Saga Ruby Captain's blog

Port Chalmers is half way up Otago Harbour and some eight miles from the Pacific Ocean. A further eight miles up river lies Dunedin, which was New Zealand’s leading city during the second half of the 19th century after the discovery of gold brought migration and prosperity.

The port is now relatively small, but still takes the large container ships of today, and timber ships that come in to export logs and wood chip for the Asian market. In fact we felt like a very temporary visitor on a berth almost completely covered in timber. Empty containers were strategically placed, closing off our section of wharf to prevent passengers inadvertently walking to where massive fork lift type vehicles were moving logs around, several dozen at a time.

With an earlier departure scheduled for three in the afternoon the tours had to be on their way quite smartish, so it was convenient that the ‘Taieri Gorge Railway’ tour boarded the train just across the dock for the trip up towards the heart of central Otago.

Our flag state inspectors completed their final inspections and left in the early afternoon for the long journey back to the UK. A pilot joined to take us into the west coast fjords the following day and we left just fifteen minutes late with everyone finally back on board. The very cool morning had developed into a warm afternoon, so completing our run of good weather luck for the seven ports in seven days, a thoroughly enjoyable journey.

As we pulled out of Otago harbour, the great Royal Albatross of the only mainland nesting colony could be clearly seen on the final peninsular to starboard.

Ahead lay the notorious Foveaux Strait, and a weather forecast that indicated it would live up to its name.

South Island has a very definite feel about it, and compared to North Island, life appears to be a little more relaxed than the usual ‘laid back.’ It was cooler than of late, and much more of a breeze as we docked, but still the promise of a warm sunny day.

We joined the long tour to the high country, passing Christchurch and onto the Canterbury Plains, a vast expanse of flat fertile land that stretches for miles up to the Southern Alps. The guide was a veritable encyclopaedia of information, and I think we must have heard most of it before we returned. But he did come up with some real crackers - I quote, "It can get so windy up the mountains that if you face the wind with your mouth open it will blow yer underpants off."

Our initial destination was a small lodge where a large jet boat was hitched up on a trailer ready to board the first half of the group. Rodney, the expert, then towed them down to the River Waimakariri a few hundred feet below, launched the boat and shot off up stream.

Within thirty minutes he was back, but we had to scramble across rounded stones and pebbles to get on board via a makeshift portable jetty. Great views looking up at the Alps as we went up river and finally joined the first group and our transport for the next leg.

Three 4-wheel drive mini-buses, one towing a mobile loo, (Saga think of everything) took us on a tortuous 20 kilometre drive that had us holding on for dear life at times. Rodney came too, along with two other chaps, and they were great guides, cracking a few jokes as they went, "The toilet paper in the mobile loo is a real rip off" said one, and what they’d like to give back to the ‘Brits and the Aussies’ that really belongs to them, such as Possums and gorse, both of which, amongst other non indigenous species, cause a problem in New Zealand.

The views from the high country were stunning, and it was windy, so I made sure not to open my mouth to windward. My wife posed next to the loo, not realising there was someone inside. Had quite a shock when the door opened almost knocking her of her perch.

Eventually we arrived at Flock Hill Station, home to some of the 35,000 acres we had travelled over, and just in time, as the vehicle I was travelling in took that moment to die. All three drivers spent a few minutes scratching their heads and poking around underneath, but to no avail. "Looks like a fuel feed problem, mate - hasn’t happened for quite a while." Not particularly reassuring I thought, but spot on with the total lack of frustration or worry that I might have expected elsewhere.

Lamb of course, was on the menu for lunch, but there was plenty of choice for the hungry Saganauts. Our regular mode of transport was ready for the journey ‘home’, and the guide, suitably refreshed, continued to chat away as we came back across the plains. How many actually heard his oration I do not know, I managed to miss an undetermined amount, as did many others I’m sure. A stop-start circuit of Christchurch completed the tour, numerous traffic lights allowing us time for the panoramic.

Only one port remains for us to visit, and then they can all say that they have ‘done New Zealand’… I need a break from parking.

‘Windy’ Wellington lived up to its name on Wednesday, but fortunately it did not detract from what was otherwise another super sunshine day. The bay in which Wellington sits is almost land-locked, the Cook Strait providing access from the Tasman Sea and the Pacific as well as over to South Island.

We docked at the passenger terminal on Aotea Quay, just a few miles from the city centre and directly opposite the stadium of the New Zealand Institute of Sport, which from the outside reminded me of a half-submerged gasometre. Clad in some sort of corrugated shiny metal with small oblong windows inserted here and there, I might not be wrong in thinking that a certain Royal personage may refer to it as a ‘great carbuncle.’ I have been advised that inside though, it is absolutely terrific.

On board our team were again jumping through hoops with quite an intense emergency drill that was being witnessed by our colleagues from the Marine and Coastguard Agency and New Zealand Maritime. I’m glad to report that all went well and the discussion afterwards was both frank and useful, with constructive suggestions to aid our young officers in their continued progress.

The majority of passengers were, of course, oblivious to our endeavours and more intent with their mission to explore new ground or pursue the questionable benefits of retail therapy. It was still breezy when we left, but the sail back into the Cook Strait was super, allowing views towards the expensive properties above Karaka Bay and the amusingly named Worser Bay.

As we continued towards the South Island, the evening’s entertainment was quite unusual in its variety. A play put on by two ladies under the banner ‘Drama at Sea’ and called ‘Betty and Maud’ was followed by our very own ‘Cheese Omelettes, a group of young Filipinos who played Beatles numbers from the sixties. They had many of our more young at heart Saganauts up on the floor, dancing away until bo bo’s time.

A late morning arrival in Napier allowed the passengers to have a lie in, instead of rushing up with the dawn to take a not so leisurely breakfast and then get ready on the starting blocks for the all important front seat of the bus. The ‘new’ port had to be built when the old port was unceremoniously raised up about two metres in the earthquake of 1931.

Apart from the port, most of the old city was destroyed in less than three minutes and over 250 people were killed. As a result, the town was rebuilt in the trendy style of the day, Art Deco, and consequently it is recognised as having the most significant collection of Art Deco buildings in the world.

The folks here today are very much aware of this potential tourist draw and many new buildings being erected are built in a similar manner, there is even an Art Deco McDonalds. Not my personal choice, but there you are.

The Hawke’s Bay wine trail tour took in a couple of the many wineries that this district has to offer, one was quite new, but the other, the ‘Mission’, was founded in 1838 by a group of French missionaries. The charming building where we were taken had been shifted many years ago, piece by piece, up to its present location when flooding on the plane below was causing more than just a wet foot problem.

The passengers were more than just slightly amused when I abstained from the tasting due to an impending ‘driving’ appointment. Consequently, I was just a little more interested in the many old black and white photographs that were hung in all the rooms. I particularly enjoyed the ride up to Te Mata Peak that followed where the views of the Tuki Tuki River Valley over towards Napier and Hastings were superb.

Our guests returned, unsurprisingly, quite relaxed and just had time to take a look at the 1930’s cars that had been driven onto the dock by their enthusiastic owners, who were all wearing the costume of the day. A jazz band similarly adorned and with straw boaters played us away in the late afternoon sunshine.

The weather continued to be with us as we headed further south and into the port of Tauranga, apparently the busiest in New Zealand. Captain Cook called this part of New Zealand the Bay of Plenty, I presume for obvious reasons, but it is probably because it is the ocean gateway to the area of geothermal activity at Rotorua that cruise ships now go alongside.

Taking the opportunity of going ashore, we joined the ‘Longridge Park and jet boat adventure’ This, I would suggest, is another case of a farmer diversicating into other financially viable activities. The farm has a huge Kiwi fruit plantation, but, interesting as Kiwi cultivation might be, it was the jet boat ride that our active saganauts were probably paying their money for. It was indeed a thrilling experience.

The small boat goes at such a speed that it makes ones eyes water, the driver continually having to flick it around corners, beneath hanging vegetation and avoiding half sunk rocks and fallen trees. The upper Kaituna River is so lush and charming that it really deserves a little more leisurely passage, not one where gripping knuckles are white, and walls of spray are sent cascading up behind as the driver casually does a quick three sixty to bring the craft to a shuddering halt.

Even so, it was some trip, about 12 kilometres in less than fifteen minutes and travelling as far as the Stottle Ball rapids, where for one heart stopping moment I thought he was going to try and ‘fly over’ the top.

Our group loved every minute, so the lift in the back of the old 1953 Bedford truck seemed decidedly tame afterwards. Despite late morning refreshments, the passengers were returned in time for lunch on board. I took an hour out in the afternoon to go and see a chap who used to teach budding auto gyro pilots back in the UK. He has a thriving little business with modern aircraft, so we took the opportunity to take one of the open cockpit machines up for a short run, giving the ship a fly by in the process. Very James Bondish, if only someone had bothered to look up and notice their Captain giving a casual wave as he whistled by.
 
Sailing on schedule we passed Mount Maunganui outbound for sea, the once volcanic cone now used by the locals as a lookout and means of daily exercise. Only two hours before I had flown around its top, quite a day for travelling in different modes of transport.

Our berth in Auckland could not have been closer to the city, but for some of our staff it may as well have been a million miles away. The Marine and Coastguard Agency inspectors are now on board to carry out the annual Passenger Ship Safety Inspection, a six-day poke around just about everything that moves and has a safety implication. In addition, the local Port State Control inspector gave us a visit, so for a while it became a little stressful for some while they all did their very utmost to ensure a successful outcome for the days endeavours.

Meanwhile we had a large group of folks leave us that have become, after six weeks, our friends, either to fly home or continue their holidays in New Zealand. Just about 100 new passengers joined, many from Australia and who are going to be with us for several weeks.

Meanwhile the tours went off to go city sightseeing, or over to Mount Rangitoto, an extinct volcano that has in more recent times been used as a prison camp. The Auckland Wilderness tour took folks up to the Waitakere Rainforest and along the black sand Piha Beach on a more energetic excursion. Later in the day, four of our intrepid staff did manage to take a ride to the top of the Auckland’s equivalent to the London post office tower and then took a controlled descent from the top, outside, with what looked like just a thin wire suspending them from an equally unsafe looking beam. Must have been nuts.

After a very busy day we eventually sailed, just after the passengers had the pleasure of being entertained by local Maori show in the Ballroom. We have a further five New Zealand ports to visit before finally cruising the fjords on the west coast at the end of the week. 

We slipped into the bay as the day was dawning, cooler than it has been of late, but calm and with the promise of a bright morning.

With the sun came the ‘pleasure folk’ with their numerous leisure craft of all shapes and sizes, all out to enjoy the weekend and take a look at the latest maritime attraction. Our tenders took passengers into Waitangi, where ferries also sailed on a ten-minute run over to Russell, a delightful village. Many of the houses there are apparently holiday homes, visited for only a few months of the year... sounds like a few of my nearby Cornish seaside village neighbours.

We opted for the Waka Taia-Mai, a very Maori experience that involved a large catamaran canoe, tales and welcome in a strange language, and the sticking out of tongues in grotesque expression.  After a suitable amount of instruction given by the semi naked but suitably tattooed Chief Hone and his accomplices, we boarded the canoe and commenced our paddle up the River Waitangi towards their ‘Sacred Place.’

To ensure our quickly depleting energy didn’t disappear altogether, there were regular stops during which, in a bellowing voice, further history lessons were given, every one of which seemed to end with ‘Welcome, Welcome’ and ‘We thank you for visiting our lands’.

Eventually we arrived at the ‘Special Place’ and were met by the tribal ladies who, in a more 21st-century style, had driven round in their four-wheel drive. I had been ‘chosen’ by our passengers to be the ‘Chief’ (no surprise there then) who was tasked to reciprocate the greeting given by Hone’s grandson and then to lead my ‘tribe’ into the hut used as the special place within the special place.

Another long welcome in their language was followed by my reply, perhaps slightly inadequate by comparison. It was all very ‘spiritual’, and followed by the rubbing of noses and foreheads, before we retreated back to the war canoe and made off upstream. This time the ‘Yamaha’ paddle was used, easing our burden somewhat, as we were able to concentrate on the lush riverside scenery, and more Maori tales.

Finally we were homeward bound, our illustrious leader in the bow. Much of the time, being in the forward part, I had the rather dubious pleasure of being able to examine the intricacies of buttock tattoos in greater detail. In final peroration, Hone removed the four inch bone from his left ear and described its use as a calling instrument, then mentioned that it used to be taken from the bone of a deceased family member. The bone made an eerie penny whistle like sound when blown, as though it was summoning the dead.

Most un-spookily, we were returned to the shore, bade farewell to our new found spiritual friends and took our more conventional lift back to the ship. Within the hour, in our very much larger ‘canoe’, we were leisurely sailing close by islands with names such as Motuarohia, Moturua and Motukokako. 

Our next destination is expected to be very much less spiritual.

As the cyclone slowly pulled away from us, its only affect was to leave a long low swell, suitably damped by the stabilisers. Just one day at sea and we entered the waters of Fiji, pulling into Suva on a fine hot morning. Once passed the encircling reef into the bay, the sights and sound of a very busy city came upon us almost at a rush.

The berth is directly opposite the frenetic bus terminal, where from our great height, people seemed like busy worker ants and numerous multi-coloured ageing buses, in great clouds of blue exhaust, were like the queens coming and going.

And then, in superb juxtaposition, the immaculately turned-out Fiji Police Marching Band came stepping out onto the quayside. What a great welcome, we were all equally impressed by their skills of marching, both militarily and in a suitably Polynesian show style, and their musical harmony. This was a great performance, equal to any seen at the Edinburgh Tattoo.

Joining the morning ‘Rain Forest Walk’, we were soon being driven out of the city towards the hills, with the promise of some ‘strenuous activity’. Part of it, I’m sure, was the experience of trying to stay in the seat over the back left wheel which must have been square, not round. It led to huge hoots of laughter, especially when we left the main road to follow the bumpy winding track to the starting point. It was quite possibly my first time of having a four-wheel drive off-road experience in a bus.

The walk itself was through a fascinating variety of trees and vegetation, down through a gorge that carried a river, sluggish at times then cascading over rocks to pools below. It was hot, humid, narrow, sometimes awkward, with many steps of varying shapes and sizes, but our hardy saganauts gingerly carried on regardless. Occasionally the local guide would try and explain what a certain tree was used for, and I was rather amused when he said that ‘This one is wild’. Uhm?

By the time we had reached our final ‘goal’, a large clear rock pool, saturated shirts were well and truly stuck to backs. Several of the group took the opportunity to swim in this most delightful setting, and a suitably tree-hung rope gave opportunity for the ‘young at heart’ to practise their Tarzan skills without the normal inhibitions of age.

Bouncing back to town around lunchtime, most returned to the ship, while we nipped in and out of a few very non-touristy markets. It is the only way to get a real feel of a place, and smiles, local greetings and a genuine warmth given in exchange for a foreigner’s curiosity rewarded our brief sojourn.

We made it back in time to avoid the torrential downpours during the afternoon - rain so heavy that rivers of water were running off deck heads and out of the scuppers, seemingly within seconds. By the time we eventually pulled away from the jetty, the monstrous dark clouds had, in the main part, moved over towards the mountains behind the city. With a smile of farewell the pilot departed as we went south through the reef.

New Zealand beckons.

We headed into cyclone alley, having so far managed to avoid ‘Oli’ and ‘Pat’. We were not to be so fortunate with cyclone ‘Rene’, which I had been monitoring since we had left Bora Bora. The predicted re-curving path, perhaps unsurprisingly, turned out to be just a tad out. The beast stalled and started to backtrack towards Western Samoa, our destination. I made a deviation to the northwest and reduced speed considerably in order to avoid entering its damaging winds near the centre.

Gradually it tracked sufficiently to the southwest so that we could, after what can only be described as a ‘lumpy’ night, increase speed and head back towards Apia. We arrived some ten hours late, a passing deluge inevitably getting us soaked on the bridge wing as we docked.

With an apparent audible collective sigh of relief from down below, I announced we would overnight alongside and leave the following afternoon. The sun set through a Technicolor sky full of mountainous cumulus, a legacy of the now departed cyclone. The ship settled down for the night with just a long gentle swell curving over the reefs and into the harbour, rocking us ever so gently into a peaceful slumber.

The next day dawned with a low mist of wood smoke hovering over the town of Apia; many breakfasts were no doubt being cooked. By nine o’clock the heat was up as we embarked for the island tour, into mini buses that had, unusually, plastic covers over the seats. Our local guide, Chris, was the genuine article, complete with the traditional Samoan tattoos that looked rather too much like war paint to me.

In fact, he turned out to be a real nice guy, excellent English and extremely knowledgeable about the country and its customs. The ladies loved him, perhaps because he wore nothing but a small sarong around his waist. When he came to tell us about the tattooing process we sat there cringing at the apparent barbaric process. Twelve sessions up to five hours each, being held down under the tattoo artist’s hammer.  He became an instant hero.

We journeyed along the coast and up into the hills, stopping from time to time in order to step out and take photographs of the waterfalls and lush scenery. A great demonstration of all the uses the islanders make of the humble coconut was followed by a stop for a barbecue at Faofao beach. From time to time a heavy shower came down, it was then we found out why the seats were covered in plastic.

The final waterfall was the spectacular Papapapaiuta Falls, which plunged hundreds of feet down into an old volcanic crater. We were very high up, almost into cloud, and it was raining so hard that only the bravest souls clambered out to take a peak.

After over six hours we returned to the ship, bid our farewells, and sailed an hour later. ‘Rene’ has moved on, but its legacy is the swell that will affect our voyage towards Fiji.

Bora Bora is everything that Papeete is not, a stunning Polynesian idyll.

With the pilot already on board after the overnight run, we sailed through the break in the reef apparently blasted out when the Americans came to build an airstrip during the war. Small low islands, or motus, line the reef, but the main volcanic island towers above like some great fortress, clouds mysteriously masking the very top of Otenianu, a seemingly flat summit that rises to 727 metres above sea level.

We took the ‘Off-road Adventure’, expecting to see a little more of the islands and it's surrounds. We were not to be disappointed and the phrase "memorable excursion" used in the guidebook was, if anything, an understatement. Passing first through the small main town, Vaitape, it wasn’t long before we turned off the main coastal road and up into real 4-wheel drive country. Our local driver, with perhaps the most un-Polynesian of names, Cyril, smilingly explained how to hold on inside the back. And hold on we needed to, as he took the Defender up a track that even a donkey would have found difficult.

After 15 minutes or so of bone-jarring ascent we came to a plateau that overlooked two sides of the island. There we found two great US 7 inch guns left behind over sixty years ago, still awkwardly pointing seawards as though they could once again protect against enemy attack. On the breech of one was stencilled US Naval Gun Factory WNY and the date, 1908. I can only assume that they must have originally been constructed for some Navy battleship. Now, however, they lay as a stark memorial, with all loose parts removed, and the once grey painted cast steel barrel decorated only with sprayed on graffiti.

We continued on, first back down to the coastal road, then continuing our round-the-island journey. Making several more off road excursions, each one becoming seemingly more precipitous than the last and all that had us gripping on to roof cross bars for dear life. From another plateau where a radio mast was perched, we had the most amazing view over the aquamarine waters that surround the deep blue depths of the original crater.

We called in to observe a pearl artisan at his work cleaning and preparing oysters, and even carefully extricating a black pearl, while next door the charming sales folk probably fully understood we were unlikely customers for the $84,000 necklace they showed my wife.

The final off road experience took us first past a junior school, where the excited round-eyed children were ‘escaping’ at the end of lessons, and then up to see a ‘paarara’ artist at his studio working on magnificently hand-painted wraps in bold tropical colours. A retail opportunity not missed by my beloved. His little daughter, just collected from school by mother, posed uninhibitedly for our cameras in front of her father’s work, laughing and obviously not conscious of the gaps where her missing milk teeth had been.

We finally drove back to the quayside, in time to take one of the last tenders back to the ship. A morning tour that was indeed memorable, full of jaw dropping sights, local experience and huge laughter. Within the hour Saga Ruby had passed again through the reef’s entrance, yet another with navigational buoys no longer in place, and set course for our continuing voyage towards the Date Line. 

Ahead lay the islands of Samoa, and another developing cyclone. 

Another two sea days, one of which refreshed us all by dropping a great deal of tropical rain, brought us into French Polynesia and eventually, Papeete, the capital of Tahiti. Although the lush mountainous scenery is full of ‘South Pacific’, the city is not the charming celluloid image portrayed therein.

We docked closer than ‘downtown’, in fact the endless traffic was almost running over the mooring ropes forward, so it was an easy stroll for those who wanted to browse the rather seedy streets. However, the heat was humid and intense - 93 degrees in the shade when passengers started off on their morning adventures.

Those on tour no doubt had the best experience, with an island tour for those who just wanted to sit back and watch the passing scenery, and a ‘Footsteps of Gauguin’ excursion for others who wished to be educated as well. Alternatively there was opportunity for a ‘Mountain Safari’ or a ‘Lagoon Discovery’ for the more active of our guests.

Even so, most were back by lunchtime, retreating from the heat of the day until the eagerly anticipated barbecue, where the showpiece was the Chef’s prize-winning shark from Pitcairn. Starting time, 1900 hours. What time did it start to rain? About 1845.

There were a few brave souls who continued under the parasols on the after deck, eating freshly caught tuna and lobster, while huge droplets of rain bounced on the deck all around. The cooks did a fantastic job, continuing regardless, while trays of freshly barbecued fish and meat replenished the servery inside the Lido Café. Perhaps as might be expected, the rain started to ease off just as we were about to sail.

For that I was grateful - as visibility improved on our departure through the reef, I could at least see the one navigational buoy remaining. Even that was without its light and had to be illuminated by the pilot boat’s searchlight. The main airport runway approach crosses the main sea channel, and permission has to be obtained from the control tower before passage is permitted. The harbour pilot advised there was a plane due at 2215 hours, but we had permission to continue.

We crossed under the ‘intersection’ at about the same time, so while trying to monitor the approaching unlit buoy and the ever closer breaking waves on the edge of the reef, I also had a second eye looking aloft, half expecting a pair of dangling ‘Dunlop’s’ to take away the main mast top. Of course it never happened and the plane, in obvious relaxed Polynesian style, appeared much later.

We set off towards what some refer to as the most romantic of the Pacific Islands.

Only a spec on the chart of the Pacific, but Pitcairn could be seen from many miles away as the day gradually dawned. Adamstown is the focus of life on the island, several hundred feet above the ocean. The small jetty, from where the longboats are launched, is at the bottom of the ‘Hill of Difficulty’. Explanation not required.

We circumnavigated the island, eventually anchoring half a mile to the south of Point Christian in order to gain some shelter from the north-easterly swell. The long boat, crammed with forty of the islanders, was already in position, having been launched an hour before. There would have been no chance to use our own tenders but, as on previous calls, the islanders were intent on boarding in order to set up their stalls in our main lounge.

I went down to meet them at the pilot ladder as the last few were being assisted up over the sill, their great steel longboat rising with the heaving swell, one minute six feet below, the next over ten. An assortment of boxes, bags and holdalls quickly disappeared inboard and within fifteen minutes or so, the Ballroom started to look like some Cornish summer handicraft market.

With feverish activity, tables were quickly covered with carved wooden sharks, plates, miniature replica Bountys, plus postage stamps, t-shirts and coral jewellery. I asked one chap, aptly named Pirate Pete, what wood was the bowl I held made from? “Tree wood”, was the instant reply. He was big enough to ensure I wasn’t going to pursue the discussion. 

Meanwhile, down aft on the mooring deck, the crew were having a fishing competition. By the time I arrived to take a look, I could see that this was being taken very seriously, the largest caught by that time was four kilos, and only with a baited line. The Safety Officer and Executive Chef, with their own impressive rods, were looking concerned.

Back in the Ballroom, the handicraft market was beginning to look like a car boot sale, while a roaring business was underway with the friendly locals cracking jokes with our passengers. Eventually, with deals all done, several locals ventured into our shop to stock up on essentials, apparently chocolate and sweets being some of the most important. Brenda Christian, a direct descendant of the infamous Fletcher, gave an informative lecture in the theatre, and then they all rallied back at midday upon the call of the Mayor. A quick presentation, then three songs enthusiastically sung, were followed by a vigorous attack on the lido buffet before all trooped back down to the pilot door, suitably replete.

As the anchor was brought back up from the crystal-clear blue depths, the loaded boat left the ships side. They ran up past the bow then back down the port side, while locals and passengers waved excitedly at each other as it sped past. Meanwhile at the stern, the Safety Officer thought he had clinched the competition with a 6-kilo prize, but was beaten at the last moment when the Chef heaved in a 14-kilo shark. Apparently the excitement was at fever pitch and the cheers were audible several decks above.  

We followed the longboat and sounded three blasts as we passed Adamstown for the last time; the islanders were already alongside their jetty discharging their spoils of retail conquest. French Polynesia and the remnants of Cyclone Oli beckon.

After six days at sea the dark shape of Easter Island became gradually visible against the background of southern stars reaching down to the ocean. The dawn followed an hour or so later and for those keen enough to be on deck for our arrival, the sight was probably as welcome for them as it was for me. My concern had been that the island would not give sufficient shelter from the two-metre easterly swell in order for us to operate our tenders safely.

As we anchored there were breaking waves to be seen over rocks close to the shore, but at the anchorage all was relatively calm. The clearance from the authorities took a little longer than might have been expected, apparently because someone thought that they could check all the provisions on board against the lists we had provided. Some task. Passengers were despatched in the boats relatively expediently, with only jetty limitations ashore causing a slight backlog. I followed, for my first step onto this mysterious island, and a few hours in which to be pleasantly educated. 

The road out to the south coast heads towards Rano Raraku, the huge hill where all of the famous Moais were quarried. By the time we arrived from our at times, bottom jarring ride, most of our tour passengers were about their Moai finding trek. These strange statues scatter the hillside, some lying on the ground and in a damaged state, others just standing either upright or at some jaunty angle. There are a few just left, partly carved out of their rocky foundation, almost as though the workers have nipped off for a short holiday.

We continued on to the fifteen standing Moai close to the deep blue ocean at Rano Raraku, apparently re-erected after a tsunami knocked them over in the 60’s. Why do they face inland and not to sea? And then on unmetalled roads we headed north west, yet more bottom juddering moments, until we reached the glorious beach at Anakena where more grey statues, four still with their unique brown Pukao head piece, stand guard. Within the palm trees we took some homemade banana cake and washed it down with freshly squeezed pineapple juice. Locals nearby were cooking recently caught fish on barbecues heated by fallen eucalyptus wood. The scene, almost idyllic.

Eventually, almost reluctantly, we returned through Hanga Roa village to the jetty, and headed back to the ship. On board, the local Tautanga Folkloric Group entertained the now returned passengers, with their energetic portrayal of traditional dance. It was exciting, with body paint and wearing traditional costume, that may have had some of our ladies eyes watering with the ‘briefness’ of the male dancers undergarments. 

The dancers left, we sailed, what a day.