Futuna

Futuna is rarely visited by yachties, or by other tourists.  This is partly due in the case of yachties to the poor anchorage, and to its out-of-the-way location, but also in general to no great interest in tourism among the people of Futuna, and little of interest to a tourist — just a pretty little tropical island, where people go about their lives quietly.  The population is small, and there is no industry.  Consequent to all of that, there is almost nothing in the way of restaurants or hotels.  The people are quite friendly, though, and seem pleased that we’d come to visit.

The day after we arrived was the 29th of August, anniversary of the day Wallis and Futuna became French Overseas Territories.  The day started with a mass at the main church, a quite colorful, flower-bedecked affair, with spear-carrying ushers in attendance who struck the floor with a spear butt whenever the people were to stand.  I’ve not been to that many Catholic masses, but I found myself wondering if the average western Catholic would have recognized this as their own religion.

The day continued with a flag ceremony, quite a bit less elaborate than for the 14th of July, and a kava ceremony for the VIPs of the island.  A succession of dancing, costumed school groups performed over the morning.  Then, a community feast was served.  “Served” doesn’t quite fit here, though.  Typically polynesian, the food was piled high on a long table.  People sat as space allowed, eating mostly with fingers from the heaped up dishes, then left, making room for others to sit down and eat.  Total chaos.  I am actually intimidated by this sort of thing.  I’m not sure why, but I am.  Were it not for Robyn, I would never have entered the room, let alone sat down.  Robyn and I are good at getting the other into good experiences which we would not otherwise have.

The afternoon then continued with groups of male dancers, deck out in an eclectic mix of leaves, other bits of foliage, and strips of brightly colored mylar.  These men clearly enjoyed this dance tradition, stomping, swinging, jumping in unison to the beat of makeshift drums.

We noticed that there were no local fruits in the grocery store — no coconuts, bananas, papayas, etc.  We asked where we could buy some, and were told to just ask at any house where we saw them growing.  We did so a couple of times, and were always told to just take what we wanted.  One of these times, we were also invited in for lunch.  After seeing the wretched conditions in which the pigs are kept, I wasn’t too keen on the roast pork.  Oh, well.  The roast taro wasn’t so great, either, but the encounter with the local man was great.  His French wasn’t so good — worse than mine — but we managed to communicate well enough.

Futuna is a pretty island, but there isn’t actually much to see or do as a tourist.  The only thing of interest in the Lonely Planet guide was the Pierre Chenal church at the other end of the island.  Chenal was a priest here in the early days, was killed by a jealous chief, and is now the patron saint of Oceania.  The church is a little different, with intricately woven tapa cloths lining the walls, and with the crucifix figure clothed in tapa cloths.  The chapel next door contains some of Chenal’s relics — bones, skull, the club that killed him, etc.  I get the feeling, visiting various Catholic churches around the islands, that Catholicism has not replaced the former paganism here so much as absorbed it.

We had wanted to go north from Futuna to visit Tuvalu, but a nasty weather system was parked between Futuna and Tuvalu, and didn’t look like it was going to move any time soon.  We were getting antsy to move on, and when the weather looked OK to go west to Vanuatu, but still bad to the north, we reluctantly decided to forget Tuvalu.  Unlike travel on land, we go where the weather allows us to go.