Au bout du monde

If I thought at all about Noumea before we came here, it was primarily as somewhere French. Baguettes in the tropics (not my legs walking towards the marina, below, but you get the picture).

The tricoleur flies from government buildings and the Blogger website pops up in French  - et pourquoi pas?  The petty officials who greeted us on our arrival had French attitude (gotta love those dark shades on the customs guy who insisted that Captain Wombat retrieve and count the 30 bottles of ultra cheap Venezuelan rum he stores in his bilge, and then, after re-counting the bottles himself  - he's peering under the table to do so in the picture below - officiously sealed the floor opening to keep the pernicious drink in bond).

We’ve been here less than a week however, and I’m getting the distinct impression that this place is less French than I am.

La Vieille France in Rue Sebastopol is a very fine bakery and the Casino supermarket has all the delicacies one would expect to find on French soil but there’s something a bit weird, a bit jarring about the fit between the Pacific and Paris in Noumea. While the French keep a tight cultural rein on their dominion (I see no English-language magazines or newspapers in the news agency), the pungent earthiness of Kanak (indigenous) culture seems to push very hard against the French polish.

Crossing town on foot in the early evening, I pass the bus depot where throngs of brightly-patterned Mother Hubbard dresses (the distinctive, floppy smocks which women of a certain age wear, and which are a hang-over from missionary times) squeeze against each other on the benches. I see loose-jointed, dark-skinned women with weary faces. Swarming the road where the buses turn in, I see sullen-mouthed boys wearing the green, red and yellow insignia of freedom fighters (could that be Che Guevara on the back of his hoodie?) and young girls with lovely bright eyes jostling each other. And there are older men too, looking like they have all the time in the world and no-one to pay them for it. The majority of public transport users are Kanak. I wait to cross the three-lane express-way between the bus depot and Port Moselle, and notice that most of those driving cars are white. 

Of course, I’m making a point. I’m not being objective, not behaving like a journalist (though the habit dies hard). I’m feeling my way into this town. My impression is of a drab, unloved outpost, held for strategic and economic reasons, and not much more. You can presumably live well here. We haven’t eaten off the boat, but I’m told that there are some good restaurants near the beach, and the views from smart houses in the better suburbs must be glorious. We saw Porsche and Audi dealerships near the airport. How their business relates to the currents of despair, insolence and subversion which swirl around me as I walk in the street, I can’t say. Perhaps I’m imagining this two-tier society, white on top, black on the bottom. Perhaps everyone feels part of one big happy French family. Or perhaps the French are keeping this colony (it probably has another, more politically correct name these days, but New Caledonia is part of the empire) by force. They will say it is not so, of course.  

We caught a local bus out to the Tjibaou Cultural Centre (above) on the outskirts of town. Renzo Piano designed the building, and it’s an astounding structure, a little like coming across the Sydney Opera House in the corner of a public housing estate. The centre is deservedly famous, but it houses surprisingly little of substance. It cost France a packet to build (50 million euros) but when you realize that it was opened in 1998, only 10 years after the pro-independence Kanak leader for whom it was named was assassinated, the time frame seems hasty, like an overly generous gift to a widow. For some reason, it puts me in mind of the Memorial for Europe’s Murdered Jews in Berlin.  Both monuments were significant political gestures on the part of the nations concerned, but you ask yourself what other purpose they serve... Aside from a small, interesting collection of contemporary art from the region, there’s not a lot at the Tjibaou centre to get your teeth into.  Ironically, the few old ceremonial carvings on exhibit are all on loan from the Quai Branly in Paris. The Museum of New Caledonia, just across the road from the marina, has much more in the way of interesting artifacts, ancient and modern, but displayed with a curious lack of information. Dates, place names….who needs ‘em? Still, being a person who welcomes the help of cultural hand-grips, these were both good places to visit.

We’re heading out of the marina tomorrow – in the picture above, Kukka is on the left, beside Destiny (with the awning) and Wombat (with the big backside). The Boat Jobs are done. I have discovered that for yachties, being in port is synonymous not so much with getting to the movies but getting to the chandlery. Alex has had two new wind vane covers made for Humphrey - not up to Paris couture standards, sadly. I have loved the proximity of the central Noumea market to the marina (stubby green bananas like those pictured above are stowed on board). I’ve been buying fish - we're eating something called grisette tonight. I'll bake it in coconut milk, with freshly grated coconut, red onions, and sliced lime (I did the same last night, and it was a Culinary Triumph). If you could see the viscosity of the water in Port Moselle, and smell it, you’d understand there is no question of catching fish in here, since you were wondering. I am coming to terms with the limitations of internet use in this part of the world – we are at the edge of the known technological universe (as opposed to its hub). I understand from Destiny and Wombat that Noumea is as good as it gets, and I should count my blessings. We have bought a powerful little antenna, and I will hope for the best in the wireless department as we move out from the kir royale zone.