Fa-a-a From Paradise

As the airplane landed in Papeete, a middle-aged man sitting across the aisle leaned over to offer some unsolicited advice.

"Go to Club Med," he said conspiratorily. "There's nothing in Tahiti any more. I've been here before, and the only thing to do is to go to Club Med."

The tip seemed all the more strange coming from a man who, wearing khakis and a rumpled t-shirt, looked like the consummate budget traveler.

My mother and I were skeptical. Club Med? A yuppie summercamp, complete with group activities, talent shows, and its own monetary system ("bar beads")? No thanks.

That wasn't the Tahiti we wanted to see. We were looking for the Tahiti of Kon Tiki, of South Pacific, of Mutiny on the Bounty. One with lei-bearing natives, grass-thatched huts and cute little pigs running wild among the palm trees. And with miles and miles of pristine white sand beaches.

So maybe it was a little unrealistic.

From the moment we walked out of Faaa ("Fa-a-a") Airport, we began to realize that modern-day Tahiti bore absolutely no resemblance to the Tahiti of popular fantasy.

For starters, the natives we saw weren't carrying leis. They weren't dancing. In fact, they were wearing conventional western clothes and appeared to be going about their business in a conventional western way.

And you would be hard pressed to find a grass-thatched hut in Tahiti's capital city, Papeete ("Pa-pey-ey-tey"). With its department stores, street traffic and air pollution, Papeete would resemble a medium-sized midwestern American city if it weren't for all the tour-company vans lined up on the main street.

The beaches were the biggest disappointment, though. At first we figured we just didn't know where the good ones were. So we explored, and asked around, and wandered desolately along the coastline. And we came to one concluson: the beaches in Tahiti are lousy.

The average Tahitian island, as it turns out, is ringed by a coral atoll that breaks the surf, making the lagoon a lovely protected place to anchor a sailboat, but also preventing the formation of beaches. Mostly the shore is lined with large rocks and stretches of dirty gravel.

The few beaches that are even halfway decent are owned by big hotels and reserved for their guests. We snuck onto one only to discover that it was actually an artificial beach, made of imported sand.

Having given up on finding a good beach, we decided to flee the tourist hordes and check out one of the smaller, more remote islands. After several days' journey on slow-moving ferries and jittery prop planes, we arrived at the tiny island of Maupiti ("Mo-pee-tee").

Maupiti is very quiet. In fact, it's uncannily quiet. It is possible to walk for an hour or more along the narrow dirt road that runs along the coastline without hearing any sound other than the slow lap of waves on the rocks. (No beaches, of course.)

Maupiti is also very isolated. Only four other foreigners--a pair of Canadian college students and a German couple--came to the island the entire time we were there. We all stayed at Maupiti's only hotel, "Mama Roro's," which is run by a little old Tahitian woman called Mama Roro.

There actually was a cute little pig on Maupiti. It lived in a pen behind Mama Roro's, and on the third day we were there it was served for dinner in honor of a son's wedding. Accompanied by a delicious sweet squash dish, it was the best meal I have ever eaten in my entire life.

The island's sole industry is the production of copra, dried coconut meat that is collected by a freighter once a month and taken to the main island to be pressed for its oil. All over the island copra is spread on racks to dry in the sun, producing an inescapable smell of warm suntan oil.

After generations of French colonial rule, the islanders have become dependent on the outside world for most of their food and supplies. Though their diet continues to rely heavily on fish and fruit, they have also begun to appreciate Coca Cola ("le Coca") and bubblegum. Once a week people gather at the tiny airport to greet the plane that carries the week's supply of baguettes.

Another thing about the smaller Tahitian islands: you shouldn't drink the water there. Or at least, I shouldn't have. And neither should my mother, or the Canadians, because we all rapidly fell victim to a mysterious disease later tentatively identified as Dengue fever. (The Germans were spared because they drank only beer.)

My case lasted longer than the others'. After staying in bed for six days and losing 15 pounds, I felt well enough to climb on board an Air Polynesie prop plane to return to Papeete. There were a few days left before our return flight, and I wanted to spend that time eating well, relaxing and resting up from my ordeal.

We went to Club Med. They had a beach there