Friday
Laundry – fish – bikes – views - gas – Zic Live

We have had some beautiful warm sunny weather but now…it is chilly again, back to jeans.

After our stint in Le Quick yesterday we packed up all of our dirty laundry in two chunky backpacks and rode, wobbling a bit, along to the end of the fuel pier to find our laundress. She was a pretty girl, slender and dreamy and not in the least interested in doing our washing. Well yes we could leave it there if we REALLY wanted to; she MIGHT get it done by Monday afternoon. But…if we would prefer to get back on our bikes with our big load and go into town and find a facility with larger machines – well what a good idea that would be! She has three small-ish washing machines and one dryer, which all go flat out. I asked why she didn’t have an outside line – it was beautifully sunny with a gently flapping breeze and she blinked in astonishment. “Mais non!” she said, pointing to her machine. We did leave it all there with her, but I don't think she cared in the least whether she got our money.

While we were trying to negotiate all of this, a large, friendly black man came up and stared into the (putrid) water with us. Pete and I were transfixed by the large number of tropical fish obviously thriving in the ooze. I asked him how come there were so many, and he said it is because the area behind the breakwater is protected – no large predators come in and the little fish feel safe. Also, he said, cheerily, they get lots of feed from people on the boats. Using their toilets. I widened my eyes and said, “But this is forbidden, surely. We aren’t allowed to use our toilets; we have to go to the marina ablutions block.” He thought this was a very strange idea - why deprive eh fish of all this yumminess?? - and told me lots of people come and fish in the harbour – yes I have seen this too, and I have wondered how on earth they can eat fish out of such obviously filthy water. My new friend said, very seriously, “But if they are alive they must be healthy, obviously. And they must be OK to eat!”

Once free of our packs we decided to ride to the top of the hill. Well, to puff and pant and push our bikes to the top of the hill… Noumea, so our guide book tells us, is “The city of 1,000 views,” and at the top of this hill we got to see one of them. Very beautiful it was too, with the sun sparkling on the little city, the harbor, the boats. There were a few people having lunch along the hill – courting couples, mostly. And at the very top, three large and silent young men, dressed in their Boyz in Da Hood outfits, eating enormous baguettes, listening to reggae, and just chillin’ out, man. We never feel in the least intimidated by the groups of of young chaps hanging out around the city. They look at our bikes with interest, and usually say “bonjour,” and there is no sense of menace. In fact I have only been approached by a beggar once, and that was on the way to Yaté. I think more people ask me for money in Hobart than they do here!

We have no idea what the crime rate is. It seems to be a very strictly controlled city, with large numbers of police, silently watchful. No drinking in the parks or the streets, not much activity after dark.

Pete had been asking about authentic French restaurants. We had already found one, the very wonderful La Chaumière, and he had heard of one up and over the hill – le P’tit Café. He is very good at finding his way around, following directions etc (good thing at least one of us has this talent…) So I wasn’t surprised when we rode over the top of the hill and here, nestled quietly in a little street opposite the Noumea Conservatorium, was - le P’tit Café. It did look nice, under the shade of an enormous leafy tree. We stopped for a beer and to look at the menu, and to make a reservation for tonight. Weehee! More yummy French food!

Chris Wood has asked some technical questions about the boat. I will let Pete email him the answers but will have a crack at some of them:

Has the autopilot been working well – Actually yes, when it works it is fabulous and miraculous and wonderful. And then it goes what we can only describe as PSYCHO. It just suddenly stops working, won’t stay on track and startles whoever is on watch out of their calm and happy trance. The Hobart man who installed the autopilot said this must be due to “magnetic anomalies” when Pete rang him a while ago, but all I can say is, there must be a lot of magnetic anomalies out there on the ocean.

He also asked if Pete had managed to get a water maker yet. Well no – it is almost impossible to by a water maker. They are VERY elusive. You can’t buy one anywhere in Australia, they have to be imported from the USA. (I asked someone in a big boat-y shop in Brookvale why this was and he said it is something to do with the way the water making process is patented.) There is, however, a man here on the harbor who advertises water makers and Pete is tracking him down. But, as with most things in New Caledonia, nobody really wants to sell anything or do business, because this man is never there, in his little cabin. He does have an assistant, a feisty, saucy young miss with flashing dark eyes. I love going there with Pete to watch her. She tosses her mane of hair at him, hoicks up her pert bosom in its push-up bra, and, now she has got to know Pete better, she shouts at him in a great display of Latin temperament. For example, yesterday he popped his head in the cabin door and asked, mildly, “Is your man here yet?” “Aha!” she shouted, taking the clip out of her hair and shaking lustrous curls over her shoulders. “How dare you call him MY MAN when he is old enough to be MY GRANDFATHER!” So I suppose we will go back there today, trying to find – ahem – THE man not HER man… So, Chris, no watermaker yet…but Pete is On The Case.

We have come across an unexpected stumbling block with regards to gas. Usually when you go to a marina, you can ask around and find, nearby, a place to buy gas, re-fill bottles etc. Not so here. Gas is even more elusive than letterboxes. We rode our bikes all over the place, following arcane clues and hints, until we came to a big gas supply place. But no…We don’t have the right connections; Australian gas fittings are, apparently, different. So now we are trying to find out how to overcome this problem. The water maker man (old enough to be SaucyGirl’s grandfather) apparently has the information but…as I have said, he is very elusive. (And yes gas is very important – no cooking, no hot water without gas…aagghh…)

Late in the afternoon we rode around to the supermarket, where I bought a few different patés as a Special Treat. The deli section there is amazing – full of French cheeses and delicacies. I was served by the most lovely girl in a scarlet and orange muumuu – enormous, slow moving, with a thick rim of facial hair and a radiant smile. She couldn’t have been more charming and helpful. And then another treat – I could guard the bikes outside a gasfitting shop. This doesn’t sound like fun but in fact, ofcourse, it was fascinating. As my father says, when you are in a foreign city everything is thrilling – oh look a dog! A French-speaking dog! On our way back through the Place des Cocotiers we saw there were preparations for an open air concert – Zic Live, free, from 1800-2000 (I asked and got this very specific reply.)

We went back to the boat and ate some treats and then were at the bandstand in the Place de Cocotiers in time for the second two bands. We enjoyed it all enormously. A very sedate crowd, sitting silently and politely, clapping neatly – no alcohol… It was a bit like Salamanca Courtyard on Friday night but with no drinks and no dancing. The first band was skinny whiteboys who had written their own songs entirely influenced by The Clash and other punk bands of long-distant times before they were born. They sang everything in English and their band was called (why not??) – Yellow Press Toy. A very enthusiastic TV Host Chick, all blonde dreadlocks and (yet another) perky push-up bra gushed away in between acts. The next band was called Syndicate, and they were BIG, about twelve musicians with lots of electronics. They played reggae, their own songs, all in English, and all about misery and injustice. I love reggae but was a bit disheartened that their songs were so dismal in theme – Bob Marley, Toots Hibbert et al are much more cheery! In spite of the doom and gloom of the lyrics, I just loved this bracket. I got all enthused and thought that they should apply to come to Tasmania for 10 Days on the Island – I think they would be very well received – they are very talented, mixed-race, have female musicians (sisters, one playing sax, the other trumpet – Pete said, “It’s not often you see a girl trumpet player; still rarer to see a girl trumpet player with only one hand!” And yes she did have an inexplicably missing forearm)) He said I should go and talk to RockChick. She couldn’t have been less interested and sent me in search of the lead singer, a tall young bloke, who was, shall we say, less than impressed to be accosted by the likes of us. I suppose I didn’t look all that cool and spunky, in my purple and yellow muumuu… (NO I am kidding!!) Anyway, he said, “Just a minute, I have to put my things down,” and then he vanished. I gave him 45 seconds then Pete and I left, in A HUFF. It is very strange; we are so not used to being disregarded; everyone always treats us so nicely, so respectfully. It was a bit foolish of our tall young singerboy; for all he knew, I might have been an impresario ready to make an international name for Syndicate!

We have a huge glamour yacht moored next to us, Black Pearl. Inhabited by Cool Young Things, and crewed by lesser beings who scour and wash and polish. Pete heard one of the crew saying, sadly, in a strong Australian accent, as he scrubbed, “Bloody hell, I’m having such trouble cleaning my chunder off this side!” Oh dear the poor man must have been seasick; too awful to have to Work For The Man while being ill…