POOL RESOURCES
Put the effort in and be richly rewarded on Niue, writes Michael Wayne
Alift of the finger is all it takes. The lazy wave is returned in kind by the oncoming driver, and the transaction of politeness concludes. It took seconds but it leaves me smiling . . . at least until the next car comes along. That’s the etiquette of the road here in Niue, an island nation parenthesised by Fiji and the Cook Islands — and known for its manners. The waving is a must; the only times I’m not waved at are when it’s other tourists, or when I’m close to Alofi, the capital. Typical.
For holidaymakers looking for an island escape, Niue isn’t a name that rolls off the tongue.
On paper, it’s unfortunate. In practice, it’s a musical name for a destination that waits, in the heart of the South Pacific, for those with a sense of adventure and measured expectations.
I arrive on one of the two flights that fly here each week from Auckland, almost four hours away. Planes don’t arrive from anywhere else, so both events draw small crowds. “C’MON! IT’S beautiful in here,” Terry, an ageing Kiwi, yells to Jean, his Canadian wife. The Limu Pools are beautiful outside as well: deep, swimming holes carved from rock over thousands of years and filled with the aquarium of sea life to which the tropics are accustomed. Terry’s day-glo togs and pasty white skin stand out as the only blemish.
Jean, perched on a rock on the shore, rolls her eyes. “I know,” she calls to him, and then turns to me: “I’m not much of a swimmer.”
She pulls out a book. As Terry splashes about in the pool long ago reserved for Niuean royalty, Jean remains awkwardly perched on the rock, reading. It’s not a postcard image.
Anyone travelling to Niue with hopes of lounging around on pristine sandbars needs to adjust their expectations (or get a better travel agent).
Unlike just about every tropical island in the region, Niue is virtually devoid of beaches. An extinct volcano, Niue’s foundations are made up of dead, hardened coral. The two greatest consequences are the lack of beaches, and that it’s supremely difficult to grow vegetables.
“Fiji and Rarotonga have the beaches, but they don’t have the isolation or the sense of discovery,” says Felicity Bollen, director of Niue Tourism. “There’s nowhere like us.”
It’s true. All around the island, if you want to swim, you have to earn it. It’s just as well, too: Niuean forests and jungles will have you work up a sweat. There are no fences, no locked doors between you and the blue. Just aggressive heat.
By the time I’ve hiked to Matapa Chasm in the island’s north, I’m soaked to the bone before I’ve even entered the water. Luckily for me, the chasm’s pool is refreshingly cold and shockingly clear — neon fish zip away as I plunge in.
The natural formations around me are so conducive to aquatic frolicking you’d think they’d been planned. It’s only when you’re neckdeep in a crisp cocktail of fresh and saltwater that it hits you: this is the result of the waves crashing against the coast, hour after hour, as they’ve done for millennia. You’re in the Pacific’s swimming pool. Niue’s lonely coastal road is peppered with sea tracks, long paths through the bush to the water’s edge. Some require a guide, others are self-serve, but all culminate in an Atlantean world of grottoes, caves and astonishing natural pools. An audience of crabs and guppies are treated to my one-man bathing show, and show their appreciation by vanishing quickly.
The island’s ever-shrinking population (just below 2000 at last count) and placid tourism mean you’ll often find yourself alone at these spots. Much like Niue itself: the country stands alone in the vast South Pacific, having little to do with its more popular neighbours. It’s a good thing. In our increasingly connected world, it’s still
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