Imagine: the most clichéd confection of a tropical beach. Ocean so clear it looks like it should taste sweet. Icing sugar sand. A lagoon the colour of blue Powerade. Then multiply that by brilliant sunshine and a complete absence of crowds. Paradise is an overused descriptor, but in this instance it’s entirely applicable.
This is the Motu Vaiamanu – aka the motu piscine or island swimming pool – on Raivavae in the Austral Islands, tucked away in the southern corner of French Polynesia. It’s almost too good.
But the journey to paradise was not entirely smooth sailing.
It’s 3.48am, 15 hours into the voyage between Tahiti and the Australs on board hybrid cruise/cargo ship the Aranui 5, and the TV remote, teaspoons and coffee pods are skidding around my cabin with the tumultuous rolling of the ocean. I crawl out of bed, bleary-eyed, to stow the flotsam and jetsam.
We’re still mid-ocean come daybreak, riding the undulating cerulean swells. I emerge tentatively from my cabin, staggering along corridors like a drunk to see how the other 180 mostly septuagenarian passengers have fared.
Onboard the Aranui 5 in the Austral Islands. Photo by Jo Percival
In an upper deck lounge, I find a ukelele lesson. Inside, people sit and strum, creating off-key chords and laughter. Picture windows frame an ocean painted a shade of blue I don’t recognise. Is it royal? Peacock? Lapis?
Our first stop in the Austral archipelago is Rimatara Island where we land in a haze of sea spray and smoke. The fires are part of a welcome ceremony, a rite that was traditionally used to protect the island from invaders. A tent decorated in fronds and foliage provides shade, a salty breeze takes the edge off the tropical heat.
The Austral Islands are a small constellation of volcanic nuggets poking out of the Polynesian ocean, 600km south of Tahiti. Over 11 days, our Aranui itinerary includes visits to five of the inhabited islands, Rimatara, Rurutu, Raivavae, Rapa and Tubuai.
Universally tidy and picturesque, the tiny communities on each island are bound by isolation and are so far unimpacted by the ravages of tourism. In the Australs there are no polystyrene resorts with swim-up bars, no golf courses, no drone of jet skis or clatter of scenic helicopter flights. As we’re disgorged from the ship’s tenders, reminiscent of WWII landing craft, we’re draped in fragrant lei and as we take photos, the locals do too – the curiosity works both ways, untainted by cynicism.
Island tours involve piling onto rickety school buses, or into locals’ own cars decorated in bright fabrics, fresh flowers and woven leaves.
A warm welcome on Rurutu Island. Photo by Jo Percival.
On Rurutu – a lagoonless 33km2 island shaped like a miniature Africa – we arrive on another windy wharf, greeted by locals with baskets of freshly picked tiare to tuck behind our ears: the left if you’re married, right if you’re single. Conches sound, drums pound, decorative foliage abounds.
Shepherded to the community centre we are welcomed with a speech from the mayor whose jokes cause delayed ripples of laughter through the crowd as they’re translated from his native French to English. We watch with bated breath as a young man steps out from the musicians to lift a large boulder. This ceremony is based on an island tradition: if he fails to lift the rock we will not be allowed to visit the island, it’s a bad omen. Cheers erupt from the audience as he hoists the boulder onto his broad shoulder and waves to the crowd, grinning.
It's a good job that we’re granted permission – there’s a lot to discover on Rurutu. We explore caves carved out of ancient coral and limestone, watch as plump red berries miraculously transform into pale coffee beans at the island’s roastery, and feast in the garden of the mayor’s house under a red and white circus-sized marquee. The island’s generosity is evident once again as we take plates piled with authentic Polynesian food – poisson cru, raw fish doused in coconut milk, crisp barbecued pork, and a strange but delicious gelatinous pumpkin-based dessert.
Our island tour is accompanied by a colourful convoy of dignitaries and police, dancers and musicians in vehicles with wing mirrors draped in festive greenery. The whole day is soundtracked by a mobile party mix as the band picks up their driving Pacific rhythm at each stop.
The cave of Ana A'eo on Rurutu. Photo by Melanie Maganias.
The cave of Ana A‘eo, the largest on Rurutu, is a yawning mouth filled with ferns that is used for occasions like this, to welcome visitors. Musicians peel off from the convoy and as we pick our way through the rocks, we’re greeted by drums and conches, while teenagers clad in leaves flick their hips to the infectious rhythm, perched on top of flattened stalagmites.
On the daily transfers between ship and shore, I soon learn that it’s best to think of myself as cargo. Stepping from the bucking ship to the lurching barge is like trying to jump into a moving elevator. Rather than overanalyse it, I trust in the strong and capable seamen who manhandle me across the thrashing gap.
Unlike Rurutu, little Raivavae, just 16km2, is bordered by a magnificent turquoise lagoon. Here, we’re welcomed with floral garlands and freshly macheted coconuts to drink. In a makeshift pavilion we eat a lunch of delicacies: Poisson cru (of course), tiny, briny balls of seaweed that burst like caviar between my teeth, giant clam curry, banana crêpes. Followed by more swaying, smiling dance, more drumming.
Making beautiful floral lei on Raivavae. Photo by Jo Percival.
On this day, rather than join the bus tour, I set out to explore. Hiring a canary-coloured bike I cycle along smooth concrete roads, past banana palms, roaming dogs and waving locals to arrive at a sublime beach. White sand is fringed by ironwood trees and the water lapping at my feet could be distilled vodka. The distinctive shape of the Aranui – like a vintage clothes iron with its cargo crane handle – is framed on the horizon. There’s something special about discovering a spot so idyllic on my own. However, my smugness evaporates the next morning when we are dropped ashore in the tenders at the very same beach. Maybe not such a secret after all.
Ferried from one exquisite beach to the other side of the island in a friendly local’s ute, then, via a flotilla of small boats, we land at the collection of tiny islets that frame Raivavae’s motu piscine. I step ashore, aghast. It is like being in a simulation, implausible that a place like this should just exist in nature. Flowing between snow-like drifts of white sand, the sapphire water is warm and clear with a current that acts like a lazy river, drifting slowly from the one end of the islet to the other. In the shade, tables are laden with bottled water and fresh fruit. I sit on the shore, waves lapping at my sandy toes and eat sweet Javanese pomelo, its juice trickling down my wrists.
The Motu Piscine on Raivavae. Photo by Melanie Maganias.
Life onboard the Aranui soon finds a comfortable rhythm. Not just the sway of the ocean, which I grow so accustomed to I take it with me to shore each day, but the daily habits that form. Most mornings I eat a breakfast of tropical fruit and crusty baguettes with a quartet of women from Adelaide. Three course dinners are enjoyed with people from Rhode Island, Paris and Tasmania – a random seating selection at first, but by the end of the trip our group is referring to each other as family. Connections form fast.
“Maururu!” “Merci!” “Ia Orana.” “Bonjour,” are phrases that become second nature. Regular announcements over the ship’s intercom are repeated in different languages. English is in distant third place for casual greetings around the ship.
The Aranui 5 arrives at Rapa. Photo by Jo Percival.
While each of the Austral Islands has its own unique character, culture and dialect, Rapa stands apart. The southernmost of the Australs, it is a fishhook-shaped island with fewer than 500 inhabitants. Geographically, there’s nothing between here and Antarctica.
My first sighting is of dark, sharp spires like shattered crockery looming out of the mist. The Aranui eases slowly into a sheltered harbour formed from Rapa’s collapsed volcanic crater where the steep green hills and still water remind me of entering the Marlborough Sounds. It feels like coming home.
Teenagers, back for school holidays, perform on Rapa. Photo by Melanie Maganias.
It’s not just Rapa’s landscapes that feel familiar. The welcoming ceremony, performed by the island’s teenagers recently returned from a school term in Tahiti, is unlike the other islands. Rather than a sensual Polynesian sway, this is feisty – a kapa haka-like challenge that includes the flashing whites of eyes and pukana. In the dignitaries’ speeches, I pick out words ‘tipuna,’ ‘whakarongo,’ and ‘paki paki’ in the local reo ‘Oparo that is so like te reo Māori.
Being further south than the Tropic of Capricorn, the climate on Rapa is subtropical with distinct seasons. There are no coconuts growing here, instead an abundance of stone fruit, apples and berries thrive, along with more ruby red guavas than I’ve ever seen in my life. We stroll around Ahurei village, picking fruit as we go, accompanied by a couple of curious kittens, a mob of kids on bikes and teenagers who jokingly offer their services as bodyguards in broken English.
A full day at sea includes ubiquitous sunbathing on the rear decks. Other passengers participate in dance and cooking workshops or attend lectures on Austral Island history. Some of the restaurant crew, freed from their duties between meals, play ping pong – I giggle at their infectious Polynesian laughter and howls of mock despair after each volley. A French couple sit quietly, practicing their newly acquired ukulele skills. New friends start exchanging contact details and air dropping photos.
The Aranui 5 heads back to Tahiti. Photo by Jo Percival.
We’re coming to the end of the voyage and an air of sweet melancholy hangs over the day. As the sun sets a notice is broadcast through the ship: “Attention mesdames et messieurs…” the crew invites us to gather and throw our lei accumulated throughout the voyage into the ocean in farewell. I watch with misty eyes as our wreaths and garlands disappear in the Aranui’s wake, a trail of petals and memories drifting off towards the horizon.
Find out more at aranui.com
Story by Jo Percival for the Spring 2024 issue of AA Directions Magazine. Jo Percival is the Digital Editor of AA Directions magazine.
Explore more from AA Directions magazine while you're here:
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