Dog Island
I anchored one evening in the lee of a small island in the Baie du Prony. I had been told there is a disused hotel here and, the next morning, was keen to check it out. I could see no life on shore from where I was anchored, but heading ashore in the dinghy, I became aware of a pack of dogs eying me keenly, following my progress as I approached. Not keen to add a dog attack to my list of experiences here, I approached cautiously, landing with enough distance between me and those beasts that I could beat a retreat if necessary. The dogs, four of them, ran straight towards me. However they seemed not to be aggressive, so I stood my ground. Arriving, they bowled me to the ground; four of the friendliest dogs I’ve ever met! After satisfying their desire to be cuddled, I headed inland to explore the island. The abandoned hotel, a sweet collection of weatherboard shacks, seemed once have been a lively spot but, without another soul on the island, had gone, well, to the dogs.
A number of walking tracks had been cut through the forest. Off I headed on one, and along with me came the four dogs. One, the largest, took the lead and trotted off ahead. Each time the path branched off, he would sit and wait for me to catch up then would head off again, leading me in this fashion right around the island. I figured he knew the place better than I did, so was happy to leave him lead the way. The other three would catch up or go off ahead as they wished, always leaving the largest to guide me. If I dropped behind or hadn’t seen him for a while on the path, I’d whistle. He’d stop and wait for me to catch up, giving me a paternal, slightly exasperated look, before trotting on again. I felt as though we’d known each other for years.
We walked for perhaps an hour like this, arriving in the end back where we begun. I said a sad goodbye to my guides, of whom I had grown very fond, and rowed back to the sloop. As I passed a jetty, the four ran out and began to howl like dingoes. The kept this up until I was back aboard, heading off then to lie back under the coconut palms where they were when I first arrived.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Baie du Prony
I could happily have spent a year tucked away at the Ile des Pins had not the feeling of time marching on got the better of me. As it was, I remained there for over a week without raising the anchor. So one fine morning I headed off, arriving in the Baie du Prony later that day.
I’d been very keen since poring over charts of the area many years ago to see Prony. On paper I drew comparisons with Pittwater, which I love so much, and in reality I was pleased to discover this similarity remained. It encompasses an area of many square miles and offers safe, secluded anchorages for every wind direction.
Prony is famous for its red sand and soil, a result of rich iron and nickel deposits in the area. New Caledonia is the second largest producer of nickel, and it is in the hills surrounding Prony that the majority of this nickel is mined. On the eastern shore is an enormous mine site run by the multinational “Goro”. Much of the land surrounding Prony is designated as national park, however this mine site dominates all. Were it not that I work for a nickel operation myself, I would express my dismay that so remarkable a landscape is being affected in this way. However I have learned some pragmatism from my experiences, and recognize here the necessity of this mine. Such operations are not the cowboys of old where environmental impact was not a consideration. I have seen former mine sites in Australia of a similar scale to this regenerate in as little as fifty years to the point where it is not easy to tell that any activity has occurred at all. I hold out hope that, here in New Caledonia, the outcome will be similar.
My first night in the bay I spent in the south east corner, anchoring close by to a track leading up to the phare (lighthouse) at Cap Ndoua. This I climbed the next day, as well as to a smaller peak where I erected a small tower of stones, as is done. Later I moved to the rade du nord, anchoring off the mouth of a small stream. On its banks are the ruins of a penal settlement, which I was keen to explore.
I find it a peculiar feeling to be amongst ruins such as these. There is the intrigue associated with the old and the connection to a very different period,as one experiences with any very old building. A prison is different though. Amongst these ruins, I tried my best to sense the sadness and destruction of dreams and souls that one feels must pervade all such ruins. But it is such a beautiful place. I defer again to my pragmatism and conclude that such spiritual experiences probably don’t occur. What I did experience was that great pride had been taken by those who built the structures, the sea walls, the courtyards. These were convict workers, yet they worked with such skill and with such care that it is this feeling, a positive feeling, which I experience here now. In spite of their hopeless situation, I can imagine these prisoners pouring themselves into their work so that, even as they endured so cruel a life, they could look upon the results of their labour and know that it was unquestionably their own; something their captors could not take from them. Here now, I can touch what they created and understand something about their lives.
Continuing further upstream I came upon a small cascade, where fresh water from the hills arrives finally at sea level. This was fortuitous for me, as my stock of water on board was running low. I returned the next morning with my water cans, and took the opportunity too to wander up a path which I had seen winding inland by the stream the day before. It opened up after a while to a bulldozed track and, further on, to sealed road. It occurred to me that it must lead to the mine site, which I was keen to see, so I continued along for some time until I was quite close to the compound. It was here that a truck full of security guards was sent to meet me. Whether it was because I was in a restricted area or whether because I was wearing a skirt (well, a lungi.) I do not know, but they expressed in no uncertain terms that I would be better off quite elsewhere. Very kindly, they offered to drive me there themselves. I returned to the boat with my water, and was on my way.
My next stop was the Baie du Carenage in the north-west of Prony. I had a wonderful sail with my big red spinnaker up, gybing back and forth downwind as I picked my way around headlands and reefs. It is so exhilarating with that sail up; the sloop comes alive. I am reminded once again what I would lose if I was to move up to a bigger yacht, something we are all tempted by from time to time. This little boat has such spirit under sail.
Carenage is as protected as any bay in dear old Pittwater. As its name suggests, it was once used as a location to careen boats; sitting them on the bottom so they dry out as the tide goes down. I was to learn too that it is a bay full of characters. Of playboys and polygamists I shall recount later. Four nights I spent in Carenage, such was its appeal.
I remained in Prony for another few days before finally succumbing to the pull of time. Before long I should think about sailing up to Vanuatu, so I am back now in Noumea stocking up with french wine and getting through my list of jobs. Depending on a very great number of factors, I hope to clear out from here before the end of this week.
I could happily have spent a year tucked away at the Ile des Pins had not the feeling of time marching on got the better of me. As it was, I remained there for over a week without raising the anchor. So one fine morning I headed off, arriving in the Baie du Prony later that day.
I’d been very keen since poring over charts of the area many years ago to see Prony. On paper I drew comparisons with Pittwater, which I love so much, and in reality I was pleased to discover this similarity remained. It encompasses an area of many square miles and offers safe, secluded anchorages for every wind direction.
Prony is famous for its red sand and soil, a result of rich iron and nickel deposits in the area. New Caledonia is the second largest producer of nickel, and it is in the hills surrounding Prony that the majority of this nickel is mined. On the eastern shore is an enormous mine site run by the multinational “Goro”. Much of the land surrounding Prony is designated as national park, however this mine site dominates all. Were it not that I work for a nickel operation myself, I would express my dismay that so remarkable a landscape is being affected in this way. However I have learned some pragmatism from my experiences, and recognize here the necessity of this mine. Such operations are not the cowboys of old where environmental impact was not a consideration. I have seen former mine sites in Australia of a similar scale to this regenerate in as little as fifty years to the point where it is not easy to tell that any activity has occurred at all. I hold out hope that, here in New Caledonia, the outcome will be similar.
My first night in the bay I spent in the south east corner, anchoring close by to a track leading up to the phare (lighthouse) at Cap Ndoua. This I climbed the next day, as well as to a smaller peak where I erected a small tower of stones, as is done. Later I moved to the rade du nord, anchoring off the mouth of a small stream. On its banks are the ruins of a penal settlement, which I was keen to explore.
I find it a peculiar feeling to be amongst ruins such as these. There is the intrigue associated with the old and the connection to a very different period,as one experiences with any very old building. A prison is different though. Amongst these ruins, I tried my best to sense the sadness and destruction of dreams and souls that one feels must pervade all such ruins. But it is such a beautiful place. I defer again to my pragmatism and conclude that such spiritual experiences probably don’t occur. What I did experience was that great pride had been taken by those who built the structures, the sea walls, the courtyards. These were convict workers, yet they worked with such skill and with such care that it is this feeling, a positive feeling, which I experience here now. In spite of their hopeless situation, I can imagine these prisoners pouring themselves into their work so that, even as they endured so cruel a life, they could look upon the results of their labour and know that it was unquestionably their own; something their captors could not take from them. Here now, I can touch what they created and understand something about their lives.
Continuing further upstream I came upon a small cascade, where fresh water from the hills arrives finally at sea level. This was fortuitous for me, as my stock of water on board was running low. I returned the next morning with my water cans, and took the opportunity too to wander up a path which I had seen winding inland by the stream the day before. It opened up after a while to a bulldozed track and, further on, to sealed road. It occurred to me that it must lead to the mine site, which I was keen to see, so I continued along for some time until I was quite close to the compound. It was here that a truck full of security guards was sent to meet me. Whether it was because I was in a restricted area or whether because I was wearing a skirt (well, a lungi.) I do not know, but they expressed in no uncertain terms that I would be better off quite elsewhere. Very kindly, they offered to drive me there themselves. I returned to the boat with my water, and was on my way.
My next stop was the Baie du Carenage in the north-west of Prony. I had a wonderful sail with my big red spinnaker up, gybing back and forth downwind as I picked my way around headlands and reefs. It is so exhilarating with that sail up; the sloop comes alive. I am reminded once again what I would lose if I was to move up to a bigger yacht, something we are all tempted by from time to time. This little boat has such spirit under sail.
Carenage is as protected as any bay in dear old Pittwater. As its name suggests, it was once used as a location to careen boats; sitting them on the bottom so they dry out as the tide goes down. I was to learn too that it is a bay full of characters. Of playboys and polygamists I shall recount later. Four nights I spent in Carenage, such was its appeal.
I remained in Prony for another few days before finally succumbing to the pull of time. Before long I should think about sailing up to Vanuatu, so I am back now in Noumea stocking up with french wine and getting through my list of jobs. Depending on a very great number of factors, I hope to clear out from here before the end of this week.
Ile des Pins
A welcome westerly wind saw me leave from Noumea on Sunday 24 August and head east for a sojourn in the southern province. It was cold, raining hard and blowing to 25 knots as I set off, hardly what I had come all this way to experience, but a westerly is a westerly and when heading east little else will suffice. I reached Port Boise as evening approached, and tucked myself in for the night. Early next morning I set off again, keen to make the most of the westerly which was blowing still. Out through the passe du Havannah, I had a champagne run under spinnaker south-east to the Ile des Pins, arriving before noon.
On the advice of my friends from Oviri, I chose to make first for the Baie d’Oro on the NE corner of the island. The bay, open to the north, is formed by a barrier reef to the east and a series of ilots forming a semicircle from the south to west. Amongst all are a number of coral heads and reefs and, as a centerpiece, a coral head in the middle of the bay rises above high tide, vegetated, supporting a colony of crabs. With so much coral, entry into the bay is tricky. I anchored at the head to wait for high tide, using the time to sound out the entry by dinghy. By two o’clock there seemed enough water, so in I went, without problem, anchoring inside off a gorgeous beach fringed by coconut palms, in 10’ of water. Two french yachts had arrived the same day and we all met up on the beach to seek permission to stay.
The land off which we were anchored is owned by a Kanak family who ran a small open air restaurant to cater to guests from a nearby hotel. Just as it should be, lobster is the only dish available. Didie and Jean-Batiste did the fishing for the restaurant on the reefs surrounding the bay, and invited us to join them that night. So began a wonderful relationship with their family; nearly every night I joined them diving for lobsters and then sleeping around their fire on the beach. I have never eaten so much lobster.
I set off one day by bicycle to see a little more of the island. It proved so accessible this way that, despite planning initially to circumnavigate, I decided to remain anchored in the Baie d’Oro and get around when necessary by land. My legs were well pleased with this decision, and no doubt too my flabby gut. It is the upper body which receives the attention on board. It is an island of immense beauty and, with only a few thousand inhabitants, has a great sense of community about it. I envy the locals their lifestyle.
A welcome westerly wind saw me leave from Noumea on Sunday 24 August and head east for a sojourn in the southern province. It was cold, raining hard and blowing to 25 knots as I set off, hardly what I had come all this way to experience, but a westerly is a westerly and when heading east little else will suffice. I reached Port Boise as evening approached, and tucked myself in for the night. Early next morning I set off again, keen to make the most of the westerly which was blowing still. Out through the passe du Havannah, I had a champagne run under spinnaker south-east to the Ile des Pins, arriving before noon.
On the advice of my friends from Oviri, I chose to make first for the Baie d’Oro on the NE corner of the island. The bay, open to the north, is formed by a barrier reef to the east and a series of ilots forming a semicircle from the south to west. Amongst all are a number of coral heads and reefs and, as a centerpiece, a coral head in the middle of the bay rises above high tide, vegetated, supporting a colony of crabs. With so much coral, entry into the bay is tricky. I anchored at the head to wait for high tide, using the time to sound out the entry by dinghy. By two o’clock there seemed enough water, so in I went, without problem, anchoring inside off a gorgeous beach fringed by coconut palms, in 10’ of water. Two french yachts had arrived the same day and we all met up on the beach to seek permission to stay.
The land off which we were anchored is owned by a Kanak family who ran a small open air restaurant to cater to guests from a nearby hotel. Just as it should be, lobster is the only dish available. Didie and Jean-Batiste did the fishing for the restaurant on the reefs surrounding the bay, and invited us to join them that night. So began a wonderful relationship with their family; nearly every night I joined them diving for lobsters and then sleeping around their fire on the beach. I have never eaten so much lobster.
I set off one day by bicycle to see a little more of the island. It proved so accessible this way that, despite planning initially to circumnavigate, I decided to remain anchored in the Baie d’Oro and get around when necessary by land. My legs were well pleased with this decision, and no doubt too my flabby gut. It is the upper body which receives the attention on board. It is an island of immense beauty and, with only a few thousand inhabitants, has a great sense of community about it. I envy the locals their lifestyle.
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