We left when the Sprite was riding on a green duck spinning in. circles and the President had disappeared. We counted the festival as a success.

Even since we first stepped ashore in French Polynesia we have been asked “Did you see the Festival?” In the Marquesas' the annual festival with days of tradition dancing and singing occurs around July 14, a nod to the French Revolution. We did not have Bastille Day on our calendar when we left Nyack except for a possible arrival date in the Galapagos. One friend said by August Marquesans are all exhausted from the July dancing it is hard to find any. So, when we discovered a Festival in Rangiroa starting September 12 we decided to stay here so we could see the opening ceremonies on Monday night.

During the week, we had stopped by several times at the public beach to watch the slow transformation from the open sandy space to a square of tents decorated with palms and oyster shells in blue nets.

Our rainy-day reading had prepped us for Polynesian dancing. After rejecting the only English book from the French pension, a bodice ripper, reading the first chapter of Karl's trashy French novel and skimming the 1924 book on the Art of the Marquesan tattoos I settled on the book Hetuotemoana in Nuka Hiva had recommended. a child's book about the bird dance. The dance was almost lost as it was banned by the missionaries for being too erotic. Only through the festival planners’ efforts in the 1980's to learn from the elders was it recovered. The story takes place in the valleys and shorelines we visited in Hiva Oa and Nuka Hiva with frigate birds playing an important role. A lovely story once we understood the ending. No hope of seeing the bird dance but were still ready to enjoy dancing.

We kayaked past the high-end hotel rooms on stilts, under the new pier of cruise ship tenders and pulled the boats out at the public beach. The space sparkled in the evening light with lights, a swing ride, bad fried food, tattoo artists and an eager crowd. Front row seats were still available so we grabbed two. The MC wearing a blue and gold robe apologized several times for the delays but since we were in for the evening. The little boy next to us kept up jumping up and energetically dancing kicking up small clouds of sand. He was ready.

Finally, a commotion at the entrance and the President of French Polynesia and his culture minister arrived. In this barefoot and flip foot wearing crowd, the President was seen wear light tan leather shoes that matched his pants and the coloring in his patterned shirt. The MC lead the crowd in singing, mayor spoke, and the pastor offered an interminable benediction. The benediction was so long even the President squirmed in his seat. Now it was the Presidents turn to speak both in French and Tuamotuan. He is very proud that this 10-year-old festival, coinciding with school holidays has become emblematic of embracing the culture and tourism. The public beach was saved from development to ensure a space for the festival. The live TV feed of his speech sent the speech to the newsroom in Papeete from our corner of the sand stage. At last the politics are done and it is time for the dancing.

Natalie a slender woman wearing an orange dress with white flowers in her hair dashed out and planted two coconuts to mark the stage. She slips behind the black curtain then shepherds out the first set of dancers. The dancer's range in age from 4-over 50. The crowd, filled with parents, siblings, grandparents and neighbors, watches intently. Cheers erupt when the dancers appear and when their gyrating hip motions reach a pace that seems humanly impossible. The mothers dance a seductive number with flowered scarves followed by an elegant matronly piece wearing long dresses and crowns of flowers. The male dances are greeted at first with giggles then loud cheers when the dance is done. Each set has one dancer who performs a brief 20 second solo for the President at the end. The show stopper is the sprite, a 4-year-old, wearing a grass skirt and a flower headdress that keeps falling over her eyes. Shorter than any other dancers and often glancing at the others for hints she waves to her family but keeps dancing with hip twitches. At the end of the night when time for photo ops happen, she is mobbed more than the President. Many gigabytes of photos are recorded on the phones of proud families. The President disappears almost as suddenly as he arrived and the sprite, flower headdress still askew, continues to celebrate her legs still dancing as she spins around on the swing.