FRIDAY, OCTOBER 4:

Upon awakening, I realize I’ve learned to tune out the four AM rooster crowing. I’ve asked several people why the chickens are so out of synch. Derek’s explanation seems most logical. “There are so damned many chickens and the roosters are so damned macho, if one crows the others aren’t willing to be outdone, so they crow too.”

I spend most of the morning on the deck reading a French Polynesia guidebook. The more I read about some of the outer islands, the louder I hear them calling.

In an open area next to our hotel, islanders set up an outdoor trade fair to sell to passengers on a cruise ship now anchored in Cook’s Bay. The ship runs a ferry back and forth to allow passengers access to the offerings. We wander over and I enjoy talking to some of the artisans, who seem to be equally divided between Polynesians and expatriate French. The fair is only for local artists who have created their own work.

A French woman who carves shells tells me how she was affected by 9/11. For nearly 20 years she has made her living as an artist resident. But within weeks after the terrorist attack in New York, the two Renaissance cruise ships that normally brought her buyers, bankrupted for lack of customers. Today she is struggling.

Cause and effect. We are truly a global economy.

Tara and Cheyenne are going to be shopping for a while, so I return to the hotel and swim. Shallow coral runs to the end of the dock, where the water drops off to 40 feet. The water temperature is just cool enough to be comfortable. I spend a good part of the afternoon floating around.

Floating around Cook’s Bay.

Tara eventually comes to the dock and sits on the stairs. We talk while I paddle around on Chey’s air mattress. “What at this moment is lacking?” Nothing that I can think of. Our conversation is simplistic. We talk about painting the water -- the values, hues and intensity. I share the content of the French Polynesian book I was readying earlier. We talk about multi-possibilities offered in this remote portion of the world. In the hotel lobby, I watched enough CNN to know the latest on the crisis in the Middle East ... and IRA conflicts in Ireland ... and trouble in Africa ... and of course Israel ... and Afghanistan. Fitting the conditions of our troubled world into perspective while paddling around in paradise doesn’t work. We switch subjects.

A 5:15 bus carries us half way around the island to the “Spectacular Polynesian Show.” This is the only show of it’s kind on the island and includes what is promoted as a “feast-like dinner.” Normally, Tara and I would never attend something like this, but we’re here, nothing else is going on tonight, and we want to give the children the experience.

Let me say first, the Polynesian show itself is probably worth the approximate $60 per-person fee. It would certainly cost more than that in Los Angeles and we’d have come away raving. But the show is the last hour of a three-and-a-half hour event. The first half hour is a demonstration of how to open a coconut. The talk and instructions are delivered entirely in French, although I’d guess two-thirds of the approximate 200 attending are Americans.

The second portion of the show is about the food, which has been cooked in coals beneath the sand. And after about 15 more minutes of French, I shout, “In English!”

“Oh, you want to hear in English?” says the hyper young tattooed man who is delivering the spiel.

I lift my hands in an “AHH YES!” gesture. The advertising for this show is in English and considering the price, it doesn’t seem too much to ask.

All the Americans are grateful. All the French are now glaring at me. I’m sure not going to look at the expression on my wife and daughter’s face. Hunter chuckles.

The rest of the talk is in English. When they dig up what you expect to be a roasted pig, instead there are cooking pots covered with aluminum foil.

Next we follow a guide though the Disneyland-like Polynesian village to learn how the people once lived. I’m immediately suspicious. Sure enough, the whole tour is a buildup to a black pearl hustle in a jewelry store. The entire island is dotted with black pearl shops -- the most plentiful and expensive tourist offering.  But here we get to pay a lot of money to be hustled. I resent it.

Dinner is a chance to indulge in island food. Tara loves a chicken and taro-leaves concoction and the pork. Cheyenne won’t consider the pork because the head of the pig’s head is staring out of the pot at her. Hunter picks and chooses very carefully, focusing primarily on the pork. I try everything and can only say I enjoy the fruits and pork, which would be twice as good served in a LA Mexican restaurant as carnitas.

I’ve always wondered what breadfruit tasted like, because of “Mutiny on the Bounty.” If you remember your history or saw the Marlon Brando or Mel Gibson versions of the movie, you know Captain Bligh was to pick up breadfruit trees in Papeete, Tahiti and transfer them to the Caribbean as a cheap food for the slaves. The mutiny, lead by Fletcher Christian, took place in the Polynesian waters and Bligh had to make his way back home in a lifeboat. A British military ship was launched to find the mutineers, but Christian and many of his men disappeared to Pitcairn Island. Bligh did eventually take breadfruit trees to the Caribbean, but the slaves refused to eat it.

And after a few bites, I can easily accept the ending to the story. Breadfruit may be high in protein, but it is devoid of taste or enjoyable texture.

Hunter and Polynesian Show dancing girls.

Following dinner, the forced-audience participation portion of the program begins. All the women line up and learn to push their hips this way and that. Then the men are called onto the stage to shake their legs and wiggle their hips.

When the main dancing show finally begins, there is a time when each of the Polynesian male dancers pulls a female dance partner from the audience. Tara is quickly chosen. She swears under her breath but cooperates. The whole experience lasts 60 seconds.

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