fabien’s tenacity had already saved us on several occasions during our trip, like the day I forgot my passport under the hotel’s mattress in the Philippines. So, I sat down and observed the cars being parked on the deck. I felt almost relieved to rely on Fabien’s hope, as if only good things could occur from now on. Silence and darkness had settled on the wharf. Shipping company offices had closed down, and there was no captain or sailor within sight. Known faces regularly appeared by the window on top of the cargo, checking out on our situation. We were nine people left: a well-padded woman in her forties with three little girls, a couple of sexagenarians, a stocky thirty-year-old Polynesian and the two of us. They were all carrying wicker baskets in one hand, from which cloths, biscuits and food tubs were brimming over, and a bamboo mat in the other hand. It was a leap to 1912, at the departure of the Titanic. A white commercial van stopped behind our waiting shelter. And while the mother of three started to fill the boot of the car, two silhouettes came out of the blue, as discreet as mice from a hole. “Comment tu t'appelles?” Said the imposing captain to the stocky thirty-year-old. My heart was beating fast. We could not move, nor smile, as we feared it could all scupper. The new passengers were walking towards the cargo as the captain looked at Fabien. Probably misled by his white skin and his skinny body, he asked in English: “What’s your name?” I cannot remember another moment in my life I felt as overwhelmed by emotion as when we got to the cargo. Fabien and I easily climbed over scooters and parcels to reach the metal stairs, and soon the deck. Our fellow travellers were all there, giving us a complicit gaze that warmly meant: “Welcome guys, you did it”.