I’ve always been a map guy. Even as a little kid, my constant companion was an oversized Rand McNally road atlas that I’d haul around the house, curling up on the couch in the living room and tracing with my finger the blue lines of interstates, and curling red threads of rural two-lanes.
I’d sit there and try to imagine life in all those little dots along the way.
I was the same with globes, and world maps—I had the latter masking-taped to the ceiling over my bed. And sometimes, I would just lay there and stare into the blue, all that ocean, way out there. The Pacific, almost incomprehensibly huge, encompassing almost a third of the Earth’s surface. Bigger than all the continents combined.
And the little white islands that dotted those otherwise blank, blue areas. I would ask myself questions. What’s happening out there? Do people live there? If I closed my eyes here, and opened them there, what would everything look like?
Only Here
I arrived by sailing there on Aranui 5, a remarkable vessel. Departing from Tahiti on this half-cargo, half-cruise ship, it took several days to cover the thousand miles that separate the islands. Just endless ocean. The constant and unceasing swell of waves traveling long distances, a very long journey ahead before they reach some distant shore.And then, suddenly, on our arrival, so much sound and activity. Approaching in one of Aranui’s landing craft, a big, open barge, we could hear and smell the party before we saw it. Drums and ukuleles. Happy singing. The scent of lagoon fish and chicken and beef hearts being barbecued over fire, rising in a delicious column of smoke. A feast, and a festival, assembled in our honor.
Rikitea, on the island of Mangareva, is the main town on the Gambiers. The whole island chain is only home to about 1,500 people—and it felt like every single one of them showed up to greet us this day. It is the most distant part of French Polynesia. (A French woman living in the Tahitian capital, Papeete told me: “Even for Tahitians, the Gambiers are really the end of the world.”)
We disembarked. Small, tented stands sold shell jewelry and other handmade items—I browsed through, had a look at the grill, then made my way to the village green. A group of young women dressed in green grass skirts and beautiful floral headdresses were preparing to dance. The leader announced: “This is a dance done only on the Gambiers. And today, we do it only for you.”
They proceeded to perform a series of very small steps, the drums and ukuleles and guitars playing them into high gear. All together they dance, completely in synch, with a true sense of joy. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen, even in Hawaii or Bora Bora or anywhere else across Polynesia.
It’s an undeniable fact: isolation breeds uniqueness. Formed by ancient volcanoes, the Gambier Islands comprise just 10 square miles of land. But they are considered completely distinct—culturally, geologically, and linguistically—from the two closest archipelagos, the Marquesas and the Tuamotus.
It’s a paradise of big palms and bright, blue water, with Mangareva protected by a coral reef enclosing a lagoon with just three openings to the big, open ocean. Despite this, the earlier history here was often marked by scarcity and civil war, and even cannibalism. From Europe, British missionaries arrived first, in 1797. Today, life is far more peaceful. Despite a couple of miles of paved road and a few modern conveniences (including Wi-Fi and 2G mobile signal), life here hasn’t necessarily changed so much over the centuries.
Cargo ships arrive twice a month with goods for the small supermarkets. Fishing and subsistence farming still provide the staples. Rattling out of the main town on a truck tour, Manlitahi, a friendly guide sporting a floral headdress, shared a little about her life on Mangareva.
“It is very peaceful, tranquil,” she says, in a French accent. We conversed in a mix of French and English. Another guest, a Parisian named Lillian who was transplanted to Tahiti, chipped in with translation when we got into a jam.
We passed a pearl farm and vanilla plantations and breathtaking vistas over the lagoon, with so many shades of blue. While she has a place in Rikitea, Manlitahi told me that life even in that small village is too busy for her liking. So she prefers her house in the mountains. “People up there, they’re kinder, more peaceful.”
Because of its remote location—more than a four-hour flight from Tahiti—there are no resorts here. It’s one of the least-visited places in French Polynesia, with guests booking longer stays in one of the small, charming pensions in town. Joys are simple and genuine.
“On the weekends, a snack shop opens up,” Manlitahi shared. “They serve hamburgers and steak frites. Everyone enjoys eating out.”
Soon, it’s back on the barge, and back on the ship, although the sound of the drums and ukuleles continues as we sail away. Ahead lies days of open ocean, in the comfortable confines of the Aranui. But I know that every time I see a world map, I’ll think differently about that vast, blue, Pacific expanse. Instead of question marks, I’ll picture the faces of the dancers, musicians, and Manlitahi, smiling under her green, leafy crown.
