HOOK

HOOK   AKA   Neverneverland Part IV - three


If this is Neverneverland, I’d asked myself more than once, then where is Hook? (Why would I ask this? Why?)

I’d spotted one of the lost boys on Maupiti. Alain, my host there, was putting up a new gazebo and the ‘neighbour’s kid’ came over to help him thatch it (with Made in Canada fake plastic palm thatch. I am embarrassed my country makes such stuff but Alain says it’s cheap and wonderful, barely affected by UV, guaranteed to last 20 years!)  But I wasn’t fooled. I knew it was really a lost boy helping him. I even took a photo.

Lost boy on Maupiti.

My last evening in Bora Bora I’d been in the capital, right round the other side of the island, to go out to watch the Heiva song/dance/drum competition finals - an event which finished very late - and I’d forgotten to take my headlamp with me (which I have taken to holding in my hand and swinging back  and forth – like a Canadian or something - as I hoof it home after dark so as to be more visible on the unlit, sidewalkless, island roads) so, at dusk, before the concert, for lack of a better word, I’d scoped out the best place from which to start hitchhiking home - it turns out the capital of a small island is a tiny town and the best place was the only crossroad in the middle of town which was also at the very edge of town! – and, so, after the concert I stood there, under the only streetlight on the island, arm out, thumb up, hoping that I’d get a ride because, frankly, I really didn’t want to walk the 15 km home at that time of night.

Heiva dancers.

The second car to pass by stopped and I jumped in. The driver was a Frenchman about my age (I didn’t recognize him immediately because he didn’t have on his wig of long dark curly hair.) and within two minutes he was holding my hand and trying to place it between his legs and very shortly after that he had stopped the car for ‘one real kiss’. I got out. He said he’d only been kidding so, silly me, I got in again, and, of course, we repeated the dance, and, so, four minutes from town, I was back out of his car again. ‘No, come back in,’ he said, ‘it’s not safe here. It’s actually not safe.’ I told him I’d take my chances.

After he drove off I looked about. It was a very dark section of road. For the first time in five months, I didn’t feel completely safe.

Before I’d caught my breath, however, taken a step, or even considered if I was going to continue hitchhiking or just walk after all, a small pickup truck pulled over. ‘Where are you going? Do you need a ride?’ the driver, a Polynesian woman, asked. Her mother was in the cab beside her and her husband and two small girls were out back. I told her, and she said that that was just past where they were headed, so, gratefully, I hopped up into the back, and then they not only drove me all the way but also waited in the driveway until I was inside the bunkhouse. Go Polynesian hospitality! One solid vote from me!

(The bunkhouse felt even emptier than usual, and I’d told the Frenchman, whom I’d finally figured out was Hook, where I was staying, so as I got ready for bed I not only double-checked that the door was firmly locked but also pulled my whistle out of my toiletries bag and put it around my neck, just in case. I should have known Hook was a foreigner, and, darn, I’d not even asked him about his boat!)