Pension Teina et Marie

By the time we arrive at the family-lodging pension - a bed, a chair, a cold-water bath, and a lamp - we are so freed of our usual impulse for action that it takes me all afternoon to unpack my camera equipment, checking my dive gears and pulling out my favorite sarongs or pareos which is more commonly termed here.

Rangiroa is uncommonly soundless. The only noises that intrude on the ears are the monotonous scrapes made by a groundskeeper amiably raking loose coral and the occasional whoosh of air being pumped into scuba tanks from the next door diving concession. As told, all pensions seem to close or undergo renovation in preparation of the peak season, which I find out to be Christmas and New Year festive dates. Felt in luck that at least there is still a roof to rent despite of the "fully booked" situation even prior to arrival. Compared to the lush, "perfumy", ukulele-strumming verdancy of other Polynesian destinations - Bora-Bora and Moorea come to mind - the terra firma here is almost incidental: a mere border around Polynesia's biggest swimming pool.

Beneath a veneer of straggly foliage and occasional flowers, this atoll is a tough and prickly place and, with a few exceptions, short on such frills as window screens. The name Rangiroa is derived from the original Maori language, which means "big sky," and in fact most days only the land underfoot seems anchored within the surrounding strum of leisurely activity. Breezes comb the palm trees, tides swell and ebb. A symphony of ambling clouds, tinted in every shade from ivory to black and in shapes that challenge the imagination, plays overhead.

From a distance the motu, or islets, in the lagoon (itself larger than the island of Tahiti) appear as huge fried eggs with green palm yolks and sand whites. Walking the pension reef front late in the afternoon, Mike spied a small eel in a shallow tide, waiting for the current to take it back to deeper precincts. Hermit crabs crawling by the cliff rocks that stood jagged at its edge of the coral-scattered "pebble" beach. We watch each other like two patient commuters at a bus stop. The water, limestone green segueing into windowpane blue, is calm and clearer than glass - so crystal it enhances vision, not just makes it possible.

There again, Mike is already frothing by the beach chair, dying to get into activity than being out here doing nothing at all. No sophistication of the city, even TV or a decent telephone - which explains his mere sense of agitation that, is building up slowly. Just witness a grown up man, skidding pebble into the diligent Hermit crabs, self-entertaining like a deprived child with no playmates, which can be hilarious from my perspective.