We’re in between French Polynesia and Tonga, having visited Moorea and Papeete, for the second time, following itinerary changes due to bad weather; yes, bad weather, in the South Pacific, there really ought to be a law…
Returning to two ports only helped to reinforce the impression that most of these French Polynesian (FP) islands are very similar. In conversation with a shipmate, I mentioned one of our ports. She frowned and replied “Was that the volcanic outcrop with beautiful turquoise water, palm trees, amazing views and lovely people?” How we laughed! However, I had to disagree with her about the ‘lovely people’. We’re in France, and you know the old adage, “Love France, hate the French”. Even though we are thousands of miles away from their homeland, the French people on these islands share many of the same characteristics. Their favourite word is “non”, they can be unpleasant and rude, and, well… I already told you about my experience on our first visit to Papeete.
We’ve been in FP for a month, so it’s good to be heading to pastures new. About halfway through our FP travels I thought I was going to have nothing to share with you but reports of quiet scenic days, with photos to illustrate. However, I’d forgotten the fact that sh** happens – and most of it happens to me! It’s reasonable to admit that I have thus far been at least partially responsible for the mini disasters that have befallen me, if only by biting off more than a 66 year old should reasonably expect to be able to chew; but not this time…
Rangiroa – and a dog
On the island of Rangiroa I got off the ship with my buddy Reiner as he wanted to fly his drone and I was interested to watch this. We walked for about five minutes down the road leading from the tender dock, then Reiner saw a turn off with a sign for the dive centre he had booked a trip from for the following day and wanted to check it out. We walked down this rough track and passed a couple of houses just before reaching the centre. Suddenly I heard an aggressive snarl and felt pain on the back of my right leg. I turned to find that a small mongrel dog had attacked and bitten me, for no readily apparent reason. I had not even noticed it, although Reiner advised later – in his usual sardonic fashion – that he had “said hi” to it and that it probably bit me because I didn’t. Similar sympathy was received later from an American on the ship who suggested the dog “didn’t like your British accent”. Whatever the reason for this unwarranted assault, I now had blood streaming from my calf and into my shoe.
The receptionist in the dive centre was very solicitous, helping me to clean up and insisting on taking a photo of the wound and calling the police. The latter was not at my request but was probably enlightened self-interest; it can’t, after all, be good for business to have attack dogs roaming around your business premises. She recommended I return aboard to be attended to by the ship’s medical centre. This seemed like sound advice and I hopped (almost literally) aboard the next tender, arriving at the medical centre just before 11am, which is when their morning surgery ends. I had not previously – thankfully, and perhaps surprisingly for me – had any dealings with the med centre and was somewhat underwhelmed by my experience with them now. I had realised as I returned on the tender that although my wound was not serious, I should be concerned about both rabies and tetanus. The medical staff barely glanced at my leg, didn’t even offer to clean me up (the bleeding had restarted) and said they had no rabies shots on board and I should return ashore and attend the local hospital. I got the distinct impression they didn’t want me encroaching on their non-surgery hours, so got straight back on the tender and returned to the dive centre for advice from the helpful lady, whilst keeping my eyes keenly peeled for my tormentor. I saw it roaming around the houses, but it ignored me this time, its aggression for the day obviously sated.
The lady reprised her sympathetic attentions, despite the fact that she now had a large group of divers who had arrived and were asking questions as they prepared for their underwater excursion. She told me the island hospital was closed, it being Sunday. (Note to self – don’t get bitten by a dog on the Lord’s day in the South Pacific). However, she called the ‘emergency number’, and obtained the helpful advice that rabies is not a thing in French Polynesia, but that I should get a tetanus shot when the hospital reopened on Monday morning. This was not an option for me as the ship would depart that evening and be at sea for a couple of days. Thanking my angelic dive lady, I got back on the tender for the fourth time in an hour and returned to my floating home.
Fellow passengers are very helpful, and within a few minutes of posting details of my travails on the ship WhatsApp group I had offers of assistance to provide antiseptic cream and dispense advice. I took both and irrigated the wound whilst noticing an increase in my resentment that this had not even been offered by the med centre. I returned there when they reopened at 4pm. I do hope their five hours off was a time of blessing…
I explained that I had dealt with the wound myself and established that rabies did not exist in FP – and that in any case I’d now checked my vaccination records and found that I’d had a rabies shot just over a year ago – but had been advised by the local hospital to obtain a tetanus shot. “You do not need, you have had rabies shot” proclaimed the Eastern European nurse who appeared to be wearing pyjamas. “Err…they’re two different diseases”, I said, wondering if she had indeed just got out of bed and was not yet fully awake. “No, is same, you no need” she insisted. “Well I’d rather like the doctor’s opinion on that”, I requested as politely as I could manage. In he came, reluctantly it appeared to me, and basically repeated the nurse’s statement, to my frank astonishment, adding that tetanus was for dirty wounds and my wound was not dirty, (this coming from a man who hadn’t even bothered to examine it). Resisting the temptation to sarcastically ask if, to his certain knowledge, all the dogs on Rangiroa brushed their teeth daily, I controlled my rising temper and said “Look, the local hospital has told me I need a tetanus shot, and I would very much like to have a tetanus shot if it’s not too much trouble. Do you have any?”
Now it was pyjamas turn again. “I only have two left and would rather keep them for someone who needs them”. Disbelieving, I fixed them both with my best, hard Paddington stare, and replied, quietly and somewhat menacingly, “I need one, and I want one – now.” Pyjamas stomped off, muttering under her breath, whilst the doc sheepishly withdrew, presumably to catch up on his reading of the ‘Encyclopaedia of Diseases and Disorders’.
Vaccination received, I set about venting my spleen on the ship’s WhatsApp, my main point being that the appalling treatment I had received from what I described as the vessel’s ‘unfit for purpose med centre’ meant that I was highly unlikely to purchase future holidays on the vessel. Well, talk about a shitstorm! My post received a huge reaction, with what seemed like most of the ship joining in. Americans love a health debate… 80% were as horrified as me, told similar stories and pointed out that the medical team had recently changed, the current incumbents replacing the previous team, who were apparently much better. But of course, there were the ‘cheerleaders’, an acknowledged, rather strange group of passengers who never find fault with anything onboard (despite being spoilt for choice). The debate raged for about a day and a half, until an exciting new dinner menu item was spotted and the pack turned their attention to something more pleasant to get their teeth into.
Two weeks on from this episode I am still known as ‘the dog bite guy’, and it was suggested by one wag that my name badge (which I never wear) should simply be changed to ‘Dog Bite’.
Onward and upward…
