Should you be confronted by an angry mother croc what would you want for protection? Fast legs? A large gun, perhaps? “When you go into the nest it can be a bit challenging,” says Matt Wright with not a flicker of irony. “We used to carry pistols with us, but not any more. All you need is a stick and a crate. As long as that crocodile’s got something to chew on and you can give her that, perfect.”
All that reptilian rage is caused by Matt and his crew venturing into crocodile country each year to swipe their eggs. The Northern Territory’s wet season brings mama crocs to the banks of rivers to make nests where they lay between 40 and 60 eggs. There’s a quota allotted to collectors (about 50,000 in the NT alone), who take on the high-risk job and sell the eggs to crocodile farms where the hatchlings will eventually be made into handbags and shoes. The tricky part is the crocodiles don’t leave the nest once they’ve deposited their future family, instead loitering to protect it from predators like goannas, feral pigs and humans.
Hanging around and waiting for her to head off hunting just doesn’t work. “No, you go in and push her off,” says the 36-year-old, whom fans of Nat Geo TV will know as the Outback Wrangler. “The best thing is then you know where she is. You don’t want to go in with 15-foot cane grass all around, everything making a noise, and the next thing you know she roars out of a hole and you’re trying to get out of the way.”
From the 1940s to the 70s, crocs were fair game for anyone who fancied themselves as a hunter. Their numbers were thought to have dropped to as few as 3000 before the Northern Territory government legislated to protect them in 1971. Egg collecting began in the mid-90s, but it’s carefully monitored and there’s now thought to be a healthy croc population of about 130,000 across the Territory.
“Everything we collect we take at the beginning of the season from the floodplains,” Matt explains. “If they’re left any longer they cook and then they go under water, so the survival rate is pretty much zilch.
“The ones that do survive are laid a bit later in the season and on higher ground in shaded areas.”
But risking life and limb (literally) only takes up a few weeks a year. Matt wears a number of hats, and collecting eggs is just one of the jobs he does. Some days he and the team have to capture and relocate huge saltwater crocodiles from places they might cause harm to the neighbours. On others he’s keeping an eye on his business, Outback Floatplanes.
It’s one of his adventures that has brought us here to Sweets Lagoon, about 55 kilometres southwest of Darwin. The Ultimate Tour is the perfect blend of epic landscape and wildlife watching.
From the private hangers at Darwin Airport, it’s a short ride in a floatplane to get here. Once on board the large cruiser anchored mid-waterway, everyone piles on to an airboat and straps in. A white egret called Rose is perched at the back, near the propeller, and hops along the seats before depositing herself on the helipad.
Down the Finniss River we go, before turning off onto tiny estuaries. Waterbirds, including jabirus and hundreds of magpie geese, take off and fill the clear blue sky as we hoon past. As the wetland vegetation thickens, kingfishers can be seen sitting on branches overhanging the water. Then the stream widens substantially and we slow right down.
From across the billabong a large croc begins floating towards us. Its name is Bonecrusher and, at almost 4.5 metres, it’s an imposing beast. “Don’t hang anything over the side,” says the guide. “He likes to play.”
Back on the deck of the cruiser, we sit down to lunch – barbecued fresh barramundi, of course – before everyone takes a helicopter ride and does fast laps of the river and surrounding estuaries in the airboat.
Up in the air with Matt, we loop over the site, the chatter between him and the other pilots filling our headsets. One of the other choppers is heading in to land on the helipad when it briefly hovers just metres away.
“What are you doing?” Matt asks the other pilot.
“Rose is sitting there.”
“That bird,” he says, and banks sharply, just as we see her take off down the river. “It’s got a death wish.”
Back on land, Matt explains how he saw this site while flying around searching for crocodile nests. “It was earmarked as a spot that might be good for tourism, so I bought a couple of boats and developed this,” he says. “It’s something totally different to what anyone else has done in the Territory.”
Having grown up in South Australia, he headed north after school to work on oil-drilling rigs in Arnhem Land and central Australia and made a bit of cash. His helicopter pilot’s license came next, followed by stints mustering cattle from the air in the outback and flying in Canada. “I bought houses and properties when I was younger,” he says, “and they never did anything for me, so I chucked everything in to this operation.”
There are special considerations when working with tourists in the Top End – safety is at the head of the list, but then there’s comfort. “We needed to design something that kept people moving,” Matt explains. “When it’s so hot you need to keep the airflow up, because as soon as you stop it gets hot and humid and the mosquitoes move in as well. That’s why we’ve got the choppers, the airboats and the cruise.”
The tour has been running for two years now and, with Matt’s profile rising, there were three months during 2015 when it was booked out – three trips a day, seven days a week. Into this year’s wet season, the company began increasing its number of heli-fishing tours, plus there’s work on a camp being done and plans are in place to build some luxury accommodation for people who want to stay for longer.
About four hours after we first landed, the floatplane has arrived with a new load of guests and is ready to take us back to Darwin. As he’s stepping back into his helicopter, I ask Matt why he chose this life. “It’s the freedom. Being able to show people this place and give them a totally different experience.” He pauses for just a moment: “And being able to work with the crocodiles.”
On Bathurst Island, a fella from the Tuyu Buffaloes runs hard across an expanse of grass. Light on his feet, and with the balance and poise of a ballerina, he’s right on the tail of his quarry.
He brings his target to the ground, near to where the Tuyu mob is watching – a great crowd of brothers, sisters, cousins, aunties, uncles, sons and daughters. They feast on his efforts and roar their approval. He’s won himself a free kick in the biggest game in town.
It’s grand final day on the Tiwi Islands and the Tuyu Buffaloes are playing the Imalu Tigers. The Tiwi Islands are located close to where the Arafura Sea joins the Timor Sea. They comprise two main islands, Melville and Bathurst, and five smaller islands. The combined area of the islands is some 8300 square kilometres. For around 2500 people, including 40 or so of European decent, it’s home.
Australian Rules football is more than a sport here – it’s an integral part of the culture, a shared passion that binds the community. Know something – anything – of footy and there is an opportunity for a rapport with islanders, a chance for appreciation and understanding, the possibility of connection.
Visitors need a permit to visit the Tiwis Islands, but not on grand final day. On this day the islands, its people, its art and culture are open to the world.
“Ngawa kukunari ngini nuwa awungarra kapi nginingawula murrakupuni, Awi,” (We are happy that you are here in our country, in our land, talking to everybody) is a Tiwi welcome.
If ‘talking to everybody’ seems a little ambitious, it’s not as improbable as you might think. Not on grand final day anyway, when almost everyone from the islands’ communities is at the game.
A posse of us arrives on the morning of the grand final after a 20-minute light plane flight from Darwin. Just about all I know of the Tiwis is what I first see: gum trees, pandanus palms, long grasses and a puddled red dirt track from the airport.
According to one local, Bathurst Island had just four tourists in the first three months of 2012. Today, however, the island is buzzing and bus-loads of visitors are being shuttled to various points on the island along muddy roads.
Before the football kicks off, Brian Clancy, a development advisor for the Tiwi Land Council, takes us around Wurrumiyanga (formerly Nguiu), the largest settlement on Bathurst Island.
Brian tells a yarn from 1942, about a pilot who arrived without his plane. Darwin was bombed by Japan’s air force during WWII, and over the Tiwis one of the bombers bailed out from his stricken plane. An uncle of Brian’s wife, clearly a big John Wayne fan, crept up on the airman, put an axe in his back and said, “Stick ‘em up!”
The pilot was reportedly the first Japanese POW in Australia. He survived the encounter and the war, and many years later his grandson came to the islands to thank the Tiwis for his grandpa’s survival.
I’m keen to part ways with Brian despite his effortless bonhomie. Wandering Wurrumiyanga I hear the sound of singing, of voices every bit as beautiful as forgiveness. I’m lured into a church where a troupe of older women is singing.
They are on the football program, part of the pre-match formalities, and are warming up. During a break one of the songstresses, Kathy, makes me welcome. “A lot of these women always singing and helping,” she says. “[We are] strong women, culture women.”
Kathy also talks about Aussie Rules. “Football is good,” she says. “A lot of our children in trouble now. Children get bored, vandalism…then we have family with domestic violence.”
Aussie Rules is considered one way to help break these social cycles. “Hopefully, if we can get their interest in football, they play for the NTFL [Northern Territory Football League], then they can get picked to go down south,” Kathy adds.
She isn’t referring to wilfully shipping men off the island, rather to nurturing a further purpose, helping them stand tall, heads up, in life and in their communities.
From the 1990s to around 2005, the islands reportedly had the highest rate of suicide per capita in Australia. Some of the telephone poles around Wurrumiyanga have spikes protruding from them about half way up. People, men mostly, would apparently climb the poles to the wires and electrocute themselves, often in front of a crowd. According to Brian the communities have successfully fought this terrible trend. “We’ve pretty much stamped it [suicide] out,” he says.
Football has played its part. The Tiwi Bombers, a representative side that plays in the NTFL, was fully founded to alleviate the suicide crisis, to give people something to aspire to, and perhaps an anchor. The night before our visit they had, for the first time, won the NTFL grand final.
Change is happening. A reinvigorated Tiwi Education Board was formed some five years ago. “We’re four years into a 10 year plan,” Brian had said. “We’re on the cusp of getting things right.” These islands have never been subject to land rights claims – they have always belonged to the indigenous islanders. Art is also an important expression of Tiwi life, just as footy is, and on the same day as the grand final, an art sale is held.
Art purists might be horrified by this fusion of art and sport, but on the Tiwis it’s gloriously impossible to separate art and AFL. There is strong national and international demand for Tiwi art. Some paintings and sculptures can be worth tens of thousands of dollars.
David Tipuamantumirri is an artist with Ngaruwanajirri Inc, a gallery set up in the Keeping House in Wurrumiyanga. He’s finishing off his carving of a pelican when we meet. “He’s like our friend, a mate,” David says of the bird. “It’s special when you go hunting in the swamp, you see lots of pelican. Save us from danger, they let you know.”
It’s a second or two before I realise what he means. The birds keep them safe from the crocs. We share a country, but this is life a long way removed from the existence of most Australians.
As if to underline this point, a dingo is lurking out the back of the gallery, near to where David is painting. It’s a fullblood Bathurst Island dingo according to John Naden who runs the gallery. John found him as a pup, out in the bush, almost certainly about to die during the dry season. “We were hoping he’d grow up and leave home but he’s just hung around,” John says.
Ken Wayne Kantilla works at the artists’ collective. John introduces us and we talk football rather than art. “Brother Pye bought a football and less fight, play sport,” he tells me. (Brother John Pye introduced the Tiwis to football in 1941.)
Kantilla is one of the storied names on the islands. David Kantilla, Ken Wayne’s dad, played in the South Australian Football League in the 1960s, the first indigenous fella, according to Ken Wayne, to make the trip to the big leagues south.
Another Tiwi name is no less august – in fact it’s one of the most revered names in AFL/VFL history. Current AFL star Cyril Rioli is a premiership player with Hawthorn and you could put up a fine argument to suggest that, of all the some 700 players in the league, he has, hidden somewhere within his sleeveless jumper, the most magic of any of them. Cyril is following uncle Maurice, a star for Richmond in the 1980s, who had footwork to make boxers weep.
There are eight football teams spread across the Tiwis, based very loosely on the eight traditional land owning clans. Willie Rioli is the coach of the Tigers and brother of legend Maurice, who died too young in 2010.
I meet Willie opposite the football ground, where his players are warming up for the game under cooling trees. Willie is surprisingly relaxed and generous with his time. “It’s just great for anybody and everybody to come, for other people to experience our culture and vice versa. It’s a two-way thing,” he says.
The grand final is quick, open and skilful, the fellas from both teams smartly doing justice to their predecessors’ legacy. The Buffaloes have a little more finesse, and lead for much of the game, by a healthy 42 points at the start of the final quarter.
Yet Willie’s Tigers haven’t been taught to roll over. Neither have their supporters. They cheer wildly as each last-quarter goal cuts the lead by half.
There is a whiff of an extraordinary victory, but the Buffaloes steady, then kick away with some late goals. Tuyu wins comfortably, but not without the final quarter scare. It’s a grand and thrilling game.
Far more rousing is that its influence may extend beyond the oval’s perimeter, beyond the day, the islands and its people.
Meg Louth, 29, is from Melbourne, visiting friends in Darwin, and has hopped to the Tiwis for the day. “I was interested to see an Aboriginal community,” she says. “We’ve met locals, including a grandfather showing off his four-month-old grandson. They welcomed us here. It was gorgeous. I’m all about opening my eyes and this is a perfect opportunity.”
The Tiwi islands have approximately 1000 kilometres of coastline. Barramundi bigger than a rock god’s ego cruise the waters and some of the island’s first forays into tourism include fishing lodges. There are beaches too, of course, but people don’t visit for the castaway option; the saltwater crocs and blue-ringed octopuses tend to shade that experience somewhat.
Of roughly 600 permit-less visitors who arrived on Bathurst Island on grand final day, it’s highly probable every single one of the first-time visitors returned to Darwin after the game. There are just a handful of lodges that have recently on the islands, but gloriously no big resorts are planned. On the Tiwi Islands, any connection, any attempt at connection, will bring unconfected reward.
Our four-wheel drive bounces along a pot-holed road, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake. Palm trees, stained soft pink, resemble floating fossils etched into the sky, and curlicues of smoke weave through the air in the dying light.
We abandon the road and cross a skinny bridge before our vehicle is swallowed by a tangle of trees. As we head deeper into the wilderness, my guide, Nellye, tells me about Bernard, and I realise this man is far more than just my host: he has played a pivotal role in Kanak history. I’m suddenly overcome with nerves.
To visit an indigenous tribe, guests must perform a customary gesture, starting with a formal introduction and sharing a few words about themselves. They can then request to stay with the tribe by making an offering of a manou, a piece of coloured cloth, as a sign of good faith.
I meet Bernard in the soft yellow light of his patio. He is an elderly man, not much taller than me. His brown eyes are so dark they’re almost black, and their whites seem to glow. His skin is smooth and weathered, and I imagine he’s spent many years in the sun.
My French is negligible at best and, in my nervousness, I completely forget my lines. The words “bonjour, merci, thank you for having me” tumble from my mouth, and I hastily lay the cloth on the table between us. I wait, eyes wide, barely remembering to breathe.
He contemplates me for a moment, then begins speaking in French, gesturing to the cloth, to the land and to me. Bernard talks for a long time. I’m desperately hoping my short speech hasn’t offended him. Finally, he stops. A soft smile spreads across his face and he extends his hand, grasping mine in a firm handshake.
I’m in New Caledonia’s Northern Province and have arrived at the Kanak tribal village of Tiendanite, about six hours’ drive from the country’s capital, Nouméa. You won’t find any skyscrapers or yacht-infested marinas in the north. On the road out of the capital, swanky homes and neat manicured lawns give way to rugged fields and endless mountain vistas. Crossing from west to east, we strike a verdant coastline of cascading waterfalls and beachside campsites, fringed by the ocean. Rustic stalls filled with soapstone carvings and fresh fruit and vegetables line the winding roads, and friendly waves make us feel at home. But much of the local community is shrouded in wilderness. Sometimes the only signs of life are the flash of a bright tin roof, the glow of a campfire, or a letterbox made from a hollowed-out television.
When we arrive at Tiendanite all my preconceived notions of a tribe – traditional body paint, ancient songs and dancing around campfires under the stars – suddenly feel contrived. Bernard – the first Kanak in New Caledonia to host foreigners – welcomes me into his tribe on behalf of his people and their spiritual ancestors, a ritual he has been performing for more than two decades.
We sit down to dinner – a feast of potatoes, noodles, rice, salad, fresh fish and chicken – and Bernard tells me his story and the history of his people. The Kanaks are the Melanesian indigenous inhabitants of New Caledonia, which has been under French colonial rule since 1853. Forced into segregation and enslavement, the Kanaks were locked in a long and sometimes bloody fight for independence (the struggle continues today), and Bernard has the battle scars to prove it. He was one of seven Kanaks injured (another 10 were killed) in an ambush by pro-France supporters in 1984.
Recuperating in Nouméa for two years, Bernard resolved to tackle his oppressors differently: rather than fight, he would welcome them into his tribe and educate them about Kanak culture. He began discussions with his clan’s chief, who in turn deferred to the grand chef (big chief). The process would take nearly five years, and there would be more casualties along the way, including that of the leader of the Kanak independence movement, Jean-Marie Tjibaou, who was assassinated by extremists within his own ranks and is buried in Tiendanite.
Bernard now hosts foreign guests, mostly from France, up to 15 times a year. When I ask how he communicates with English-speaking travellers like myself, he says (through Nellye) that he speaks with his hands, raising them aloft as if to say, What can you do?
After a moment, Bernard asks me why more Australians don’t come to New Caledonia. It’s a hard question to answer. After all, the island is only a three-hour flight from Sydney. But I sense this is more than just a question: there’s a longing in his voice, a desire to know people from places unknown, to share a connection. After a dessert of the biggest, juiciest pamplemousse (grapefruit) I’ve ever seen, we bid each other goodnight and Bernard shakes my hand once more, still smiling.
The morning brings a misty rain. What was shrouded in darkness the night before is now awash with colour in the early light, and I find myself surrounded by towering forest. Cabins and huts dot the hills, interspersed with coconut palms, bushes straining with yellow pamplemousse and bursts of hot-pink bougainvillea and yellow allamanda flowers.
We drive to the village of Ouanache, about half an hour from the bayside town of Hienghène, where I will embark on a two-day trek through the mountains to the tribal village of Tiwae, then to Pombei. It’s dry season, but rain is again falling. Nellye leaves me with Jehudit Pwija, a well-known and respected guide. His smile is warm and his enthusiasm, in spite of the weather, is infectious. I realise just how capable a guide he is when, a few minutes into our journey, he stops, motionless, and sniffs the air. “A deer died here,” he says quietly. “How do you know?” I whisper, awed. “I can smell it,” he says matter-of-factly, without taking his eyes off a point in the distance.
It’s a serious moment that belies Jehudit’s fun, cheeky nature. Later he pulls out a machete from a deerskin sheath strapped to his side. The blade looks worn and tarnished but, at nearly a metre long, has me wary. My expression must betray my thoughts and a sly smile cracks Jehudit’s face. Brandishing the knife in front of him, he whispers, “This is my little knife,” then falls about giggling and proceeds to use it to dig a carrot-like vegetable out of the ground. I quickly learn not to take anything he says too seriously.
As the trail steepens, the hike becomes punishing. The sun escapes from behind a cloud and I feel my skin sizzle angrily. We pass a young Kanak man with bare feet and a machete hanging loosely in his hand. Soon we reach the top of a mountain and the views of the surrounding ranges make the sweat and sunburn worthwhile.
The environment is an integral part of the Kanak’s existence. Jehudit shows me how to bind bunches of long grass and peel away the thick, flaky skin of niaouli trees to build a traditional hut. He teaches me how to recognise flowering banana plants, the cacti-like leaves of ananas (pineapple) and leafy taro growing wild in the forest, and explains hunting methods used for catching deer, pigs and freshwater prawns. We examine ancient petroglyphs carved into mounds of stone, and clusters of 10-metre-high bamboo. We dig into the soil for vegetables and crush niaouli leaves, inhaling their refreshing, mint-like scent, and scour the landscape for black notou pigeons, wild pigs and deer.
The Kanaks have lived off the land for thousands of years, but their affinity with the Earth is slowly fading and traditions are changing. New Caledonia is home to almost one-third of the world’s nickel, earning it the nickname Le Caillou, or The Pebble. It is a profitable industry and many people are leaving their tribes to work in the mines in the western towns of Koné, Pouembout and Koumac. The eldest of five brothers, Jehudit is the chief of his tribe and the only sibling who continues to live a traditional existence. He is determined to ensure his three children learn the customs and history of Kanak culture, and shakes his head as he explains the pull of economic forces. “We don’t really need money, but now people want to have money,” he says. “Now people want to buy a car. They want to hunt deer by car.”
The blade looks worn and tarnished but, at nearly a metre long, has me wary.
On the weekends workers return from the mines, showing off their new gadgets. It’s not unusual to walk into a traditional hut and find a flat-screen TV, Playstation or wireless internet. It causes unrest within the tribes. Despite being a sharing community, money earned isn’t always money shared, and this shift from the collective to the individual is creating a disconnect from tradition. In some instances, those who must stay back to look after the land miss out, and there is great temptation to leave and create their own fortune.
This new-found desire for money also has an environmental toll and, on the drive back to Nouméa, Nellye and I will see gaping terracotta wounds across the mountains where nickel has been mined. In a land of such biodiversity (more than 80 per cent of New Caledonia’s flora is endemic) it is a sad sight to behold.
By late afternoon I’ve guzzled all my water and my pack is chafing against my sunburn, so it’s a relief when we arrive in Tiwae. A group of young girls crowded around a smartphone waves to us then returns to their screen. As I shuffle past traditional huts and a large church, I again feel a twinge of nerves. I’m red-faced and slick with sweat – this is not exactly how I want to meet my host.
Suzanne, a petite elderly woman dressed beautifully in a blue headscarf and flowing green dress, doesn’t seem to notice my dishevelled appearance and greets me with a big, warm smile in her bamboo-framed common room. The room is small with a pebble floor, and a large wooden table laden with refreshments fills the little space. Soft floral curtains flap against the window and brightly coloured baskets woven from coconut leaves hang from the ceiling.
My customary gesture is better this time – I find myself telling Suzanne about myself, my journey through New Caledonia, and how much I look forward to learning more about her culture. She, like Bernard, doesn’t speak English, but she nods, as though she can sense my genuine interest, acknowledging my offering as I lay the manou on the table between us. Now that I have been welcomed into Suzanne’s tribe, she considers me family and will care for me like one of her own during my stay. I’m honoured and humbled.
Dinner is a spread of purple yams, pumpkin, rice, fresh fish and deer. After the day’s trekking I’m ravenous, but the sight of deer meat (earlier in the day we stumbled across the beast’s head spiked on a branch) has put me off that particular protein. I tuck in to everything else with gusto, knowing the food is guaranteed to be free of artificial nasties.
The conversation turns to Kanak culture, and I gesture to the woven hanging baskets. Suzanne smiles a little sadly and tells me young girls are more interested in Facebook than crafting baskets these days. It seems a lot has changed since her days as a child. Traditions that were once an intrinsic part of life, such as marriage customs and newborn rituals, are practised less often or not at all.
Nellye and I retire to our traditional hut, made from long grass and niaouli, just like Jehudit had shown me. It’s easily large enough for 10 people, and the colourful floor mats and high ceiling remind me of a circus tent. There’s no heating, no bathroom and, as I soon realise upon visiting the shower – a tin shed with a cobwebbed Western toilet and a rusty pipe hanging over a concrete slab – no hot water.
Shivering, I sink into my mattress. My mind drifts to Suzanne and I wonder what it must be like to have lived a life of tradition and ritual, only to watch it slowly slip from the lives of your children and your grandchildren as modern technology infiltrates and slowly erodes your culture. I wake up in the soft glow of the early hours, warm like a caterpillar in its chrysalis, and fumble around for my alarm, only to realise it’s the crowing of a rooster in a nearby field.
As Jehudit and I prepare to set out for another day’s hike, I hear the cackle of children’s laughter and the slap of shoes against bitumen as they run down the street to the local school. I think about the girls crowded around a single smartphone and the men leaving their tribes to work in the mines for flashy new cars. I hope the Kanak culture can survive the influence of money and modern technology. Even if the youngsters stray, custodians likes Bernard and Suzanne will surely welcome them back into the tribe with open arms. It’s all part of educating the masses and keeping their traditions alive.
Mix a killer line-up of electronic music with 600 party-loving punters. Shake until frothing with excitement and pour onto a Fijian island. Garnish with ivory sand, blazing sunsets and top with Polynesian fire dancers. The result is a serve of Oceania’s freshest island event: Your Paradise festival.
Taking over the shores of Malolo Lailai, a short boat ride away from the city of Nadi on the main island, the boutique festival is gaining momentum year after year.
As well as sets on beaches and boats cruising the islands, decks grace a sandbank that rises above the azure water for just a few hours a day before it’s swallowed by the swell. Go surfing and snorkelling and refuel between acts with barbecue and beer. Drink deeply when the kava bowl is passed around and let that warm buzz carry you through the night.
Fab accommodation in Fiji isn’t hard to come by; there are more beachfront bures (huts) than you can poke a kava root at. But often they come with hordes of raucous tourists. Step from the seaplane at Paradise Cove Resort and you’ll discover a tropical sanctuary. Located about 70 kilometres north of Nadi, the resort is one of the newest arrivals in the Yasawas.
Nab a beachfront paradise suite with plunge pool and hanging day beds, and contemplate one of travelling’s great first-world problems: swim first, or siesta? Throw in snorkelling with manta rays, a picnic on a deserted beach and sunset drinks at the lookout and your holiday just got complicated.
English explorer Samuel Wallis wouldn’t have believed his luck when he landed in Tahiti, the future crown jewel of French Polynesia, in 1767. It would take some time, but eventually islands like Bora Bora would become renowned as a honeymooner’s barefoot bliss. But it’s not all snogging and snorkels, and you don’t need to be loved up to escape here.
The more adventurous will be rewarded for leaving their seductive villas, with the chance to crawl through lava tubes and swim with sharks dotted among the 118 islands. The dramatic peaks and valleys of the main island, Tahiti, beckon climbers, while cascading waterfalls yearn to be abseiled and rocky outcrops need someone to catapult off them. After all that, camping on a deserted beach is a delicious flirt with isolation. Francophiles will love the ability to practise their French and cycle around Papeete with a baguette in the basket.
Further afield, Hiva Oa, the first port of call for those crossing the Pacific from the west, is known as Gauguin’s Island. The artist is buried here in a cemetery overlooking the town of Atuona. Moorea, in the Windwards, is spectacular, with rugged peaks erupting from its gin-clear lagoon. James Michener’s Bali Hai in Tales of the South Pacific was inspired by it. It’s also one of the best islands for adventure and activities.
However you spend your time here, the Tahitian catchcry aita pea pea, meaning “not to worry”, will infect your way of being.
The sea spray soaks right through my clothes as I desperately clutch the boat’s rubber sides. It’s bouncing at speed across deep open water to Prison Island. We’ve just passed a school of grey reef sharks when our salty sea-dog guide Geoff cuts the engine and we come to a halt.
“Good place for snorkelling,” Geoff says. The other four passengers and I look at each other with bemused expressions. It has gone quiet apart from the water sloshing against the boat. The island paradise he’d promised us is a mirage in the far distance. “Just a quick one,” he adds. Later, I discover this is how Geoff gauges our swimming abilities.
As the current drags me under the boat, my mask fills with water. I swim to the surface, rearrange my gear and my dignity and am ready to explore. Immediately I’m transfixed. Below me the water is aquarium clear, reef fish flit around a buffet of age-old coral and I mentally pinch myself – I am snorkelling in the Cocos Islands! It’s been on my bucket list for a long time.
Just a few days previously, as the plane drifted in, I wondered how we could possibly land on an atoll consisting of 27 islands and measuring only 14 square kilometres. Below me, it looked as though there was only ocean. An ocean that was every hue of blue and green imaginable, but water just the same. Where was the runway? But there it was and on this far-flung Australian territory, a stone’s throw from Jakarta and a half-day’s travel from Perth, everything is in close proximity.
We finally reach Prison Island where Geoff drops anchor. We do a 10-minute lap of its beaches as he tells us about Alexander Hare. The guy had something of a reputation as a bit of a Romeo and moved his harem of 40 women from nearby Home Island where he had settled in 1826 to produce coconut oil. The women, he suspected, were up to no good with the Sumatran and Javanese men who’d sailed in to work the plantations. Hare kept close tabs on ‘his’ women and enjoyed free rein with the ones he felt worthy of his attentions. Until everything fell apart.
These days, there’s no sign of Hare’s former home or his fate. The water is bathtub warm and there are black tip reef sharks playing in the gentle waves. I can almost reach out and touch their fins. After a few hours that pass too quickly, we’re back in Geoff’s boat and heading to Direction Island, home of the notorious Rip, one of Cocos’s most famous snorkelling spots.
“It’s not for the faint-hearted,” an islander had warned the previous day, and the earlier swimming test starts to make more sense. We ask Geoff increasingly panicked questions as we walk across sand the texture of flour. The coconut palms are rustling gently in the breeze. Are they trying to warn us?
“Been a few near misses,” Geoff offers. “Being July and trade-wind season the tide is rougher than normal. We had a woman from Tennessee determined to go by herself. Ended up over there.” He points to deep water a hundred metres away. “Little fella watching from the beach jumps in his boat to rescue her. ‘Just like catching a fish,’ he told me.”
Although fins would make the crossing so much easier, I’m secretly relieved they’re back in the boat as we jump in and head to the safety of a coral wall. “Better to swim it in the Doldrums, around March, when the water is calmer,” Geoff says dryly.
Although no one lives on Direction Island, people often camp here, some staying for long periods and living a nomadic existence. I can see the attraction as we swim out to a pontoon in the protected lagoon. Apart from us and a couple of moored yachts, there’s no one else around. I feel like a kid again as we dive off the pontoon. It’s an absurd ‘dance as if nobody’s watching’ moment as one silly jump follows another before it’s time to head back to dry land.
The following day, it’s time to explore West Island, one of only two that’s inhabited in the Cocos (the other is Home Island), where about 150, mainly Australian, expats reside. It’s the kind of place where everyone leaves their homes unlocked and the keys in the car, just in case someone needs to use it. There is almost no crime on the island. A magistrate visits four times a year to rule over pending cases, most of them traffic offences. Borrowing a cup of sugar from next door still seems to be the norm.
This is not the sort of place for tourists looking for happy hours and piña coladas by the pool. There are, in fact, just two cafes, two restaurants, one pub, a supermarket and an art centre in an old restored barge on the island. It might go some way to explaining the hospitality of the community in general – within a couple of days I feel as though I’m a local.
The alluring ingredient of these untouched isles is the spell they cast. As I begin to beach hop, the rest of the world and its troubles seem a million miles away. Just below the surface of the ocean – the water temperature here ranges between 26ºC and 30ºC year round – the abundant marine life makes for spectacular snorkelling.
Off the shore, colour dots the horizon as kitesurfers skim across the water, picking up speed to show off their aerobatics. The water becomes a playground as windsurfers and stand-up paddle boarders join the mix. I try my luck at windsurfing, but my fight with the elements is lost too quickly. I retreat to the powder-soft shore and drift off to the sound of rustling palms.
The next morning, I catch the 20-minute ferry to Home Island to join the Hari Raya festivities. These mark the end of Ramadan, when Muslims fast during daylight hours for 30 days. Around 450 Cocos Malay live in the kampong (village) called Bantam, and their culture and history are unique.
They have an individual way of dressing and their own language, both of which take a little bit from the cultures of Indonesia, Malaysia and Scotland. The latter is thanks to Captain John Clunies-Ross, who dropped anchor briefly here in 1814 on a trip to India and returned to live, with his family, in 1827. Of course, by that time, Hare had set up shop with his harem and the two men immediately began a bitter feud, which saw Hare’s women begin leaving him to hook up with the newly arriving sailors. Hare began to lose his marbles and eventually left for Indonesia, while the Clunies-Ross family ruled for more than 150 years until the Australian government took over in 1978. All that remains of that era is the family’s Victorian mansion, Oceania House. It’s now run as a guesthouse where I’ll be spending the next two nights.
As I arrive, the local mosque’s call to prayer floats through the large windows of the Rose Room. The charming owner Avril shows me around and introduces the house’s friendly ghosts, and I almost expect Basil Fawlty to come flying down the spiral staircase. As the sun sets, four other guests and I gather around a Victorian table fit for the Queen to share dinner.
At 5am the call to prayer shifts me from a deep sleep. Swirling colour surrounds the mosque as the worshippers arrive in traditional clothes. After they pay their respects to Allah, the families converge on the local cemetery to read the Koran to the dearly departed. My guide, a constantly smiling local called Nek Neng, explains that all graves point to Mecca. Something strange – to a Westerner, at least – is occurring though; people are approaching one another, clutching each other’s hands, wailing and dabbing away tears. Nek Neng explains that Hari Raya is also a time when people wipe the slate clean of the previous year’s sins. “We forgive one another then start all over again,” he says with a wry smile. As I witness tightly drawn faces flood with relief I wonder if Western society could benefit from adopting such a ritual.
On my final day, I join the whole kampong at the water’s edge to see the annual jukong boat race. Ten newly varnished boats, hitched with pristine triangles of fabric, set sail, eventually fading into the turquoise horizon. On the shore, the sense of community is heart-warming and clean slates the order of the day.
It’s pitch black and I’m being driven into the scrub by a man whose best mate is a machete. Spindly branches whip my arm through the open window and thick undergrowth flicks over the bonnet, like green tentacles sucking us deeper into the bush. A fallen tree blocks our path and Willie kills the engine. He turns to me, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the dark. “Awright bro, let’s find us some uga.”
I scramble out of the car and follow Willie as he disappears under a log and into the night. A beam of torchlight guides me over jagged rocks and gnarled tree roots as insects suckle at my ankles. Best-case scenario: I’ll return bite-speckled with tomorrow night’s dinner. Worst-case scenario: I’ll lose a finger. Or two. I’m hunting coconut crabs, or uga (pronounced oong-ah), a delicacy on the remote Pacific island of Niue. They’re giant land-dwelling beasts and are something of a metaphor for this unique island nation, which is rugged and impenetrable on the outside, and full of rich surprises on the inside.
Niue is a remote slice of Polynesia forgotten by the rest of the world and deliciously unplundered by tourism tsars. The world’s largest raised coral atoll, Niue is home to one of the smallest nations on earth by population, and sits just over the international dateline, about 335 nautical miles from its closest neighbour, Tonga. It’s a destination that has Australian immigration officials baffled when I front up at the airport with N-I-U-E scribbled on my departure card. “Sorry, where are you going?” asks the middle-aged official, who has probably been in the job 30 years. “Nu-way”, I reply. “Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it,” he responds. And that is precisely why I’m going.
A sapphire sea shreds into the rocky coastline, oozing white foam as we come in to land. The rocks surrender to palm trees, then a glinting white runway emerges that’s so bright I’m in danger of searing my eyeballs as I disembark. Niue is affectionately knows as the ‘Rock of Polynesia’, and for good reason. The 269 square kilometre land mass is surrounded by 20 metre cliffs and a coral reef that gives way to ocean so deep you can almost deep-sea fish from shore. The downside is there are no long, white sand beaches to laze on.
“It’s not a flop-and-drop destination,” island orientation guide Keith Vial tells me. “If you flop and drop here you’ll need a first-aid kit.” The upside is there are countless caves, chasms and natural pools to explore, and there’s guaranteed seclusion at almost every turn. Which is just as well, because on my first outing I forget my togs, and a pasty Palagi (foreigner) taking a dip in her underwear isn’t a sight I’m keen to bestow the locals. It’s hard keeping dry in Niue. The lure of the water is intoxicating and, on land, sweat is a constant companion. Often the two go hand-in-hand because this is a destination where effort is rewarded in spades.
At Matapa Chasm, a short path meanders through bird’s nest ferns and clusters of purple oyster plants, before arriving at an opening, where nature’s chainsaw has sliced a vast cleft through the limestone rock. The towering chasm walls plug a basin of iridescent water, fed by the ocean and a freshwater underground stream. This idyllic spot was once reserved for bathing by Niuean royalty. I tread carefully over slippery, candy-coloured rocks and plunge into the cold water. As I wade further in, the thermocline hits, warming the water slightly as crabs skitter on the rock walls. They don’t mind that I’m in my knickers.
At the entrance to Matapa, a longer, more strenuous walk leads to Talava Arches – a formation sculpted by pounding waves and viewed from inside a dramatic cave. The ocean here is wild and you’d have to be in the market for a coral tattoo to swim. I’m not. Instead, I head south to nearby Limu Pools. If the angels in heaven don’t mind getting their wings wet, this is where they would swim. The sheltered pools are gloriously pristine, and taking a dip is like floating around in a giant aquarium zapped by a lightsabre.
The island is riddled with exquisite natural wonders, accessible by marked sea tracks peeling off the main road. I arrive at Togo Chasm early in the day to avoid the searing midday heat and my gracious host Sarah Porter is aghast. “There are two cars here, that’s not on…it’s peak hour at Togo!” she exclaims.
We walk through a coastal forest and into an exposed stone-forest of sharp weathered limestone and ancient coral pinnacles. Next we descend a 27-rung ladder into the cleavage of a chasm populated with soaring palm trees. I wade through a concealed rock pool, climb over giant boulders and find myself in the belly of a massive oceanfront cave. The thundering waves smash into the cliff face with such force I feel the thump reverberate through my body.
Further north I find Avaiki Cave – a wondrous dripstone cavern that opens onto the reef. It’s low tide and I tread across to a sinkhole burrowed into the recess of another cave. The rock formations overhead look like candles melted to a pulp. The water has a blue-loo tinged hue, and fish trapped by the tide flounder about. I join them. I’d stay here all day but Avaiki is tidal and I’m doing my best to avoid that tattoo.
Niue has without doubt the clearest ocean I’ve ever seen. On a good day, visibility is 80 metres. That’s because there are no rivers or streams draining into the sea and rainwater is filtered through layers of porous limestone – the same geological marvel that’s responsible for the caves, chasms and underwater caverns that pockmark the island.
During scuba dives, I fin through dark underwater caves festooned with painted crayfish, and brave Snake Gully – a reef wriggling with highly venomous but harmless sea snakes. I snorkel with playful spinner dolphins that poo in my face and perform graceful pirouettes in the air. It’s surreal. I join a fishing charter – a little disheartened to turn from marine friend to foe – and reel in three yellowfin tuna and a mahi mahi. It’s choppy on the boat but my vomit-to-catch ratio is even, so it’s a good day.
Then there’s the uga. Willie Saniteli is a master hunter of these snappy arthropods, which can live to 50 and weigh up to four kilograms. He teaches me how to lay coconut baits, cutting a wedge out of the husk with two deft swoops of his machete. Willie then slices two lengths of husk that we use as ties, tethering the coconut to a tree root hanging over a rock where the crabs burrow. We return two days later at night to find uga perched on the shells, claws raised like conductors on a podium. Willie grabs them swiftly, putting two fingers in the grooves of the shell behind their heads. I have a turn, conscious their pincers could snap my fingers off like a matchstick at any moment. Willie tells me of a neighbour who lost a finger back in the 70s. Gulp.
Willie is symbolic of modern Niue – he grew up here but was lured away by the lights of the big smoke and spent 28 years in New Zealand. “My dream was to be a mechanic, ride a big motorbike – I did all that so time to come home,” he says. Today Willie is an island entrepreneur with his fingers in much more than just crab shells. He runs fishing charters, organises visitor excursions and owns two cafes, including a self-serve honesty bar on the beach; he’s also just started a free range egg farm.
In a tiny island nation with a dwindling population and burgeoning opportunities for tourism, diversity is key. Ninety per cent of Niueans live outside Niue and the population ‘on island’ has plummeted to about 1300. Most of the workforce is in the public service – which has flourished under the island’s free association with New Zealand.
Other local characters like Tony Aholima are doing their bit to keep tradition alive. Tony practises plantation farming, among other things, and is virtually self-sufficient. He gives me a tour of his plantations and livestock, pointing out the piglet that he’ll be eating next month and the lucky male that will become chief porker when he reaches sexual maturity. Without warning he lops off a chicken’s head. It’s almost lunchtime. Tony then slices into a coconut for me to drink from, and it’s not until I’ve taken a few thirsty gulps that I realise he used the bloodied machete. Eew.
I leave him to his chicken and join a local women’s weaving group. They show me how they make intricate handbags, baskets and wall hangings from pandanus and coconut tree leaves. They invite me to stay for lunch and I tuck into takihi (taro with pawpaw and coconut milk wrapped in banana leaf), coconut bread, fish, futi moho (boiled green bananas eaten like potato), luku (fern leaf) salad and, of course, uga. It’s delicious and the crab is sweet and rich.
The Niueans are a resourceful lot – they can’t afford to be at the mercy of a monthly container ship, which may or may not arrive, and a weekly passenger flight that doesn’t always have room for cargo. The people are genuinely warm and welcoming. There’s no poverty, the island is clean and there is almost no crime. The jail houses one inmate – an arsonist, apparently, who is serving two-and-a-half years for setting a bloke’s house on fire. The bloke shot him and served six months alongside his victim, and they’re now best mates.
I quickly fall into island life. My routine is dictated by the tides. I ditch my seatbelt (sorry mum) and wave to passing motorists like a local. I dine with the first high commissioner of Niue and his wife, and greet the couple like old friends when I bump into them a few days later. There are so few visitors here and I know most of them by name, if not by face. We’re all on the same flight home and most are staying at the Matavai (the only resort in Niue). I feel like a local.
The rock has shown me its softer side. And I get to leave with my fingers intact.
A huge easterly swell pushes the waves through the chute as the boat tries to exit the harbour. White, frothy breakers splinter driftwood logs against the rocks as a warning. The redhead captain, Wazza, sucks the spraying seawater through his moustache and tells the passengers to hang on. Wazza slams the throttle down on his 315-horsepower vessel and the boat charges out into the rolling open sea.
We’re heading eight kilometres offshore to the isolated Montague Island, a place of Aboriginal lore and natural wonder. Some call this the Galápagos of eastern Australia because of its large population of seals, penguins, terns, whales and dolphins, which thrive in the nutrient-rich water of the East Australian Current.
The east coast of New South Wales has hordes of cafes and holiday homes filling the once empty patches of land. But I’ve been told there’s still a place that remains rugged and undeveloped. Montague Island can only be reached using a licenced operator, and trips are dependent on the weather.
We see the silhouette of the granite lighthouse that was manned by hardy lighthouse keepers until automation in 1986. Through the mist above the water there’s a man in a yellow jacket waiting on the jetty. Our guide on the island is Dave Blakeney, a local Koori who works as a caretaker for the National Parks and Wildlife Service. Dave helps us, and our crate of supplies, onshore. “If the weather’s bad we could be stuck here for a week,” he says matter-of-factly.
We walk the trail up to the crest of the island. Dave speaks over the squawking gulls, as he tells us of the Aboriginal significance of Montague Island. To the local Koori community, Montague Island is known as Barunguba. The Dreamtime story associated with the area tells of a father, Gulaga (now known as Mount Dromedary), and his sons, Barunguba and Najunuka (the hill at the foot of Mount Dromedary). Dave points to the Stonehenge-like rocks on the far side of the island. It is a sacred Aboriginal burial ground and there are still numerous middens on the island that show its importance as a feeding place. The area is off limits to visitors because it’s still used by the local community to pass on the teachings of the Yuin Aboriginal people.
As we walk through breeding seagulls and crested terns, Dave reminds us that we’re observers here. “We can’t interfere with the life on the island at all,” he warns. We watch a tiny seagull the size of my thumb separate from its mother. Another seagull approaches it and pecks at its exposed head until specks of red appear on the rocks. “It’s survival of the fittest. You have to let nature take its course,” he says as we look back at the dead chick.
We continue down to ‘the fingers’ that jut out into the ocean from the rust-coloured cliffs. The isolation here is immense. I imagine it as an inescapable Australian Alcatraz. I’m told that one resident did break out from here many years back, though. A determined Clydesdale, who was apparently beaten by its owner, braved the eight kilometre ditch between here and the mainland and swam to its freedom.
Thankfully, our accommodation on the island is the refurbished lighthouse keeper’s cottages, not at all prison-like. The walls are decorated with photos and old lanterns from the lighthouse. I sit on the balcony overlooking the broiling ocean and flick through a book on the area’s history.
The lighthouse was built in 1881 after the parts were constructed in Birmingham, England, and transported here for assembly. “It was like an early Ikea flat pack,” Dave adds with a grin.
He jumps around like a kid, pointing out the largest fur seal colony in NSW and the freshwater spring that makes this place self-sufficient. “I reckon I’ve got islanditis,” he says. After weeks at a time with barely a visitor, I imagine he relishes the kind of company that answers back.
After a hearty dinner of local produce, Dave takes us back down to the jetty at dusk for the most spectacular show on the island. We take a seat looking out to the ocean and wait. Just as I start getting fidgety, I see what looks like a little gnome waddling in from the shallows. Then another, and another. As the gnomes get closer, I see that they’re actually little penguins, hundreds of them, clambering up the rocks and waddling to their nests like lemmings invading the island.
In addition to the little penguins, the island also has a large whale population, a variety of different fish and gangs of Australian and New Zealand fur seals. The seals don’t breed here so the area’s pretty much free from sharks looking for an easy meal. This is just the news I’m after, as next morning I get an appreciation of the island from the surrounding ocean.
I tread water in the murky brine. Dave and local diver Frank van Zyl from Underwater Safaris swim off to find a Port Jackson shark and I’m left alone. Something touches my leg and I swivel in panic. There is another bump against my ankle and I suppress the urge to pee in my wetsuit. Below the choppy swell the ocean is alive with life. Fur seals torpedo through the water, twisting and wrestling each other like ocean labradors. Through my mask, I spot a manta ray on the sandy bottom, and to my right Dave and Frank swim next to a Port Jackson shark. A pair of Australian fur seals choose me as their next target and take turns zipping as close as they can to my submerged torso. I duck-dive down and join them as they approach me again. It is a magical moment.
The next morning Wazza roars into the jetty ready to pick us up. As we leave, there are humpback whales frolicking in the bay, and I watch mischievous seals circling around the boat looking for a playmate. I wave goodbye to Dave happy in the knowledge that there is still a slice of unspoiled nature out here on the New South Wales coast.
The bobbing head is barely visible above the waves and I momentarily fear our skipper will plough straight into the body lying facedown in the sea about 50 metres ahead of us. He’s clocked the situation though, and kills the throttle just in time.
The woman in the water barely looks up. She’s one of a group, all wearing rudimentary diving masks and with eyes only for the ocean floor. They form an arc, about 500 metres from shore, and the one closest is intensely occupied with some strenuous-looking activity just below the surface. We pass close enough to get half a look at what she’s doing.
Underwater bagpipe playing is my best guess. Fortunately one of my boat buddies has been here for months and knows better. “They’re hunting for octopuses,” Fran explains. “Looks like she’s got one.”
Pondering the difficulty of such a hunt, which involves padding barefoot across a viciously jagged reef with little more than a stick for a weapon, I wave to the woman. She doesn’t wave back – unusual in Fiji, the most ridiculously friendly place I’ve ever stumbled upon in two-and-a-half decades of travel – but since her hands are engaged in an underwater life-or-death arm wrestle with an eight-limbed beast, I won’t hold it against her.
The skipper guns the engine and we head further along the coast, where forests of thick palms are punctuated periodically by a scrape of golden sand and a tussock of huts indicating a small village.
Skirting around a section of reef we encounter a man who appears to be levitating just above the water. On closer inspection I see he’s sitting on a kitchen chair attached precariously to a surfboard. He’s paddling this rickety contraption into deep water to go fishing, but pauses mid-stroke to wave.
For Fran and her partner Mike – program leaders with Vinaka Fiji, a voluntourism project based in the Yasawas – this is an everyday commute, but for me it’s a glimpse at real life within the island communities of Fiji.
We’re only a few hours by boat from the heavily visited islands around Viti Levu’s port of Denarau, but this feels a million miles from the scripted and sanitised version of Fiji I’ve seen many times in friends’ holiday photos. While thousands of holiday-makers annually flock to the Mamanuca Islands to enjoy neatly packaged, imagination-light, beach-based breaks, the slightly further flung Yasawa Islands offer the chance to explore a far less predictable, more exciting side of Fiji.
The Yasawa Flyer, a passenger-carrying catamaran, ferries travellers up and down the 20-island archipelago every day. Accommodation is still in lodges and resorts of varying sorts – rated via a coconut-based grading system (three coconuts being the best, one coconut the most basic) – but many of these are village owned and run, and because the islands are bigger and properly populated, there’s plenty of independent exploring to be done.
Here you can experience a genuine cultural exchange, particularly through Vinaka Fiji, which sees volunteers donate their time and expertise to help raise the standard of living, health and education of the local population. There are 27 villages sprinkled through the Yasawa Islands chain, and their residents all exist below the poverty line.
On our boat is Lorraine, a young schoolteacher from South London. For her summer holidays, rather than head to the beaches, clubs and pubs in places like Ayia Napa with her peers, she’s opted to volunteer here in a school and baby clinic. “It’s such a great way to experience a different culture from a unique perspective,” she says, before pointing out there are plenty of benefits to working in the Yasawas, even if you’re not being paid. Besides earning that warm fuzzy feeling of having contributed something to the community, the volunteers get to enjoy Barefoot Island alongside general guests. As well as the all-round idyllic nature of tropical-island life, these benefits include doorstep access to world-class diving and snorkelling, the chance to swim with manta rays almost daily and the opportunity to go night snorkelling, abseiling or sea kayaking whenever the urge arises. The bar is lively most nights, and the company is entertaining, whether you’re sipping kava with locals as the sun goes down, or trying your hand at Fiji Bitter–fuelled coconut bowling with a bunch of Scandinavian backpackers.
My trip began near the top of the archipelago, on Nacula Island. My bure at Nabua Lodge was a basic one-coconut affair, but Nacula’s Blue Lagoon delivers a truly sensational beach experience, with no crowds. I’m a restless beach bum, though, and far more interesting for me was a visit to Nacula Cave exploring limestone caverns, including one that’s only accessible via a leap of faith and a very dark swim through an underwater tunnel.
From there I’d holed up in a three-coconut joint at Botaira Beach Resort on Naviti Island, where, 10 metres from the door of my beachfront bure, I could plunge into some of the best reef snorkelling I’ve ever experienced. It was brilliant, but I’m eager to explore Yasawa life more deeply by the time I meet the Vinaka Fiji crew.
Arriving at Kese Village beach we leap into knee-deep, gin-clear water. At the local school, Vinaka Fiji volunteers have been busy building new facilities for the kids, including a playground that’s being noisily appreciated when we arrive.
Mike shows me around the village, where the project’s helping hand is apparent everywhere, from the installation of a huge rainwater collection tank to the planting of new trees. By the time we arrive back at the boat, school has finished for the day and the children are all at the beach, swimming and squealing under the late afternoon sun, with adults happily looking on. This place may be poor, but there’s no shortage of happiness.
During the boat trip back we see the women from earlier – now on dry land and each bashing the life out of an unfortunate octopus on the beach. They return my wave this time.
Over the following days we visit a number of villages along the coast, to participate in a mother-and-baby clinic on one occasion and to tour a secondary school hosting a sports day on another. Bouncing over the waves on the way back from one of these visits, Fran tells me about the wreck of a World War II plane that’s rumoured to lie on the seabed nearby. She and Mike are planning to dive down and explore it sometime soon. Now that’s a project I’d volunteer to be part of any day of the week.
In the meantime, however, we have a different diving mission to complete. Volunteering for Vinaka Fiji isn’t just about education and engineering projects – there’s also a fragile reef that needs protecting here, and one way to help out is by cleaning clams. Now I’m no marine biologist, but I’d always assumed clams could look after their own personal hygiene, but Dan, Barefoot’s resident divemaster (who is a marine biologist), corrects me. These particular molluscs have just been reintroduced to the region, he explains. Their great skill is the ability to process thousands of litres of water a day as they filter feed.
This voracious appetite for brine soup makes clams ideal frontline warriors in the fight against the dreaded crown-of-thorns starfish, which releases millions of eggs every day. Because they reproduce by the gazillion and leave a trail of devastation across reefs wherever they go, crown-of-thorns are persona non grata around here.
To protect them from predators, young clams are kept in cages, meaning they can’t be cleaned by fish. That’s why, armed with an old toothbrush, I find myself in scuba gear kneeling on the seabed at about five metres, scrubbing baby shellfish.
When the job is done, I have plenty of gas left to go and explore. As I drop another eight metres, a sunken boat suddenly looms into view. Unusually for a wreck, this one’s story has a happy ending. It’s known as the Wobbegong and inside it are the program’s success stories: mature clams, all busily chomping on starfish eggs.
The Dive Shop – run by Reef Safari, which owns Barefoot Island – plays an active part in the Vinaka Fiji program, and numerous dives are conducted specifically for the purpose of exterminating crown-of-thorns starfish. But there’s plenty of pure pleasure diving here too, including an impressive shark dive.
One morning, during an exploratory dive, we completely circumnavigate a small island while underwater. This plus a dive at the Caves of Babylon that features multiple swim-throughs are among the best bubble-blowing experiences I’ve ever had, but it’s an encounter that takes place above water that lingers with me longest.
We’re hovering over our dive site in the manta channel as a boat speeds past. Our skipper extends a wave and the guy standing at the front waves back.
Something is wrong with this picture though, and it takes me a few seconds to work it out. The driver of the boat has his face completely covered by a shirt and a pair of sunglasses. It lends him the look of a smuggler. As it turns out, that’s exactly what he is.
“They’re illegally diving for sea cucumbers,” Kenny, the Fijian divemaster, explains. “It’s a big problem here. They stay down too long – up to three hours! They don’t know what they’re doing. I visit villages all the time and these guys are out of their heads.”
It seems the marine animals are destined for Asia. Rumour has it a ship sits offshore with refrigeration facilities for the haul, supplying untrained divers with tanks and paying them big cash for cucumbers.
There have been many deaths among young guys in the villages – one the week before I arrived – and Reef Safari is sending its staff into the schools to educate kids about the dangers of diving without proper training and equipment.
According to divemaster Dan, the area is about to be declared a marine park and protected, but it’s unclear how effectively it could be policed. If it were up to me, I’d send in the octopus huntresses to deal with the poachers – they don’t take any prisoners.
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