Yeah OK

Yeah OK was my first airport transfer driver’s response to everything that tumbled out of my mouth in my excited child-like burble upon my arrival to Pape’ete. At first, I thought he just didn’t find me hilariously, adorable after the long wait due to an under staffed customs counter. Yeah OK. Maybe he just doesn’t get my humour… It is rather sophisticated I thought as I tried to climb into the driver’s seat... tttttttttthhhhhhhheeeeeeeyyyyyyy driveontheothersidehere I soon realise. “Yeah OK. Here, here,” he says pointing to the car and passenger side. “This one”. I explain that in Australia we drive on the other side, which is why I tried to get into the wrong side. Ha! Silly me! Me. Hilarious. Adorable. “Yeah OK”. Boy, tough nut to crack.

He tells me he speaks English… he hesitates… he wobbles his hand. “A little bit?” I offer, fingers set in the international sign for little bit. “Wei, a little bit”.

He tries to ask me where I’m from.

I tell I’m 29 years old.

I ask if the radio station we’re listening to is Tahitian. He asks if I’m a music looker. Listener I think… must mean listener. “Yes… ah si I mean wei”.

He turns over the station on the car’s radio and as he scans through different stations – “no. Anglais. No. Francais. Ah, ah Tahitian remix by French” – I realize he actually does means music looker. Someone looking for music. I start to think of myself as some sort of music collector, an intrepid musician looking for the authentic Tahitian sound. I return to this self-image often during my trip to give reason – if only imaginary – for the holiday; to take the moz off a rather expensive oh-la-la holiday for myself; to keep the memory of African children and other hard working friends who can’ afford such luxuries at bay… A guilt ridden yuppie – the most patronising kind.

The music’s terrible. A mixture of light-weight euro-pop and… well not much else. But my friendly driver is lovely. He’s tall and gangly, nerdy, trapped in the body of a fleshy island man. He teaches me Ia Orana (hello in Tahitian) and Nana (Bye) and Maurauru (Thank You).

On the main street of Pape’ete, he says center. I ask what the name of the street is called so I can orientate myself in this new city. “Yeah OK” he replies giving the international sign for ‘I really have no idea what you’re saying to me right now’.

Once past the main drag, he pulls the car over in a narrow alleyway that’s worn and tearing at the seams and I wonder if I have got myself into trouble through my child-like burbling and smiley enthusiasm… His bulky islander build, for briefest second, becomes intimidating. But his disposition is in no way threatening, and I remind my mother’s voice inside my head that not all men want to maul me (my mother’s voice inside my head in turn tells me it’s good to be cautious – I want to argue with my mother further about how this attitude has affected my relationship with men but… ). He hands me a small piece of paper with Hello - Ia Orana, Bye Bye – Nana, and Thank You - Maurauru in scrawly boys handwriting.

“Thank you” I say sincerely as he drops me at the hostel. "Maurauru", he corrects with child-like enthsiasm. “Mau-woo-roo” I say. He laughs kindly, “you’re welcome”.