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I stayed in a simple pension called Chez Matilde, with cabins to rent on the beach; a fancier hotel — the Fakarava Dream — has opened a few miles down the beach, with a couple of dozen luxury cabanas.
My preference though is to sleep on the beach, which is easily done in the Tuamotus, on any of a number of motus — mini-islands made of sand washed up on the rim of the coral reef. If you are after a glimpse of paradise, sleeping in these sands offers as close to a utopian experience as possible. On Fakarava I chose a motu named Kiria on the far side of the lagoon from town. I hired a boat to drop me and made camp next to a hoa — a tidal stream running in from the sea — hanging a hammock between two coconut palms. In the mornings I would watch a squadron of frigate birds hover above the palms, floating on thermals. Beneath the hammock an army of sand crabs went about their various duties, leaving long, thin trails in the otherwise unadulterated sand. Gently pounding surf, broken by the thin coral reef crest, created a shallow aqua-blue swimming hole.
I spent my days walking my mini-island, contemplating the notion — as outsiders have done for two millenniums — whether these most-isolated little islands in the heart of the Pacific Ocean are in fact Heaven on Earth.
An hour's flight west, Rangiroa is the largest of the Tuamotu atolls, its lagoon 40 miles by 20 miles. At its far western end is the Blue Lagoon, a shallow, mini-lagoon with arguably the bluest waters in the South Pacific and access to a kind of marine life that is hard to ignore in this part of the world: Sharks. Lots of sharks.
The best way to observe sharks, of course, is to dive with them. The two natural passes on Rangiroa — Tiputa and Avatoru — offer some of the best drift diving in the world. Dropped off on the ocean side, you dive deep right away, to 100 feet, into the fast-moving current. In order to stay in place, and not get sucked right away through the pass, fingertips grasp for coral outcroppings — any little nub will do in the four-to-five-knot current. If you can manage to hold on, to stay in one place for even a few seconds, a watery dreamscape lies on the other side of your mask: giant napoleon wrasses, hawksbill turtles, manta and eagle rays, angelfish, banner fish, parrotfish, pink soft anemones; schools of snappers, trevallies, surgeonfish, unicornfish, groupers, soldierfish. Dolphins plunge deep beneath the surface, then rocket out of sight.
My preference though is to sleep on the beach, which is easily done in the Tuamotus, on any of a number of motus — mini-islands made of sand washed up on the rim of the coral reef. If you are after a glimpse of paradise, sleeping in these sands offers as close to a utopian experience as possible. On Fakarava I chose a motu named Kiria on the far side of the lagoon from town. I hired a boat to drop me and made camp next to a hoa — a tidal stream running in from the sea — hanging a hammock between two coconut palms. In the mornings I would watch a squadron of frigate birds hover above the palms, floating on thermals. Beneath the hammock an army of sand crabs went about their various duties, leaving long, thin trails in the otherwise unadulterated sand. Gently pounding surf, broken by the thin coral reef crest, created a shallow aqua-blue swimming hole.
I spent my days walking my mini-island, contemplating the notion — as outsiders have done for two millenniums — whether these most-isolated little islands in the heart of the Pacific Ocean are in fact Heaven on Earth.
An hour's flight west, Rangiroa is the largest of the Tuamotu atolls, its lagoon 40 miles by 20 miles. At its far western end is the Blue Lagoon, a shallow, mini-lagoon with arguably the bluest waters in the South Pacific and access to a kind of marine life that is hard to ignore in this part of the world: Sharks. Lots of sharks.
The best way to observe sharks, of course, is to dive with them. The two natural passes on Rangiroa — Tiputa and Avatoru — offer some of the best drift diving in the world. Dropped off on the ocean side, you dive deep right away, to 100 feet, into the fast-moving current. In order to stay in place, and not get sucked right away through the pass, fingertips grasp for coral outcroppings — any little nub will do in the four-to-five-knot current. If you can manage to hold on, to stay in one place for even a few seconds, a watery dreamscape lies on the other side of your mask: giant napoleon wrasses, hawksbill turtles, manta and eagle rays, angelfish, banner fish, parrotfish, pink soft anemones; schools of snappers, trevallies, surgeonfish, unicornfish, groupers, soldierfish. Dolphins plunge deep beneath the surface, then rocket out of sight.
