I first visited the Maldives, in 1999, when the atolls were still divided into hot and cold water - not the ocean - the resorts. Much has changed since then, not least the names of the islands. There are a plethora of new resorts. Roughly 120 island resorts to choose from in the Maldives and still growing. I can't even find a name that looks familiar to me to describe the place I stayed. After long discussions with Chat GPT, who claimed to rifle the Kuoni archives, I have decided it must have been Veligandu, in the North Ari Atoll, since considerably upgraded.

Maldives - in a Nutshell

• Maldives has been a strictly Moslem country since the twelfth century. The first of the colonial powers to settle there were the Portuguese, followed by the Dutch. The British expelled the Dutch from Ceylon in 1796 and the Maldives was then tagged on as a British Protectorate. The protectorate came to an end in 1953, but British influence remained until 1965 and formal independence. The Republic of Maldives (official title) joined the then British Commonwealth.
• Questions have since been raised around human rights. Reports in 2012 suggested corruption, lack of religious freedom, abuse, and unequal treatment of women. As a result, Maldives left the Commonwealth for several years, but has since re-joined (2020).
• There are 1,192 islands in the Maldives, on 26 atolls. They are divided into: inhabited islands with chiefs and counsellors (187 of these), uninhabited islands (which include tourist resorts) and (recently) disappeared islands.
• If global warming continues on its current path the whole of Maldives may well end up on the disappeared list. Maldives is the smallest Asian country by both land area and population (roughly 375,000) and the lowest country in the world, with maximum and average natural ground levels of only 2.4 metres and 1.5 metres above sea level, respectively. For the moment, it still serves as an idyllic tourist destination with excellent snorkelling and diving on the many coral reefs.
• Tourism is the backbone of the economy, but it's a relatively recent development. The first visitors arrived in the 1970s.
• Fishing is the other mainstay. The traditional fishing boat is called a dhoni - they're also used for tourist expeditions and snorkelling trips.
• Maldives cuisine consists mainly of tuna, coconut, curries, banana, and a variety of carbohydrates such as yam, breadfruit, sweet potato, rice, and a local flatbread called roshi. There are also side dishes like bilimbi pickle, mas mirus (spicy dried tuna flakes), and theluli faiy (fried moringa leaves). Favourite desserts among locals are bondi (coconut palm sugar candy), ala pirini (yam pudding), bokuri bambekeyo (caramelized breadfruit), and paan boakiba (egg & bread pudding).

A New Millennium in Veligandu, Maldives, Maybe

This was a see-in the New Millennium beach break. The flight to the capital, Malé was tedious. It was a very cramped charter plane via Colombo. The capital city, Malé, occupies a whole island and, with over 100,000 people crammed onto it, is by some measures, the world’s densest city. The twenty minute seaplane flight from Malé to Veligandu (maybe) was far more acceptable, thrilling even, with great views of the islands and reefs.

Our island was tiny and could be circumnavigated in less than ten minutes. We had our own strip of powdery white beach - it was peaceful and gorgeous. The house reef was a few hundred yards too many away, for comfortable access. The aquamarine lagoon was clear and shallow, so the swim wasn’t too daunting - until I disturbed an octopus who shot out of the water in front of me. My scream woke up every one dozing on their sunbeds. The sights were suitably rewarding when I finally arrived - the coral teemed with tropical fish and turtles. Swimming alongside a turtle is incredibly relaxing; they look so serene.

We got to admire the ten new overwater bungalows, the first generation of overwater accommodation in the Maldives. The food wasn’t great – it’s all imported of course. The island is much too small to grow anything. New Year’s Eve brought live music and fireworks, with a flaming sign - 'Happy First Second of the Second Millennium’. I don't think they had the right millennium, or the right starting point for that matter. But it's the thought that counts...

Revisiting the Maldives

A revisit to the Maldives is called for. I only have a few pre-digital photos on my website. A lot has changed, since my last visit. In those days, tourists were only allowed on designated resort islands. Most of the islands are small and it’s usually one glitzy resort per island. You can often  run round it in five minutes. Since 2012, islands inhabited by the locals have also been permitted to host tourists. But with conditions. No alcohol and swimming costumes only on designated ‘bikini beaches’.

A huge disparity has developed between the resorts and the local islands. The former are now horrendously expensive. You’re lucky to find anything cheaper than 1000 USD a night, in high season. The guest houses come in at from 50-100 USD per night.

It goes without saying that I’ve decided to try out the guest houses. I’m trying to choose three islands, with the assistance of Chat GPT. I’m assured that the beaches are gorgeous and the snorkelling is just as good, with worthwhile house reefs. The guest houses/hotels look nice. No alcohol, but a much more authentic experience is promised. My fourth island will be capital, Malé.

Trying to Book Ahead

Of course, it’s easier said than done. The guest houses don’t seem very anxious to take bookings. Even those that have websites don’t feel the need to respond to emails. Some of them give WhatsApp numbers. But they ignore messages on those too. And, just to make sure, they ignore a ringing phone as well. One hotel actually does answer the phone and a grumpy young man says they will look at my email and reply ‘later’. They don’t.

I don’t want to book through Booking.com if I can, as I want to make sure I can organise the necessary flights and speedboat transfers, which have to be done by the hotel. It takes maybe eight attempts, with different accommodations, before I am sorted. Thank God for Farigh, at the Ataraxis Hotel, on Fuvamulah, in the far south, who is alone in responding to messages almost immediately and fixes my flights to his atoll for me.

Irash at the Rattehi Inn, on Rakeedhu, also eventually comes up trumps (although maybe nowadays I ought to use a different expression for somebody fixing something), after I find him on WhatsApp. And, last of all, after considerable bother, I track down a guest house, on Dhangethi, with one of the owners, a Czech lady. She answers on WhatsApp too. Huzzah. I’m fixed up.

Getting to the Maldives During Operation Epic Chaos

The flight is uneventful, despite the fact that many airlines have cancelled their Middle east routes, due to Trump’s Operation Epic Chaos, in Iran. Heathrow is refreshingly quiet. Capital Malé’s international terminal is now modern and shiny. Passport control is refreshingly speedy and I’m buzzing with excitement. That lasts until I have to pick up my bag. I’ve never seen such a slow luggage delivery carousel. Half an hour later I’m rushing to find my boat which goes at 11 a.m. This involves navigating a very long corridor to the jetty.

Dhangethi is where I start, so I have to work out which of the many moored speedboats is destined for that island. There are no signs and several blank faces. But I eventually make my way on board the correct vessel, with 15 minutes to spare.

The captain takes great delight in bumping over the many speed boat wakes as we zoom past the scrapers of Malé. After that, the sea is like glass. It’s a 90 minute run past a few dots of islands, lines of overwater bungalows (of course) a pod of dolphins on the horizon and the shadows of a ray or two.

Dhangethi

Dhangethi in a Nutshell

• Dhangethi is one of the inhabited islands of the South Ari (Alif Dhaal) Atoll, in fact, it's the capital, despite the fact that it’s just under a kilometre long and 325metres wide. Dhangethi's population is nominally 1200 souls, but fewer than 500 people actually live on the island. Most of the residents have moved to Malé, for education and better job opportunities.
• The locals refer to Dhangethi Island as ‘Handhu Runbaa' island. Handhu is 'moon' and Runbaa is 'jar' in Dhivehi. Way back, when the ancestors of Dhangethi depended on fishing, a group of fishermen set sail for a night ‘s work. That night, one fisherman on the boat saw the reflection of the moon in the jar in the dhoni half filled with water. Everyone was startled to see this sight and they hurried to Malé, to give the then Radhun (king) the moon as a present. But, of course, when they arrived, it had disappeared.
• Dhangethi is ideal for Maldives on a budget, I'm told. The speedboat transfers are 45 USD each way. You can get a ferry, for only 6 USD, if you don't mind taxiing to Malé and then catching the local slow ferry - six hours. If you’re rich, it’s the seaplane at 350 USD. Or you can charter your own speedboat, for a few thousand or so. But that rather defeats the point of my budget trip planning. There’s a range of accommodation, and it's relatively cheap, if you can get someone to answer your email or WhatsApp message. Atoll Residence is coming in at 85 USD per day, full board.
• Dhangethi is advertised as having a pristine white sand bikini beach, excellent non-stop food and daily excursions to unreal dive/snorkel spots. (Dhangethi is home to enigmatic mantas and gentle whale sharks.) And, tourism and fishing are the main sources of income on the island.
  

On Dhangethi

Bang on time, South Ari Atoll and Dhangheti's diminutive stone walled port, lined with the local wooden dhoni boats. They have Viking style prows. I’m greeted by three scarlet and white satellite masts, a collection of JCBs and piles of quarried coral sand, together with an unfinished concrete pier roof. Nestled behind that is the Bank of Maldives Self-Service Banking ATM centre, an important and recent innovation. But beyond that, once I’m transported five minutes, in a small wheeled metal cart, my piece of Dhangethi is quiet and beautiful, and the staff are exceptionally accommodating.

The beach, right opposite my guest house, is stunningly gorgeous. The best powdery white sand, cool to the feet (this is coral) and the sea is swirls of jade and sapphire. This Bikini Beach, accessed by welcoming arches of hibiscus, extends to the southerly point of the island, disappearing into a curling sand spit.

Czech Point

My room looks lovely, at first glance, modern with plenty of power points. And I’ve got a great view out to the reef. But places are budget for a reason. I’m trying not to look too closely at the battered door fittings, rusty pedal bin and mirror and scale-stained taps and especially (aargh the toilet seat). And the mattress is excruciatingly hard. The outdoor metal banister railings aren’t a great idea in the heat either. One burn is enough to ensure I refrain from touching them again. The Atoll Residence is nearly full with Czech families: statuesque blondes with neat figures and flat stomachs and lots of children milling around. Of course, I booked with a Czech lady. This is even marked as Czech Point (ha ha) on Google.

Sorting the Menu

Dinner is served under cover on the beach. And I soon learn why the food (non-stop?) is so cheap. It’s all cold as there's no heat source under the chafing dishes and it's all chips and pizza and pasta. One choice, but definitely not table d'hote. Apparently, that's what the guests like. The only beverages on offer are water or some very lurid orange squash. Despite the strap line plastered across reception ‘Feel the Local Vibes..’

I have words with one of the staff, who phones the boss (he only comes in to collect the money when guests arrive) and I explain to him that I’m not keen on the menu. He says the chef will cook what I want, if I talk to him. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, ‘Where is he?’ Ah, it's the guy I’ve been complaining to. He's a really delightful Sri Lankan. And sure enough he serves me up rice, fish and chicken from then on.

One Czech couple, with a young son, who has very good English turn out to be part of management too. (This is definitely a Czech enclave.) On Day Three they feed me pumpkin soup and Hungarian flat dough pancakes. A kind of palacsinta, they say, though it's nothing like the ones I had in Budapest. Nevertheless, highly calorific, but delicious, with cheese and mayonnaise. Things are definitely looking up.

Exploring Dhangethi

It doesn't take long to explore Dhangethi. The streets are all sand, some of quite deep; it’s as if it has all been built on the beach. And you can see the water at both ends of them. There are plenty of signs dotted around to remind us tourists what the dress code is. I'm exhorted not to just wrap a flimsy piece of material round my torso. That's my sarong out then. Though naturally, not all the tourists are obedient.

From a distance, the island looks relatively green. There are plenty of trees, palms and decorative bougainvillea. However, most of Dhangethi is built up, with some sort of beach running round all of it. There are eight minimarts, four restaurants and cafes and 12 souvenir shops. Alongside are the hospital, school, cultural centre, activities centre (with stage) pretty green mosque, football field (the only spot of grass but looking unused), some hard games courts and a telephone company office. The south side of the island, where I find the bikini beach is where most of the hotels are. There's more construction going on here, apace.

The north half is more industrial - if that's the right word. The essential desalination plant and numerous ship yards. In-between the two, the main shopping area, surprisingly buzzy. This is home to those souvenir shops. To one end, the main port, to the other, a pier, the council offices and a couple of cafes and exhibition areas. This is where most of that buzz comes from. There’s even an ‘I love Dhangethi’ sign.

Back at the Ranch

Day One and my room hasn't been cleaned at all. I’m not sure if this is an oversight or hotel policy, but I'm not saying anything as I fear I have exhausted all possible good will on my food discussions. Day Two and I arrive back from the beach to find cleaning in progress. I point out the underside of the toilet seat and the guy departs to fetch heftier weapons than those he had already brought in. Day Three doesn't bring any cleaning at all again. Either that's the hotel plan or he's avoiding being asked to do unpleasant tasks again.

I’m emulating the Germans and bagging a sunbed right by the sea. Though I don't think there is much competition. The Czechs are all heading down to the end of the Bikini Beach where beds and thatched umbrellas are both plentiful. The shade is needed - it's well over 30 Celsius.

Little Richard

As is frequently the case I soon acquire a ginger and white feline companion. He's small but feisty, determined to crawl on top of me. Fortunately, for me (but not him) he seems to have been declawed.

At dinner, it transpires that he (the Czechs tell me they have named him Richard for some reason) has half a dozen equally small and fluffy companions, nearly all with the same colour markings. There's a scrimmage as they compete for dinner scraps, even following me to my room, in the hope of more.( I suspect that's all the food they get.) But there is carnage when the cats slink into the indoor eating area. This is where the semi tame long billed whimbrels wander and where they're fed bowls of seeds. ( I think they must have clipped their wings.) The shrieking cats are scooped up and swiftly deposited back outside.

Little Richard is definitely king of the castle, despite his size. He even monopolizes the buffet table on the beach, when he thinks no-one is looking.

Some Dhangethi Snorkelling Adventures - Part One - Turtles (Or Not)

If it's a tropical island then there has to be snorkelling. First, a speed boat out to the reef, to look for turtles. My four on board companions adopt strange positions as if they're expecting some kind of combat. An Australian couple and a Russian mother and grimacing son. ( There are lots of Russians here too.) The doom and gloom Aussies tell me that I’ve paid too much for my trip on the boat and my next island Fuvamulah is very boring, nothing there and no bikini beach, unless I go diving for tiger sharks. Oh joy.

There’s no turtle joy either. Not a reptile to be seen, but the section of reef is long and there are other amusements. Black and white tipped reef sharks, plentiful shoals of marine life, including pipe fish and considerable amounts of live coral, though most of it is sepia brown. At least, it shows the colourful fish off to perfection.

Some Dhangethi Snorkelling Adventures - Part Two - Whale Sharks (Or Not)

Next day, it's the same crew and a longer expedition into the South Ari Atoll. This time, we're looking for whale sharks (a bucket list sight) and mantas. Conveniently, they inhabit the same waters. Very nice for the tour operators, who charge 75 USD for each or combine both to make it 150 USD, for the trip. I don't think you get double the time, though a double jackpot (both in the same frame), was reportedly seen last Thursday.

Today's co passengers are more Russians - a couple, with very little English and not much more in the way of manners, and a Vietnamese medic, who works in the USA, so has very good English and very glittery fingernails. He's called Jason and he begins by asking the guide, Shaun, to take a video of him (it must be vertical) in front of the animals, when we see them. I feel he is being optimistic on several counts.

It's a promising start, as some dolphins motor past. but after that things go decidedly downhill. It seems that everyone else in the Maldives is also hunting whale sharks. There are hundreds of boats bobbing, the passengers sittings upfront, fins at their sides, ready to assault the ocean, at the word jump. It is an assault too, a medley of kicking and shoving from folk, who clearly don't know how to swim or snorkel. There's no instruction or regulation whatsoever.

When a manta does appear and we manage to get close, someone will dive down, waving their cell phone camera, in its plastic wallet and the poor manta swims even deeper down. I saw two, but nowhere near well enough to get a decent image and one only very briefly, as it flees the scene. Very different to other manta visits in Micronesia or the Solomon Islands, where we wait quietly for the giant creatures to glide into their cleaning station and are not allowed to move from our spot.

The Whale Shark Wait

There are whale shark alarms, when Captain Bob takes great delight in careering over the wakes left by the boats who left before us, shrieking excitedly, as he twists the wheel wildly. He’s got long curly hair, which streams behind him. The whale shark doesn’t return. I don't blame him.

We are waiting and bobbing a lot more (perhaps that's why he's called Captain Bob). But the closest we've got to seeing a whale shark is a dhoni, with that name Jason is getting desperate, so he brings out his drone to go search for the whale shark, reported, somewhere in the vicinity. He has been reluctant to use it, as landing it is going to be fraught. It’s quickly launched, but immediately crashes into a strut of the boat canopy and bounces into the sea. There is much bad language. Bob manages to retrieve it by diving in, but there is steam emanating from the battery. It's laid out sadly to dry, limbs flailing.

All is quiet again. I’m desperate for a pee, so ask to go in for a swim. Mid flow, I’m interrupted by a yell and a demand I return to the boat immediately. It’s difficult to explain why I can't. And my scramble back onto the boat is even less dignified than usual, as I’m shouted at to hurry up. The ladder on this vessel moves with the waves, so it's hard to hold onto it and climb and no-one helps you scramble on-board. Needless to say, by the time we’ve bumped over to the other side of the lagoon the whale shark has dispatched itself.

Shaun rubs salt into the wound by showing us Thursday’s video. I’m not amused. This was not my best day out. I don't think the drone enjoyed it either. Perhaps I’m a jinx. That’s the second drone that's been used close to me and both have been lost in water. (See Tino in Reunion.)

Leaving Dhangethi

Dhangethi is a definite recommendation. The accommodation. Ummmm. Despite the lovely and well-meaning staff, I can't overlook the toilet seat.

But it’s time to leave. A day or two out of the sun may be called for. Yesterday, I wore a full body suit most of the day. The only exposed extremities, my hands and face, are red raw burnt and swollen. My eyes are slits. And I definitely put sun lotion on my face. At least it’s only a couple of bits of me. And I’ve given myself a free facial peel.

It’s an early start for the 7 a.m. boat back to Malé. I fondly imagine a peaceful ride, admiring the islands as we whizz past and taking a few photos. I need to curb my imagination. The boat is packed, almost definitely overloaded and the plastic awnings are down. Black screens also on my side. Yesterday’s Russians are seated next to me. Apart from barking at me to move my bag they ignore me. I’m unsure if they recognise me and aren’t going to acknowledge this or aren’t even aware. We all doze quietly.

Fuvahmulah - the Nothing To Do Island?

Getting to Fuvamulah

It's a plane to Fuvahmulah next, but it doesn’t go for another seven and a half hours. I tried to check in online during the night but was not allowed to. Ticket problem, it says. That’s slightly alarming. I try to find the domestic terminal. There don’t seem to be any signs. Over there, says the man at the Help Desk. But that’s Terminal 2, the old international terminal, still characterful with rows of tiny booths outside, servicing every possible aspect of the tourist industry. Google eventually informs me that this became the domestic terminal in February. It boats it's gone from three check in desks to 27. Next mission is to track down someone from Maldivian Airlines and ask about my ticket. But there’s no one at the ticket counter.

At least there’s a left luggage office. And then I wander along the many little quaysides to the Hulhule Hotel. It's a good place to hide in the bar, with a view across the water. There are an English family round the pool. They’ve been here a week, since their Emirates flight home was cancelled. There are many others in the same boat. Most of the hotels are full, busy bumping folk out or on as the inclination takes them and raising their prices.

Back at the airport, I buy KFC for an extortionate 10 USD, only to discover that I've been served what is probably yesterday's leftovers. The chips are hard and cold. I finally check in, much too early. After the clerk has given me a heart attack by telling me my flight has already left . Then I realise he’s pointing to my return flight, which will have left today. The islands have some of the most unprounceable names I’ve ever come across. Fuvahmulah seems to be said something like Formulaiah. I shall have to listen hard, to make sure I get on the right flight.

Fuvahmulah in a Nutshell

• Fuvahmulah is the second southernmost administrative atoll in the Maldives, 500 kilometres south of Malé, and a mere 33 kilometres from the Equator - in the southern hemisphere.
• It measures roughly 4.5 kilometres in length and 1.2 kilometres across.
• It is unique, because it is a one-island atoll surrounded by deep oceans.
• Fuvahmulah is renowned as a premier diving destination, particularly for tiger sharks and large pelagics, as its waters are nutrient rich. It’s apparently known as the ‘Galapagos of the Maldives’.
• It’s also the third most populous island after Malé and Addu. 11,000 people.

On Fuvahmulah

So now I've popped over the Equator. This is probably the closest I’m going to get to the Chagos Islands, which are on several travel checklists, but virtually inaccessible, unless you’re in the military. And it’s even hotter here. I’m still deciding on whether or not there is nothing to do. I’ve asked for a tour and been told it will take 30 minutes to an hour. There's a very scenic beach (with the two-tone blue water to which I have become accustomed) just up the road. Thoondu is lauded for its small white pebbles. I’m unsure why. There are a lot more on Chesil Beach, but perhaps those aren't as snowy white and shiny. It must also be because these are unique in the Maldives, where all the beaches are powdery coral sand.

The side roads are packed down sand, but the main roads are wide asphalt, with painted kerbs and flower beds alongside the pavements and in the central reservation. More neat shops and cafes and the football pitches here are AstroTurf. It’s all very smart. But very quiet and the beaches are empty. It’s Ramadan, so maybe it's livelier at other times. And the locals are still friendly, with children stopping to talk. ‘You’re very beautiful’ is always a good chat up line, despite the fact my face is scarlet and blistered. And even the women don’t mind having their picture taken.

A Tour of Fuvahmulah

Hotel manager Haam takes me on my tour, which lasts just over an hour. We start at the northern tip. There's the Geimiski Mosque, the oldest mosque in the Maldives, built of coral stone some 900 years ago, by Ah Naib Al-Hafiz Abubakr, thought to be one the first advocates of Islam. The compound houses a shrine built which formerly contained three tombs, one of which is believed to hold his remains.

It's thought to be built over a Buddhist temple site which explains the large tank in the corner and the odd orientation of the main building. The tank was used as a veyo, for ablutions, but is now home to fish. There's also a rectangular well, which, according to local myth, has four corners that offer distinctive tasting water. The liquid is green and we're advised not to to test this proposition.

The Buddhist connection is reinforced by Havitta, the ruins of a pre-Islamic Buddhist monastery, 500 feet away. the stupa is now s a heap of grass.

Haam waxes lyrical about the natural resources on this island. Fuvahmulah is very green and fertile compared to other Maldivian islands, with plenty of agriculture: taro, mangoes, bananas, aubergines and other vegetables, greens and tropical fruits. In ancient times, the southern end of Fuvahmulah had a small islet with a saltwater lagoon forming a natural harbour. Over time, the coral reefs grew and closed the channel connecting the lagoon to the sea. The lagoon lost its saltiness and is today known for its two freshwater lakes, Dhadimagi Kilhi and Bandaara Kilhi.

The lakes are surrounded by marshlands which are mainly dense vegetation of ferns, reed and taro fields. They feature sedate restaurants and board walks to view the emerald green stretches around the water and the herons and moorhens swooping and dabbling. And boats if you want to get really close up. There's an additional Nature Park with another board walk down in the south east. This one has no visible water, but plenty of grasslands.

The island is being sympathetically and beautifully developed. There's a Beach Promenade Plan to link Thoondu with the harbour, in the south. Extra, small harbours are being created, with beach and water sports sections. Down by the main harbour, in front of the fish market, some of the locals are volunteering to construct a raised viewing area: beach, airport and harbour. There’s even a webcam on the fish market, so locals can see what fish has been brought in and is up for sale. There's a black pebble beach there too, but it's too close to the airport runway and security won't allow visitors.

Sharks

• Sharks are Selachii - cartilaginous fishes with ribless endoskeletons, a sister group to the Batomorphi (rays and skates).
• Sharks have been around for a long time. Shark-like creatures - chondrichthyans such as Cladoselache and Doliodus - first appeared in the Devonian Period (419–359 million years), though some fossilized chondrichthyan-like scales are as old as the Late Ordovician (458–444 million years ago). The earliest confirmed modern sharks (Selachii) were found in the Early Jurassic, around 200 million years ago
• They are found in all the seas of the world, mainly living in saltwater. (The bull shark and river sharks can be found in both seawater and freshwater, and the Ganges shark, lives only in freshwater.)
• Sharks have a covering of placoid scales (denticles) which protects the skin from damage and parasites, as well as improving their fluid dynamics. They have numerous sets of replaceable teeth.(!)
• Sharks range hugely in size, from the small dwarf lantern shark, a deep sea species that is only 17 centimetres in length, to the whale shark (Rhincodon typus), the largest fish in the world, which reaches approximately 12 metres to 18.8 metres in length. Despite its huge size, the whale shark is an active filter feeder, primarily consuming plankton, krill, fish eggs, and small schooling fish, such as sardines and anchovies. It can process over 6,000 litres of water per hour, through its specialized sieve-like gill pads. Whale sharks are highly migratory, travelling thousands of miles across tropical oceans to exploit seasonal food sources, Whale sharks are known as gentle giants, docile and posing no significant threat to humans. Nevertheless, they are currently listed as an Endangered Species, due to a population decline of more than 50% over the last 75 years.

• Several shark species however, are apex predators, organisms which sit at the top of their food chain. These are the sharks which make the headlines: bull shark, tiger shark, great white shark, mako sharks, thresher sharks and hammerhead sharks.
• Tiger shark females are capable of attaining a length of over 5 metres. The name derives from the dark stripes down the shark's body, which resemble a tiger's pattern. They’re mainly seen on the juveniles, fading as the sharks grow and move into murkier, deeper waters, where the stripes aren't necessary and dingy grey suits them better. They’re distinguishable by their small dorsal fins, broad heads (home to all those teeth) and long narrow tails. away from human influence, the tiger shark is a solitary, mostly nocturnal hunter, notable for having the widest food spectrum of all sharks, with a range of prey which includes crustaceans, fish, seals, birds, squid, sea turtles, sea snakes, dolphins, and others, even smaller sharks. It also has a reputation as a 'garbage eater', consuming a variety of inedible, man-made objects which then linger in its stomach.
• The orca is the tiger sharks have only recorded natural predator. Nevertheless, it is considered a near-threatened species, because of because of hunting by humans. The tiger shark is second only to the great white in recorded fatal attacks on humans, (apparently these events are still exceedingly rare).
• Sharks main enemy is humans, who catch them for their meat or fins, often simply mutilating the fish and throwing them back. Since 1970, shark populations have been reduced by 71%.

Shark Island

As my Aussie doom-mongers pointed out, Fuvamulah is a place for divers. It's also known as Shark Island. I’ve checked out the diving scene and it is all shark orientated. There are several kinds around, but tiger sharks, the second most dangerous to man are the main draw. I've also learned that there is a possibility of snorkelling or ‘free diving’, which means staying as still as you can, mainly on the surface and not making any splashes, in case the sharks think you are in distress. I'm going to pass on that.

All the shark action happens down at the harbour entrance, at 'Tiger Zoo', so the dive boats don't have to go far. And I don't actually have to get in the water, thankfully, to see them. The sharks used to collect down at the fish market end of the port, where they threw the fish remnants into the sea after gutting and trimming. Now, the boatmen throw tuna heads and skins into the ocean at the other end. It certainly brings in the sharks, who throng in the area - as far as I can see, mostly tiger sharks (further out) and reef sharks.

The tiger sharks’ stripes camouflage beautifully in the waves, as the light refracts across them. Photos from above aren't very easy. The water is choppy today and those refracting stripes work very well. I'm a little perturbed by the shark baiting. I don't think it's very environmentally sound. What's more I know what happened after the reef sharks were fed in the Cocos Islands. And these are bigger and much more aggressive. But I'm told there have never been any reported incidents. (There weren't in Cocos either, even after the attack I witnessed.)

The Ataraxis Hotel and Spa

This hotel is a little gem. Huge rooms with a seating area and balconies. No rusty bins here. Though it is twice the price. It also boasts a lift which plays music, a rooftop café with a sauna and a fairly swanky downstairs restaurant, complete with outdoor staircase, leading up to a mezzanine eating area. It's called The Spot. The kindest and most attentive of staff bring me beautifully presented and nicely cooked food. The Indian dishes are spicy and delicious. Tuna served as a battered fish and chip meal is a little more surprising.

The Ataraxis sits rather oddly in what seems to be the middle of nowhere, surrounded by banana plantations and vegetable patches: taro, aubergines, sweet potatoes. But closer inspection reveals another hotel, a dive centre and a restaurant or two, just up the road.

It's very pleasant, in the cooler evening, eating up on the rooftop, views across to the lakes, listening to the melodic Iftar signal that it's time to break fast, with dates and water, wafting up from the mosque below. Fuvamulah is a serene place to be and it's worth a visit. Though maybe a short one.

Rakeedhoo

Rakeedhoo in a Nutshell

• Rakeedhoo is tiny – the smallest inhabited island in the Maldives.
• Online guides say it is 1.1 kilometres long and 0.6 kilometres wide, but a chat with Google confirms what my eye tells me. It's only 400metres at most, by 200 metres, at most.
• Rakeedhoo Island is beautifully located in the heart of Vaavu Atoll, approximately 75 kilometres from Malé. The island’s position offers excellent protection from strong currents. That's probably just as well.
• Rakeedhoo is home to approximately 60 residents, although as with most islands, the population is decreasing. It was 360.
• What community there is, is apparently known for preserving traditional Maldivian practices including music, dance, and fishing techniques. Rakeedhoo is apparently, particularly renowned for its traditional handicrafts, including mat weaving, rope making and coconut shell crafts.

Getting to Rakeedhoo

No tourist boats travelling to Rakeedhoo – not enough people. I’m on a local ProJets’ speedboat from Malé and everyone else on board is Maldivian, returning to other islands, after a visit to the capital. This boat operates like Uber. You can even track its progress online. The sea is choppier today and there are bumps on and off the whole way. Although we pass far more islands on this southerly route, out of Malé, some of them fairly built up, though not to the extremes of Malé. A few tiny islets have been flattened by JCBs, which are still at work. Surely, they're not planning to build on them, with rising sea levels?

Welcome to Rakeedhoo Island

Luckily, I’ve left the best till last. Rakeedhoo is as gorgeous as promised. Two guest houses. Mine, the Rattehi Inn is absolutely delightful, with every sort of comfortable chair, shade, tree and tasteful decoration (boats feature a lot) you could imagine. Hens skitter along, with chicks in their wake. I check them every day, but there are still four. No foxes here. Even cuter are the fluffy long legged watermen chicks, who also rampage through the grounds daily. The kanbili, as they are officially called, is the Maldivian national bird.

Sunbeds with thatched umbrellas ranged alongside the curving white sand beach. There’s the usual menagerie present. Minuscule hermit crabs drag their shell homes along the beach, leaving wavy trails in the sand, lizards scurry past trying to stay unnoticed, the resident heron perches majestically on the little coral stone arm and the micro ants track me down yet again and stream onto my sunbed. The air is fragrant with the scent of the white flowered beach naupaka. A turquoise lagoon which stretches waist high at most, out to the reef. A swing in the water (the Maldivians like those), a tiny pier. And most of the property lit up with strings of diamond lights at night. Paradise.

The downside (sadly there always is one), mosquitoes in the evening, which is when the dinner the tables are set atmospherically alongside the bay and the proximity of the mosque. Iftar is celebrated especially loudly on Friday evening. But it doesn't go on too long and the bites aren’t those horrible itchy ones.

The Rakeedhoo House Reefs

The PR boasts that the house reef is very accessible. It’s easily visible where the turquoise turns sapphire. You can wade out to it, but it's a long way when you are on your own. And the lights on the jetty, set up to attract the wildlife at night reveal stingrays and the teeniest of baby black tipped sharks meandering along. Followed by some full sized nurse sharks. I know these are not aggressive, but, sorry to be repetitive, I can’t forget Cocos. I don't want to meet one in the water, on my own.

So, I book a boat to take me out there. It’s a lovely little reef, brimming with diverse marine life, plenty of small fluorescent blue fish and colourful coral formations. The reef is sprouting hundreds of miniature clams, surrounded by a huge variety of other tropical finned creatures. A lobster pokes its feelers out of one crevice and an unusually friendly eagle ray pops up to say hello. Larger black tipped sharks keep their distance.

I’m not the only one impressed by the reef. There’s usually a Maldives live-aboard diving cruiser or two out there, swaying on the waves. A second trip takes me to two further reefs in the Vaavu Atoll. One presents even more colourful fish and greenback turtles (finally). The other has endless gardens of gorgeous coral in fascinating shapes and sizes. It’s a veritable sci-fi city.

Rakeedhoo - in the Swing of Things

Otherwise Rakeedhoo is quiet. I've been for a walk round the island. That didn't take long. Very traditional houses. It seems poorer than the other places I have visited, but still smiley and happy. No sign of the traditional craft making, but its Ramadan. Otherwise, there is little to do except admire the view and take an occasional dunk in the lagoon.

On my fourth day, I awake to find, consternation, that the swing is decidedly askew. Apparently it’s been given some overly rough treatment by one family and a post has broken. This morning's entertainment consists of watching six men attempt to dismantle it and carry the sign away. It's not an easy task. It requires scaffolding and the use of snorkels, to deal with the foundations.

Malé

I’m sad to leave, but its one more bumpy speed boat journey to Malé. It's not a comfortable or scenic ride. Stuck in the middle of the back seat I can't see out of any of the windows. The Chinese tourist next to me seem to view it as a tortuous exercise. Hoods zipped right up they are resting their heads on the seats in front of them, eyes closed, jaws clenched, cushioned by those neck protector pillows.

Malé in a Nutshell

• Malé is the capital and most populous city of the Maldives. (211,000). Malé Island is, by some measures, the most densely populated island in the world. It's almost entirely covered in tower blocks.
• Administratively, the city consists of the central island, an airport island Hulhule, and five other island, most notably Vilimale. Malé Island, is now linked to the airport island by a long road bridge,
• Traditionally it was the King's Island, from where the ancient royal dynasties ruled and where the palace was located. The city was then called Mahal, a walled city surrounded by fortifications and gates. But the Royal Palace (Gan'duvaru) was destroyed, along with the picturesque forts (koshi) and bastions (buruzu) when the city was remodelled under President Ibrahim Nasir, after the abolition of the monarchy, in 1968.
• The Malé region is home to over 100,000 motor bikes, which vastly outnumber the 7,500 or so cars. The number of car parking spaces is fewer than the number of vehicles. And the bikes are parked everywhere. They obstruct the narrower inland streets, so that cars can't actually get through. And the motor bike riders give no quarter. The pavements are narrow and blocked by electrical cabinets and blue pipes. (used by the construction industry to channel water away from sites). There are plenty of zebra crossings but the bike riders don’t stop. They weave round you as you cross the road, grimacing and grunting if they actually have to apply the brakes. It reminds me of the city streets of Vietnam, though thankfully it's not quite that intimidating.

Unima Grand

Pick up (free) is promising. I’m met on the jetty by a smartly uniformed young man, who delivers me to another uniformed chauffeur. The hotel is just across the ocean to the airport and near the Green Al-Noor Mosque (solar panels on the roof and air conditioning no less) and the new blue roofed waterside King Salman Mosque. That is also promising, but that’s where the positivity ends.

My city view room, in fact, doesn’t have a view at all. Just a window onto air conditioning ducts. The girl on reception tells me that all the 'superior rooms' are the same. Only sea view rooms have views. I say this is deception and an odd use of the word superior. The bell boy tells me there were city views until they built more hotels next door. That doesn’t account for the duct view. I eventually get moved to a room with a window that looks onto the adjacent building. 'It's better, but not good', I tell the bell boy.

I’m hungry, as I didn’t eat lunch, so it's the tenth floor restaurant next. That’s got very nice views. The food is dire. Rice with no flavour whatsoever and lemon garlic kebabs that are charred and tough and tasteless. I fear they have been reheated. And the Wi-Fi is terrible. I have to sign in again every five minutes. City hotels are always a gamble. Don’t stay in this one.

Circumnavigating Malé

Time to cool off, (physically and mentally) wandering around the main island of Malé. Past the artificial beach, pretty enough, with its imported sand and following the waterside path to the southerly parts of the island, which is mostly ports and jetties with fish markets and docks, for the many ferries which cross to and fro. There’s even a posh presidential jetty. That’s opposite the government buildings (police headquarters and President's Office) on Republic Square. Huzzah. Some open space and a let up in the claustrophobia.

It's not yet dusk. Lines of water bottles and dates have been laid on the ground outside the mosque in anticipation of ramadan fast breaking. But many of the locals have jumped the gun. The cafes are heaving and there are lines outside the numerous Iftar buffets on offer. The Malé cats too are feasting. (The people of the Maldives seem partial to cats.) There's a cat sanctuary close to the main mosque, with hutch type dwellings and plenty of kibble.

Leaving the Maldives

It's been another great trip, but this one, it seems is destined to end with a whimper. From the Unima Grand to the British Airways flight. I'm penned in, by the window, in economy. There's a baby next to me, bringing the inevitable kicking, hair tugging and squalling. The Wi-Fi won't work. My screen crashes four times. I give up asking for it to be reset after that. When it does work, it will only play the TV episodes in the wrong order, odd episodes follow each other, as do the even episodes. At least I get to scan the whole season, when I just watch every other instalment. And there is turbulence nearly the whole journey. For two hours it's so bad the crew also stay in their seats.

At Heathrow, I collect my luggage and go to wait for my bus. but it's ETA keeps being pushed back. There's a fire in the Heathrow Tunnel. Aargh. I'm never travelling again... (How many times have I said that?)

On-board the Aranui

It seems a shame to come back to French Polynesia, from Pitcairn, without seeing more of this far flung country. So, I’ve booked a twelve day cruise, which sails to the Marquesas Islands, via the Tuomoto Islands. This way I get to travel to more extremes, some different edges of the world.

Like the Pitcairn Silver Supporter, the Aranui 5 is part (bows) cargo ship and half passenger cabins and all the accoutrements, on nine decks (plus observation deck above). But this one has 108 cabins and can accommodate up to 295 passengers. Fortunately, there’s under half that number on board today.

There’s a petite blue plastic pond, which they’ve called a swimming pool, surrounded by utilitarian bars and sundecks. There’s a small gym and even a tattoo parlour. Comfortable, rather than luxurious. They used this boat as the Olympic Village for the surfing at Tahiti Iti. They’re obviously very proud of this. Olympic logos still decorate some of the doors.

The main challenge of a cruise, especially one of any length, of course, is ‘socialising ‘with the other passengers. Just under half of them are French speaking and they, for the most part, tend to act as if the rest of us do not exist. They certainly have no intention of conversing in anything other than their mother tongue, whilst on French territory. The majority of us are English speaking and the largest group amongst those, by a long way, are Australian. Some Americans of course, a few Kiwis, six Brits, including me and Steve, who is six foot five inches and therefore unmissable and also went to Pitcairn, a couple of Canadians and an Italian couple.

There are seven decks of cabins, with the more costly balcony adorned rooms up top, along with the presidential and owners suites. It passes the time to try and work out who is in which. The presidential suite is occupied by a blonde haired lady, who I understand is the daughter of an (ex?) German consul. That doesn't seem like celebrity material to me, but she definitely acts like a celebrity. She poses, smiles and waves at her 'adoring' subjects. The staff spend a vast amount of their time taking pictures of her in different locations; she was even singing and dancing in Reception with some of the musicians. And a photographer, of course.

But, I tell myself, up top is also more prone to the effects of the boat’s rock and roll. My cabin, on Deck 5, has loads of cupboards and a huge bed, so I’m happy. It’s obstructed view - which fortunately doesn’t mean that part of the window is covered, but there are suspended launches in my line of sight, to sea. It’s a little disconcerting to draw the curtain and find a member of crew staring in, as he dismantles the winch outside. But they wave cheerily, before carrying on with their work. It was a lot cheaper than standard double cabin - about the same as a single cabin.

Talking of singles, there are very few on the boat and little provision is made for us. We are expected to turn up to the sit down three course meals for lunch and dinner and just slide into a place, on one of the six or eight person tables. It’s a little daunting.

The group of Kiwis I next encountered broke off their conversation to chat to me for five minutes asking what I thought of the mornings’ activities. The rest of the time they acted as if I wasn’t there. If you end up with a French group they smile (if you’re lucky) and then ignore you for the whole meal. I suppose you can at least then read, instead of having to make polite conversation, especially when the buzz in the room is such that you can’t hear much of what they say anyway.

There are various lectures and activities on offer, as we sail, and daily briefings about what to expect from tomorrow’s programme and optional activities. The Polynesian guy in charge of these has a gentle, strongly accented voice, and speaks very slowly. It’s a challenge to stay awake. I have to check the accompanying information sheet afterwards, to see what I’ve missed. It’s packed with quaint English. The weather forecast is generally ‘rare showers.’ And usually they’re so rare that we don’t get any rain at all.

Papeete to Fakarava

We’re departing a very rainy Papeete, the mountains rapidly disappearing, the odd dolphin leaping to wave us off. And a procession of old sailing vessels from Moorea, glide past, rapturously welcomed by crowds on the shore.

The first day’s offering includes Polynesian dancing with participation (!), a very thorough mandatory evacuation drill, pearl selling, Happy Hour, karaoke and a Polynesian dance class. I’ll leave you to decide which of these on-board activities I participate in.

It also gets very choppy quite quickly. More rolling – deja vu - and some very green faces. But this time my Sea Legs are holding it off.

The Tuamoto Islands - in a Nutshell

• The Tuamotu Archipelago is a French Polynesian chain, of just under 80 islands and atolls, in the southern Pacific Ocean. This is the largest chain of atolls, in the world, extending (from northwest to southeast) over an area roughly the size of Western Europe.
• The archipelago's major islands are Rangiroa, Anaa, Fakarava, Hao and Makemo.
• The Tuamotus have approximately 16,000 inhabitants.
• Robert Louis Stevenson and Fanny Stevenson travelled among the Tuamotus (then called the Paumotus) on the yacht Casco in 1888; an account of their journey was published as In the South Seas.
• Jack London wrote a story, The Seed of McCoy, based on an incident, in 1900, in which a burning ship, The Pyrenees, had been safely beached on Mangareva. He set the climax on Fakarava.
• In 1947, the Norwegian ethnographer Thor Heyerdahl, exploring immigration routes, sailed from South America with a crew of five others, reached Raroia, on his raft Kon-Tiki.
• France conducted nuclear weapons testing on the atolls of Moruroa and Fangataufa.

Fakarava -The Tuamoto Islands

Dawn, the next day, sees us sailing through the entrance to Fakarava Atoll, having reached the Tuamoto Island group. The Sky Bar, on Deck 9, is crammed with early risers, keen to witness the spectacle of passing through the gap, the Passe Garuae, the largest atoll opening in French Polynesia. It’s not really that exciting. This is the second biggest atoll in the Tuamotos, 60 kilometres by 25, just a rectangle of flattish land, covered in vegetation, surrounding a vast expanse of blue sea. Thankfully, that’s fairly calm now.

Catamarans are the vehicle of choice round here, bobbing on the water. The strip, on two sides of the atoll, which is home to almost 800 inhabitants, is so narrow, you can easily see the sea on both sides, The first tiny village is Rotoava. Neat and sleepy; it’s Sunday. The locals are lined up outside coral built, St John’s Church, in their floral best. On the lagoon side, small white sand patches of beach. interspersed with jetties. Some of the planks on those creak alarmingly. There are fins circling lazily beneath. The atoll is home to a very large population of grey reef sharks, which are protected.

I settle on a small section of shore and swim out to inspect the coral reef. It’s fairly ravaged, with just a few miniature clams and some brawling and swooping angelfish. But it’s pleasant enough, under the casuarina trees, the light dappling the jade water and joyful background singing from the church.

Heading to the Marquesas

Now, we're heading across open seas, from Rotoava to Nuka Hiva in the Marquesas. I’ve found a comfortable cushioned sofa, on the covered veranda deck, behind the main bar. It’s good to get some fresh air. My bathroom has already acquired that whiff of drains. Even on the veranda there’s a fly trying to crawl up my leg. How’s he managed to get out here ? …

I’ve paid an extortionate price for all day access to Wi-Fi in my cabin. I reason that it will give me something to do on the two long sea crossings between the Tuamotos and the Marquesas. It’s a day and a half each way. And I’ve got a backlog of programmes on BBC Sounds Catch Up waiting.

All the best laid plans. We’ve hardly embarked on our journey to the Marquesas, at a steady 15 knots, when the Wi-Fi disappears. Technical glitch, we're told, over the Butlins style tannoy, no Wi-Fi until we arrive now. So, it’s back to staring at a vast stretch of choppy ocean. Nothing in sight, except the crests of the waves. It’s sunny, but it’s too windy to repose up top. The water is slopping out of the swimming pool, creating a subsidiary paddling area, several centimetres deep, complete with wave effect.

The Sea Legs are both protecting me and wiping me out. I spend a great part of the day dozing on the veranda deck, or the sun deck (up top) and in my room and eventually have to be rescued by Coca-Cola. The constant but balmy wind doesn’t help. It’s strong enough to lift my dress, as I cautiously clamber up and down the exterior staircases. At least I have my swimming costume on underneath.

There's an entertainment team, on board, of course: musicians and the fashionable animators. Though I still haven't worked out what that actually means. It sounds a little scary. On offer, on board today, as we have a whole day at sea:
A coconut demonstration, a palm weaving workshop, a meet the crew session, a documentary on 15 fishing techniques in French Polynesia and music in the bar. Live music with ukuleles, drums and guitars pops up everywhere. We’re always melodically serenaded on and off board and into meals.

The Internet is still down, even when we’ve arrived at Nuku Hiva, our first point of call in the Marquesas Islands. It seems there’s a problem with the satellite and they were flying a guy out from Papeete to deal with it, when we arrived here. (Most of the islands have tiny airports.) But the Air Tahiti firefighters have gone on indefinite strike. (Well, this is France.) It’s not looking good for future communications.

At the Marquesas - Unloading the Cargo

Like the Pitcairn Silver Supporter, the Aranui is part cargo ship, part passenger cruiser. It’s designed only to take cargo to the Marquesas Islands and the crew leap into action before we’ve even moored at the quay. The huge cranes on board swing into action, depositing manned skiffs into the ocean, ready to assist with loading and unloading. There are two small launches and two motor driven pontoons to this end. And a whole flotilla of fork lift trucks. On the outer edges of the cargo section, two larger rectangular boats, with wooden benches to seat 40 and two mighty 200 HP engines. Those are the launches they use to take us ashore when we can’t dock. The French call them barges.

And they’re unloading all manner of surprising goods, aside from the dual food supplies. There are several cars and pick-ups (the French government subsidises them), stacks of washing machines and a helicopter being released from their containers today. Lined up alongside: a racing canoe, cement, sugar and a series of freezer and cooling containers. They’re also taking on board copra and fruit. Fascinating.

The Marquesas Islands - in a Nutshell

• The Marquesas Islands group is one of the most remote in the world. It lies about 850 miles northeast of Tahiti and 3,000 miles southwest of Mexico (the nearest continental land mass).
• The islands in the group fall naturally into two geographical divisions. One is the northern group, consisting of Eiao, Hatutu (Hatutaa), Motu One, and the islands surrounding the large island of Nuku Hiva: Motu Iti, also called Hatu Iti; Ua Pou; Motu Oa; and Ua Huka . The other is the southern group, consisting of Fatu Uku, Tahuata, Moho Tani (Motane), Terihi, Fatu Hiva, and Motu Nao (also called Thomasset Rock), which are clustered around the main island of Hiva 'Oa.
• With the exception of Motu One, all the islands of the Marquesas are of volcanic origin - a centre of upwelling magma, called the Marquesas Hotspot.
• Alternatively, legend has it that 'Ono, the god of creation, promised his wife to build a house in one day, so he gathered together land and created the Marquesas Islands, which are all named after parts of the house, Nuku Hiva being the roof. Everything he had left over, he threw to one side and created a dump, which is called 'Ua Huka’.
• Latest studies indicate that the first people to arrive here came from West Polynesia, around 2000 years ago, only later colonizing Tahiti, Hawai'i, The Cook Islands and New Zealand.
• The peoples, of the Marquesas Islands, 2000 years ago, were tall and stocky and believed they were the sole inhabitants on earth. They were once great navigators, but lost the ability until the skill was rediscovered when Hawaiians visited. Just like Moana.
• On 21 July 1595, Spaniard Álvaro de Mendaña de Neira stopped at Fatu Iva and called the islands Los Marquesas, after the Viceroy of Peru.
• The population at of the Marquesas Islands, at one stage, was much larger, in the hundreds of thousands, but the peoples were decimated by disease, brought by whaling ships, as well as the introduction of alcohol.
• There have been ongoing discussions about separation of the Marquesas Islands, from the rest of French Polynesia. The main impetus seems to be a desire to remain a part of France, should the rest of French Polynesia attain independence.

Nuku Hiva

So, here I am once more, in The Middle of Nowhere. Nuku Hiva is the largest island in the Marquesas group. In fact, it’s the second largest island in French Polynesia, after Tahiti, with over 3,000 inhabitants. It’s volcanic, velvety and lofty, rising to 1223 metres in Mount Tekao, and stunning. Further swathes of acacia, topped by other vegetation. For the most part, the mountain sides drop straight into the sea. There’s unexpectedly a central plateau, with horses, introduced in the nineteenth century, by the French colonists.

We are organised into a motley, but gleaming, fleet of four-by-fours to see all three main municipalities. Mostly pick-up trucks, but some properly fitted out for excursions, with covered benches on the back. The drivers are all beautifully dressed, in different versions of the same pink floral material. They’re nearly all women. Our driver, Eti, sports a pink top and jeans and a matching head garland.

The first, harbour village, is Taiohae, by far the largest settlement and the administrative capital of the Marquesas. Hence, various Tiki statues and the town hall (mairie). Looming over the little harbour, Tiki Tuhiva at 40-foot-tall, is the highest contemporary sculpture in the Pacific. It shows a female Tiki being protected by a male warrior.

Before we can set off from here it’s obligatory to see a craft market. Trestle tables laden with jewellery and expectant stallholders. Cruise ship day is very important for the economy. I’m more interested in watching the locals gutting fish by the quay. They throw the entrails into the water, where a shoal of sharks circles and battles to reach them first. But I do hope somebody else makes some purchases.

Next stop, is the municipality’s Cathedral of Notre Dame. The majority of the population, converted by missionaries, in the nineteenth century, worship here. The inside of the wooden building isn’t terribly exciting, except that Baby Jesus has a lot of hair and is clutching breadfruit. (Breadfruit is very spirituality significant in Polynesia, symbolising the ancestors' struggles to get here as well as links with nature.) But it has an endearing twin towered entrance gate.

Then, over the first of the jaw-dropping valleys, past plunging waterfalls, to another craft centre, at Taipivai. The roads are traumatic and dramatic; thank god I’m not driving. Hairpin, after hairpin, winding over the steep valleys. Wild pigs saunter across the bends, munching.

The best views of all are back to the rock formations, edging the beautifully circular bay. The market at Taipivai specialises in bijouterie, made of seeds. Outside the oval building, there’s a stone commemorating the visit of American author, Herman Melville, who abandoned his whaling ship (aged 23), on this island, with Tobias Greene, and lived in the village, in 1842. His book The Taipi describes his time here. He’s not the only literary connection who the island boasts. Robert Louis Stevenson also landed here.

Another spectacular valley, with more sea views, over the far side of the island, to a soaring jaggedly peak framed bay, Hatiheu-Aakapa. It’s a giant volcanic amphitheatre. Here, there’s Tohua Kamuihei, an archaeological site of some 600 years. The visit begins with a display of shell blowing and Marquesan dancing, to drums, under a magic banyan tree which was once, apparently, surrounded by skulls. The dance is very reminiscent of the haka, done by men in grass skirts. The culture on these islands had all but disappeared after the arrival of the missionaries, but is being resuscitated.

There are three levels to the Tohua Kamuihei site, which might even be three different sites. No-one is quite sure. In front of the banyan tree was a pit, used for the bodies after human sacrifice, and there are also dug chambers, where the breadfruit skin was fermented. Also, moss covered petroglyphs, alongside stick figure motifs and fish carvings on two dolmen. Commoners lived below, the priest up top. Along with thousands of mosquitoes, sand flies called no-nos and ants. We’ve all been warned to slather on the repellent.

The guides’ talks are very slow and soft, the English broken. It's a struggle to listen and I'm worrying I’m getting bitten to boot, as I perch on the hard stone wall. I can already see huge pink welts rising on the pasty calves of the shorts wearers.

Polynesian lunch at Chez Yvonne, close to the gorgeous sandy beach at Hatiheu. With more Polynesian music. Everything on the menu comes with coconut milk. Delicious poisson cru (like ceviche), goat (bony and fatty) and banana pudding.

The last stop, yet another craft centre, at Taiohae. After we’ve wandered all the stalls, we’re allowed to return to the boat.
We’ve got a Polynesian buffet, by the pool tonight, with Polynesian entertainment. More drums and ukuleles. We’ve been invited to order head garlands to wear, at 25 USD per pop. There’s talk on how to wear a pareo too. It’s possibly Polynesian overkill, today.

The Internet has come and gone, making more false starts than Keir Starmer. And I’ve just been brought a special present by one of the crew. It’s a presentation box, containing a clear paperweight, demonstrating the inauguration of the Aranu, in 2015 , with a model of the boat inside. I don’t know whether to be pleased or offended. I think it might be an incentive to give the cruise a good write up. But it weighs a ton. I will need to dispose of it before I get on my next flight.

Ua Pou (WaPoo)

I’m going to have to be careful how often I use the word stunning. Ua Pou is the third largest island in the Marquesas Archipelago, population over 2,000. But the melange of incredible basalt spires, peaks and pillars which greets us, as we sail into capital, Hakahau, is astonishing, easily giving Mervyn Peake a run for his money. The cloud capping them just low enough to be equally annoying and mysterious. The highest mountain here is Mount Oave, topping Nuku Hiva’s tallest by 7 metres. Ua Po means two pillars. Which two I’m not sure. Wikipedia says there are twelve of them altogether.

Each island has its speciality. Ua Po is famous for tattoos and sculptors, as well as garnet phonolite, known locally as flower stone, and only otherwise found in Brazil. So, today’s activities focus on the craft centre, in Hakahau.

It seems that all the large villages boast a hill top cross. Some of the passengers climbed up the path to the one here and accompanying views across the bay, just after breakfast. I wasn’t going to try it, but excellent sightings are reported, so I set off later in the morning. There’s a stream of people going in the opposite direction. ‘You thought you’d wait for the heat,’ they mock.’ It’s thirty Celsius, which isn’t too awful, but the humidity is high, the air weighing heavily on my shoulders.

Too late, I discover an enticing little strip of sand complete with bendy palms, leading to the village centre. The sound of singing directs me to the craft centre, tropical fruit tasting (on banana leaves) and more Polynesian dancing. Apparently, the performance here is the best one, including the famous local ‘Bird Dance’. I will have to take their word for it. It just looked like a more energetic haka to me. More Polynesian food: banana, sweet potato, taro. The pork, in sweetish brown sauce, is exceptionally good.

Another four-wheel drive tour, this time to Hakahetua, a small village, in the north. There are stops at various scenic viewpoints, mainly to admire the basalt pillars. Then there’s the diminutive airport strip and several more beautiful beaches. Though one is named Shark Bay, which suggests that swimming may not be an option. Many of the thousands of trees dotting the lower slopes have not sprouted yet this year. There has been a drought.

Tiny Hakahetua has more great peak panoramas, some sandstone cliffs and the only non-seasonal river on the island. Frigate birds wheel overhead. We congregate in another craft centre; there are coconuts to drink and another singing performance, this time by the drivers, who are mostly male today. It’s joyful and passionate, so I forgive them.

Hiva Oa (Long Roof)

Heading south east, in the boat now, we dock at Atuona on Hiva Oa at 3 a.m. and the cargo shifting vehicles are busy at work, beneath my window, long before it’s light. Hiva Oa is the second largest of the Marquesas Islands, the peak here, Mount Temetiu reaching 1276 metres and towering behind the bay. (They’re pretty consistent in height, across these volcanic islands.) Atuona has another port on a river. More frigate birds aloft, watching for smaller birds to rob. Spectacular ridges and dots of islands.

Paul Gauguin

The highlight of Hiva Oa, according to the tourist board, is Paul Gauguin’s grave, close to that of Belgian singer Jacques Brel, in a cemetery, up the slopes. A hike to see it is offered. I opt for the bus. Then, a ten minute drop-down walk, to the main town centre, around a headland from the port. Here there’s a Paul Gauguin Museum (life story told with reproductions and no originals at all) and a Jacques Brel Museum (a suspended plane and a few artefacts), set in some pretty tiki decorated gardens. However, given Paul Gauguin’s history it’s all a little uncomfortable. I’m unsure if I wish to celebrate his life and his paintings have never really attracted me anyway.

Yes, Gauguin (1848-1903) is a hugely significant figure in European art. His paintings at auction realise staggering sums of money: in 2022 one changed hands for over US$105 million. But Gauguin is described as ‘a violent, fist-swinging thug, a paedophile and a serial rapist.’ He dumped his wife and five children in Europe, to escape debt, leaving them in poverty and went to live in Hiva Oa, where he married three native children, the youngest 13, the others 14. He used them as models for his paintings, depicting erotic fantasies, had numerous children with them and infected some of them with syphilis, before he died, aged 54. The museum even features his ‘House of Pleasure’.

Jacques Brel

I’ve never heard of Jacques Brel before and I’m not much wiser after my visit, as all the signage is in French. Wikipedia tells me that he is the third most bought recording artist from Belgium. He suffered from ill health and lung tumours and came to live in the Marquesas with his wife, against the advice of his doctors, who thought the climate bad for his condition. He actually died in Paris, but his body was flown back here. The grave is marked by numerous decorated pebbles.

Although Gauguin and Brel are both synonymous with Hiva Oa and lie close to each other here they never actually met, living in different centuries.

Atuona and Back Again

The cultural centre, opposite the museums, is a sprawling affair, with several craft areas, behind a tiki decorated green. Ongoing guitar music goes without question. The bus back isn’t for some time, so I make another rash decision and decide to walk back to the ship. The route looks flat on the map. It isn’t. And it’s moving into heat of the day time. There are beautiful views of the lofty Hanakee Motu, in the bay and the frigate birds are performing. But, I’m so relieved to get back on board that I trip on the steps, bang my camera and stub my toe. My toe seems to have come off worst. I think that’s probably the right way round.

Tahuata (Dawn)

Tahuata, the smallest of the Marquesas Islands is just four kilometres and half an hour’s sail away. More towering mountains and ridges, no space for an airstrip here, but some gorgeous sandy bays, perfect for yachties and more coral than anywhere else in the archipelago. The only real settlement is Vaitahu, where we land.

No pier at Vaitahu. We come ashore in the launches. The cargo is landed from outboard driven pontoons, also carried on the ship. The fork lift trucks zip around manoeuvring the cargo up the narrow quay to the eager islanders. It’s like Christmas for them.

This is the site of the first French settlement in the Marquesas. The oversized church, was built by the Vatican and has a massive stained glass window. Another craft market and still more guitars. The speciality here is bone and some of the earrings are pretty enough to buy.

Fatu Hiva (Finish the Roof)

Lush, Fatu Hiva is crescent shaped, the southernmost and most isolated of the Marquesas. You can only get here by boat; the closest land is Hiva Oa. This is a double volcano island, its only two villages nestle in the hollows of their calderas.

The specialty craft on Fatu Hiva is tapa, where the women weave plant fibres into fabrics, with designs based on traditional tattoos. Capital Omoa is surmounted by yet more breath-taking pillars, and a rocky peak they claim has a profile like one of the moai on Easter Island. There are frigate birds overhead. You know the rest.

Further up the west coast, the only other village is Hanavave, set on The Bay of Virgins. (It was originally called Bay of Penises, after all the pillars, but the missionaries deemed this unsuitable.) A ten-mile hike is offered between the two, but I’ve declined this tempting offer and I’m taking a 4WD trip to soak up the scenery instead. It’s an exceptionally rewarding trip. We wind high into the mountains, parallel with dinosaur backs and snake ridges, as the slopes tumble into the sea beneath.

Then, a launch trip back to meet the ship at Hanavave, where we started our adventure. We get a close-up view of the increasingly majestic basalt formations. Baroque cathedrals, with folds of flying buttresses wandering into the sea. Small caves peek at the waterline and a limestone door shows us the way to the ship’s anchorage.

Ua Huka (Sacred Silo or Leftovers)

The last Marquesas island to be visited, back in the north of the archipelago, Ua Huka, is one of the smallest. Here we’re at anchor, in the port of capital Vaipaiee. Well almost. There’s a very narrow sea passage to a shallow ‘Invisible Bay’. The ship enters and then executes a spectacular 180 degree turn (as they describe it) in the passage, sending out the pontoons with mooring ropes, so that they can attach to each side and make sure the ship doesn’t crash into the steep cliffs. There’s an impressive swell (What a swell party this is..) and getting into the launches involves timing and jumping. Mind the gap! There are some very tense faces.

Ua Huka has a very different landscape. Slightly more rolling, with plateaux and far less vegetation. The island’s emerald expanses are home to 700 people, numerous goats and over 1,500 wild horses, who greet us, standing proudly in silhouette, on the high land, at the edges of the pass. They are the descendants of those originally used for transport, by the colonists.

Ua Huka is also famous for its collection of tropical plants, in the arboretum. We’re taken there in the usual 4WDs. I’ve got too used to ignoring the ‘rare showers’ weather forecast, but today it manifests as heavy showers. And I haven’t come prepared. the stand out plant for me is the golden shower tree. That seems appropriate.

Then, down the coast to a communal island centre, very upmarket. Beautifully thatched buildings and open spaces, with tiki facing out to sea. The whole is perched above a bay, with rocky islets and wild horses, gathering in a gulley below. The airport strip beneath them reminds us that we’re living in the twenty-first century. This was the first airport in these islands. A very strong wind blows up. At least it dries my tee shirt.

Next up, Hokatu, yet another craft market, with live music and a petroglyph museum. The latter has a few two dimensional replicas, with some photos of the original sites. And regular readers of this column will know that I struggle to get excited about petroglyphs at the best of times.

Finally, back to Hane, a handicrafts centre, it goes without saying, a sea museum (canoes and shells) and some very welcome lunch.

Back, Across the Pacific

After six days in the Marquesas, we’re back again, ploughing over endless empty seas. Except for one enormous cargo ship, which fills the horizon for a very long time. Thankfully, the wind and tides are with us and there’s isn’t much of a roll today. No Sea Legs required. The Wi-Fi is working and all is well with the world. A day and a half sailing will bring us once again to the Tuamoto Islands. This time to Rangaroa, the largest atoll in French Polynesia.

Rangaroa - Paradise in the Tuamoto Islands

There’s a selection of excursions at Rangaroa. One, astonishingly, offers wine tasting. Apparently, the greatest challenge to be dealt with, when growing grapes on these islands, is land crabs. They bury under the vines. More understandably, there’s also rum available.

Anyway, I’ve chosen what has to be the best option. A motor boat trip to the Green Lagoon. First, an in-vain dolphin spotting expedition. Apparently they like leaping the waves at the entrance to the Tiputa Pass. But today, the waves are too high, and they’ve gone elsewhere for their thrills. Then, snorkelling in what they proudly dub The Aquarium.

I think this is taking things a bit far. There’s little living coral and medium sized fish, snappers and parrot fish, meandering on the reef. A couple of white tipped nurse sharks on the drop off. But it’s scrimmage snorkelling. A dozen of us instructed to keep together and follow the guide and his large rectangular buoy. Sadly, he doesn’t seem sure where he’s going and tells us all the things we should have seen, when we’re back on the boat.

Then, the motorboat heads off to the Green Lagoon, the other side of the main village. This is a little piece of paradise. Exquisite opalescent swirling blue water, lined with bendy palm trees and shimmering white sand. Small shoals of fish nibbling at the edges. It isn’t green, but I’m not going to make a thing of it. It might even make My Best Beaches in the World list.

Bora Bora

A final stop at Bora Bora. It was stunning (OMG) last time, but it's cloudy and drizzly and not shown at all to best effect today. Perhaps you should never return to somewhere when you've had a really special time? Read about my last visit here.

And so my cruise, in the far reaches of the world, comes to an end. There have been more adventures. I've seen some stunning sights, sweltered on mountain roads, been stalked by a Canadian Buddhist and spent some fun times with an Australian couple, Vicki and Michael. Vicki gives me plenty of advice, so we've dubbed her Mum (She's further up the page, with Steve and I.) But now it's back to Tahiti.

Tahiti - The Gateway - Pardonnez Moi

I have to begin by saying that Tahiti is not one of my favourite places. It's not awful, by any means, but it's expensive, idiosyncratically French and it can be a battle to book accommodation with people, who don't exactly tell the truth. But it's the gateway to some much nicer and more interesting destinations. So, apologies for the comings and goings in this post.

The Big Hitters

The first time I fly into Papeete I'm going on to the Big Hitters of French Polynesia, Bora Bora and Moorea. The 'big island plane' from Rarotonga has 48 seats, but fewer than half of them are occupied. Presumably, no-one can afford Tahiti. (I’ve been warned that my credit card is going to take a battering.)

And it is like arriving on a different planet. It is all built up, proper airport, huge swanky resorts. Even a small traffic jam. Everyone is wearing hats, the men have little moustaches and they are all chattering away in French. And I walk straight through immigration, without even a stamp in my passport. (We are in the EEC at the time of writing this).

My hotel, for the one night, has given me a 'lagoon view' room. All I can see from the window is trees. On the upside, the porters are all wearing sarongs and nothing else. French food and sophistication and stunning tropical scenery. Sublime.

Next up, Bora Bora and Moorea.

Tahiti - in a Nutshell

• Tahiti is an island in French Polynesia, part of the Society Islands Group. There's a further subdivision within that of five islands known as The Windward Islands. That also includes Tahiti and Moorea.
• Tahiti is the largest island in French Polynesia, home to 69% of the French Polynesian population and capital Papeete.
• Papeete (Water Basket) developed, primarily, because the French moved their French nuclear weapon test range from Algeria, (which had won independence), to the atolls of Moruroa and Fangataufa, some 930 miles to the east of Tahiti. The two detonations were both followed by rioting, on Tahiti.
• Shaped like a figure-8, it's divided into Tahiti Nui (the larger, western section) and Tahiti Iti (the eastern peninsula). These are actually the remains of two interlinked, but heavily eroded, shield volcanoes.
• The high interior of Nui ( large Tahiti) is, unsurprisingly, largely uninhabited. And the south of Iti ( small Tahiti) is similarly unexplored. You can only get there by boat or on hiking trails.
• Tahiti is known for its dramatic volcanic peaks, lush valleys, black and white sand beaches, and vibrant coral reefs.
• The first European navigator to visit Tahiti, was British explorer Samuel Wallis, in 1767. He was followed by James Cook.
• Tahiti is often called the 'Island of Love' and serves as the gateway to the other islands of French Polynesia.

Tahiti, the Second Time

This time, in Tahiti, the main aim of my Round The World Voyage Three is to get to remote Pitcairn Island and that requires a boat from French Polynesia. As reckless Eric pointed out, in I’d go the whole wide world, it’s a long way to Tahiti. But he was looking for his true love. For me, it’s Manado to Singapore on Scoot, followed by Singapore to Auckland, on Singapore Airlines. Not so impressed with them this time. A toilet out of order. Dirty floors. Not all food options available and those that are frankly not very nice. It’s like flying British Airways.

Then, it’s Air Tahiti Nui to Papeete. My predictive text wanted to write Air Tahiti Nuisance. That’s a bit unkind. The flight isn’t bad at all. The cabin is cheerfully decorated, in turquoise, with bright greens and pinks and we all get a flower to put behind our ears.

Checking in is challenging though. The booths are supposed to open three hours before and they’re several minutes late. And it’s one of those flights where everyone has arrived early. The economy queue is daunting and I’m right at the end. I’m wondering what was the point in checking in online, when I notice a small sign which says Web Check In, next to another parallel channel. There are only two groups of people standing there. So what the hell. I join them. And they rearrange the queue dividers and let us through. Though that would be too easy. The check-in clerk operates as slowly as is feasible. And I’ve seen some slow clerks in my time. 12 groups must check in at the economy channel in the same time. There’s still no one behind me. Very strange.

Mahina and Pointe Venus

What’s also weird, is popping over the dateline. I started on Sunday afternoon and I’ve arrived on Saturday evening. I’m now 11 hours behind the UK and it’s dark when I arrive at my lodging, at Pointe Venus, at Mahina. A quick orientation from owner Guy who owns the very nice house, wooden floors and outdoor sofas bedecked with cushions, in front of my room, which is sandwiched between his home and and his garage. The soft black volcanic beach lies through a bolted door, sparkling, serene and silent.

Imagine my surprise, when I venture through it again mid morning, next day, in search of some quiet respite, to find it absolutely packed with bodies. Pointe Venus, it seems, is one of the most popular beach spots on Tahiti. There are shacks, food trucks (known as roulottes and usually specialising in poisson cru or poke) and a restaurant. A playground, a little harbour, and a famous lighthouse. This is a historic spot. There are memorials to Captain Bligh, who landed here on his last voyage, to load up with breadfruit (appropriate) and to the anchorage of The Beagle.

But the reason everyone comes, is the views. Towering trapezoid basalt peaks, almost silhouettes on the skyline. The tallest is Mount Orohena, at 2200 metres, the highest point in French Polynesia. And, there's my old friend Moorea, out to the west, sitting on the horizon, with its Bali Hai peaks.

The noise on Pointe Venus Beach is pretty loud. Some of the groups are providing their own music. Boom box or live (with and without amplifiers and speakers). I’m not sure if this is weekend party atmosphere or whether the fact it’s Father’s Day has contributed to the vibe. There are small marquees arranged each side of the main drag from the large point car park to the centre of Mahina. Most of these are offering beverages, iced lemon, ice cream, cooked food. A few have baskets of flowers.

Mahina is mainly a town of domestic dwellings, of all shapes and sizes. The drag takes me to two large supermarkets where I can stock up at a price. And then it’s a lazy day, as my bug is not shifting. It’s not been helped by the yet again change in time zones and the noise last night, until well after midnight, most of it emanating from my host’s quarters. The property description says quiet hours are from 7pm to 8 a.m. Hmmm.

The micro ants which follow me everywhere are marching across the draining board. I think they’ve come up the plug hole.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire….

My Gallic host, who has an I’m living my best life bare belly on view much of the time, isn’t super reliable. Booking.com tells me he accepts cards. He tells me it’s cash only. The property description says there’s a washing machine. There is, but not in my room. It’s off the garage and is full of the hosts clothes. He frowns when I suggest using aforesaid advertised appliance. The clothes don’t get removed. The kettle has a broken switch and won’t turn itself off, unless I remove it from its stand. And I’m not even going to bother asking about the iron – there is a small ironing board.

So it’s with some trepidation that I inform him that I’ve lost my key. I’ve no idea how. I haven’t really been on the planet for several days because of my jet lag. He’s not amused. Says he doesn’t understand why I need one anyway and that he doesn’t have a copy. I end up bunging him 45 pounds for the lost key. It was the change from my room fee (paid in cash) so hard to negotiate.
But my Gallic friend is all affable now. He says he's bringing me some free supper! Chicken and taro, with rice, duly arrives.
Tomorrow, Pitcairn.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire….Part II

Back from Pitcairn and another guesthouse. I’m taken there by taxi driver, Little Miss Sunshine. 'I’m not driving you anywhere unless you find the telephone number, so I can call them. These places are in the middle of nowhere. If you’ve only got a large bill you need to stop at a filling station and change it. I can’t. It’s not allowed to take two parties at the same time'. (No one else seems to mind.)

To be fair, my lodging is in the middle of nowhere, up a steep winding road. Tahiti is astronomically expensive, and this time I’ve found somewhere out of Papeete town, on the mountain slopes. I’ll be ok, it says it has a restaurant and café. Except it doesn’t. That’s been closed for a year. It would be good if Maison Taino had announced this fact, on their several listings. Hostess Valerie tries to bluff it out at first. ‘Everyone who comes to Tahiti gets a car. You have to.’

Later, she has the grace to blush and orders me a taxi to take me into town for dinner. Driver Hans is more amenable, but it comes at a price. That’s 50 USD return and it’s only a few kilometres down the road. ‘It’s evening,’ Valerie says, having previously told me it will be cheap, only 10 USD each way. The meal was nearly 50 USD. That’s one expensive dinner. The portions at least are huge – Pacific Chinese - and I’ve brought back enough for another two meals. But it’s not very pleasant cold; it wasn’t great when it was warm.

I’ve tried to investigate car hire, but that's exorbitantly expensive. Valerie, anxious to make amends and also to get me out of the way, finds me a half-price deal for two days. Right hand side of the road, mountain roads and manual drive is going to be fun.
Meanwhile, I’m resting, by the pool, which does exist. I’ve still got the cough. The Wi-Fi here is shockingly slow to non-existent. ‘Fast full fibre’, it says on the listing. There’s a safe, but it’s shut closed. There’s the teeniest bin you ever saw in your life. Just the one, in the bathroom. It’s a fight to open or close the curtains; the pole is too large for the holes. I have a kettle, tea bags and a bottle of water in a fridge. But no mugs or glasses.

Valerie tells me there are no mosquitoes up on the mountain. But next morning I’ve maybe a dozen itchy patches on my arms and legs. I’m saying nothing. My complaints about the Internet didn’t go down well. I’m told I’m the first person ever who’s had a problem. Despite the fact it works perfectly well when everyone else goes out. Otherwise, my lodging is perfect. Tahiti is not for the faint hearted.

Tahiti - Lush and Luxuriant

The words lush and luxuriant were invented to describe Tahiti. The vegetation is extraordinary. The slopes are double swathed in creepers, acacia and coconut palms. Layer on layer. It’s impossible to make out the shape of most of the hills beneath, except for the very high angular peaks. The velvety folds soar in to the air, home to numerous waterfalls and precipitous hiking trails.

The road sweeps round the base of the double volcano which is Tahiti, forming a 60 kilometre long, diagonally orientated, figure of eight, with the bottom missing. There’s no road at all in the south-east. This narrow plateau is lined with vivid crimson and custard yellow crotons, hibiscus and other exotic blooms. It’s a riot of colour. The road is frequently interrupted by bridges over fast running rivers. There are strips of beach, mainly black volcanic sand, sometimes backed by swards of green, with picnic benches.

The sea frequently laps the side of the road. At times, the road is built across it. The reef is visible all round and the breakers for which Tahiti is famous roll across it, onto the shores. Settlements come and go, denoted by churches with lurid walls (orange and purple) and narrow frilly spires. Mopeds zip in and out of the cars, appearing from nowhere and rarely checking their route first and cyclists take whichever side of the road they fancy.

Driving Round Tahiti

I discover all this lurching round the island in my rental car. It’s not the most auspicious of starts. I had forgotten that the clutch was the left hand pedal and couldn’t understand why the gears wouldn’t engage. I have my foot on the brake, instead of the clutch. The kind man at the rental office explains. Then I can’t find reverse. When I understand that I don’t need to start from fifth gear then that falls into place too. It’s a very long time since I drove a manual car. If I was the man running the car hire place I would have changed my mind about renting to me. I judge him for letting me go ahead.

It turns out that most of the Tahitian drivers are pretty tolerant too. I collect hardly any blasts of the horn or tail gating. So, I proceed reasonably well, anti clockwise round the island, to avoid capital Papeete and also so as to hug the coast. Third gear seems to be interchangeable with fifth, but the car protests politely when I’ve selected the wrong one and I chug along out of town.

The coastal route is still very busy in the north and I’ve missed the entrance to the first beach I want to stop at. My lady navigator tells me to turn right, but there’s no right opening available that I can see. I stall. Right in front of a police car turning out behind me. The two officers jump out and interrogate me about my intentions. The beach entrance is back behind, they say, you’ll need to go along this road a little and turn round. Then they look at me, sigh and go into the middle of the carriageway and stop the long lines of traffic, while everyone waits for me to do a three point turn.

My driving improves as time goes on, but I wouldn’t say I cover myself in glory. There are so many traffic light controlled road works that I have to assume some sort of command over my vehicle. As is so often the case nothing is signposted in advance, it’s hard to find spots to pull off when you see something of interest and there are very few places to stop and take refreshment.

Exploring Tahiti

First stop, the white sand Vaiava Beach, for great views of Moorea. Then, the three Mar’aa Caves. These are grottoes carved out in the bottom of the cliffs, filled with pools of water (some brave souls swimming) draped in ferns and with waterfalls cascading over head. It’s begun to rain now, so it’s difficult to tell which water is coming from the sky and which from the mountain above.

Next, it’s the black sand surfing beach at Tahara’a – plenty of valiant souls here too, trying out the waves. Vaipahi brings water gardens. It’s a good day for them; more cascades and linked lakes. Pretty and soggy. I’m trying to take photos of some proteas and birds of paradise and discover that the ground to the side of the path isn’t especially solid either. I’m soon up to my knees in mud. At least I can wash it off in one of the pools.

Next, I’m at the centre of the figure of eight, crossing into Tahiti Iti. Far fewer people, thank goodness, and a string of beaches with scattered booths, selling trinkets and snacks. The road finishes at Teahupoo, with a children’s fort, a café, a surfer statue and an Olympic Rings sign. That’s because this is where they held the surfing event for the Paris Olympics last year. I’d have a better look at the venue, but it’s now raining so hard the sea is just a blur.

The road along the east coast of Iti is equally wild. The upper slopes here smoothly emerald at times. It finishes at Tautira, suddenly petering out under palm trees. There’s a public park with picnic places, food trucks and more panoramas back up the coast and across the volcanoes.

Back on Tahiti Nui, it’s bucketing down again and I’m driving through floods. The road surface is littered with branches and palm fronds. The blowhole, Trou du Souffleur, at Arahoho is closed off with metal screens. It’s deemed to be dangerous. due to falling rocks. There’s another small and picturesque double fall at Vaihi. But the number one waterfall on Tahiti, which I’ve serendipitously left to last, is actually three waterfalls, up a side road, into a valley at Faarumai. All in all, it’s been a very watery few days. I’m drenched.

The rain hasn’t stopped the homeless dogs and ubiquitous chickens greeting me at each attraction. The canines are melancholy and hungry, wandering the road lethargically, but recklessly. The cockerels as vibrantly colourful as the foliage, bobbing in and out of the puddles and newly formed streams. Their cock a doodle doos reverberate throughout the nights.

Back at the ranch (I made it in one piece) Valerie asks about my travels. ‘I had lunch at Terre-Mer on Thursday ’ I say. She looks puzzled. Eventually, I show her where it is on the map, the picturesque Baie Phaeton, a pleasure boat dotted inlet between Tahiti Nui and Tahiti Iti. ‘Oh, Terre-Mer’, she exclaims. Grrrrr.

Next, a cruise to the Tuamotos and Marquesas islands.

Papeete

Back in Papeete, I’ve booked a hotel directly opposite the cruise terminal, so I can wheel my bag directly there. Except the ship docks at the cargo quays, in the Industrial Zone, 25 minutes’ walk away. Rai, the taxi man takes Steve, Toni and Ishau, who are staying at the Kontiki Boutique Hotel and me together. I’m at the Maitai Express. (That was expensive enough). And we all arrange airport pick up trips with him the following days.

I’ve no idea what Toni and Ishau’s surnames are. I just know they’re from Australia, Ishau is Toni’s daughter-in-law and she’s of Taiwanese origin. I’m lucky and I get checked in straightaway and back online. But then I get an email message to say that I should get to the airport the following morning an hour earlier than I had planned. The flight is at 7 a.m. with French Bee. AAArgh. And I don’t have lovely Rai’s phone number to tell him. I know Ishau took it, so I call the Kontiki and describe her and Toni to the receptionists. After much giggling they locate them in the café next door and I’m able to get the contact details. Phew!

Exploring Papeete

Time to explore Papeete on foot. It’s cloudy, sticky, humid and bustling, utilitarian rather than charming, with plenty of shops and small arcades. Escalators to encourage shoppers who might be getting too weary. There’s an unmissable large central market, mainly food and food stalls, with some tourist handicrafts thrown in. I meet Toni and Ishau there for some poisson cru (rather too much raw onion) and a final good bye.

The catholic cathedral is surrounded in green netted scaffolding, but there’s another pretty pink protestant church. And several blocks of government buildings, ranging from the assembly building, to the colonial presidential palace, to the ugly and mammoth French Haut Commissariat. There’s a monument opposite this, with a cockerel up top. Appropriate, considering the many which wander the streets, even in the city, loudly proclaiming their presence.

Otherwise, the main attractions in Papeete are the leafy parks, running alongside the large cruise port and further north. Statues, commemorative plaques, playgrounds, canoe launching sites. Bougainville, to the north of the busy through road is named after the French explorer. Closer to the water, the Paofai Gardens And there are several outdoor gymnasiums. They’re called ‘Aire de Fitness.’ A nice bit of franglais. Around them, stray dogs and gymnasts lie sleeping together on the grass. Competing to see who looks the most exhausted.

I keep crossing paths and waving at fellow cruisers. German Ute is at my hotel and we sample cocktails at the guide book cited Bora Bora Lounge, which is in an alley adjacent to our accommodation, along with a line of other night clubs. It doesn’t bode well for a good night’s sleep. Worse for wear, we stumble across the promenade to the roulottes which have set up for the evening in Place des Vaiete. It seems an appropriate way to end my Polynesian sojourn.

San Francisco and home. Though, on this flight, not even the Polynesians have flowers in their hair.

Facts and Factoids

• French Polynesia is currently an overseas collectivity of France (which means it is semi autonomous) and its sole overseas country - a special designation.
• It consists of 121 islands and atolls, which stretch an astonishing 2,000 kilometres across the South Pacific Ocean. Including the ocean, the whole of French Polynesia is equivalent in size to Europe. The islands are divided into five groups: the Society Islands, the Tuamotu Archipelago, the Gambier Islands, the Marquesas Islands and the Austral Islands.
• In the 1960s, the tourist overwater bungalow (as seen below), was created on the island of Moorea.
• It is thought that the word “tattoo” derives from the Tahitian word tatau.
• About 10% of the population of French Polynesia today is Chinese. The Chinese were brought to the area, in the mid-1800s, to work in the plantations.
• Tahiti is home to The Pearl Museum, the only museum in the world dedicated solely to pearls. Pearl diving was astaple industry. So, French Polynesia's nickname - Pearl of Polynesia - is doubly suitable.

A Very Brief History of French Polynesia

• It's believed that the islands now known as French Polynesia, were settled as part of the Great Polynesian Migration, which began around 1500 BC. (Austronesian peoples navigated by the sun and stars to find other islands in the South Pacific Ocean. The first islands of French Polynesia to be settled, were the Marquesas Islands (in about 200 BC). The more southerly, Society Islands were discovered around 300 AD.
• European encounters first began in the Tuāmotu-Gambier Archipelago, in 1521, with Portuguese Ferdinand Magellan, on behalf of the Spanish Crown. The Spanish were followed by the Dutch. In 1722, Jakob Roggeveen (for the Dutch West India Company), charted six islands in the Tuamotus and two in the Society Islands; one of these was Bora Bora.

• The first European navigator to visit Tahiti, was British explorer Samuel Wallis, in 1767. He was followed by James Cook. The first actual European settlers (but not for very long) were Spanish, followed by Protestants from the London Missionary Society and then French catholic missionaries. The island kings and their subjects were converted and France annexed the islands, gradually expanding, despite resistance from the kings and the odd skirmish with the British.
• The first official name for the colony was Établissements de l'Océanie (Establishments in Oceania). In 1946, Polynesians were granted French citizenship and the islands' status was changed to an overseas territory; in 1957, the islands' name became Lynésie Française (French Polynesia).

What to do in French Polynesia?

Take in the Polynesian culture, enjoy the incredible scenery, enjoy water sports and generally have a good time. You will need a well stuffed wallet. and for most of us, it's a long way to travel, so make the most of it while you're there.

Read about my trips to French Polynesia:

• Bora Bora
• Moorea
• Tahiti
• Tuomotos and Marquesas
• Gambier Islands

What a Difference a Day Makes

Alison and I have flown in to Georgetown, the capital of Grand Cayman (and the Cayman Islands), from Jamaica. As with Jamaica this is a revisit, as I’m not sure that half a day off a cruise ship snorkelling counts. Three hundred miles and it’s yet another world. Very flat. Pristine. A series of interlinked lagoons, especially in the west. Very American. Plaza after plaza. Lines of car rental shops. Huge neat car parks. Four lane highways. And signposts. Low rise apartment blocks pretending to be traditional Caribbean architecture. Incongruously, chickens run around squawking. They feature right across the island and are useful for hoovering up any scraps of food we drop, whilst we’re picnicking. I’m assuming no foxes here. The only predators are the many vehicles.

Cars stop at pedestrian crossings, if we show the slightest inclination to cross the road. They even stop to let you out at junctions. Best of all, a huge supermarket offering everything we couldn’t find in Jamaica. And just about anything you could want to buy to eat. Beautifully stocked meat and fish sections. At a price. I fill two shopping bags with goodies - for 200 USD.

The Cayman Islands - in a Nutshell

• The Cayman Islands are a British Overseas Territory, three islands in the western Caribbean Sea: Grand Cayman, Little Cayman and Cayman Brac. They are believed to have been uninhabited before the first Welsh settlers came, in the seventeenth century. The smaller islands had been sighted by Columbus, who called them Las Tortugas (turtles) and then Sir Francis Drake landed on Grand Cayman. Early maps refer to them as Los Lagartos, meaning alligators or large lizards, But, by 1530,this had become the Caymanes after the Carib word caimán for the marine crocodile. There must have been a lot of them. The turtles were quickly depleted, as they became the mainstay of the economy, for export and eating.
• Due to their location, the Cayman Islands are more likely than any other islands in the Caribbean to be hit by hurricanes.
• There has been vast amounts of immigration over the last few decades - the majority of the population was not born here
• At one point, the majority of the government revenue came from the sale of postage stamps, primarily to stamp collectors around the world

Georgetown, the Capital of the Cayman Islands

Georgetown (named after George III) is the largest town in the British Overseas Territories (BOTs) and a significant financial hub. There are almost 600 banks and financial institutions here. Twice as many companies as people. Though the first bank (Barclays) did not arrive until 1953. Plate glass office blocks are dotted around the edges of town (which spreads out a surprisingly long way across the island), spilling towards more traditional buildings in the downtown area. Some timber buildings could be correctly described as historical. More adopt the mock wooden Caribbean style, especially those around the cruise port (where every block is a mall). A few are actually made of concrete. This is where you find your Versace, Tiffany, and Gucci nestling alongside native vendors and craftsmen.

Restaurants line the wharf alongside the harbour. In between the boutiques, bars and cafes on the shore side are dainty churches, the parliament building, the site of an old fort (marked by a few cannons) and the island museum.

Cocoplum Apartments

We pick up a rental car and navigate smoothly to our Cocoplum apartment at the bottom of Seven Mile Beach, just north of downtown Georgetown. We have a little heart shaped swimming pool in front of us, sunbeds (screwed down, so sadly, we can’t move them into the shade), and a view out to sea, across a wrecked boat. Glass patio doors lead onto this area. It’s hard to tell when they are closed, so I repeat my trick from Tunisia and walk headlong into the door. This time my glasses come off worse than I do. We also have a resident teeny tiny curly tailed lizard who is not remotely afraid of us. Even so, I have to check he’s not a scorpion, his tail is held so high.

Seven Mile Beach

The wreck, the Gamma, offers interesting snorkelling. It’s not the prettiest section of what doesn’t really qualify as a seven mile beach (in my humble opinion). To start with, it comes in at just under six miles in length. And the land fringing the long crescent disappears entirely at several points along this, the quieter end. We have to make use of the various alleys leading to and from the parallel West Bay Road, when trying to explore north. There’s a thin strip of sand and seawater channels, accessed by stairs cut into the exposed coral. I’ve read that storms have caused some erosion and there’s plenty of construction work along the shore here too.

Reefs more or less encircle Grand Cayman, which is why the islands are renewed for its snorkelling and diving. There are snorkelling spots all along seven mile beach right down to Georgetown, in the harbour and beyond. The one close to the Burger King is known as Cheeseburger Reef

Seven Mile Beach is yet another of those beaches that’s touted as best in the Caribbean, maybe twelfth in the world. It’s lovely, but not that amazing. As I’ve said several times before, these best beach in the world lists are way off. I don’t think the Bahamas counts as the Caribbean, but Anguilla and the BVI certainly do.

Governor's Beach

Another couple of miles further up, Seven Mile Beach widens. Here, it is called Governor’s Beach, imaginatively named, as it’s right in front of the Governor’s House. There are signs in front of a low chain fence, requesting privacy. The Cayman Islands are more British than Great Britain. The governor presides over garden parties wearing one of those big cockaded hats. Even the Christmas decorations feature the flag of St George. It’s been created in wide banded satin ribbon along the wall of one tall block.

Here, the beach could rightfully be called beautiful. The sand is soft and inviting. The sea is a translucent swirl of contrasting blues, warm and shallow. There’s what seems to be the best snorkelling on Seven Mile, a few hundred yards off shore. It’s not fantastic, I hurry to add. More, mostly dead, coral, and there are a few shoals of vibrantly coloured fish. Some of them intrepid specimens, keen to eyeball us snorkellers.

Grand Cayman is an odd shape. The Georgetown area and Seven Mile Beach looks as if it sits on its tail. On the opposite side of the tail to the long stretch of beach are marinas with glitzy malls and restaurants. The most well known is Camana Bay.

Cemetery Beach

At the top of the tail is the North End and West Bay. At West Bay. Cemetery Beach is, you guessed it, adjacent to an old cemetery (they’re all bedecked with artificial flowers here) with a narrowish strip of sand and a peaceful vibe. Shade is provided by casuarina trees . They’re gracefully atmospheric, but the needles make a patchwork on the sand and invade all your clothes and stick to your towels. Here, I meet up with Ron and Anne, who have just come from Negril in Jamaica, where I’m heading next. They live in Lindfield in West Sussex, where I used to have a house. It really is a small world.

Cemetery Beach has another reef, even further off shore. Ron is going to come in with me, but first his equipment all floats away on the swell, and then he discovers that his mask is too small. These are the sort of rolling waves that fill your swimsuit with sand, but you don’t realise until you go to the toilet and it all falls out. There are dots of purple fan coral and even fewer fish. Cayman might be one of the best snorkelling spots in the Caribbean, but it’s not a patch on other parts of the world. If I remember correctly it’s better when you take a boat. Nevertheless, I mustn’t complain. It’s nice to able to snorkel off-shore at all.

North End, Grand Cayman

The North End is more quirky. Bestrewn with less pretentious homes, gentler, more rural and further away from the financial mecca. Though it hasn’t escaped hotels and apartments all together. There are quiet lagoons and a medley of limestone formations. One area named Hell is especially full of dark pinnacles. This is a very polarised population. and Hell is where the less well off tend to live, Unsurprisingly, the locals have capitalised on this with a gift shop and a post office, where you can get Hell postmarks - if you’re so inclined.

The formations meet the coast at Turtle Reef for scenic views, more snorkelling and some cafes. There are gorgeous wind swept beaches all along the North End coast to here and round the edge of Barker National Park, where horses wait patiently for clients to ride them along the sand. There’s a whole line of dune buggies next door. I'm unsure whcih is the safer option.

Circumnavigating Grand Cayman

The key must-do in Grand Cayman is Stingray City and I went there on my last visit. Time to explore the island then. I’ve read that we should allow two hours to circumnavigate Grand Cayman. It takes us about three hours to work our way right round the coast to Rum Point and then Starfish Point, with frequent photo stops. The traffic in Georgetown, both ways, is incredibly heavy, despite the four lane highways and huge roundabouts. Nobody bothers to use the indicators on their expensive shiny land rovers And there are gargantuan American style trucks thundering by. Living with the rich and powerful isn’t always paradise, it seems.

Smith’s Barcadere

Just south of Georgetown is Smith’s Cove, more exotically known as Smith’s Barcadere. Formed from the coral reef, it’s incredibly photogenic. And has really easy (straight off the sand ) fairly decent snorkelling alongside all the reef cliffs. There's even an exciting altercation with an octopus. I had no idea they could camouflage themselves so well against the coral. I would swear this one turned white and then brown, depending on the light. I’ve read that they can change texture too, to match their surroundings.

Spotts Beach

Spotts Beach, on the south road, isn’t actually that easy to spot. We zoom past. It's accessed, like all the beaches, down public right of way footpaths and it's another gorgeous piece of palm backed sand. Though there’s a stiff breeze blowing off the reef in front.

Pedro St James

Further along the south road, Pedro St James, is home to the oldest stone building on Grand Cayman. It’s actually called a castle, though it doesn’t look like one to me. William Eden, an Englishman, used slave labour to build it, in 1780. You can buy tickets to go inside and visit and there’s a swanky gift shop and restaurant attached. We just peer at it from the road.

Bodden Town

Bodden Town, the first island settlement, is the old capital of the Cayman Islands. (The first settlers were Welsh - the islands are thought to have been previously uninhabited.) The place is named after William Bodden, a government leader. It’s now the fasted growing district on Grand Cayman. Perhaps they’ve run out of space in Georgetown. Traditional buildings line the main road. The most notable is the Mission House, intended to depict life as it used to be in the islands, though its origins are murky.

East End, Grand Cayman

The East End is where the real Caribbean begins. Mangrove forest, lakes, low subtropical forest and wild and windy beaches draped with sea weed and facing a vividly turquoise lagoon. There are blowholes in the raised coral. Gun Bay, as it’s name suggests, has cannons lining the road and Colliers Beach is gorgeously picturesque.

Barefoot Beach

Turning the corner to the North Side of Grand Cayman, still more beaches running alongside the road. The sand almost disappears at Barefoot Beach, where the once lofty trees have succumbed to the winds, bending over at almost 90 degrees.

North Side, Grand Cayman – Rum Point and Starfish Point

Rum Point, at the end of a straggling peninsula on a bay opposite Georgetown has still not reopened after Covid. There are major renovations underway and JCBs blocking the path. The area between here, a series of pools and lagoons lined with houses and apartment blocks is known as Cayman Kai.

Right at the tip is Starfish Point. It’s tranquil and exceptionally pretty – shallow waters, white sand and casuarina trees to bask under.

At least, it’s tranquil until all the tour boats turn up to admire the poor cushion starfish dotted, mainly solitary, under the dappled water. Loud music blares and the visitors munch lobster tails (it’s obviously an up market tour), as they splash around, asking if they can pick up the beleaguered echinoderms. Apparently, they want to make bikini tops out of them. The answer is no, they will suffocate out of the ocean. It doesn’t stop the intruders examining the creatures underwater. Some of the starfish beat a hasty retreat. The information boards say that their numbers have decreased rapidly over recent years. I wonder why.

Queen Elizabeth II Royal Botanic Park, Grand Cayman

The Queen Elizabeth II Botanic Park is advertised as having seven main attractions – the Visitor’s Centre, the Floral (Colour) Garden, an Orchid Boardwalk (the banana orchid is the national flower), a Xerophytic Garden (plants which need little water), a Heritage Garden (sand and a traditional house and yard), a Woodland Trail, and the Children’s Garden. We enjoy a leisurely wander along the mile long woodland trail - rainforest, jagged limestone pools.

Then, through all of the other areas, except the Children’s Garden. The floral garden is indeed bright and attractive, with huge versions of all those plants, marantas, crotons, philodendrons, that we try and grow in pots at home. The two-acre lake, on the edge of a buttonwood swamp is tranquil and a brilliant mirror for the palm trees jutting over it. It’s also home to small Central American turtles called hickatees who paddle over, in the hope of food, give us the once over and then drift off.

But all this is incidental. We’ve come to see the endangered Grand Cayman Blue Iguana. It only lives on this island and the Botanic Gardens run a conservation project. They tell us that 40 of the creatures wander the park and I’m determined to see one. After a quiet start, my wish is granted and several iguanas of various shapes and sizes make themselves known. as does a rare and shy agouti, for five quivering seconds.

It's been a great and contrasting week. Now we’re headed back to Jamaica.

The Southern Islands, Cocos

I've flown into the Cocos Islands from Perth via Christmas Island. A quick bike tour down the side of the runway, to the southern tip of West Island, where there’s a gorgeous beach, islets floating beyond, in shallow glimmering water. The crabs here are mini robots, fast running, with vertical square heads and revolving eyes on top. Tiny reef sharks are so close in I can see the tips of their dorsal fins above the water.

The Southern Atoll

All the Cocos Islands, except one are in the southern atoll and I’m off to explore that on a motorized canoe tour. It’s an idyllic afternoon scudding round little palm topped dots. I’m allowed to be a princess, as Anthony from Perth does the necessary with the little outboard and we follow a rainbow of bright bobbing plastic boats. Sonal and Chris and Donna and Barry from my lodging have come along and there are more folk I recognise - they were on the plane from Perth.

We snorkel in a channel running half way round one island. It’s a natural water park – the current wafts us along the chute, past all the fish who are lurking in the overhangs and then catapults us into the ocean on the other side. Very clever. There are a multitude of garfish (under the surface), clams and sea cucumbers, as well as more small sharks and a couple of turtles. The current is so strong, it’s like watching a movie in fast forward and I’m hanging onto clumps of rock to try and take photos. We walk back the few metres across the island.

Julia and Tony are celebrating their 48^th wedding anniversary and the next stop involves champagne, curry puffs, hordes of hermit crabs (I’m sure they can smell food, like robber crabs) and clouds of ravenous mosquitoes. (These can also smell a meal).

We meander round the atoll and  take a jungle walk to the highest point in the territory, on another island, used as a lookout during the war. It’s 13 metres high - this would not be  a good place to try to survive a tsunami. Then we fill a sack with plastic rubbish that has drifted onto the beach (a dent in the heap) and return to our boats, more alcohol and more meanderings.

The trip is timed perfectly, so that we return as the sun is setting over the islets.

A Boat Trip to Direction Island, Cocos - Meet Jaws

Next, I've planned a trip to Direction Island. You have to go on the special big ferry to Home Island, which then continues on to ‘Australia’s Best Beach’, Cossie Beach. But they’ve cancelled the ferry tomorrow (it only goes on Thursdays and Saturdays). The Visitor Information Centre (who actually seem to enjoy helping visitors here) say they can get me a glass bottomed boat trip that will include a visit to the beach, providing I can find three other people to join in. Sonal and Chris, from Christmas Island, are staying at the same place. And there’s an English couple, Donna and Barry from Essex, in the villa next to mine. Job done.

Today, the north part of the atoll in our glass bottomed boat, with  captain, Peter. The journey commences with a stop in the lagoon, for too much fishing, in my opinion. Chris and Peter enjoy themselves hugely, with the aid of some intricate red and white lures. They  land some large coral trout, which Peter excitedly explains, are a gastronomic delight.

We motor past some classic Robinson Crusoe islands with just one or two palm trees. Their names are less romantic - one is called Prison Island.

Horsbrough Island

Next, Horsbrough Island, which is surrounded by huge green turtles and more small black tipped reef sharks. We snorkel at a coral bomie  with white tipped reef shark lurking and then at a wrecked nineteenth century barge,. It's an apartment home for golden yellow striped goatfish.

Shark Attack

Peter promises more sharks on our way to Direction Island and bangs the glass panel with a brush. Nine sharks appear, the usual white and black tipped reef sharks and some larger, two metre grey reef sharks. They circle impatiently, waiting for the fish scraps that Peter feeds to them. Peter invites us to swim  with the sharks, but they are much bigger than those I have previously encountered in the water. I decide to abstain. My wound is also open again.

It’s a very good decision. Chris descends the ladder, putting one  leg into the water, and then appears again in the boat announcing he has been bitten by a shark. For a moment, I think he is joking, but then I spot the crimson fountain spurting out of his shin. Peter instantly springs into action, grabbing a towel a to fashion into a compression bandage. Then we head for the clinic on Home Island, where a sizeable proportion of the population of the Cocos Islands reside. Peter is bailing out bloody water. Direction Island recedes into the distance. I’m thinking it might be one of those places that’s just not meant to be.

An ambulance waits on the quay and Chris and Sonal are ferried off. Peter then announces that he will take the rest of us to Direction Island. we are to wait on the beach, while Chris is tended to. It’s a hollow victory. We’re all feeling shocked and sober.

Cossies Beach, Cocos Islands - The Best Beach in Australia?

This beach has been named Cossies Beach after Peter Cosgrave, a recent governor. It’s a classic arc of pale white sand backed by palm trees (not bendy), giving way to clear azure water. I’ll mark it eight, or maybe nine, out of ten. It's lovely but it's not the best beach I've ever seen by some way. So I decide to write my own list of Best Beaches in the World. More small black tipped reef sharks are circling in the bay and I’m not to be persuaded into the water again today (or maybe for a long while). Eventually, we return without Chris and Sonal. Barry accidentally does a Colin Firth impression, his white cheesecloth shirt soaking in the bow spray.

Sixteen Stitches

Peter returns for the patient later. It’s a nasty bite, sixteen stitches in a shark’s mouth crescent shape, and there have been Zoom conversations with medics in Australia. He was almost air lifted out. But it's now deemed not life threatening, provided he keeps it clean and elevated. Sonal and Chris have another four nights in the Cocos Islands and Chris will be confined to barracks for all of that time. We’ve booked dinner at Maxi’s restaurant tonight (she only opens Thursdays) and she cooks the coral trout for us. Sonal and I ferry some up the road to Chris. It’s delicious.

Next stop, Perth again.

Who Owns the Cocos Islands?

• The Cocos (Keeling) Islands, officially Territory of Cocos (Keeling) Islands, are a remote territory of Australia in the Indian Ocean.  (Not to be confused with the Pacific Cocos Island, owned by Costa Rica), An administrator appointed by the Australian governor-general is the senior governmental official in the Cocos and a Shire Council administers most local government services.
• Oddly, many other services are provided through agencies of the Western Australian state government, but Cocos Islanders vote in federal elections as part an electoral district of Northern Territory.

Facts and Factoids

• There are 27 tiny islands here, in Cocos, on two atolls and the airport is on the largest of them, West Island, where I’m based, along with the territory’s administrative headquarters. Total land area 5 square miles Population (2016) 544.
• The highest point in the territory rises to only 6 metres above sea level.
• The Cocos Keeling Island Golf Club is the only course in the world that straddles an international runway.
• Crime is very rare - a judge pops over from Australia every so often.

What's the History of the Cocos Islands?

The islands were uninhabited at the time of their first European sighting, in 1609, by the English mariner, William Keeling, who was working for the East India Company. They were first settled in 1826, by an English adventurer named Alexander Hare, who brought his Malay harem and slaves. But he didn't stay long.

The production and export of copra is the territory’s economic mainstay. The inhabitants are predominantly the descendants of the original coconut plantation workers, mostly of Malay origin, and gain, mostly enslaved. They were brought to the islands by John Clunies-Ross, a Scotsman who also settled here, in 1827–31. The islands formally became a British possession in 1857, but the Clunies-Ross family retained complete control, supported by a royal grant. The press referred to them. as 'Kings of the Cocos'. The locals settled for 'tuan'.

The islands were transferred from Great Britain to Australia in 1955, when n umerous Cocos Islanders moved to the Australian mainland in the, because of overcrowded conditions on the islands. Control and land ownership were gradually prised from the family, by the Australians. Today, some four-fifths of the population - Cocos Islanders, or Cocos Malays, as they are often called, together with the descendants of the Clunies-Ross family - live on Home Island. Most of the Cocos Malays speak a dialect of Malay and are Muslim. The islands' motto is spoken in Malay - Maju Pulu Kita (Onward our Island).

Arriving in the Cocos Islands

I've arrived from Christmas Island. First impressions are exciting - this is how one expects coral islands to look. It reminds me of Funafuti, the main island at Tuvalu, in that half the island consists of runway and the houses are built alongside it; but this is way more sophisticated. No games on the runway here. In fact, nothing on the runway, unless you want a hefty fine. It’s also used regularly by the Air Force. The bungalows are large and well-tended  and the few shops, one supermarket and restaurants are clustered in and around the airport. My lodging, like Tuvalu is just over the road (hopefully no rats this time) and is elegant and modern.

Is There Wi-fi in the Cocos Islands?

Wi-Fi has to be paid for and even then is only found in certain hot spots. I buy three hours, but then park it, as I realise if I go just up the road I can get a free connection from the airport. I sit on the benching outside for a couple of hours catching up, enjoying the balmy breeze.

More free Wi-Fi very early (the Air Force are in, noisily showing off) and then they cut the connection. So, I go back to my hotspot . Except you have to use your time consecutively here and it all got used up last night, even though I wasn’t online . You win some and you lose some.

The little airport comes alive twice a week when the plane from Perth comes in. It does a triangle via Christmas Island. The café/bakery does a roaring trade as folk congregate round the tables after they have checked in. The enterprising owner manifests again, once we have cleared security, with a chef’s hat and another, tiny coffee bar.

Arriving in Koror

I'm coming from Micronesia to visit Palau and this is another of those instances where I’ve been teleported to a completely different world. As far as I can make out in the dark, as I arrive, Koror, the former capital of Palau, inclines more to Honolulu than Yap. I can see illuminated signs, glass fronted shops and petrol filling stations. I haven’t seen one of those in a while. Names are confusing. There's Koror City, Koror Island and Koror State, which consists of several islands to grapple with straightaway.

I’m not sure if I didn’t read the small print properly, or if I was feeling particularly gung-ho when I booked my hotel, but this place is eye wateringly expensive. I recall that the mid-range places were booked out and the remaining options weren’t scoring much above 7 on booking.com which basically means really don’t bother. Anyway, my room has an ocean view to the front and a lagoon view to the back – so double water aspect in estate agents’ terms. It’s luxurious, pleasing to the eye and comfortable (it ought to be), though there is some sort of weird wet room arrangement in the bathroom where the shower is sited next to the bath, so you fill the tub up while you’re showering. It’s also got one of those fancy Japanese toilets. Only maybe not so fancy, as the seat has come away from its fixings.

I’m desperate to see the fabled Rock Islands. Both scenery (UNESCO) and snorkelling are touted as world class. The resort is, unsurprisingly busy, mainly with Japanese guests and I’ve already been informed by email that the dive shop isn’t doing any snorkelling this week as it’s booked up with divers. I emailed the hotel direct for alternatives, but didn’t get an answer and now they’re telling me there isn’t any availability today.

Chomping Parrotfish Off The Beach

So I’m on the resort private beach, which I have to own, since I’ve stopped being grumpy, is actually very nice, especially as there aren’t many beaches in this part of Palau. It’s quiet, with powdery white sand and I have one of those little blue cabana things to hide under. What’s more the snorkelling directly off shore is entertaining. There’s a spread of coral that’s seen better days, but the marine life doesn’t seem to mind, there are plenty of giant clams and the fish here are seemingly unfazed by human company. The reef echoes to the chomping of huge parrotfish, who are quite happy to hover just below me as they chew. So I spend most of the day out there chasing photographs.

New Year in Palau

There are a couple of gala dinners going on here, but they’ve sold out of tickets. Nobody pointed out that they were happening, but I’m not too disappointed when it transpires that tickets are 150 dollars a pop. The beach bar is still open (only till ten as they have to do an inventory - on New Year’s Eve?) and I eat fish and chips with an American pilot called Bob until we are ejected. His co-pilot joins in our chat. Their ignorance of geography (and other airlines) is a little worrying. I’m asleep well before midnight, though there aren’t any fireworks to miss. They’re banned in Palau (along with firearms).

Snorkelling the Rock Islands

The only snorkelling tour with any space available is run by a Japanese company. The concierge who booked it told me that there would be 8 to 10 people on the boat. There are 16. And at least three other boats (all chock full) converge at every stopping place, so this is definitely mass tourism with a vengeance. The snorkelling is especially frustrating. The fish must think there’s a huge school of some  type of whale passing above them. In the end I swim to the tail-end and wait for the thrashing melee to progress ahead of me. The Japanese, as usual, take every opportunity to pose for photographs, leaping up and down on sand bars and even pushing me out of the way in the water, flailing their Go Pros and frightening away the striped trigger fish I’m trying to capture with my own camera.

Our Japanese whale school drifts along an impressive reef that’s 300 metres deep, unsurprisingly named The Big Drop Off. I’m less enthusiastic about the stop in a small bay, known as The Milky Way. The bottom is very runny white clay and everyone smears themselves and each other with it – and takes pictures, of course. Maybe it functions as a free spa treatment. I notice a statuesque totally mud covered figure posing on one of the other boats. It’s the Russian guy from Micronesia. His little boy, like me, has abjured the clay and his wife/girl friend and I exchange New Years’ greetings.

The Floating Gardens of Palau

On-board are upright seats with backs and nobody moves around; they are not interested in photos of scenery and some of them have their eyes shut as we speed along, bumping over the waves. This is a little trying, when the backdrop is so fabulous and my view is obstructed. The lift up seats to store your gear in the dry seem like a good idea until you’ve had to disturb the guy next you more times than he is comfortable with. But he’s Japanese, so he just smiles in a pained way. The refreshment bucket contains oolong, apple and green teas rather than coca cola and every time we arrive at a new destination the tour leader proclaims the name of the place twice like a herald’s announcement and everyone cheers. It’s both annoying and entertaining.

The scenery though is worth all the discomfort. The limestone Rock Islands are the granddaddy of (aptly named) Floating Garden Islands, like Halong Bay in Vietnam, El Nido in the Philippines and Kabira and Matsushima Bays in Japan. They spread over a huge area in the lagoon round Koror and are utterly gorgeous, covered in bright emerald foliage, featuring the odd white sand beach and surrounded by turquoise, sapphire and cerulean seas.

Super Snorkelling in Palau

I’m booked on a ‘super snorkelling tour’ of four sites with the same Japanese company, but they called at six last night to cancel. I wasn’t amused - it was too late to re-book and most of the tours, as I’ve reported, are full this week anyway. The concierge says he can get me a private boat for the day. I know these don’t come cheap so I’m hesitant, but he says he can get me a good price, considering I will need a sandwich lunch and a snorkel guide. He checks to find out where the tour company was going to take me and says he will find a boatman who will do the same.

Carter the boatman has turned up as arranged this morning. The good news is he has a very smart little vessel. The bad news is that he says the price agreed will only cover half a day, the sites mentioned are all too far away and the only person he’s brought along is his petulant eight year old son. So my snorkelling outing is a mixed bag.

Nothing as spectacular as yesterday’s Big Drop Off with its sharks and turtles, but it’s a pleasant morning and I get a much better view of the islands having a boat to myself. In addition, the weather has continued to defy the pessimism of the forecast. It’s been perfect blue skies with puffy white clouds for the last three days. I try not to think about the mounting cost of this sojourn in Palau. It probably equals the last three weeks in FSM combined.

I had optimistically expected that my room cleaner would report the broken toilet seat, but as it’s Day 3, and he hasn’t, I instruct him to do it when he finally arrives, in the middle of the afternoon. Now, they’ve replaced the whole ‘Washlet’ unit and it has a blue permanent light, while the bowl illuminates whenever I approach. The seat is much too warm for my liking. It’s like leaning against an electric fire, which is just what you need when it’s constantly 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

The Fabled Rock Islands of Palau From the Air

This morning I’m blowing the rest of my budget on a flight over the Floating Garden Islands. It’s worth it. For an extra ten dollars they’ve removed the side of the Cessna (to pay for insurance I’m told). There is an amazing clear view of these strings of islands and the swirling iridescent water. We track all the channels and swoop over the renowned Diver's Blue Hole. My fellow passenger is an American student who’s also a qualified pilot, so I have a backup if necessary. It’s a truly wonderful 40 minutes. It has to be one of the best views in the world.

Beach Bungalows at Chol

Then I travel north, away from the Honolulu like Koror, through jungle covered mountains that are much more reminiscent of the wild FSM. This island is called Babeldoep (it’s like being in Hitch-hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy) and the highest point is Mount Ngerchelchuus (242 metres).

The accommodation is also a huge contrast. I’m in a small darkish bungalow, just behind another stunning beach with shallow sand banks out to the distant edge of the lagoon. There are hammocks, slung between the palm trees, which are amusing for a while. Then I drag a sunbed into the shallow water and spend the afternoon there. It’s difficult to concentrate on a book, when the views are so dazzling and constantly changing in the light. And the Russian trio have turned up yet again. I’ve been taking their pictures frolicking in the water and making sand castles. (Female Russian appears to enjoy this as much as, if not more than her son.) The father has asked me to send the pictures on, so I’ve discovered his name is Anatoly.

Dinner is a solitary affair, but a delicious one. Coconut fish curry with accompaniments in curled leaf baskets. One of these is koroke – a fried vegetable fritter. If anyone else is eating then they’re doing it in their bungalows. There are lights strung all around the walkways. It would probably be very pretty if someone turned them on.

Kayangel Atoll

I’m risking another Japanese tour today, to Kayangel Atoll at the very north of Palau. It’s a bumpy ride, as the swell is almost bad enough for the trip to have been cancelled. This time there’s one dry box and it’s under the captain’s seat. He’s Palauan and not nearly as amenable about being disturbed as my previous Japanese neighbour. Maybe that’s why my belongings are all soaked when I finally remove them. There are no Japanese proclamations today, but there is a lot of leaping up and down for photographs again. And our male guide seems to feel the need to add showers of seawater as an additional effect. I’m again, not very amused.

There is fishing - the snapper seem to be queuing up to be caught. But I’m much more impressed by the very tasty sashimi and tempura the guide subsequently produces. The beach is literally heaving with hermit crabs. These have congregated, in what looks like a mass of crawling pebbles, all attempting to snaffle the barbecue remains. We are taken on a mini tour of the main island - 57 inhabitants. Our guide is explaining about the uses of the tropical plants. ‘The underside of the banana leaf is exceptionally soft’, he says. ‘You can use it for toilet paper’.

Palau - The Last Paradise

The atoll itself is exquisite. The most turquoise of water, the most striking of sand bars. The bay is dotted with young turtles, swimming on each side of the boat as we glide in. More time to sit and wonder at the horizon. In these lagoons it melds with the reef edge and is an extraordinary solid indigo line laced with surf. The lagoon is a dappled stretch out to the reef and the skies are astonishing. They are huge, with amazing snowy cloud patterns laid on an azure background.

In hindsight, it would have been better to stay admiring the view, but I’m keen to try and get a better photo of the turtles. So I’m off, clambering over the rocks on the beach. Until I slip on a seaweed covered slab and land heavily on my coccyx. It’s still hurting - I’ve commandeered a bag of ice and I’m sitting on that. My trusty Nikon camera hasn’t come out of things too well either. Parts of the lens went flying. I’m hoping it will last the course.

Life at the Riverside Beach Bungalows

While I’m trying to balance on my ice I’m savouring another solitary dinner, sweet and sour parrot fish. Yet again its’s incredibly good. I might have made yet another bad decision though, as I’ve chosen to eat outdoors. There are hordes of night insects. My banana in coconut milk is covered in a great deal of additional protein by the time I get to it. The bungalow area is teeming with other wild life. There are enormous toads hopping around the path and the wall and roof are festooned with lizards. Both are fine by me - they will help to keep the insects off my food. I'm glad I've got my room refresher with me. They definitely help to keep the mosquitoes away from the bed.

I’m walking wounded today, so I’m sitting on ice as much as possible. It doesn’t help that I’ve also got a gaping hole underneath my toes, where my replacement flip flops have disagreed with my feet.

A honey moon couple, Professor Dan and his new Japanese wife, are staying in an adjacent bungalow. They’ve just come by and given me some champagne. It will help to anesthetize the pain.

Perfection in Palau

It’s my last United flight this evening, on to Manila and I’m consolidating my bags and trying to offload the excess before I’m back on a one piece of luggage limit. I’ve sold the Filipina cook my bought in Guam bag (when the airline lost my luggage) at a knock down price. I've also given her and the Girl Friday who manages the bungalows some of my now surplus clothes. And the offending flip flops. Now I’m savouring the lagoon for the last time, trying to commit its perfection to memory. Honeymooner Dan has designated himself my barman. He has set up his table on the sandbar and is concocting cocktails for us from soju and oolong tea. Amazingly, magician-like he produces all the ingredients, including ice, from a cool bag. Ah perfect…….

Read more about Palau here.

Bora Bora - OMG

From Tahiti to another island - Bora Bora.

Bora Bora - in a Nutshell

• Bora Bora is in the Leeward Islands, in the Society Islands.
• Another contender, after Aitutaki, for most beautiful lagoon in the world. It's a very close call. The views from the air are sublime.
• This is an extinct volcano (two peaks, Mount Pahia and Mount Otemanu); surrounded by a fabulous deep blue lagoon and scattered motu (islet reefs), with the turquoise shallows on the edge of the lagoon.
• The airport is on one of the motu, rather like the one in Gizo, in The Solomons. But here the motu is part of the outer reef and the boats meeting us are all tricked out speedboats.
• Just to spoil things a little, I've learned that the Tahitian language only has 14 letters. Apparently, ‘b’ isn’t one of them, and iconic Bora Bora is actually called ‘Pora Pora’, meaning ‘first born (of the Gods)’.

But onwards and upwards. I have joined the jet set and I have an overwater bungalow. They were invented in French Polynesia. How can you not? I'm at the Pearl Resort, on Motu Tevairoa.

A Room on the Water

OMG, possibly the most wonderful room I have have ever slept in. The volcano peak is framed in the window. I can sit in bed and look at it. Or I can sit in the bathroom and look at it. I have my own private jetty and sun deck, so I can snorkel or swim to the perfect powdery white beach. There is coral beneath my room and I have a glass coffee table that I can slide back to feed the fish below.

The same fish keep loitering there, luminous jade edged trumpet fish and angel fish. I can also watch them through the bedside table or the ledges round the bath; there is even a spotlight to illuminate my coffee table reef at night. The room is all Polynesian wood, art and weaving. And it has a TV. There are even ice machines in little thatched huts along the decking.

The Bronzed and Beautiful at Play

I sit on the restaurant terrace and watch all the guests parade into dinner. It's like Paris Fashion Week, as they saunter along the catwalks, in all their designer gear. There are no overweight female tourists here - though quite a lot of evidence of surgical intervention. Interestingly, quite a few of the men, even the young ones, are sporting little pot bellies. I suppose that's the affluent lifestyle. And, as usual, many of the locals are amply proportioned.

The staff are all togged out in their floral dresses. Both the men and women have long hair (often wound into a bun) and flowers behind their ears. I've discovered  that putting a taire (the national flower of Tahiti) behind your ear  is used as a symbol of your relationship status; if it’s behind your left ear you’re taken, behind your right and you’re single!

The flip side to this paradise? OMG (again) is it expensive. My buffet meal last night (with Polynesian dancing) cost £70 flat rate. Time to start that diet I think. There are plagues of flies that descend instantly if you attempt to eat outside. Water bungalows are pretty noisy at night, with the wind and the sea, not to mention the clattering of suitcases being rolled across the wooden walkways. The only English TV Channel is CNN and I can only stand five minutes depression. I also have another dodgy stomach.

The Bora Bora scenery is lush and dramatic. Some gorgeous white beaches. Out in the lagoon I can see the bungalow dots of the various motu based resorts. Private island Motu Tapu, just inside the lagoon entrance, has views across to the unmissable, in all senses of the word, Mount Otemanu. The motu was the private beach of Tahitian queen Pomare IV in the nineteenth century and is everything you’d expect from a small tropical island.

Bora Bora - Le Tour Propre

I need to see the lifestyle of the locals too though and, another Cycle Tour beckons. The road round the main island is exactly 20 miles long, just like Rarotonga. And this is France, so it's only appropriate.

I am well prepared this time. Sunscreen, water, map, shorts. I even work out which way the wind is blowing and head off into it so that I shall have the easiest leg to finish. Except that it doesn't work out like that. The wind is over 30kph and coming from the west. (It's been buffeting my bungalow all night). The island is long and thin and north orientated. The upshot is that the wind seems to be against me for most of the journey.

The road is mostly flat, as I circumnavigate the volcano, but there a couple of hills. So I push up them and resume my journey at the top, reaching for the brakes as I career down. Except that there aren't any. Not supplied on this bike. Terrifying. I discover that the only way to stop is to leap off the saddle, trying to avoid getting my calves bashed by the pedals in the process. I nearly end up in the water a few times. The car drivers come pretty close and almost force me into the deep drainage ditch the other side too. It takes a huge effort of will to finish this one. So I award myself the King of the Mountains green jersey. This is especially appropriate, as I spend most of the journey trying to cycle past one or other of the peaks.

Life on the Island

Inland, the locals live a less luxurious lifestyle. The major settlement, Vaitape, is on the western side of this island, opposite the main channel leading into the lagoon. Most dwellings have corrugated tin roofs and the people surround their houses with colourful pot plants. And, deja vu, the odd cockerel running around. Washing lines are laden with bright tie dye and floral patterned clothes. There are numerous old cars around, some piled up alongside the houses. There are also family graves, with headstones in front of some of the dwellings.

The small schools are just for primary aged children. The secondary school is on another island and the state pays for the students to board. They get to come home every five weeks or so. The islanders survive on fish and coconuts. Some of the men are bringing in today's catch, gutting the fish on the edge of the lagoon. They use little boats that are hoisted up on double wheeled winches, keeping them out of the water unless they are needed.

OMG Bora Bora Part 2

OMG, lagoon cruises here are amazing too. The coral is mainly soft pinks and purples, very Rennie Macintosh. There don't seem to be huge numbers of small fish, but I have been snorkelling with rays and sharks this morning. The sharks are reef sharks and lemon sharks; the reef sharks are dainty with dark pointy fins, while the lemon sharks are larger and keep their distance. There are small sting rays named Julie and Samantha (for some reason) who come to be fed; they are soft and velvety. However, the truly incredible experience is swimming with the manta rays. They are huge and so graceful.

Adieu to Bora Bora - Heartbreak

Some joker has set the alarm in my room to go off at 6 a.m. every day. And all my efforts to turn it off, including disconnecting the power, have failed. But at least I'm up to see the sunrise over the mountains and have a last sun bathe on my deck. It's breaking my heart to leave my beautiful room on the water. All in all a great deal to see and much character in evidence,

But I can't declare Bora Bora the lagoon winner; it really is ridiculously expensive. As I said, this is France, but it's not in the EEC, so the currency is the pacific franc. They'll accept euros as well then? No, but they'll take American dollars. For twenty dollars, in the supermarché, I purchase three cans of coke, a small tin of cashews and two bottles of local mineral water. The roughly 70 pence change is just enough to buy me a plastic carrier bag to put it all in.

On the plane trip, nearly all the passengers sit on the right hand side of the plane to get their last glimpses of Bora Bora. I am so concerned that the plane will flip over I almost say something to the stewardess. And I sit on the left, resolutely denying myself the view. But there was no accident, obviously. Moorea next.

(Read more about French Polynesia here.)