A little later Lying Bill, Ducat, and I, with my new valet's canoe
in the wake of our boat, rounded the cliffs that had shut off our
view of Atuona Valley. It lay before us, a long and narrow stretch
of sand behind a foaming and heavy surf; beyond, a few scattered
wooden buildings among palm and banian-trees, and above, the ribbed
gaunt mountains shutting in a deep and gloomy ravine. It was a lonely,
beautiful place, ominous, melancholy, yet majestic.

"Bloody Hiva-oa," this island was called. Long after the French had
subdued by terror the other isles of the group, Hiva-oa remained
obdurate, separate, and untamed. It was the last stronghold of
brutishness, of cruel chiefs and fierce feuds, of primitive and
terrible customs. And of "the man-eating isle of Hiva-oa" Atuona
Valley was the capital.

We landed on the beach dry-shod, through the skill of the
boat-steerer and the strength of the Tahitian sailors, who carried
us through the surf and set my luggage among the thick green vines
that met the tide. We were dressed to call upon the governor, whose
inauguration was to take place that afternoon, and leaving my
belongings in care of the faithful Exploding Eggs, we set off up the
valley.

The rough road, seven or eight feet wide, was raised on rocks above
the jungle and was bordered by giant banana plants and cocoanuts. At
this season all was a swamp below us, the orchard palms standing many
feet deep in water and mud, but their long green fronds and the
darker tangle of wild growth on the steep mountain-sides were
beautiful.