Kia Ora Sept Issue

Travel Isle of Pines
THERE ISN’T MUCH to the Isle of Pines,
a tiny speck on a part of the map without
many specks. You can drive around the
narrow, winding roads in 40 minutes,
speed bumps included. There’s a bank, post
office, pharmacy and an enormous 18thcentury
church. But that’s kind of the point.
This French overseas territory, a
25-minute flight from the New Caledonia
capital of Noumea, is where you come to
wiggle your toes in icing-sugar sand and
to get familiar with sun-protection factor
30, a book and the insides of your eyelids.
And, judging by the guests at the island’s
largest hotel, Le Méridien, to breathe life
into an existing relationship or celebrate a
new one (beware the glint of those shiny
new wedding bands).
Sadly, my plus-one is back in Wellington,
so I’m something of an oddity at the breakfast
buffet – a woman with only her phone and
a large stack of pancakes for company.
“We wondered if you’d been stood up at
the altar and decided to come on your
honeymoon alone,” says Sara, not unkindly,
after inviting me to join her and her
husband one morning.
The German couple has crossed nine
time zones to spend a week in this slither
of paradise. “That’s the secret to a happy
marriage,” says Sara. “Find the most
romantic destinations in the world and
visit them often.”
I can see why they picked the Isle of
Pines. It might be just three hours from
New Zealand, but this South Pacific idyll is
so far removed from the tourist superhighway,
you’re able to live out your
loved-up Robinson Crusoe fantasies on
deserted beaches.
Plus, thanks to the French who showed
up in the 1800s, you get to say bonjour (a lot)
while scoffing fat, flaky croissants and
deliciously gooey cheese.
It’s as if a chunk of France broke off and got
stuck half-way between Australia and Fiji.
The indigenous people, the Kanaks,
originally called their island Kunie. But
Captain Cook, passing by in 1774 en route
to New Zealand, spotted the araucaria pines
which perforate the hillsides like a row of
jagged teeth and, somewhat unimaginatively,
christened it the Isle of Pines.
Almost two centuries later, Japanese
novelist Katsura Morimura wrote about
“the island closest to paradise” and the
phrase stuck, mainly because it’s true.
Even the United Nations considers this
island so special, it’s granted part of it
UNESCO world heritage status.
You have to wind your calendar back
several decades when you arrive in the
tiny settlement, population 2500.
Ignore the four-wheel drives and the odd
cellphone tower and it could be 1980. Or
even 1950. Things don’t change much here.
But that’s part of the attraction for my
fellow guests, who alternate between
staring at the gob-smacking views and
into each other’s eyes.
My guide, the smiling Zerena, tells me
Le Méridien was built 20 years ago for the
Japanese honeymoon market.
The 48-room hotel, built on a century-old
coconut grove in a bend of Oro Bay, has
since flung open its doors to all-comers,
including families, the retired and those
well-heeled enough to be thinking about it.
No matter who you are, this is pretty
much how your days will go: wake up to the
sound of lorikeets and kingfishers, eat the
tastiest baguettes this side of Notre Dame,
move from the sun-lounger to the pool,
snorkel/swim/kayak, eat your bodyweight
in the world’s sweetest mangoes, repeat.
A 10-minute walk from the hotel is La
Piscine Naturelle (the Natural Pool), a shallow
enclosed lagoon boarded by limestone rocks
and connected to the Pacific via a series of
narrow caves. I run out of adjectives trying
to describe the particular blue of the water
as I wade among schools of tiny reef fish
that brush against my feet, thinking I might
be worth a nibble.
The coral-filled natural pool, about 100m
wide and separated from the reef by a
sandbar, provides safe snorkelling, even
for beginners, who are rewarded with the
brilliantly hued marine life. It’s easy to
spend the whole day here and if you ask
nicely, the hotel will provide a picnic
lunch, usually something involving a
lobster plucked not too far from where
you’re eating it.
Brush Island, a short boat-ride away, looks
like the backdrop to a Bounty Bar advert.
There’s no one but us and a young
Japanese couple who got married in Noumea
three days ago. They’ve spent the morning
snorkelling around this uninhabited island
and are awaiting delivery of a picnic lunch.
“A friend honeymooned on the island and
Left: Kayaks on
Kanumera Beach.
Clockwise from top:
A pine-lined inlet;
Zerena’s cousin
Daniel and his
pirogue; escargot..
——
‘I run out of adjectives trying
to describe the particular blue
of the water as I wade among
tiny reef fish that brush
against my feet, thinking
I might be worth a nibble.’
——
after seeing her photos, we knew nowhere
else would do for our honeymoon,” they say.
We leave them to it, strolling along the
beach, while Zerena tells me what drew
her back to the Isle of Pines after 10 years
in London.
“This island is like a magnet,” she says
of her birthplace, which is 95 percent
Kanak, with most of the remainder
transplants from France. “So many of our
young people go to Noumea or overseas,
but they always come back.”
Hilary Roots understands why. Nicknamed
Cleo by the locals, who find her name
hard to pronounce, the expat Kiwi came to
the island for a five-day holiday in 1975.
She’d been working as a political journalist
50 Kia Ora September 2017 51