Figi palms sway to the song of the south seas ©1996 UrbisMedia
The “call of the islands” is a compelling summons to the romantic soul. There is no doubt in my mind than an aspect of this curious regard for traveling to commune with Nature owes to the need for many to escape the frenetic, over-organized, high-pressured, urban world most of us inhabit the great part of our lives. “Going native,” especially on some idyllic isle, has had an association with travel, if not been the motivation for much of it, since Homer’s Odyssey , and certainly since Typee and Mutiny on the Bouny. For years of my youth I “fantasized” myself to sleep as Alexander Selkirk, the real Robinson Crusoe , and in later years as a Gauguin, painting island lovelies by day and conjoining their Polynesian DNA with my Milkamagnesian genes by night, our glistening bodies lattice-striped by the shadows of weaving palm fronds as we imprinted the cooling sands with our ardor. (OK, sometimes I had trouble getting to sleep.)
These days I reflect upon my too brief forays into the places of those fantasies, to Caribbean and Greek isles, to the sands of Hawaii, Bali, and the beaches of Phuket’s islands. And especially, Figi, where, at a modest seaside resort I leisurely read books, watched geckos scurry over the walls of my hut, and walked among the corals of the reef at low tide. Each afternoon the rains came with monotonic precision to briefly cool things off and to provide a level of humidity to ensure a soggy nap. No schedule, no appointments, no phones and faxes, and not much to do but get up to the sounds of the south seas.
I can still almost hear that conch horn in Fiji, with its deep and breathy Ooooouuuuoohhhh caught on the early evening’s on-shore breeze. Then the player calling out a summons that seemed to harken to the times his ancient people took to outriggers to cross endless seas: “ Haahhhpppiiiyaaar, haahhhpppiiiyaaarrrr.” Then again the horn: Ooooouuuuoohhhh, as suggestive as Bloody Mary’s plaintive “Baaaaliiihaiii, come to me, come to me.” Surely this was the sound that sent shivers right down to Fletcher Christian’s loins; the lusty songs of Polynesia, a call to a feast of sensuality, to aphrodisiatic foods, to sweet scents of exotic flowers, to the beating of cardio-rhythmic drums, to naked lovers racing across the moonlit sands into cool lagoons. (Whoa! the ole computer was starting to overheat there.)
Haahhhpppiiiyaaar, haahhhpppiiiyaaarrrr.” When I first heard it, the sound called me as to some ancient ceremony. How many tattooed and grass-skirted denizens of this island had responded to that call over the centuries. Haahhhpppiiiyaaar, haahhhpppiiiyaaarrrr. Surely I, the palangi , the haole, the pupa, would be welcomed among them and come to know their recondite island ways. I would live out my days in carefree Edenic simplicity and splendor, garlanded with a fresh lei each day from an adoring island lovely. I, too, might be honored one day to sound the sacred conch and call Haahhhpppiiiyaaar, haahhhpppiiiyaaarrrr.
Ah, but I had listened too closely to my fantasies and not well enough to the sounds of the islands. Alas, in a world in which most everything becomes a commodity, even escapist fantasies are corrupted. I made my way to the sound of the conch and the mysterious refrain of haahhhpppiiiyaaarrrr. There, near the palm-thatched bar, flanked by tiki torches stood a tall Figian in traditional garb. He blew the conch once again: Ooooouuuuoohhh, Ooooouuuuoohhh. And then he called: Haahhhpppiiiyaaar, haahhhpppiiiyaaarrrr , and sunburned French tourists, laughing Aussie surfers, and assorted otherpalanagi , filed up to the bar.
Haahhhpppiiiyaaar, haahhhpppiiiyaaarrrr. Now I understoond. “Happy Hour, Happy Hour.” But my island fantasy was not fully dashed, like star-crossed ship on a coral reef, not until the conch player added, with solemnity: “You here for good time, not long time.”
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©2004, James A. Clapp (UrbisMedia Ltd. Pub. 10.8.2004)