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TAKING A BACK SEAT IN TAHITI Words and images by Morgan Sjogren When you’re accustomed to being behind the wheel, it can be tough to take a back seat. On this Tahiti adventure, being a passenger reveals the value of hanging on for the ride.
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The landscape in Tahiti is lush, green and largely untouched.
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Tahiti’s lush, green landscape is peppered with beautiful lakes and waterfalls. 92 ROVA
ffshore winds blow the rain into the back of the Range Rover as it passes along the shoreline. We are not close to the water, yet it feels like I am swimming, like the gravity that affects the tide is pulling me into this moment. The front tire hits a bump, and I’m tossed into the air before crashing back down onto the bench. As the car rocks back and forth with the flow of the road, the view abruptly shifts from blue waves to a towering sea of green mountains piled so high above our rig that I can’t make out where they end. I have no idea where I am going. This is deeply unsettling. Back in the States, four-wheeling and exploring are my life—in fact, I’ve lived out of my Jeep for the last few years. I’ve driven through some of the southwest’s roughest and most remote terrain solo, usually with the goal of hopping out to run in a beautiful landscape. Overlanding and trail running are the ultimate teachers of self-reliance, where facing the unknown is often my only daily certainty. And yet, I wonder if maybe they’ve pushed my independence too far, as I contemplate hopping out of the back hatch the next time we slow down for a river crossing. Selfreliance has spiraled into the need for control. As a journalist on assignment to write about trail running in Tahiti, I woke up hopeful to take in a few more island memories on foot. I also assumed (wrongly) that today would be low-key—I fly home on a red eye tonight. When a driver picked me up this morning, I grabbed my running shoes,
anticipating my last exotic run here, only to be dropped off at a canvas-topped safari rig. Instantly suspicious, I asked the barefoot local guides, “Are you taking me to run?” It didn’t seem likely when I looked at my fellow passengers: a family of four with two young children—all wearing flip-flops. The guides speak just enough English to encourage me to hop in the back, yet never answer my question. A response like that is not lost in translation— clearly, I’m not going running. I take my seat next to one of the bespectacled children, smile, and say, “Hi!”, but the kid just stares at me. OK, so he’s shy. I greet the parents and quickly realize that they don’t speak English— seulement Français. I suppose they won’t be able to tell me where we are going, either.
When we take our first stop at a serene freshwater lake, thin ribbons of water spilling down from the clouds shrouding the key lime–colored cliffs, the guides dive into storytelling—all in French. I wish my near-fluency in Spanish could shape-shift right now. I do my best to guess Latin roots and interpret hand gestures. Afterwards, the female guide walks over to chat with me so I don’t feel left out. She also gives me a vague itinerary: “We drive through the center of the mountain of Tahiti. About eight hours.” There are only two roads in Tahiti Nui; the paved main drag circumnavigates the island, while a rough, primitive route bisects the rainforested mountains at the heart of Tahiti. The bumpy road climbs steadily along the flanks of Papenoo Valley, where the tallest
mountain in Tahiti, Mont Orohena (7,352 feet tall), juts impossibly into the sky. A 200-meter tunnel through the mountains allows vehicles to pass through to the other side of the island. I should be stunned that we are about to drive through a mountain, but I can’t get over the fact that I’ll be sitting in the back of this rig in the rain for eight hours. My heart sinks as I do the math with tonight’s flight, and ready myself for a full 24 hours in the saddle as a passenger. I smile and say, “Māuruuru,”—“thank you” in Tahitian. We make a stop, where the guides gather bundles of green ferns and throw them in the back. They demonstrate braiding the leaves to make a wreath, then we hop back in and keep driving. Braiding the ferns gives me a ROVA 93
Top: The guides showed passengers the beauty of Tahiti. Bottom: Stunning wildflowers near lake Vaihiria. 94 ROVA
momentary taste of the zen that I usually experience behind the wheel. When driving manual, I’m engaged with the vehicle, paying attention to the contours of the terrain ahead and the sounds and mechanics of my Jeep, and occasionally taking a daring look out at the views. Behind the wheel, being passive spells disaster, or simply stalling out. As I overlap the ferns, I can almost feel myself slipping the stick
down from first to second gear, then up to third. When I layer in a new fern, I downshift to second and resume. My fingers drive the ferns until the braid is two feet long, and I tie it around my head, feeling myself being pulled deeper still into the jungle. At noon, we stop at an ancient village and walk among large volcanic boulders covered in petroglyphs—sacred designs carved thousands of years ago.
Once the most populous area of residence, the Papenoo Valley is now uninhabited, the majority of the population now living in the urban capital of Pape’ete. The rock inscriptions have survived centuries of development, relentless water erosion and moss growth as the jungle makes every effort to hang onto the past by consuming everything within it. The guide explains the stories behind the rock art in French, but makes a point to look into my eyes and state clearly in English, “We need these places, these stories, to stay protected.” This I understand clearly. During our walk in the rainforest, we pluck indigenous mangos from the trees. They taste earthy, with a sweet mustiness that would have never crossed my lips had I driven myself here. When we return to the vehicles, the guides prepare a lunch of raw wild foods, most picked on site: purple plantains, taro root, shredded ginger and carrots, and poisson cru (raw tuna marinated in lime juice and coconut milk). My mouth is watering, and I am encouraged to dive in with my bare hands. As I reach for a taro chip, I notice that the family is watching me, but not taking part. They pull out their foil-wrapped
baguette sandwiches, and watch me! I thought I was the journalist here, but these wideeyed children are certainly taking note. I can’t fathom why they would pass up this delicious fresh food, but for once on the trip I’m relieved that no one understands me as I devour the rainbowcolored lunch. With full bellies, we pile back into the Range Rover and make the final ascent approaching the famous tunnel to the other side of the island. The road becomes rougher and the cliffs flanking the road steeper, and the rain lashes down harder. The children and their mother look visibly uncomfortable, morale rapidly dissolving until their tears join the stormwater on their faces. In the distance, I spot a black hole in the center of the tallest peak along the horizon. As we creep towards it, I understand that we are about to drive through the heart of Tahiti. The road levels off and we enter the darkness, and for a few moments the rain and the tears subside. We listen as we pass through the silent center of the island. We burst back into daylight, and I watch the darkness fall behind me. As we begin our descent down the other side of the mountain, cliffs
steeper and road bumpier than before, both the rain and the tears return. We stop mid-descent and admire Lake Vaihiria, its muddy shore lit up with massive, brightred flowers whose petals look like porcelain. The car passes along the valley floor, and I watch the rivers flow away from me. Happy locals swim, splash, and drink beers in the cool, clean water. They smile and wave, and I shout back, “Iorana!”—“Hello” in Tahitian. I still don’t know where we are going on this road trip, but I no longer care. How could anyone have possibly explained this oneof-a-kind landscape and experience with words in any language?
To write about anything, one must first listen to other stories. To write is to drive, but to listen, you must be a passenger. I sit more comfortably in the back seat and hang my head out from underneath the tarp. I feel the rain against my face and the stories running into my ears. R Morgan Sjogren is a freelance writer and author of three books, including Outlandish. She has roamed the west, living out of her yellow Jeep Wrangler named Sunny—the perfect vehicle and home from which to launch her adventures and stories. Read more and find her books at TheRunningBum.com.
Top: This tunnel cuts through the heart of the tallest mountain in Tahiti. Bottom: A fresh lunch of poisson cru —raw tuna marinated in lime juice and coconut milk. ROVA 95