Smarter Than Snakes: A Woman's Diary

By D. Patrick Georges

Many men dream of living out their James Bond fantasy, the screen version: exotic travel, adventure, hot women, and icy martinis shaken not stirred. Reality proves different as an innocent quest for a simpler, more spiritual life turns into a nightmare as two seekers, ordinary Americans, stumble across the path of the covert operations of two world powers and become unwilling spies. The story takes the reader initially through a womans journal from the most complex concepts regarding the mind/body/spirit known to man, to the outer nether world of the shadow government, all governments in fact, and the ruling classes.

Accused by the woman he loves of using and betraying her, the damned hero of the story finds himself haunted by agents of the shadow government as he runs from Bora Bora seeking sanctuary off the gringo trail in Saudi Arabia. There, under the guidance of a top American lobbyist working for a Saudi billionaire, he assesses his options and composes an apology to his lost love. In the process he discovers the dirty truths of machinations behind the faade of democracy, equality, human rights and other myths.
Patrick wrote this book in response to requests by readers of his book The Train of the Fifth Era, who found the concepts and practices described in that book useful, but could not put them to good use, because habits are all but impossible to change. In this book Patrick presents his Noosomatic model that provides some answers in the form of non-psychoanalytic approaches to changing beliefs, habits and expectations. The book also deals with contemporary issues such as the deep roots of the Enron scandal in the context of recent geopolitical developments.

While researching the topic of Huna for the book, Patrick spent time in Polynesia. It was in the garden isle of Kauai that he encountered the mystery of the Menehune: a mythical race that nevertheless left behind a series of tangible ruins whose technical perfection defies comprehension inwhat European explorers defined asa Stone Age setting. As if lifted from the Parthenon, the perfectly faced and fitted stones of the Menehune aqueduct defy scholarly explanation, while a plain metal pole sign and a modest stone tablet mark one of the most important ruins in the world. Thus, to practical hints on habit changing, Patrick added his interpretation of how these mind-boggling works came into being.

The cold, hard facts to back up the truths that hold this work together, the lavish descriptions of some of the most beautiful parts of the world, some of the most beautiful people, and the heros experience of the more spectacular aspects of civilization on the planet make for a rich, riveting story that holds ones interest through to the very end. Though primarily a self-help book, Smarter than Snakes is also a novel that leaps off the page to entice and enthrall, and makes for a great deal of just plain enjoyment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 7, 2004
• ISBN: 9781462802746

D. Patrick Georges

D. Patrick Georges is Chairman of La Costa Consultants, Inc., and adjunct professor of management at National University in San Diego. He has authored several books and articles and is co-creator of the Synolic development model.

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Copyright © 2003 by D. Patrick Georges.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

List of Illustrations

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MOIPA*

SOLEDAD

PROLOGUE

PART I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

PART II

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

EPILOGUE

POSTSCRIPT

LOSING LIVES, LIBERTIES AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

UNHEEDED

NOTE ON MOIPA

SOURCES CONSULTED

COPYRIGHT CREDITS

RELATED READING

DEDICATED TO THE VICTIMS OF THE 9/11 ATTACKS, THE U. S.-LED NATO BOMBING OF YUGOSLAVIA,

THE U. S. BOMBING OF AFGHANISTAN, THE DESTRUCTION AND OCCUPATION OF IRAQ AND ALL DEAD AND MAIMED CIVILIAN VICTIMS WRITTEN OFF AS COLLATERAL DAMAGE.

List of Illustrations

Bora Bora per Hubby (Fig. A)

Workshop schedule (Fig. B)

The Noosomatic model (Fig. C)

Paddle petroglyph

The mind according to Huna (Fig. D)

PYTHO—from archaic hamlet to Navel of the Earth

Ipu Hula

Polynesian combat gourd helmet

Le voilier Tambour Marine 320

Double standard orgy

Diplomacy Wild West style

Shield of the USS Liberty savaged by Israeli forces

The tail wagging the dog

Weapons of Mass DISTRAction

EURIPIDES—deplored the horrors of war

Cover art: Python: The Tutelary Daimon of Prehistoric Pytho. Watercolor by Michelle Seaters, created especially for this book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book started as a response to readers of The Train of the Fifth Era who found the concepts and practices presented useful but had difficulty applying them, because habits are all but impossible to change. To write Part I of this book that covers non-psychoanalytic approaches to changing beliefs, habits and expectations, I sought the advice of Dr. Dimitri Tsitos and Dr. Alexandra Efthimiadou. They provided valuable suggestions and contributed to the development of the Noosomatic model.

While conducting research I became more conscious of the need for independent writers to address sociopolitical issues. Part II deals with problems such as the deep roots of the Enron mega scandal that introduced new demons into what was once a model society. I wrote my truth in the form of fiction, because fiction can give more tangible form to the truth. My only motive was my truth and I stand on my judgment, as I could not live with myself if I did not.

Writing Part II was possible thanks to the help my friend, the late John Nicholas Parker, generously gave me. A distinguished expert in corporate law, a humanist and former fighter pilot with the rank of Colonel in the USAF reserves, he explained how the system actually worked in the United States and around the world. His revelations jolted me out of the deep sociopolitical hypnosis induced by the major media. Professor Mustafa Al-Kuti again came to my help, this time to explain the idiosyncrasies of the Arab and the Islamic world that escape the comprehension of most American politicians.

Ghada Alireza and Laila Ageel were kind enough to help me obtain from The Arab News daily of Jeddah cartoons of the late Mahmoud Kahil, who expressed the frustrations and hopes of the Arabs with a few strokes of his brush. My search for viable socioeconomic systems brought me to Uruguay, where Carlos Pazos enumerated the wise laws, practices and mentality that have turned his country into an oasis of good living.

For their generous assistance in enhancing the book, I would like to acknowledge Grace Anderson-Smith of Time magazine, Ben A. Franklin, Editor of The Washington Spectator, Prof. Robert Jensen of the University of Texas, Khaled Al-Maeena, Editor-inChief of The Arab News, and the Mutual Publishing firm of Honolulu, who kindly allowed me complimentary use of valuable copyrighted material.

I started writing this book in a certain direction and then it took a life of its own. Taken aback, I turned to my inspired editor and good friend Kathleen Marusak. She patiently assessed the half-written manuscript and provided not only guidance, but also much-needed encouragement when I was that close to exiting the rock-strewn, uphill writing trail. I finished the manuscript under her star and then she blessed it with her gifted final touch.

My heartfelt thanks to you all.

D. P. G.

MOIPA*

CHORUS (Greek women enslaved in the Tauric Chersonese, mod. Crimea)

As by these craggy coastal rocks echo your painful cries,

Your fate’s song, halcyon bird, well-known to the wise,

That you lament the mate you lost with heavy-hearted yowls,

A wingless bird myself, my sorrows are the same as yours.

How for the fetes of Greeks I long, for Artemis I thirst,

Mistress of births, her temple by the Cynthian crest.

I miss the dainty-crowned palms, the verdant laurel groves,

The sacred silver olive branch, Leto’s sweet childbirth throes,

The lake in eddies whirling round the waters like wheels,

Where a divine, melodious swan the Muses’ praises sings.

Oh, many streams of tears that fell upon these cheeks of mine

When I, with towers and ramparts lost, to ships was dragged hostile

Amidst the spears and oars.

Sold at a price rich in gold I reached these foreign bays

To serve the maiden priestess of a goddess that deer slays,

Daughter of Agamemnon, at altars unbeknownst to sheep, I envy those who struggled always for their keep. Those who are raised in distress they later suffer not, But any change for the worse brings misery to one’s lot. After some years of happiness and very little care To hit hard times for humans is a heavy load to bear.

Euripides, Iphigenia in Tauris, ver. 1090-1122

(English translation by the author)

*    A Greek concept of a universal force, literally the sharer-out of destiny, lot, mostly ill fortune; pron. moira (Note at end of book).

SOLEDAD

I’m inside of you

And yet an abyss divides us.

We’re one body,

We’re united,

We’re one flesh

And yet we tread on separate paths.

I quest for you all over the Ocean,

In space.

You’re everywhere and nowhere,

An Iberian chimera,

A vision on a diaphanous bride bed,

A nothing,

But again an unparalleled noumenon.

PROLOGUE

Be wise as snakes

Mat. 10:16

English may be the language of the world, but has no equivalent for the Spanish amor correspondido; the chimerical concept of an ideal woman requiting the love of a caballero, a Spanish gentleman.

I too searched in vain for years, then lucked into the love of my life at a cultural event in Bangkok that I attended by a strange set of circumstances. When I narrated my encounter with Kate Martin in the book The Train of the Fifth Era, the last thing I could imagine was plunging from grace in her eyes. And yet that’s exactly what happened one evening a couple of years later at the Los Angeles Airport; my blond, blue-eyed angel, with face contorted and shaking like a jackhammer, cursed me to get out of her sight, out of her life. Afterwards, she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She changed her phone numbers, marked my mailings Return to Sender-Refused and asked her secretary to refuse my calls. When I e-mailed her that I needed to return the diary and the leather thong pendant with the petroglyph image she left in my carryon during the flight from Tahiti, I did get a reply:

Keep the diary, publish the damn thing, if you like, to show the world how you lied to me, how you used me, how you betrayed my love. All I want now is never-ever to hear from you again, never to know if you exist.

Not knowing what else to do, I am publishing her diary and my account of what happened in the hands of the powers that be as an apology hoping, dear readers, that you will find me not guilty. And perhaps my lost love will one day understand and forgive me. To make it an easier read, I took the liberty of editing Kate’s impulsive entries without changing their content.

PART I

KATE‘S DIARY

1

CALIFORNIA

Wednesday, October 11 [1995]

Dear New Diary,

It’s not that I don’t love my old diary any more; I just want to keep detailed, separate notes of my Bora Bora experience coming up in just 10 days. And you, sneaky little thing, you enticed me at the mall with your butter-soft cream and chocolate leather cover and your classy parchment paper. You made me part with no less than 35 bucks, money I will sorely need in Polynesia. Not that Grizzly, my knight-dreamer man, will ever let me pay for our expenses in paradise. I’d be a nut case if I didn’t go on vacation some time soon, but till now an escape in the definitive South Seas paradise never got farther than my frontal lobe and so I want to do some souvenir shopping of my own.

In case you are wondering about Grizzly, the man of my life, that’s not his real name. It’s a nickname he picked up in the Boy Scouts and that’s what his close friends call him now. He’s quite handsome, a bit older than me with maple brown hair grizzled at the temples, pleasing manners, and looks crispy clean all the time. I love to stare into his velvet brown eyes when he holds me in his firm but tender arms and I never get enough of his sensual lips.

For the sake of any descendants that may read this journal, let me say that ever since I was little, in Pennsylvania, I always approached men with a certain hesitation. Perhaps it was a vicious circle, because I hardly ever met anyone I felt 100% comfortable with. Well, after college I decided to see the world. For my threadbare finances that meant visiting a former classmate in San Francisco, and I fell in love with the City of Saint Francis. I found a good job in health care management, but later realized the work was not what I feel I was cut out to do. I felt like someone else was at the helm of my own life. I floundered through life for a while, never really knowing why I was where I was, never really caring for any specific man, and not really savoring the joys of life.

Along the way I chanced upon more meaningful rewards than my shallow professional goals and decided to try and do what I considered important: Work in practical self-development applications, helping people develop their potential. I’ve started coaching a few clients on my own time, but unless a miracle happens I can’t see enough money in this business to allow me to break free from my hospital chains.

So much for my professional and social life. As for my personal life, well that—like the personal lives of most people these days—left a lot to be desired. Most people marry young, have little or no thoughts of the future, and just expect to be happy. We realize somewhere in our 30’s that this is just a pipe dream and that to be actually happy takes work, time and commitment, something most people are not willing to give nowadays. At about the same time we realize we lost or wasted our youth when we looked great and wasted our terrific bodies on sex that was unfulfilling and unappreciated.

We then reassess our lives; men go crazy and buy two-seater sports cars trying to act like young studs. Housewives read trashy romance novels and dream of that muscle-laden hunk throwing them on the table top to have their way with them and to experience sex that makes time travel to a new dimension seem like child’s play. Some of us pray to get through our next steep, whatever that is, without having a nervous breakdown or resorting to Prozac or a shamanic mood-altering herb. We dream of having the guts to run away and live the life we were meant to have and be happy forever after. In the end, most of us walk through the days one foot in front of the other and try not to think.

And then once in a blue moon right out of thin air your dream gets a wake-up call. For some unknown reason we are chosen to have an experience that will knock our socks off. At a ripe age we will be again aglow with wonder like children. We’ll experience total love and wonder how it transports us through such dreamlike dimensions. So one day, that upon awakening felt no different from the one before, it happened to me. I fell hopelessly and totally in love with a man I never even expected to meet. And I realize that no matter how much sometimes I torture myself with thoughts and questions, I have absolutely no choice but to continue to love him.

How did this miracle happen? I met Grizzly on a plane taking us both to a spiritual event in Bangkok and fell in love because he inspires me, he sees the positive in me, he cares about me, he never puts me down. I love him because he makes me laugh and makes the mean old world go away. I love him because he carries me to heights I never dreamt existed. He makes me smile, makes me feel alive and like a whole woman. I love him because he holds me and makes me feel peaceful and loved; because he is gentle and kind and warm and sexy and powerful and lustful and a stud.

As I ponder the unlikeliness of this relationship I have to ask myself what my life would be like if I didn’t encounter this enchanting man. I guess I would never know what I was missing, since I would never have experienced total bliss. To be respected and loved and treated like a superior, worthwhile person is, for me, the ultimate in a relationship. To be made love to like you are the most desirable woman in the world—total ecstasy. And, to savor every part and parcel of your lover’s being, to be able to touch and caress and love him in total is the ultimate pairing. Why does he turn me on more than the millions of men on this earth? I can’t say; divine intervention, fate, destiny?

Well, now I’m all keyed up about our visit to Bora Bora: a cure for acute urbanitis, for many the most beautiful island and for me a chance to learn ways for utilizing the self-development concepts we learned in Bangkok. It’s hard to believe that I’ll be able to touch my love, hold him, gaze into his soul and to ultimately make love with him on a tropical isle for one whole week. I hope I can always fulfill his desires and keep his love. To lose him would be too much to bear.

And now that my boss gave me two extra vacation days for working weekends, why not spend them with Grizzly at the Black Watch Inn in Carmel? So I phoned him this morning with the suggestion. He said he would love to but had some fish to fry. He said he had to deal with an IRS audit before we left the States. I tried to put his mind at ease, reminding him that Brian, his hotshot tax cum finance manager, would take care of things. He started pussyfooting but I pleaded with him. I hate to spend vacation time alone, I argued. As he would have to drive to Carmel from Nevada, where he lives, I would also hitch a ride with him to L.A. instead of flying. And guess what, diary? He caved in.

Sunday, October 15

Dear diary, what a week. I worked overtime at the hospital to be able to cure my vacation deficit disorder. I spent all morning yesterday shopping. I picked up a snazzy outfit, matching shirt and short shorts, goldenrod with rust red floral patterns. The rest of the weekend I did house chores and wrote checks to prepay bills due when I’ll be in the South Seas. Tropic isles, wow. Grizzly didn’t call so I buzzed him this afternoon. He was apologetic, but I sensed something was wrong. Blame it on female intuition, but he didn’t sound right. Let’s hope it’s the IRS and not a woman.

Wednesday, October 18

Though frightfully busy handing over unfinished work to Jennifer, my right-hand assistant, time seemed to stand still. I told Grizzly to pick me up no later than 3 o’clock, to avoid rush hour traffic. At 2:45 he called from a nearby gas station and I rushed to the entrance as his Jeep Cherokee rolled in. He jumped out and hugged me hard. He wouldn’t let go until the driver behind him honked. Grizzly waved an apology, dumped my bags into the back of the Jeep and we pushed off for my beloved Carmel.

Grizzly didn’t act like the Grizzly I fell in love with. I asked him not to let the Feds spoil our vacation. He promised to put the IRS out of his mind and asked me to bear with him. Driving in silence, we reached the Black Watch Inn, high on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Grizzly steered the Jeep into the steep uphill driveway and stopped at the office. Claudia gave me our favorite cabin, number 17, he shouted as I was getting out to check us in. Number 17, the cabin where we spent our first night together after meeting in Bangkok, was the proverbial room with a view. A double end unit— the last cabin on the last row of ivy-covered cabins on a brow of the bluff—with a breathtaking view and, shielded by stands of majestic cypress trees, total privacy. From its flower-laden terrace all you see is a fantasy of foam-tipped Pacific blues and swaying cypress greens. The salt tang in the air lifted my spirits as I walked to the cabin. Claudia, the innkeeper, had a fire going that lifted my spirits higher.

We settled in and as it was too cool for the terrace, we sat on the sofa gazing through the floor-to-ceiling picture window, sipping dry sherry with the rumbling surf for music and the sun turning the sky into a palette of oranges and tangerines, with terracotta blotches here and there. I slid my head onto his lap inviting his normally eager hands to run over me. He complied but it wasn’t the touch I loved. I sat up.

Grizzly, what’s wrong? If it’s the IRS, you disappoint me. You know that as sovereign entities we must not let others invade our territorial waters. We both learned that lesson while tailing starving monks in Bangkok at the crack of dawn. You’ve got to do an about-face. Here we are, spending thousands of dollars for an once-in-a-lifetime vacation and you’re sitting there all tight assed.

It’s one thing to preach, honey, and something else when you’re stuck. We just observed the monks in Bangkok, we didn’t undergo monastic training.

You know, I’m getting tired of this battle of nerves. I’m going for a walk.

I went into the bedroom and put on walkers and a jacket. I trudged along the bluff above the thundering surf until it got dark. The chilly salty air cleared my head and I sought the warmth of the cabin. I found Grizzly still sitting at the sofa sipping sherry, outlined by the burning logs. I headed straight for the bedroom, took a shower and sat in bed reading a guidebook on Polynesia. I heard a knock on the door but did not bother to answer. Grizzly pushed the door open and sat at the edge of the king-size bed.

How about dinner? he asked.

I’m not hungry, I replied, although I was.

Grizzly went to the sitting room and I heard him phoning Claudia. Normally the inn does not offer room service, but Claudia whips up some chow for her regulars. Half an hour later I heard the clatter of Raoul’s three-wheeled motorbike. Trying to be nice, I went into the sitting room. A large tray with ham and eggs, fries, a green salad and crusty bread from a family bakery sat on the coffee table. Grizzly insisted that I eat something. I complied without going near the acrylamide-rich fries. He opened a bottle of Cabernet and I took a sip just to help things out. Slugging back one glass after the other he finished the bottle like soda. I went to the bedroom and crawled into bed. I was dozing off when I sensed Grizzly sliding into bed. He reached out for me but I couldn’t stand the smell of wine on his breath. I picked up my pillow and a blanket, went to the sitting room and decided to sleep on the sofa.

Thursday, October 19

Abandoning all attempts at real sleep I got up at the crack of dawn. Grizzly was still asleep. I fixed some coffee and around seven I left to get some breakfast in Carmel and walk around that cute little town. Around lunchtime I drove back a bit worried and eager to make up with Grizzly, who was nowhere in sight. To doll up for him I made myself up, slipped on the spiffy goldenrod and red outfit I picked up in the city, sprayed some Siegfried Lang, the Canadian fragrance Grizzly loves, and sat in bed reading. Around three o’clock I sensed movement in the sitting room. I went out and saw him standing on the terrace. I struck a model’s pose and asked him if he liked my new outfit. He rushed into my arms.

Sweetheart you look gorgeous, just right for the most beautiful island in the world.

We hugged and hugged.

Mmm, you smell wonderful, irresistible. Honey, please, help me pull through this, he whispered, brushing my ear with his lips. You’re the brightest spot in my life.

All right baby, I assured him. I know I get cranky sometimes, but I want you to know that I’m grateful to you for coming into my life and awakening my soul. You are and always will be the love of my life, no matter what life deals us.

Still hugging we went inside and sat on the sofa. We kissed like high school kids and soon we were making love in the afternoon, Parisian style, on the thick carpet. The rest of the day went by with no surprises. We made love again at night and after we spent ourselves, with our bodies still blended together, I began to think and again realized I was hopelessly in love with that man.

Friday, October 20

I woke up still reeling from the highs we reached last night. I dream of doing it again and again. We had breakfast in our cabin: oven-fresh blueberry muffins, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. All I wanted was to be where I was at that moment more than anything before in my life. And then an aura, a warm glow started at the top of my head. The words became incomprehensible and I focused on Grizzly’s fine-featured face, generous lips, well-formed stature, and out of the blue I realized

I had no control, no say in the matter, it just happened: I experienced total love. Few of us mortals have this sensation, and I can say from the heart it is like no other.

Well, diary, after breakfast we started for Los Angeles. The flight was leaving at midnight, but because of heightened security due to popular unrest caused by French nuclear tests in Polynesia, we had to check in two hours early. Counting one hour to leave the car at a long-term parking lot, we had to be at LAX around nine in the evening. We had a leisurely lunch near San Luis Obispo overlooking the crashing waves, coffee in Santa Barbara and made it to the airport on time. After checking in, we decided to get over the security hassle right away. We had a light dinner of salads inside the restricted area and then moved to our gate.

We sat down and then a conversation between a man and a woman right behind us attracted Grizzly’s attention. The man, speaking English with a British accent, and the woman, speaking British English with a touch of an accent, punctuated their talk with Greek words. Grizzly turned and asked if they make good moussaka in Tahiti and added something in Greek.

They stopped talking and the man roared with laughter. He looked fortyish with a round face, rosy cheeks and a stout build with just a bit of extra flesh. His stoop-shouldered posture together with his distinctly rumpled look accented his impression of the archetypal English country gentleman. The woman, looking thirtyish and willowy as if lifted from the Portico of Maidens of Athens, Grizzly said later, gave us a milk-and-honey smile. She was olive-skinned with a flowing light chestnut mane, glossy as silk, that wafted round her shoulders as she moved, and warm, almond-shaped brown eyes that scanned us with curiosity. The man asked Grizzly if he was Greek. My man said his grandfather was from Greece and that he visited the country often.

You don’t say, the man bellowed. Let me introduce ourselves. I’m Hubert Edward Avingdon, but my friends call me Hubby. This is my wife Daphne, well, she has such a lovely name that we call her just that.

Grizzly introduced us too and in nothing flat Hubby grabbed their carryons and hopped over with Daphne in tow. He explained he had read—meaning studied in U.S. terms—engineering at an elite English university.

I really knew little apart from an awful lot of technical information when I finished. I had a bit of Latin and even less Greek, Hubby added, but in my social interactions I learned a thing or two about modern-day Lord Byrons such as Chris Woodhouse, the near-mythical Patrick Leigh Fermor, the Noel- Bakers, the brothers Durrell, Stanley Moss, Kenneth Matthews and scores of other passionate lovers of all things Greek.

That rare breed of English neo-philhellenes, Grizzly explained later, some of whom parachuted into Nazi-occupied Greece to coordinate the resistance, often owned homes in Greece, even married Greek women as if to graft their children, if not themselves too, with what they lacked in their genes. According to Grizzly, Hubby must have gone native the whole nine yards, except he was born too late to suffer the frustration of watching Greek partisan factions shooting each other instead of at the German occupation forces.

My father and grandfather, both of whom served in India, felt at home wherever they saw palm trees and they passed their fascination on to me, Hubby went on. From my favorite seat in front of the fireplace, I fantasized about escaping from overstuffed England to balmy shores. I fished around but when I met Daphne here from Crete, she studied in London at the time, I knew she was the one for me. We bought some land near her ancestral home in southern Crete where we grow bananas thanks to Common Market subsidies. The notion of growing bananas in their backyard fuels the imagination of snow-bound Europeans.

European banana plantations? That’s amazing, I couldn’t help wondering out loud.

Well, it’s not what it seems. We’re not talking about tropical plantations stretching for miles with natives loading bunches on rickety boats. These are modest patches mostly on hillsides facing the warm Libyan Sea, Hubby explained. Through selective breeding—Daphne has studied agronomy—we go for a bit of quality. Our tiny bananas have the taste and aroma lacking in the commercially produced varieties you buy in the supermarket. When I stroll through our banana patches I’m as happy as a bloody lark.

And I guess the fact that you’re now citizens of a united Europe makes living and working in each other’s country a cinch. No more passports or work permits needed, Grizzly added.

That’s true, but formalities don’t bother us, Hubby explained. We let Manoussos, the brother of the local Member of Parliament, buy a bit into our business. A veritable ruffian, you know. He ensures that our relations with bureaucrats are smooth.

That’s neat, Grizzly agreed. But what happens if Manoussos’s brother loses an election?

Come now, old chap. The Greeks will recapture Constantinople before Shorty loses an election, he assured us. Locals call him Shorty. Though a little guy he packs a mighty punch.

What makes you so sure?

Well, Shorty uses a fail-safe system to secure re-election. Do you want to hear about it?

Having eons to spend before boarding, we nodded while Daphne gave Hubby that not-again look. In every village in his district Shorty appointed a party boss, Hubby said. When a constituent needed a favor, ranging from a low-interest home loan to the transfer of a conscript from the Turkish frontier to Crete, he’d go to his local party boss. The boss gets all the facts of the case and relays the information to Shorty’s office in Athens. An aide evaluates the favor and makes an appointment for the constituent to meet Shorty on a specified date and time. The information is relayed back to the local party boss, who in turn informs the constituent. The boss tells the constituent that if he fails to keep the appointment with the Big Man, not to ask for a favor again.

"On the appointed day and time the constituent is ushered into Shorty’s office. Shorty jumps up and embraces the supplicant, calling him by his first name. Over Greek coffee and a traditional sweet the constituent explains his request while Shorty listens seemingly enraptured, as if his staff has not already briefed him. Shorty tells the constituent exactly what he will be able to do. And Shorty always delivers on his promises. When that happens, the supplicant and his family are won over for life. It’s interesting that regardless of party affiliation, Shorty has never lost an election and he switches parties as easily as you and I change shirts. Incumbents often have an edge in the U.K. also, but I assure you, nothing like this."

But how can he do so many favors? Grizzly wondered. What if his party is out of power? Doesn’t he ever lose his clout?

Decidedly not. You see, Shorty doesn’t give a halfpenny, not even a farthing, about elections because he knows how to do them proper. First, the total number of voters in his district is around 9,000. As families vote in blocks this is translated into roughly 1,500 families. This means that if he grants eight hundred favors over his political lifetime he has nothing to worry about. He has developed intimate political ties and when his party is out of office he obtains favors from those in power. Heavens, those in power know they will not hold the pot forever. You see, the trick is that Shorty personally handles about, oh, I would say 50 to 80 favors a year. Can you imagine the impact of one of your Senators personally calling the director of a government agency requesting a favor on your behalf?

I thought, dear diary, I had heard everything, but I was wrong. Hubby said they lived on the farm and traveled whenever they could. He paused, expecting to hear our story. Grizzly obliged with a brief account. When he said we’d be attending a conference in Bora Bora Hubby sat up.

You don’t mean the Cielorange resort, the one organized by Vatha, do you?

Yes, that’s the one, Grizzly said. Are you going too?

"We are. Splendid, splendid. We’ll have a smashing time.

Ah Vatha, that rascal. Someone ought to drop him mid-channel one day. But he’s a jolly good charmer."

He surely is, but I don’t buy his spiel lock, stock and barrel. Kate is the one that got all heated up about the follow-up event. Me, I’m going along for the ride with gorgeous company.

I used to be skeptical also, but Daphne she turned me around, 180 degrees I dare say. Ladies, let’s convert Grizzly too. What say you?

Daphne and I slapped hands with each other and then with Hubby.

My goodness, Grizzly said, I’m held hostage by a Druid and two Wiccans. But, I’m fairly open-minded. I’ll let you preach to me.

To attend the event in Bora, Daphne assumed, you must have attended the Bangkok event too. Correct?

Yes we did, I said, and that’s where Grizzly and I met. In Bangkok we realized that we needed to make some changes to live a fuller life. When we asked what happened if someone wanted to change but was unable to do so, Vatha said that was a complex issue covered in an advanced workshop. So here we are.

The time came to board and we said we might seek out one another on the plane. The small number of people waiting at the gate promised a comfortable passenger load, but we saw quite the opposite when we stepped inside the 747. The plane came from Paris and was jam-packed with transit passengers who were kept inside for security or immigration reasons. Grizzly patted himself on the back for having gotten us Business class tickets. I gave him a lovey-dovey look and a buss.

The cut-rate private French airline squeezed one more row of seats along the length of the plane forming a choking Economy seating of 3-5-3 and an unheard of 2-4-2 in Business. Thank God we had two seats by a window on the left side. But what the airline lacked in space it compensated for with superb service cheerfully provided by stewardesses in cute 50’s scarlet uniforms with pretty, old-fashioned bellhop hats.

The plane left the gate around twelve-thirty for a nonstop flight of seven and a half hours. After a Lucullan meal that we finished around two-thirty in the morning California time we had no energy to look up the Avingdons, who were not in Business class. So we nodded off in a machine called jumbo on land but puny in the vastness of the featureless Pacific.

2

TAHITI

Saturday, October 21

The wafting of pleasant aromas woke me. Smells rush straight to your emotional memory banks. The scent of freshly baked croissants carried me back to a cheap but carefree holiday in Paris when a bunch of us girls sipped cafe-au-lait and spooned strawberry jam on steaming croissants while looking in vain for tall, dark and handsome French hunks. Grizzly was already awake. Ignoring the crepes and other hot fare, we had orange juice, fragrant cafe-au-lait and those divine croissants literally straight from Paris.

The pilot announced we would soon be landing at Papeete’s Faa’a International airport on the main island, Tahiti, at 4:30 local time, that is, three hours behind California’s waning daylight- saving time. Though still pitch dark below, at that altitude the sky was a palette of multi-hued clouds from white puffs to gilt- edged black blotches with streaks of blue in between. Soon it grew lighter and we noticed people on the right side of the plane craning their necks.

Look, Tahiti, I yelled like a kid grabbing Grizzly’s hand. We were flying low over green plains and rivers with precipitous peaks in the distance. The plane started a right turn and we heard the wheels skidding on a runway built on land reclaimed from the ocean. We stopped alongside a kaleidoscope of exotic airliners that you hardly expect to see at Philadelphia airport. It took forever for the hundreds of passengers to walk to the terminal in the bluish half-light, down covered mobile steps and then a couple of hundred yards through a misty drizzle that evaporated as soon as it touched your skin. The area was full of construction signs and machinery that gave us the wrong impression—as we found out later—that renovation was going on.

Like most Polynesian buildings, the terminal was only partially enclosed by walls, except for the transit area where security took precedence over natural air conditioning. Under the huge Polynesian roof overhang we were treated to a musical welcome by a combo in flower-patterned pareus, the Polynesian dress. It’s a piece of cotton cloth with island patterns wrapped around the waist by men and around the bust by women down to knee or ankle level. Passengers, who were American, French and other Europeans, had their passports stamped as easily as you have your hand stamped for re-entry at a fair. The jolly atmosphere was marred by the presence of a few Caucasian soldiers armed with automatic weapons, obviously the result of the recent anti-nuclear unrest.

Smiling native Customs inspectors waved through cart after cart. Outside we faced a sea of hotel and travel agency signs held by people in Polynesian and Western dress. We spotted a sign towering over the others decorated with huge orchids: Institute of Self-knowledge and Self-development. We jostled through the crowd to the sign where two young women and two young men, Polynesians in their 20’s wearing pareus, greeted us. The women, like most of the Polynesian women we met later, sported hibiscus blossoms behind their ears. Our hosts’ pareus all had the same pattern, much like an Institute uniform: purple orchids on white.

The Institute people placed shell necklaces around our necks and asked us to wait until the rest of our fellow participants came out. Grizzly and I walked to the curb attracted by a strange glow. It was just after five o’clock local time, the sun was not up yet and the sky was a carnival of turquoise with lustrous gold streaks decorating snow-white clouds. Soon the Avingdons joined us to wait for one more participant, an unsmiling, lantern-jawed, thin but muscle-corded man in his forties with cropped flaxen hair on his Nordic head. His face was full of muscular activity, his glinting slate gray eyes moving swiftly from face to face of both passengers and welcoming committee. Rawboned and ramrod straight, he crushed our hands in a vise grip introducing himself as Doktor Ernst Voss from Vienna.

The guy looks like a dropout from the Waffen SS, Grizzly whispered in my ear. The Austrian‘s dire psychological need for titular distinction seemed to belie his projected air of superiority. The guy was not appealing but neither was he ill featured.

As the domestic terminal, where you will board a 45-minute flight to Bora Bora, is next door, it may be better to walk instead of loading and unloading your bags on our minibus, one of the Institute men suggested.

Splendid, Hubby said. We‘ll stretch our legs.

We started towards the domestic terminal bathed in the tropical sun‘s first rays that brought the overflowing vegetation to life. Soon we reached a tiny terminal without walls. Our escorts invited us to sit while they checked us in. They came back with our boarding cards and luggage tags and waited discreetly on the side until we started boarding around seven o‘clock.

We are sorry we will not escort you on this flight, but our colleagues will meet you as soon as you step off of the plane, the man apparently in charge assured us, as if we were preschoolers about to be picked up by parents. We walked through the unavoidable Security out in the now blinding sunlight towards a high-wing twin-engine turboprop.

There’s open seating on these flights, Hubby advised, so get decent seats on the port side, that’s the left side, to savor the incomparable bird’s-eye-view of Bora.

The plane had several empty seats and Hubby insisted that Grizzly and I take separate window seats, so that he and Daphne could sit next to us and explain.

Tight-lipped and standoffish, despite Hubby’s valiant attempts at conversation, Voss sat apart from us. The plane took off at 7:35 and Hubby started his briefing.

French Polynesia or Te Ao Maohi, as the natives prefer to call it, is dotted with over 100 islands in five archipelagos: The Society Islands, where we are now, the Marquesas, the Tuamotus and a couple of lesser ones whose names escape me.

The Australs and Gambiers, Daphne added.

Thank you dear. As you see, Daphne is the brains of the family.

I asked Hubby what the native name of the islands meant.

"It means Land of the Maohi. The native Polynesians, who— mind you—make up about 80% of the population despite the loss of hundreds of thousands to European diseases and French oppression, a rare feat for a colonized people, call themselves Maohi. That’s a racial epithet similar to the Maori of New Zealand and the Cook Islands. The Hawaiians have used the term Maoli that means native in Hawaiian. It’s obvious that these forms come from the same ancient Polynesian root word, Mao-something, that probably meant native, people."

These islands, he explained, are of two kinds: high islands and low islands or atolls. High islands are either rising volcanoes or the result of ocean floor upheavals and are often endowed with abundant fresh water, the result of constant rainfall on mountaintops. Each island is surrounded by a ring of coral reefs teeming with swirling multi-colored fish that is also the first phase of the creation of an atoll. Interestingly, Hubby emphasized, the word atoll is not Polynesian, it’s Maldivian and means island ring. As the mountain slowly sinks over the eons, it leaves a coral reef around a shallow lagoon. When a mountain completely disappears, the remaining coral reef surrounding the lagoon becomes an atoll. Later, when a section of coral reef rises above the ocean and starts to grow vegetation, it’s called a motu, or islet.

Are Bora and Tahiti high islands or atolls? I ventured like a freshman.

High islands.

How about the climate?

The region has two seasons: a rainy season, warm and humid with rain on and off from November through April, and a dry season from May through October. Cyclones, the name used for hurricanes in this region, are rather few and far between.

As this is October, why did we have that drizzle early this morning? Isn‘t this the dry season?

We are close to the coming rainy season. Besides, tropic isles see passing showers throughout the year.

Grizzly asked about the language. Hubby turned to Daphne, saying she was the family linguist. She explained that the native language of the Society Islands is called Tahitian, but many people speak English and even more French, since Tahiti Polynesia is considered an overseas territory of France.

Are people happy being under the French? the liberal in me wondered.

Ah, that‘s what we‘d call a sticky wicket in England, Hubby said, a tricky question. Most people tolerate the French because they enjoy hefty subsidies and a certain limited autonomy in local affairs. The French keep an iron hand not only in matters of defense and foreign policy, but—unlike American Samoa where the Americans hold the short end of the stick—they have full control of migration, police, justice, state media and other key government functions. To keep the population quiet, France pours gobs of money into the Polynesian economy, thus creating an artificially high standard of living for quite a few.

Approximately half of the work force is on the government payroll and top salaries compete with those of American government officials. Even for the other half, Hubby said, work follows the commands of life, not the other way around. It‘s always summertime and the living is easy thanks to subsidized bread and other basic foodstuffs, while jobs in the tourist sector are rather plentiful.

"With a low-cost, subsidized van one can make a ton of taxfree cash simply ferrying tourists around the island for one American dollar per head one way. Few people fish now because of subsidies. Why fish if you can enjoy a cold pint in the shade?

And wives prefer frozen fish from the supermarket to avoid the scaling and cleaning of fresh fish."

How do natives feel about the French nuclear tests in their backyard? Grizzly asked.

Not exactly happy, I would say. My dear fellow, would any normal people like to glow in the dark?

Hubby admitted that while general complaints abound against the French, the idea of radiation leaks and environmental pollution seemed absolutely frightening to all except the French top dogs. Only the previous month about a third of Papeete‘s normally laid-back Polynesians gathered at a native hero‘s monument to protest the tests. Groups of protesters broke from the crowd and rioted for three days, wrecking shops and cars and burning much of the airport. Like an occupation force, the embarrassed French had to ferry hundreds of riot troops from France to restore order. The construction signs we saw at the airport obviously referred to repairs rather than construction.

Pareu-clad native stewardesses broke the uneasy quiet that followed as they came around with their signature cafe-au-lait, tea and flaky croissants.

Dear, oh dear, in health-conscious California, Hubby joked, this buttery morsel of bliss would be against the law. Just for fun I challenged him: Why eat food that shortens your life and causes diseases?

My dear girl, he mumbled between bites, don‘t look at me with those accusing eyes. I‘d rather die happy than deprived. Daphne and I eat a lot of vegetables, but we do enjoy our steaks and roasts too. How about you Grizzly?

I‘m like you. One thing I missed in California was juicy steak. They cut out all the fat. Even the steers are kept on a diet.

Well, take heart. Steaks here are full of fat, pure ambrosia.

Grizzly asked Daphne to teach us some key words in Tahitian. A useful greeting is yaranna, short for the formal ia orana. Thank you is maururu. But the most typical expressions in everyday life are fu, meaning I’m sick and tired, and aitapeapea, meaning no problem.

As Grizzly and I scribbled down these useful words Hubby shouted: Look, there’s Moorea.

We were flying along the north-facing base of an equilateral triangle punctuated by two long, narrow bays and surrounded by a coral reef with several breaks or passes into the ocean. Half a dozen majestic peaks towered over lush green valleys. I reached for my camera and told the group that was the most sensational island I ever saw. But Hubby shot me down.

Hold your horses. Compared to Bora, Moorea is like a parking lot, at least from the air. Grizzly objected: You can’t be serious. This is a sparkling jewel. Nothing like it, even in the otherwise spectacular Aegean.

Oh, I think you shall reconsider. Seeing is believing, old boy. Ah, this here is the famous Cook’s Bay, a haven for tourists and yachtsmen, named after Captain Cook, the most famous explorer of these islands. The next bay is, uh, Daphne?

Opunohu Bay.

I took a couple of pictures and gawked at the symphony of indigo blues, emerald greens and snow whites passing by.

Any moment now, Hubby said, the isle of dreams will come into view. This near mythical island is defined by its coral reef shaped roughly like a pentagon. Imagine it, as it is usually shown on maps, like the front view of a house with a pointed roof pointing north. Visualize the left slope of the roof and the right slope resting on the two vertical walls joined by the floor. We will approach from the east and fly along the right slope of the roof, a couple of hundred yards or so off shore. The airport, built by the Americans in the Second War, is on a sizable motu on the last section of the reef. For air traffic reasons we will fly past the runway and, beyond the end of the right slope of the roof, over the ocean, we will make a left 180-degree turn for a landing.

(Fig. A)

Bora Bora

missing image file

I glued my cheek to the window trying to see as far ahead as I could. And then I saw it. There it is, I shrieked primed by Hubby’s silver-tongued description as if the others were blind. And yes, there it was, a green and white coral ring set against the backdrop of a forbidding colossal jagged peak crowned with a massive rectangular monolith. It was a sunny day and yet the craggy precipice was shrouded in twirling gossamer clouds that made it look like a smoking crater.

In a minute we were flying along the right slope of Hubby’s pentagonal house. The middle of the reef was above the water, brimming with bright green vegetation, forming isles—motus— some large, some small, that make up the perimeter of the lagoon. Beyond the emerald-green and transparent bluish waters separating the main island from the coral reef, a cobalt blue band of deep water is the sole pass from the mighty ocean into the lazy lagoon. Daphne added that the now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t peak was Mount Otemanu.

The plane turned and landed quickly, the mini runway seemingly just feet from the water’s edge. We stopped near a minuscule Polynesian open-sided wooden terminal straight out of a Joseph Conrad novel. Under the shelter of a Polynesian mini- roof an asymmetrical wooden sign proclaimed AEROPORT DE BORA BORA, flanked by the French tricolor and a red-and- white flag that, per Hubby, was the old Tahitian royal flag. To help appease any resentful islanders, whose ancestors fought the French invaders as late as 1897, the French restored the royal standard as a territorial flag.

The airport manager will have his wrist slapped, Hubby chuckled as we started towards the terminal. He forgot to raise the blue and white flag. Grizzly and I drew blanks. Merely joking, he explained. They have a few a pro-independence parties with their own star-spangled blue and white flag, but they don‘t have many followers because, like most radicals, they advocate change without proposing ways and means of supporting it. Under pressure from the United Nations the French held a referendum in the fifties. Though some islands like Huahine voted for independence, overall results were not in favor, because the French orchestrated a campaign of fear about the inevitable income tax that independence would bring. Death and taxes, my friends, the ultimate duet of terror.

Without the zillions the French pour into the economy, Hubby reckoned, it would be impossible to operate an independent country of 230,000 people spread out over innumerable islands in an ocean area the size of Western Europe. But most of the money goes to a wealthy urban elite, while the artificial boom created by nuclear testing undermined the natives‘ age-old reliance on fishing and farming, thus swelling the ranks of the poor. To maintain the illusion of a world power, the French vowed never to let go this paradise and they‘ve used every trick of the trade. They‘ve even given the Polynesians full French citizenship.

Thus an islander has the same rights in Europe as a Briton and can visit the USA with a visa waiver. A rather esoteric symbol of these independence seekers, mostly idealists who do not actually want to let go of their precious little European passports, is a skewed triangle often tattooed or worn as jewelry.

One of the Institute women wore such silver earrings, and I asked Hubby about it. Daphne said it symbolized the whole of Polynesia—not just the French possessions—which lies within a triangle stretching from New Zealand northeast to the Hawaiian Islands and then southeast all the way to Easter Island, now belonging to Chile.

Easter Island, my foot, Hubby lamented. The Polynesian name is Rapa Nui, meaning Big Rapa, as the island was colonized by migrants from Rapa Iti, Little Rapa, the southernmost island of French Polynesia. An admirable culture indeed, until it was done in by traders and missionaries.

The Polynesians were not saints either, Daphne interjected. When the first Polynesians arrived at Easter Island they seemed to have massacred the South American natives.

If you‘ll excuse me, said a man behind us, I couldn‘t help overhearing. Few accept Heyerdahl‘s theory that the island was first inhabited by South Americans.

We turned to see Voss.

But of course, Dr. Voss, the diplomat in Hubby said. Please feel free to enlighten us; we are all seekers here.

To refresh your memory, friends, Hubby turned to us, "Thor Heyerdahl was the chap who sailed the Kon Tiki, a raft made of native reeds, from South America to French Polynesia to prove his point."

We walked past a humanoid gray stone carving with extraterrestrial eyes the size of dinner plates. Such statues, our tireless guide Hubby explained, are called tikis. By the cute terminal’s doorless entrance stood our welcoming committee: Three young women and two young men, all Polynesians, in Institute pareus minus footgear plus floral wreaths on their heads. They added flower garlands to our shell necklaces and Hubby promptly planted kisses on the cheeks of the women while Daphne kissed the men. Wanting to go native Grizzly and I followed suit. Voss did nothing of the kind. I took a picture of our welcoming committee and they asked if we wanted a group photo.