By Debra Solomon
Road rage overcome, Debra Solomon finds peace and beauty.
THE LAST time I flew off a motorbike was on Corfu years ago. I ended up hanging face down over a 20-metre cliff, staring into the ocean. Off season on New Caledonia's quiet Isle of Pines, with its population of just 3000, presented a chance for me and motorbikes to kiss and make up.
New island, different sea, but some things don't change. Take my throttle/brake confusion for instance. And my penchant for taking to the road after five minutes of crashing my way around a hotel car park.
Ten minutes of puttering along a quiet back road and I hadn't seen another vehicle or person. My knuckles beginning to loosen from the handlebars, I stepped up the pace to a cracking 20kmh and was relaxed enough to take my eyes off the bitumen and discover the colourful little houses dotted on verdant grassland.
I pulled off the main drag to gorgeous St Josephs Bay where the road stopped suddenly. So did I. Hitting both front and rear brakes at the same time does that to a person. The bike came crashing down on top of me, my screams bringing no-one out of the village houses. Where were the locals who, in peak season, would be endearing tourists with offers of a sail around their azure bay in traditional outriggers? Not a person in sight, just a Doctor Who-style village telephone box with a broken phone, a disused outrigger I didn't know how to sail and a three-legged, one-eyed dog that looked like needing rescuing himself.
It was a James Dean meets Robinson Crusoe moment when I realised that if I didn't master this machine I might well never make it back to the hotel by Friday. Splayed on the ground and screaming just for the sake of it, I was angry at all bikes everywhere. I was angry at the person who'd talked me into giving this stupid form of transport a second chance and I was angry with my parents for not sending me to motorbike school when I was a kid. I'd become a rebel with a humungous cause: me.
My anger gave me enough strength to haul the bike upright. Trembling, I set off, experimenting with gradual stopping and starting until, after about a kilometre, I pulled into the tiny village of Vao in complete control. It was actually a great feeling.
A pretty, white church built by French colonists in 1860 is Vao's focal point, while its one-woman post office, basic store and sometimes-open bank deem it the island's big smoke.
Captain Cook named the Isle of Pines because of its trees shooting distinctively up out of the horizon. Later, the French dumped their convicts here. My, I mused, how the so-called "Beggars in Paradise" must have missed the wintry, rat-ridden alleyways of Paris. I wondered if the crime rate soared when news got back about the convicts' tropical settlement.
Ruins of colonial days such as the cemetery and jail can be visited not far off the main road. Although, today, the island belongs once again entirely to the indigenous Kuni people.
Negotiating the peak-hour rush - a couple of old utes and a few kids on bicycles - I rounded the corner to Kanumera Bay, where a cruise ship had just upped anchor, leaving me and the bike alone on the fine, white sands of the beach.
I snorkelled in the pristine waters leaving the bike unattended. There were many fish, but not as colourful as those I'd seen elsewhere on the island. Forsaking the notion of rewarding myself with a beer at the beachside bar - there were no beachside bars - I settled for a fresh baguette and a bottle of water from the only stall in town.
Back on the road, friendly locals waved from the occasional car, grazing cows blinked in my direction and it started to rain. By the time I reached D'oro Bay I was soaked, but elated at how cool I must have looked to the lost German tourist who'd flagged me down. I neither ran him over nor flew screaming off the hairpin bend he was standing on. I pointed him towards the island's natural pool - a fantastic natural aquarium at low tide and the scene on most posters for New Caledonia. It's about a 200-metre level stroll from the island's lavish Le Meridien Hotel where, wet and victorious, I fell into a hot spa where I pondered my next island road trip.
TRIP NOTES
Getting there: Isle of Pines is a 20-minute flight from Noumea. Air Caledonie has several flights a day from Noumea's domestic airport, which is a 45-minute drive from the international airport. Return fares between Noumea and Isle of Pines start at $160. Aircalin has daily flights to Noumea with air fares starting at $510 return, plus taxes.
Hotels: There are a couple of family hotels on the island, as well as self-contained cabins. Le Meridien Hotel is the only five-star property on the island, with rooms starting at about $750 per night. A shuttle bus service runs from the airport.
Best time to go: April to September are the dry months with temperatures about 23 degrees. During the wet season, average temperatures are about 30 degrees.
Visas: Australian passport holders do not need visas.
Motorbike hire: Le Meridien can have motorbikes delivered to the hotel. Hire for one day is about $50. Two-seater open-top cars may be available in high season.
Contact: Phone New Caledonia Tourism for more details on 9360 3933 or see www.newcaledonia.com.au.
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