Words & images Alex Mitcheson Drone Footage © Oneye Production / NCT, © Eye Fly / NCT
Words & images Alex Mitcheson
When I realise I’ve just bitten into the single most impressive pain au chocolat I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating outside France,
“Is it good? That bakery is ok, but I know another place. I’ll show you when we get back”, says Axelle, my tour guide from Toutazimut—an eco-tour enterprise—as we wind past palm-studded coves at Baie de Murari, in New Caledonia. We’ve hit the road early out of Nouméa, and already, colossal mountains are making their way steadily to meet us. Not mystical or pretty, more rugged and brutish. Implying a tropical playground with its fair share of stories.
When I realise I’ve just bitten into the single most impressive pain au chocolat I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating outside France,
“Is it good? That bakery is ok, but I know another place. I’ll show you when we get back”, says Axelle, my tour guide from Toutazimut—an eco-tour enterprise—as we wind past palm-studded coves at Baie de Murari, in New Caledonia. We’ve hit the road early out of Nouméa, and already, colossal mountains are making their way steadily to meet us. Not mystical or pretty, more rugged and brutish. Implying a tropical playground with its fair share of stories.
Have you ever seen water so blue?
I’ve lived in France and speak the language at a conversational level. As an Englishman, I take no pride in declaring that the culture, food, wine, and architecture are among the best. Aside from a quick trip to St Pierre & Miquelon off the coast of Newfoundland last year, this is my very first time in a French overseas territory. But already, there are signs of the Old Country everywhere. Some are more subtle than others. With each passing hour, an intense craving to understand this place grows inside me. Like, seriously, how are the pastries so good?
A hike a day keeps the doctor away...
“You can see the evidence of the mines in the hillsides all around us. Because of the heavy metals in the soils here, only very unique plant life thrives,” Axelle tells me as we traverse and plunge our way through deserted valleys. Dramatic scarring from nickel and cobalt mines depicts a vast and defiant natural environment, a place where nature appears to prevail.
Native endemic ferns are everywhere.
Madeline Falls gushed with life.
That afternoon, we stop by Madeline Falls, a small but pristine waterfall that feeds into smaller pools, eventually flowing into Yaté Lake. I learn about the maquis minier, an endemic shrubland on red mineral-rich soil distinguished by its adaptation to harsh conditions, particularly after frequent wildfires. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I dive into a crisp teal pool and float on my back, gazing at a powder blue sky. It feels like I’ve witnessed every colour in nature by lunchtime.
La Forêt Noyée (drowned forest) on Yaté Lake.
Tall white figures come into focus in ghostly chalk light as my kayak glides silently forward. Our group gathers to mingle among these submerged giant gum trees under a full moon in what is known as the Drowned Forest, located on the White River arm of Yaté Lake.
The experience is otherworldly, radiating an energy within the group that is both electric and inexplicable.
We all exchange glances, but no one speaks. Creaking tree limbs are the only sound to break our collective silence.
Getting briefed on how to paddle under the moonlight.
Tall white figures come into focus in ghostly chalk light as my kayak glides silently forward. Our group gathers to mingle among these submerged giant gum trees under a full moon in what is known as the Drowned Forest, located on the White River arm of Yaté Lake.
The experience is otherworldly, radiating an energy within the group that is both electric and inexplicable.
We all exchange glances, but no one speaks. Creaking tree limbs are the only sound to break our collective silence.
The following day, I emerge from my small tent at Aventure Pulsion Camping and, over a cup of coffee, make out last night’s paddling course. In stark dawn light, the vast lake and waterways, backed by ravine-ribboned mountains of the Blue River National Park, resemble a secret lovechild of Hawai’i and South Island, New Zealand. Oddly familiar yet undeniably inimitable.
Taking in the serene small pieces of reef off Malabou Beach.
Decamped and laced up, the steep climb up the Kakariki footpath leads me onto the renowned GR® NC1 Trail: 107 km of unadulterated terrain dissecting the Great South almost perfectly in two. There isn’t a single cloud for the next several hours as I traverse the ridgeline toward Pont Germain. I’ve been told it should be quiet with few people around. Several small cobwebs stretched across the track confirm no one has passed here for some time.
Tackling the steep terrain of Arama hiking trail at the very top of New Caledonia, in Poum.
I have also been advised to keep my eyes peeled for the legendary cagou, New Caledonia’s larger, less threatened, and white counterpart of the flightless kiwi bird. After no sightings and a slippery descent, an isolated bend in the Blue River offers a perfect spot to dive in and wash away the day’s exertion in crystal-clear water. A group of smiling local teenage boys, sharing the same idea, materialise and give me some thumbs up—no smartphones in sight.
Before we leave, Axelle takes me to a part of the forest she knows will provide a cagou sighting. And sure enough, I get my first and only glimpse of this rare and elusive bird. However, it shows little fear or reservation about our presence. She gently scratches the forest floor, and almost immediately, the bird stops in its tracks and approaches the newly disturbed undergrowth to inspect for food. This mysterious little ground dweller’s numbers are threatened by colonisation, but still, they won’t hold that against you.
Elusive but friendly—the humble cagou.
Two days later, I’m covered head to toe in sticky mud. At the very northern extremity of Grand Terre (main island), I’ve made my way to Kô mud baths down a dusty road towards Poingam. For a modest fee, the landowning family provides a basic shower setup and access to their natural spa. I decide to go to the adjoining beach and wade in before collapsing and letting salt water wash away my organic body mask.
I’ve never felt my skin so soft.
While leaving, I take another path to observe a hidden-in-plain-sight salt farm, surrounded by bush, only a stone's throw from the sand. La Case à Sel is likely one of the world’s most remote salt producers and a treasure trove of artisanal salt and condiments. My purchase of flaky, hand-harvested sea salt comes with a wrinkled smile and a “merci” from the owner as she waves me farewell.
When in Rome... jump in the mud.
Two days later, I’m covered head to toe in sticky mud. At the very northern extremity of Grand Terre (main island), I’ve made my way to Kô mud baths down a dusty road towards Poingam. For a modest fee, the landowning family provides a basic shower setup and access to their natural spa. I decide to go to the adjoining beach and wade in before collapsing and letting salt water wash away my organic body mask.
I’ve never felt my skin so soft.
While leaving, I take another path to observe a hidden- plain-sight salt farm, surrounded by bush, only a stone's throw from the sand. La Case à Sel is likely one of the world’s most remote salt producers and a treasure trove of artisanal salt and condiments. My purchase of flaky, hand-harvested sea salt comes with a wrinkled smile and a “merci” from the owner as she waves me farewell.
Restaurant-quality yellowfin tuna sashimi, with grilled venison backstrap and a rainbow burst-esque salad, is not the kind of meal you expect at a campsite in the middle of nowhere. Never mind Ouégoa, a village deep inland in the foothills of the Central Chain, which separates Grande Terre’s east and west coasts. But this is Tarap Destination, and Ricky, its owner and operator, is the most cheerful renaissance man I’ve met. A hunter, fisherman, and tour guide, his smile is contagious. Even though our native tongues are different, we understand each other perfectly.
On a speedy mission to the mangroves.
The morning after an incredible fireside meal, he takes me on a boat ride along the Diahot River, New Caledonia’s longest, which begins life on Mount Paníe some 1,600 metres above sea level. Thin mangroves billow out into much broader and grander segments of water as we effortlessly stream across near mirror-like water. Along the way, red-bellied fruit doves and an adorable sacred kingfisher are pointed out. We stop near a huge estuary, and in the distance, I see the north coast—where I was yesterday—fading into a light blue horizon. “Ca va, Alex?” bellows my cheerful boat driver. I can’t stop smiling. “Très bien,” I shout back.
What began with a single bite of pain au chocolat ended with a myriad of memories etched into the rugged landscapes and kind faces of New Caledonia. What a trip; what a place.
get in the know New Caledonia is surrounded by a UNESCO-listed lagoon that's bigger than Switzerland.
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