This is rancho Marquesas; 9000 miles from mayhem. Just a speak-easy bar, 3 bamboo huts, lashed with Huka line.
We are fueled by liqueur.
Bacardi is our friend and all the Gauguins and Conrads throw one or two back; some get drunk and dance. Fata Nuka envisioned sainthood; I passed out.
Others sip on pineapple daiquiris; some eat mangoes atop tikis, keeping watch, as tramp steamers glide by.
Detached from the earth and its dream of life, the steamers sail to Papeete, Tahiti, passing pink coral beaches disappearing into the Polynesian evening.