While we love to diss their accents and make bad sheep jokes, the land of the Kiwi is blessed with scenery so otherworldly you’d think you were on the set of a Lord of the Rings film. Which is probably because you are.
For a snow or adventure sports holiday, New Zealand comes up trumps for affordability and quality. For those less enthused with getting among the cold stuff, there is hiking to be done in the tranquil mountains. Go ga-ga over a gaggle of glaciers – if you are ever going to splash out on a hell ride, this is the place to do it.
The indigenous Maori culture has been maintained, preserved and respected better than pretty much anywhere else in the world, and spending some time on a cultural tour is well worth the effort. You’ll also find the live music scene worth a look and, if you are really, really desperate (we jest), check out the national obsession, rugby. Best of all, at the end of every day, you can indulge in a tipple of a world-acclaimed sauvignon blanc or ale at one of the plethora of vineyards or microbreweries while munching on some world-class grub. Choice eh, bro?
A tropical oasis brimming with French fashion and cuisine, New Caledonia is the St Tropez of the Pacific – but don’t be fooled, this island offers much more than croissants by the beach.
Noumea is the capital and the region with the greatest French influence. The resort-like atmosphere is peppered with colonial architecture, boutique shops and al fresco dining. Further north on the main island is where you’ll find a completely different New Cal. Go horse riding in the mountains from La Foa, take a helicopter ride over the Heart of Voh, and visit the rural town of Bourail. Known for its cattle stations and cowboys, each August Bourail also hosts its annual Agricultural Fair, featuring a rodeo that attracts a crowd of around 25,000 people.
Off the main island of Grand Terre, you’ll fall in love with the stunning Isle of Pines. Known as the jewel of the Pacific, it was once a French penal colony; these days people wish they could be trapped here.
Of course, the whole shebang is surrounded by a fringing reef that encompasses a 1.3 million square kilometre marine park. If the blue stuff is your thing, you can snorkel, dive, swim, windsurf, stand-up paddleboard and kayak to your heart’s content.
Perhaps not at the top of everyone’s to-do list, East Timor has a few surprises in store for those who visit the sandy shores of this island.
With a history riddled in tragedy and triumph, East Timor’s infrastructure still suffers after its last chaotic episode in 2008. But if you can look past the political upheaval that has left a scattering of refugee camps and degraded buildings the norm for capital Dili, there are pristine beaches and stunning tropical forests and mountainsides to explore or relax and enjoy.
The island nation is officially known as the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste, but it is the locals who make the journey to this island worthwhile. Gaining a glimpse of how these Portuguese-speaking people get by day to day is a rewarding experience, and all it takes is a toothy grin from these humble folk to remind you it’s the simplest things that matter.
“Kia Orana!” May you live long. How often do you step off a plane in a fatigued daze only to be blessed by the warm welcome of the smiling locals? Not often enough, we say.
And if that doesn’t brighten you up right away, the sparkling clear water gently lapping on the pure white beaches ought to sort your spirits out. The Cook Islands consists of 15 separate landmasses dotting the middle of the Polynesian triangle in the South Pacific. Visit the local brewery in Rarotonga and make some friends over a Matutu Draught. Head to the island Atiu and snorkel the coral limestone reef, or to Aitutaki, which boasts the largest lagoon in the southern hemisphere.
The people of the Cook Islands are friendly giants, proud of their rich culture, and display their strong heritage through song and dance. Food is sourced from the natural bounty of the island, with plenty of fresh seafood, tropical fruits and vegetables. Although chances are you’ll have enough dinner invitations from the locals to last you your stay.
Looking for a different pace of life, Anne, an Aussie, and her husband fell in love with this resort and snapped it up when it went on sale. We can’t guarantee you won’t have the same reaction when you visit, although good luck trying to wrest the title deed off these proud owners.
Aore Island Resort offers 18 smart bungalows spread along a sandy coral beach not far from Espiritu Santo, Vanuatu’s largest island. There’s a pool, some large shady trees to relax under and plenty to explore since the island’s been the site of many archaeological discoveries. Plus, divers and snorkellers will be in aquatic heaven – there are plenty of World War II wrecks to explore and coral gardens galore.
Navigate the turquoise waters of the Tonga archipelago on your own fully equipped yacht from Sunsail. Follow the breeze from uninhabited isles laced with pristine beaches to traditional villages, and learn why Captain Cook christened Tonga ‘the friendly islands’.
Take advantage of the year-round perfect climate and hit the water where you can laze in lagoons and clamber through waterside caves. Strap on your snorkelling gear and swim through underwater kelp forests and colourful coral reefs. See humpback whales, white dolphins and schools of tropical fish.
New Zealand’s Mt Ruapehu is not your average ski slope. One of three active volcanoes that form Tongariro National Park, this World Heritage Site was made famous in the Lord of the Rings trilogy as Mount Doom. But don’t let the moniker put you off. Grab your gear and make like Frodo for the summit. There are two ski areas: Whakapapa (pronounced “fukka puppa” – really) on the northwestern slopes, and Turoa on the southwestern side.
If snow is something you’ve only ever seen in movies, Whakapapa’s Happy Valley has gentle slopes for beginners. If you’re a seasoned snow baby, head to the top of Turoa on New Zealand’s highest lift, the Highnoon Press, and plummet down Australasia’s longest vertical descent (722 metres).
“You wanna have a look?” yells the pilot over his shoulder, his question barely audible over the screaming propellers of our Air Vanuatu Twin Otter. As I nod eagerly he veers around the smoke billowing from two craters below. Staring out of the small plane’s window I feel as though I’m looking down on a Spielberg movie set. There is no life below, just two gaping holes in the puckered earth, belching smoke menacingly as we buzz closer like a curious blowfly.
We are flying over Mount Marum and Mount Benbow, the two volcanoes on Vanuatu’s ‘black magic’ Ambrym Island. Relatively undiscovered by travellers, Ambrym has long played second fiddle to Mount Yasur’s nightly fireworks display on the more accessible and far more visited Tanna Island. The lure of Ambrym, however, is not just exclusivity but also the chance to stare directly into a bubbling lava lake. For unlike Yasur, Marum’s eruptions are few and far between.
Ambrym is not far geographically from Port Vila, the main tourist hub of Vanuatu, but the journey is a long one. Our plane is up and down onto runways that look less and less like runways the longer we travel. Locals jump on and off unloading supplies as the pilot stretches his legs. I stare down the grass strips amazed at how easy it seems to be to land on what looks like a small football field. The pilot explains later that the locals are tasked with maintaining the airports and generally they do a good job. The problem, he says, is when they let the grass grow too long and you can’t see the lights. “Near bloody impossible to land at night. But it doesn’t happen too often. Otherwise they get no supplies.”
We eventually land at Craig Cove Airport on Ambrym’s far eastern tip. From here we board a small banana boat (the main form of local transport), hugging the coast as we head north to Ranon, the starting point for the easiest ascent to the volcano’s rim. Like everything in these parts, the boat trip is relaxed. Our captain and his mate throw in a hand line each and regularly stop to pull in their catch. Six fish and three hours later we pull ashore at a hot spring. I choose the cool Coral Sea over the volcanic heated spring. An Ambrym Islander wanders from the jungle, covered head to toe in black volcanic sand and dives in beside me. I ask Maina, my guide, if the man has been exfoliating, and she laughs and explains that he has been burrowing for megapode eggs. These large chicken-like birds bury their eggs deep in the sand. It isn’t uncommon, Maina tells me, to see just the feet of a local digging deep for his bounty. Maina buys a large egg from the smooth-skinned local. It could make an omelette big enough for the four of us, I joke. “Easily,” she says, smiling back.
It has been a long day when we finally reach Ranon Beach Bungalows. Freddy, the owner, and his wife greet me with a hearty meal of vegetables and fresh fish. Dessert is a perfect sunset from the window of the dining bungalow. Their children play on a makeshift swing on the beach at the water’s edge. There are only two accommodation bungalows here, each offering water views from small balconies. It should be the end of a great day’s travel but Maina suggests we head to the local nakamal for some kava. “It will help you sleep,” she tells me with a cheeky smile.
The nakamal is a traditional meeting place in most Vanuatu communities and is where the men gather to make then drink the narcotic-like liquid. Stumbling through the pitch-black jungle we come upon a shelter at the bottom of Ranon village. I’m introduced to Edwin, who sits cross-legged crushing the kava root down into an ornate silver tube called a tambil. The pulp is then mixed with water and strained through what looks like an old sock. Rather ironic given that is what it tastes like. All the while the men chatter and laugh. The only light comes from the mobile phones of the surrounding women. It is a surreal scene.
We have a couple of coconut shells of the dirty water mixture and I sit staring at the ground for what seems like an hour. My mouth is numb and control of my body is limited. My body is drunk, but my mind seems fine. Edwin insists I have another – so as not to offend I oblige. It is a mistake. The trip up from the beach bungalows was arduous enough and I am barely able to stand, much less navigate through the jungle to get back. Thanks to Maina’s somehow steady feet we make it. I fall asleep face down and fully clothed, only waking well after the sun has risen. Yes, Maina, it certainly does help you sleep.
With a stomach full of fresh fruit we jump on the back of a passing truck and head towards the start of the volcano trek. Passing through Ranon village we pick up our two guides, Isaiah and Timoty. The village is a network of huts, shacks and larger dwellings. We pass a school with one large bamboo building and a playground with swings made from bamboo and vines. The children run out of the classroom to wave. Their teacher chases them, wielding a large stick and yelling furiously. She looks up at us as the last student runs back in, smiles and winks.
Isaiah is a Morgan Freeman–type character, with wise eyes complementing his wide smile. He tells me he was one of the first to set paths to the volcano from the north to the south. He has been to the crater “many, many, many” times. As a young boy he and his friends would make their own tracks and see who could reach the top first. “Is it a tough trek?” I ask him. “Nothing like it used to be!” he laughs. Timoty is quiet, but he looks strong enough to push down a tree with his bare hands. Both of them carry machetes and if I’d run into them in the dark the previous night I would have been petrified.
It is a four-hour trek through the dense damp jungle to reach the ash plain. I trip up steep vine-covered paths and through banyan tree passageways. It is hot, humid and uncomfortable. Isaiah smiles constantly and Maina puts me to shame, especially when I see she is in a pair of thongs. Timoty chops ahead clearing a path. I’m sure I catch him smile when a bright yellow and black spider lands on my face and I scream. Eventually we make it to the ash plain. It resembles a bitumen road and crunches like honeycomb underfoot. The sun gains strength in the clearing, but there is a breeze now and Marum, with a halo of cloud around her gape, is visible in the distance. I feel like Frodo Baggins staring up at Mordor, but refrain from calling Timoty Gollum. Gollum never carried a machete.
“The last big one was 1913! And was big!” Isaiah tells me as we walk along the ash plain. “Ya, a missionary took a coconut from the spirit tree and the man blong majik was angry. He make Marum angry too.” Isaiah explains there are many things in the jungle here that can kill you. The magic men know what they are and how to use them – and they do. This is what has perpetuated the legend of black magic on Ambrym. “And what about making Marum angry?” I ask. “Don’t pick coconuts!” he laughs.
The path, if you can call it that, leading up to the rim of Mount Marum is like walking towards death. The closer we get the less life there is around us. Even the birds have disappeared. The hot, sticky jungle seems days away as we enter a forest of almost white wild cane, the last sign of life before there is only black ash. The view back from where we have come is extraordinary. The light-coloured cane forest darkens to a pale green as life takes over and continues to darken to the lush deep jungle spilling off the ash plain and down to the sea.
Nothing, however, can compare to staring over the rim for the first time and into the bubbling lava lake below. Even Timoty is beaming now and, at first sight, I let out a guttural yelp and yell to Maina to hurry up. It is like looking into the mouth of hell. All around us is black grey ash and smoke clashing with the bright orange gurgling lava that spits up and onto the surrounding walls, darkening as it cools in the air only to fall back into the inferno. It is beautiful, mesmerising and terrifying all at once. I sit with my legs over the edge holding on to the safety stick Isaiah has stuck into the ash. He talks of one day building a platform for people to stand more comfortably. “How many people have been up here in the last year?” I ask him. “Not sure. Not many. Maybe 20.” It astounds me.
We camp that night on the ash plain at the base of Marum where life is starting to grow. Isaiah cooks up tinned stew that we eat smeared on taro. The night sky behind us is crimson as the glow of the lava lights up the belching smoke. The view and a voracious appetite help the meal go down and I look at Timoty. He’s still grinning and I ask him if he ever gets tired of it. He shakes his head. “I like to see your face too!” he chuckles. “Everyone the same!” “Yes, Timoty,” I respond. “I’ll bet they are.”
Molten light bleeds across the ocean’s surface beneath a swollen sun. The world’s first sunset burns with the same fiery hues as the lava that only a century ago poured across this land and congealed in pools. Come nightfall, I float in a lagoon only metres from my bed and search the sky for shooting stars.
I’ve been lured here by the promise of unearthing a Polynesian paradise and of fa’a Samoa, the laid-back way of island life that survives, somehow, despite the threats of magma from within, cyclones from above and tsunamis from below. Setting sail from Upolu, Samoa’s main island, I wind up on the less explored (but no less gleaming) jewel, the island of Savai’i. Despite being just 20 kilometres north-west of Upolu, only a fraction of tourists who visit the nation make the journey across the Apolima Strait. Fewer still stay overnight.
A quarter of the nation’s population is shacked up on the condensed ash and cinders this active volcano has disgorged over the past five million years, but beyond the port there is no main town. Manicured villages dot the coastline between a hot mess of lava fields, cliffs and verdant jungle. “Three years ago, there would be one car on the road – that would be peak hour,” says Chichi, our guide. Now, we’re stuck in a traffic jam with two cars in front and a Land Rover behind on the one paved road around the island.
Departing bitumen, we pause to gather a man before lurching down a trail toward the sea. Our hitchhiker disembarks, basket in arm, and strides to where the waves slam against rock. He slips a coconut from his bag and with an expert arm tosses it into a crevice. Nothing happens. Then, with a roar, the blowhole spits it out as if it’s a cherry pip, soaking us with salty spittle.
Back on the road we pass a group of girls wading in the shallows, their rainbow umbrellas transforming the lagoon into a shocking blue cocktail. An equivalent coast in Europe would be littered with basting bodies and water bottles sucked dry, but here beaches are either bare or home to a handful of fales, houses without walls but topped by tin or grass roofs and blessed with unbeatable views.
The island’s residents seem to share one vibrant palette of paint that slathers schools and meeting spaces with bougainvillea pinks, pineapple yellows and every colour in between. These open structures reflect the personality of the locals. “Your walls are to keep people out,” says a woman I meet, named Samoa. “Back in Australia you have to ask people for permission to go into their place. Here you don’t have to.” Arrive at a family’s fale and request refuge and you’ll be welcomed into their home. But don’t let the lack of walls fool you – propping up each roof is an ironclad social structure honouring the village chief, tradition and the Church.
Chichi cuts the engine beside the shell of a chapel, sucked clean by surging seas. Waves from a cyclone in 1990 swallowed the village, but not the villagers, who swam to a local school. Across the road two muscled men smear a fresh lick of paint on a concrete shrine for Mary. Travelling sinners needn’t fear – redemption is just around the corner. The nearest church is never more than a few hundred metres away. Missionaries imported their religion to these islands in the 1830s and although 99 per cent of citizens declare themselves Christian, traditional customs remain embedded in the culture.
Further around the island I gaze over Cape Mulinu’u, the western-most point of Samoa. The ocean here once swallowed the sun along with the souls of Samoan ancestors as they passed into Pulotu (the spirit world). But these lava fields are no longer the last place on earth to see the sun set, since the nation danced the siva across the International Date Line at the end of 2011 in the hopes of bolstering trade with their Kiwi bros. Look at a map and the line zigzags around this patch of the Pacific.
Late at night rain pounds the roof of my fale and sneaks inside. There are no walls, after all. I wake damp and rocking a halo of frizz around my head. Rising before the sun, I hike to a nearby village, passing children in pinafores wandering to school. Life is busiest in the morning before the air becomes syrupy, carrying the aroma of bananas and breadfruit. At all other hours it runs on island time, which is to say there’s very little running and lots of men snoozing in wooden fales while women sell fruit and snapper dangling from sticks. Honouring the easygoing lifestyle, I spend my days on Savai’i exploring waterfalls, indulging in nature’s tireless masseuse in the form of cascades, and swimming with turtles with a passion for papaya.
Despite the languid pace I relish my return each night to the private lagoon at Stevensons at Manase, my home base on the island. The water and air feel so similar in temperature that it’s hard to tell where one becomes the other, until I drift over cool fresh water bubbling into the ocean. Some villages construct walls around these springs to create bathing pools, but fortunately they’re not obliged to share their clean water with this sunscreen-slicked traveller. Although my beach hut looks like a traditional fale from the front, latched to the back is a bathroom complete with a toilet, shower and fridge.
Swilling a cocktail at Stevensons’ bar I notice a carving of an eel suckling a woman’s toe. Given the religious conservatism that obliges women to dress modestly and frowns upon tourists swimming on Sunday, her breasts seem exceptionally nude.
“Coconuts were invented in Samoa, like everything else in the world,” declares Chichi by way of explanation, before sharing the pre-missionary tale of a beautiful girl named Sina and the eel that loved and stalked her. Once slaughtered by the village chief the eel transformed into a coconut tree. His eyes and mouth form the three marks seen on a de-husked nut, but only the gob is soft enough to open. “I don’t like kissing the eel,” says Chichi, “so I just put a straw in it.” I’m not sure if it’s the eel’s love or the dash of vodka in the mix, but my fresh coconut is among the best I’ve ever consumed.
Back on the road we pass a group of girls wading in the shallows, their rainbow umbrellas transforming the lagoon into a shocking blue cocktail.
In Apia, the capital of Samoa, life strolls at a slightly faster pace. When we arrive the annual Teuila Festival – the largest event on the calendar – is in full swing. During the day women sway on a stage erected in the middle of town and, at night, men slick with oil dance to pulsing drums.
Across from the stage two pigs lie on their backs with bellies full of mango leaves. A man hammers hot rocks into the neck of the nearest in a billow of porky smoke. Sweat drips from the tips of his ula (pandanas-leaf necklace) as he shovels a mound of stones into the belly of the swine. Climb to high ground on a Sunday and you’ll gaze upon a cloud of smoke blanketing Upolu. Beneath the haze men are at work gutting pigs, skinning taro and folding origami bundles of palusami (coconut cream cooked in young taro leaves) to pile onto the umu (hot rock oven), which bakes while they sing at church.
Arranging banana leaves over a pile of lobsters, a cook tells me that skill on the umu not only feeds a family, but is also key to acquiring one. If a woman doesn’t fancy the taste of your pork, she’ll trek to the next town in a search of the perfect crackling. It’s a dating technique I’d happily introduce back home.
Pulsing music lures me to a fale where locals go to get inked. A young woman flicks through shots on her camera as a tattoo artist chisels a malu (traditional women’s tattoo) across her thigh with a tool crafted from the tooth of a hog. “Our faces are too beautiful to tattoo so we tattoo our butts instead,” says Chichi as he describes the painful process endured for the men’s pe’a, which leaves little of the haunch and lower torso un-inked. The lava-lava (cloth skirts) worn by many men reveal a generous portion but the most intricate part, as Chichi refers to it, is left to the imagination.
Outside the festival there’s little to do in the city besides visiting fish stalls and the market, where sellers peddle Polynesian trinkets and a food court trades almost exclusively in delicious fried chicken. The remainder of Upolu harbours a wild playground for surfing, snorkelling and whale watching. Electric-blue fish the size of my index finger glide with me through the turquoise To Sua Ocean Trench. A team from Sa’Moana Resort shares a secret rock pool glimmering in a Jurassic landscape. Once in the pool the tide sucks me into a cave, claiming a few layers of my skin and ego, before spewing me out through a lava tube. Those with more grace emerge unscathed.
Nearing the end of my stay an apocalyptic scene greets me beyond my bungalow at Sa’Moana Resort. Rain tramples the normally tranquil beach and the wind screams like a child throwing a fit. After seemingly endless days of blue sky I finally meet the other side of Samoa. The deluge has banished the smoke from the Sunday umu and, sometime during the night, families have wrapped their fales into tarpaulin parcels. Just nine months ago Cyclone Evan, the worst tropical storm in more than 20 years, tossed cars in to trees and thrashed the island and its residents. The beach itself became a weapon. “It looked like we’d massacred something,” says Daniel, who owns the resort.
For the first time I notice concrete skeletons among the creepers as we explore the coast. These houses sit abandoned following the 2009 tsunami. A boy I meet says he survived by climbing the near-vertical mountain that looms behind us, clinging on tight while a wall of sea smashed into the hill below. Since then villagers have made escape trails into the hills and are re-learning survival techniques that died with their great-grandparents. The streets are deserted, but as we stop for petrol, a hymn glides through my window. On a television screen churchgoers line pews in their Sunday finest, voices raised to their Lord.
As we depart for the airport, water sloshes into the van. The road has become a river of unknown depth and I can’t help but feel Samoa is trying to hold me (a willing) hostage. The storm dissipates as we round the coast and we arrive just in time for check-in. Come take-off, the sky is sapphire blue and I learn that, despite being only 25 kilometres away, not a drop of rain has fallen on this side of the island.
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