Catching a glimpse of the illuminated squid from shore is challenging, usually taking several late night and early morning attempts, as well as requiring an interconnected set of perfect tidal, lunar and weather conditions. The one- to two-hour boat excursions leave at 3am, taking visitors to the spawning grounds where fisherman haul up glowing nets of the florescent sea critters. The boats fill up fast; be sure to reserve ahead. Like much of the marine life in Japan, firefly squid are commercially fished and eaten as a seasonal delicacy.
Toyama Bay is the third biggest bay in Japan and home to one of the largest seafood distribution centres in the nation, rivalling Tokyo and Osaka. There are many ways to eat the squids — raw, grilled, stewed and in tempura form — but eating a whole one directly from the sea is considered to be the tastiest version by many locals. I was instead drawn to the fresh sushi, for which Toyama Bay is revered throughout Japan.
At Sushi Sasaki , a small counter in Toyama city run by Sasaki-san and his wife, I sampled a variety of fresh nigiri and sashimi, washed down with a few glasses of local sake. His firefly squid sashimi and carpaccio were tasty and less squishy than the whole squid , but the standouts were the luscious beni-zuwaigani red queen crab , velvety shiroebi white shrimp , maiwashi sardine , mejimaguro , fatty tuna , and as a bonus, a bit of uni sea urchin , imported from Hokkaido but as good as anything local.
Delicious as the sushi was, nothing tasted as good as the bioluminescence looked. So much about bioluminescence is only now beginning to be understood by scientists and marine biologists; these furtive animals are profound and mysterious. Seeing them alive is a reminder that even in the darkest pockets of the planet, there are glimmering stars waiting to be discovered.
Where do you rank in our tribe of worldly readers? As the island policeman, his job was to keep the peace and look after the welfare of the few dozen inhabitants, he explained. Most of the homes on Tepoto are wooden bungalows with cut-out windows Credit: Andrew Evans. In fact, Severo said that no-one could recall the last time a non-Polynesian had come to Tepoto — certainly not in their lifetimes. Once they turn 12, the French government sends them to boarding school in Hao, another atoll in the Tuamotu Archipelago km away.
For high school, teenagers go to the main island of Tahiti. Severo had grown up on Napuka and returned there after high school, then married a girl from Tepoto and moved here. I had not really thought past the possibility of getting here. Now that I had actually made it, the coming days confronted me. Tepoto's residents are predominantly Catholic and often attend mass in the island's one church every day.
Credit: Andrew Evans. I dozed through the hot, humid afternoon and heard no other sounds except my own slow breathing that seemed to follow the rhythm of the whispering surf and listing palms. At , I followed the sound of a tinkling bell across the road, where most of the islanders sat on outdoor benches facing a shrine covered in garlands of flowers and chains of seashells. Still singing, a woman moved to one side, offering to share her bench with me.
The Catholic mass lasted a full hour, rotating through chants and readings and hymns — all in Tahitian. Afterwards, the lady explained that this was the holy week of pilgrimage when islanders gathered twice a day before the Virgin Mary, the angelic figurine at the centre of the elaborate floral decor. No crime. She also told me there was no running water or internet, and very limited electricity.
Tepoto received its first solar panels and electric power in , and a mobile phone tower within the last five years. Night fell fast and the stars blew me away.
I gawked upwards from the empty beach as if catching the night sky for the first time, the Milky Way scrawled like a diagonal swath of pink gauze. The bell woke me before dawn, calling believers to another Catholic mass. This time I opted out and walked to the end of the one road, past the fanning palms and out to the coral shoreline. The sun rose behind me and lit up the sea like silver. I continued southwards, walking the length of the 2. Blue-eyed clams lay cemented in the rust-coloured coral and seabirds soared overhead.
Massive white-stone crosses marked the cardinal points of the island, while the windward stretch of beach showed a collage of remnants that had floated in from the outside world: a whisky bottle; Chinese pharmaceuticals; a cracked CD case; a bottle of Japanese salad dressing; and a barnacled tennis shoe. I considered the long journey of the driftwood that now rested on this bit of shore.
Where had it come from — Asia, the Americas or New Zealand? Tepoto was like some forgotten punctuation mark between all three.
Massive white, stone crosses mark the four cardinal points of Tepoto Credit: Andrew Evans. In three decades of travelling, I had never encountered such a raw and solitary place. Within days, I fell into the forced simplicity of the island: sleeping under a single cotton sheet; sipping instant coffee made using rainwater drained from the roof; eating raw clams; and then exploring every short footpath on the island.
I bathed with a dipper of water from the rain barrel. Under the shade of trees and front porch roofs, I talked with the islanders and listened to their stories.
At times I grew painfully thirsty, but kept silent, never asking for a drink. Yet somehow, the islanders always knew, sending their kids to gather fresh coconuts and then chopping them open and urging me to hydrate.
I offered to pay and was always refused. In fact, I only handled money once, to pay Severo for my room and board. News that a foreigner had landed and was staying in the pink bungalow near the dock drifted across the tiny island. Occasionally, a few people stopped by in the evening to say hello, offer me a tour of the island or to ask me earnest questions. At times when I went off to explore, I caught glimpses of watchful eyes, peering at me through the palm fronds.
I reacted by living with total transparency, down to my underwear drying on the clothesline. When it grew too warm, I swam in the ocean, the islanders watching from shore. Wearing goggles, I caught the flash of colour and life that swam beneath the waves — pastel fish whose scales matched the row of humble houses on Tepoto. Mounds of spiky coral glowed neon-like, healthy and unbroken, spared from the careless destruction of men.
But here, halfway between the Marquesas and the main Tuamotu island groups, Tepoto has remained comparatively unblemished. I felt lucky to glimpse the vibrant and teeming underwater life, knowing that millions of tourists would visit the rest of Polynesia and never see this kind of virgin reef.
Nor would they ever see the four-headed coconut tree. Coconuts are the only cash crop on Tepoto, and as we pushed through the forest, I noticed small piles of halved coconuts, thick with hairy husks, drying in the sun. A small invasive beetle was killing them, he said, making the leaves fall off and leaving bare, toothpick trunks poking into the air. After 20 minutes driving through the grove, the tractor stopped and the engine cut. I looked up and there it was, skinny and circumspect, barely noticeable except for the four branches that spun out from its base.
The long fronds waved back in the wind. The residents of Tepoto are incredibly proud of their four-headed coconut tree Credit: Andrew Evans. I stood in awe at the oddity before us and wondered how it came to be.
By now I had heard the story from nearly every human on the island, how there had been seven branches, but three had broken off in the last major typhoon. The men began to recall different storms that had flattened the forest of trees in hours, and how the old people could predict a typhoon just from watching the birds.
In the past, the islanders latched themselves to coconut palms to keep from being blown away by the gale-force winds. Now they had a siren triggered automatically from hundreds of kilometres away and the stone church to protect them.
We took the long way back to the village, continuing first to the southern tip of the island. A baby black-tipped reef shark hunted in the shallows, zipping after the schools of smaller fish. Just like Byron had marked his disappointment on a map of the world, I had left my own impressions in the sand of Tepoto. Another tide and my trail would be erased and redrawn with the winding trails of seabirds and coconut crabs.
With a few swift chops of his machete, he hacked down fresh coconuts for all of us and handed me a whole litre of coconut water. Coconuts are the only cash crop on Tepoto and are hauled away once a month on a supply ship Credit: Andrew Evans. They spoke a mix of French, Tahitian and the local Tuamotuan language of Paumotu. I strained to fully understand their epic tales of catching bonito by the hundreds — the same bonito I had been served that day for lunch, raw, but with chopped onions and coconut milk.
In return, I gave him my goggles. This was a tiny solar-powered island without internet, cars or Starbucks. The technicians and I were the only outside influence, and I tried to make it count. During my last two days on Tepoto I taught Tuata and Tearoha how to play chess. The elementary school had a chessboard, but none of the children knew how to play. After hours of instruction, I had them play against one another. That night, Evarii challenged me to a game and we played into the evening.
One by one, the Tahitian technician killed my pieces until only my tall white king remained, chased in circles by the black king and bishop. Neither of us had won. My plastic king was destined to wander the board aimlessly, and Evarii would never have the satisfaction of killing me. He went off to sulk in the last sunset I saw on Tepoto, when the sky lit up blue and green, then peach, rose and orange.
Wood smoke scented the air and shooting stars lit the night. Jack played the ukulele, singing lovelorn Polynesian songs along with our hosts until well past midnight. Sunsets on Tepoto light the sky in blue, green, and then peach, rose and orange Credit: Andrew Evans.
The next morning, the men launched the boat into the surf, lowering it with the tractor and plopping it into the turquoise shallow at just the right moment. From time to time, they liked to visit family on Napuka.
By the time I climbed into the wobbling boat, my head bowed forward with the weight of shells around my neck. Five minutes later, Tepoto was nothing more than a whisper of green on the blue ocean. I spent three more days on Napuka, adjusting to the sudden noise and crowds of this person metropolis.
His name was tattooed across his muscled chest — Marama — and within an hour of landing, he had me knee-deep in the lagoon while he cracked open a live clam. I reached into the shell and pulled at the cool, gelatinous animal. Then I plopped it in my mouth, squishing down and biting through the salty and slimy flesh. I cleaned out the shell and then slurped the juice like an oyster. Marama beamed.
Was this some kind of test? This is how we survive out here. You showed that you respect us. I did respect them, but on Tepoto, I had also been eating clams for every meal — raw, pickled, cooked and curried. I never foraged on my own; to take anything from the island would be stealing, I thought.
The islanders enforced their own quotas, but shared whatever they pulled from the sea with me. Marama told me he was on the Napuka island council that regulated the gathering of clams and coconuts. When there was no other food to be had, there would always be clams, and it was his job to maintain a sustainable population of both clams and coconuts. Frangipani grows wild on Napuka; the smaller, star-shaped Tahitian gardenia is a symbol of Tahiti Credit: Andrew Evans.
I told him that I had read about the islands in a very old book. You really have to know the people to understand. Indeed, it seemed impossible to feel disappointed in the scene that enveloped me at that moment. The sky seemed Photoshopped with evenly-spaced clouds, and the lagoon glowed the colour of California swimming pools. Twenty metre-high coconut palms danced slowly, and I had just made a new friend who would take me fishing the next day and then swimming at his favourite beach.
Marama would be there on the day I left, gifting me a necklace he had strung with large, fragrant flowers and kissing me on both cheeks like a brother.
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