The tempo has slowed to andante, or maybe even tranquilo, mon amis, in Des Iles de la Societe. Here, an old toothless woman sweeps away the dust with a straw broom. There, a man walks through the lagoon trailing a net. A pair of youths are riding back from the magasin with baguettes trailing from the handlebars. Everywhere, brown bodies are moving with broad impressionistic movements in a setting of biblical simplicity.

Somewhere, you think, there is a surfing contest supposed to be held. What does that mean: a surfing contest?

For your humble correspondent it seems a small comical play, conducted by puppets somewhere far off in the distance, barely visible. Is the world still even watching this strange little play somewhere in the far off South Seas?

Deeper questions impose themselves but beauty corrals them, forces them back to their subterranean caverns deep within the unconscious. If I lived here I would have learnt to paint. Too late now, these puny words will have to stumble and bumble their way towards greater or lesser misunderstanding.

There is no surf vibe here in Teahupoo, even with the most famous wave in the modern world and a full scale Professional Surfing Contest. Unlike the Gold Coast, Bali, France, California there are no frothing punters looking to inhale the pro surfing pixie dust. Life here continues completely oblivious to the mad drama of professional surfing.

Tahiti is supposed to be expensive. I have absolutely no idea if that is true or just another oft-repeated myth. I never bothered to find out what the exchange rate was. The money is exquisite and brightly coloured; perfectly decorated pieces of Art. Every day I hand Papa a note or two of this gorgeous paper and every evening there is cold beer and poisson crous. I could be giving him a million dollars and it would mean exactly the same to me. When life is reduced to it's essential elements money becomes merely an abstract concept, as important as lighting a mosquito coil or saying hello to the lady riding past on her bike. In fact, less important.

I beg the readers indulgence on this lay day to slip the critics hat on. As the only New Sarcastic in the house it is appropriate. I have met two surf journalists who have declined to write anything "until something happens".

Qua?

Por fucking qua?

They are here in Tahiti covering the most important surfing contest of a generation and they can find nothing to write about? Truly, no other professional sport, or culture would entrust itself to these dullards; these petty shopkeepers and slumlords of the spirit and intellect.

Your correspondent is keeping cirrhosis and mental flatulence at bay by means of the long daily paddle to the outer reef. The tradewinds blow across the deep lagoon, blowing me to leeward. The surf was cleaner today, with a very infrequent set of headhigh waves every half hour. It is tremendous fun. Sunday now looks to be the likely start date, sports fans. But don't hold your breath waiting. The South Pacific remains stubbornly soporific.