A much dreamed of island for sailors, Fatu Hiva was made famous in the 1930s by the Norwegian explorer and archaeologist Thor Heyderdal, author of ‘Fatu Hiva’ and ‘The Kontiki Expedition’. It is the southernmost island in the Marquesan archipelago, and a common landfall for boats sailing the 3000-odd miles across the Pacific Ocean from Panama, Mexico, Galapagos and elsewhere.

The bay of Hanavave, also referred to as the bay of virgins, has to be one of the most spectacular anchorages in the world. Towering natural basalt spires, soft and blackish red, surround the deep bay, accented with palm trees and lush vegetation. Goats clamber their way to the top of the rocks, and as the day awakes the sound of dogs, cockerels and tropical birds erupts from the village.

A small, but well-built harbour sits behind a breakwater, where numerous local ‘tinnies’ (small aluminium boats with outboards) used for fishing and local transport are moored stern-to by the quay.

We arrived as the last of the light was fading, after a long day sailing the 75 miles from Tahuata. We anchored on the outskirts of the bay, a little way away from the other 7 or so yachts, and deep, in about 40m of water. 

It’s always special waking up in a new anchorage, taking in your surroundings and wondering what it will feel like ashore.

The village of Hanavave is home to around 350 people, a church, a shop, a sports field and a community hall. Strolling from the harbour and up along the concrete road we passed simple houses, most with immaculate gardens, well pruned and bursting with flowers. Something we noticed all over the Marquesas was a strong sense of pride in gardens and homes; they were so well-kept and tidy, no rubbish to be seen, even in the most humble and remote of places. 

We passed a gaggle of kids, kicking a ball around and playing on bikes. They saw my camera and asked if they could have a go, I gave it to a boy and tried to show him how to use it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to explain well enough in French and he wasn’t really listening, so I had to watch and cringe as I saw all these great portraits he thought he was taking of his friends that I knew he hadn’t captured. As a consolation I gathered them together for a group portrait before we carried on our way.

The village shop stocked dried goods, eggs, some fancy coffee from Tahiti, fishing lures and the Marquesan national footware - jelly shoes. As we were leaving we asked the lady if she knew of a man named Poi. We had read about Poi in the cruisers compendium, a great resource for sailors exploring these remote islands, detailing everything from anchorages and crafts markets to shaky local wifi spots. After reading the section on Hanavave, Poi sounded like the man to know. “House with the red truck” she said.

Poi was originally from Hiva Oa, a larger island to the northwest, but he had moved to Fatu Hiva, his wife’s home island around 20 years ago.

He was an industrious guy, a yes man. A lift over the mountain pass to the main village of Omoa - ‘When? Tomorrow, 6 AM?’, a trip out fishing in the local style - ‘Ok, my cousin is a fisherman’, 200l of diesel…. ‘I know a guy’. He smoked almost non-stop, wore Ali-G sunglasses and I thought always looked as though he could use a siesta.

Our interactions with Poi and his family were a highlight of the island for us. The more we got to know him, the more he loosened up and showed us his playful side. We later learned he had just become a father for the third time, his wife not long ago having given birth to their newest son. Perhaps that explained why he looked so tired and his willingness for taxi rides with an extra mouth to feed!

On one of our last nights in Fatu Hiva we were invited to eat dinner at their house. The Marquesans don’t mess around when they put on a spread; there is always way more than you can eat and the widest variety of proteins you could imagine on one table. Fresh tuna sashimi, shrimp from the river, coconut-pork, goat stew, green papaya and mango salad, taro chips, stewed banana…. the list goes on. Vegetables are not high on the menu in these islands, local diets mainly focus on meat and fish, the fruits abundantly available and imported white rice.

Three miles down the coastline from Hanavave lies the slightly larger main village of Omoa. By road the journey to Omoa took about 45 minutes, on a steep dirt track winding its way through the mountains. By sea the trip is much quicker, meaning most local families opt to travel by boat between villages. We took the dinghy around one day in search of a wave that Jasper had heard about. On our way there we skirted the cliffs and peeked into bays that looked like something out of Jurassic Park. We gazed up at the island and wondered if anyone had ever set foot in some of its steep jungly outcrops.

Sadly the wave wasn’t working that day, but we spent a while where it would have been, floating over a mass of scary-looking boulders. It felt so wild there, dark but clear waters reigned over by imposing volcanic faces, a moat of palm trees at their base.

Omoa’s harbour was empty when we arrived, it felt so strange to arrive somewhere we knew was the hub of the island and it be so quiet. We tied the dinghy up to a ring on the wall and walked along the dusty road towards the village, not passing a soul the whole way there. I’ve heard the Omoa gets busy on the days the Aranui (a cruise / supply ship) comes in. On these days, as with all the other Marquesan Islands, the locals flock to the harbour eager to get their supplies shipped from Tahiti and also host a market selling traditional Tapa cloth and other crafts to visiting tourists. 

We had hoped to find a cafe or bar to sit at, but there was nothing open. We had a look in the shop, half hoping we might find some vegetables, although unsurprised when we couldn’t. We bought a couple of Kinder Buenos, sitting to eat them by the football field where we found our first 4G in weeks to Facetime our families. 

The village felt so peaceful, as though all the inhabitants were contentedly busy at home or in the mountains. We met a few women sat under a tree and asked if they knew anyone who surfed here. They nodded emphatically and told us about ‘the surfer’, one woman picked up her phone and called his wife. After a short exchange she told us that he only surfs on Sundays - the weekdays were for family time and hunting. She wrote his name and number for us to get in touch, but sadly by the time Sunday came around and the swell rolled in we were busy preparing for sea again.

Looking back on our time in Fatu Hiva I feel incredibly grateful to have visited a place so remote and where the human footprint felt so light. The two villages and the mountain road connecting them felt like small and respectful blots in an otherwise timeless landscape. With no mass industry and people living lives more reliant on what they can hunt in the mountains, fruit that falls from the trees and fish from the sea, the balance between man and the environment felt more intact. 

When I think of Fatu Hiva I am transported back to this feeling of pure quiet and calm, it feels like a haven I can go to in my mind bringing perspective to whatever is going on in my busy head or surroundings.