I bought these lovely ladies at the Papeete airport, in Tahiti, French Polynesia. These images I presume shot in the mid-80s, remind me of my days in the south pacific(see previous entry). For those of you who might be tempted to vacation in that part of the world, these sumptuous maidens are not to be easily found outside an airport gift shop, but may be you can, on your next assignment propose to seek their ultimate existence. If only the editorial world would let itself be convinced that they would make for a good spread; a "where are they now" sorta thing. But really, where are they now? Are they married, do they have kids, are they still collecting royalties?
I purchased these last August on my way back from a well deserved vacation in Rangiroa and Huahine, but was there mostly to dive and eat "casse croute", that's french for sandwich. Casse croute is actually the old school way of saying "sandwich", since that word is only really used in parts of the world where, long ago, the French used to hold court over their colonial brethrens. Meanwhile, a Polynesian "casse croute", consists mainly of a thirty five foot long baguette filled with mayonaise and reconstituted hamwich, not unlike spam but frothier, sorta like a pork merengue. They can also be found stuffed with fried fish, which is more palatable; but what will I stare at, if I eat the freaking fish I traveled so far to ogle. Speaking of ogling, there was not much of that to be done as I spent most of my time underwater. While on land, I surrounded myself with Italian divers, whom I must admit were far more amusing than their french cousins. True to their nature, they were fun and burlesquely entertaining; while my compatriots lurked in the shadows, covered in salt water sores. As for the Polynesians they manned the boats and kept mostly to themselves having been stripped of their culture and health long ago. "Aye, Aye captain Cook". Actually, subsequent visitors did the real damage, but who's counting.
While brazzenly purchasing these cards I happily stared down newly minted grooms returning from a lifetime of fornication in Bora Bora. While their femmates paid the powder room a visit, these presumably oversexed, mostly American men, feverishling pawed through the merchandise until their bride's blood diamonds flashed their impending and unwelcomed return from across the terminal.
I suppose I should talk about why I am attracted to these images, lest I be accused of having baser instincts, not unlike those of my afore mentioned flightmates. Owing to the fact that in the months prior to my second visit to Polynesia I voraciously read all I could on its history and culture; and I cannot tell a lie: I find these girls extremely attractive. So, not unlike my other great love in life, African music, it's all fun and games until you finally understand the lyrics, it's happy on the outside, miserable on the inside. My kind of art.