Nouméa II

And then it simply happened, without me being able to resist, I fell in love. Just like that, bang, Nouméa. It is not Queenstown, it is better. Better still. No resistance, no chance. I thought, I will go into town, it is not that big, a little to the left, a little to the right, then back out again and go see the rest. Unfortunately, it is not that simple. I realized that as the circles I was walking kept getting wider and wider. A bay here, a beach there, a mountain over there, an island here, nature everywhere, and just like that it was all over for me. The greatest treasure here, though, is the people. Always friendly, always open. I am in France, after all, so where are the French? Do not worry, they are here.

But from the beginning. Last Friday I was still thinking about whether I should get myself a bicycle to explore the island. I turned that thought over in my head all weekend. In principle it would not have been difficult. I had my eye on one in a price range where it would not have hurt too much to leave it here if I could not sell it again afterwards. It would not, however, have been a bicycle that offered any real pleasure in riding, and I would have had to buy bags as well. Again. Things I already own. A few hundred euros extra for things I already have. At the same time I realized that there is still so much to discover here starting from the city. You only have to get out onto the water. There are always reasons not to do something. You just have to repeat them often enough until they start to sound good. So I postponed the decision. Probably forever. My sunburn from yesterday certainly contributed a little to that. Full body, while snorkeling, despite sunscreen and shade. On my feet and on my belly. I have not been burned quite so thoroughly in a long time.

To be honest, I have lost track of the days and of time a little. That happened quickly. I think it was Saturday morning when the first thing was the internet. Without mobile data I was fairly helpless. Orientation, translation, everything suddenly became complicated. So back to the shop. The same woman as the day before. I looked at her, she looked at me, then it dawned on her. Oui, it is working again. Bought a second SIM card, she helped me set it up and tested the whole thing by calling me from my own phone. It rang. She handed my phone back to me and said that now I had her number. I stumbled out of the shop feeling slightly embarrassed.

After that, the city. Maison Célières, a colonial house from 1898 that gives you a direct impression of how people used to live here. The Musée de la Ville, right in the center, telling the story of the city from colonial times to the present day, housed in a building that is itself part of that history. And the Maritime Museum, where it becomes clear that everything here has to be thought from the sea outward. Trade, navigation, La Pérouse.

Then I found myself standing on a road that, according to the map, was supposed to lead to a bay called Kuendu Beach. Six kilometers. That is nothing. So off I went, along the road, further and further.

And suddenly I was standing in front of burned out ruins around Rue Juliette Bernard. If I understood correctly, these had once been training centers, places where hundreds of young people had been educated. Today they are black skeletons. Traces of the unrest of May 2024. Looted, destroyed, burned down. And still not rebuilt. Destruction is quick. Reconstruction takes time, money, and above all a peace that is more than the mere end of violence. I keep asking myself why it is so often educational institutions that get hit. Always the same picture.

Under the impression of these burned buildings and graffiti covered walls, “C’est à nous la terre” meaning “The land belongs to us,” I kept going toward the beach. I was fed up with the road, I wanted water, I wanted to walk along the shore. Then I came into an area with little fires, sheet metal huts, people sitting in the shade, and stripped cars parked by the roadside. On one of them, as if it were a town sign, it said “Kanak Favela.” Uneasy feeling. Not inviting, even though everyone I passed greeted me politely with Bonjour.

Scenarios were running through my head. What would I do if something happened. Running was out of the question. I do not run. Not for a train, not for fun, and certainly not for my life. So then what? Frowning. I was once told that my frown could intimidate entire video conferences. Grown adults, educated, fully established in life, all on the verge of collapse because of my brow. Sounds entirely convincing. Frowning, yes, highly believable. Especially since that advice came from someone who twists the truth for so long that even his own teeth would rather keep their distance from him and from each other. Tooth Social Distancing. Lying, perfectly fine, but frowning, absolute no go. The thought instantly lifted my mood. I would try intimidation. And if that did not work, then I would just hand over my wallet. There is not much in there anyway.

I kept walking through this almost dystopian looking area. I do not presume to pass judgment, but it feels like a two class society. Historically grown, deeply rooted. What I am seeing here did not fall from the sky. It is the result of a long colonial history in which the Kanak were excluded from land, power, and participation. Officially long overcome, but in everyday life still visible. Property, education, income. Some carry the load, others sit at the margins. Whether the former invite and the latter do not come, I cannot judge. I can only see what is there.

A little further along the beach I discovered a large graffiti mural. More than paint on concrete. A story. In the middle, “Radio Djiido,” the voice of the Kanak. On the left, everything still looks raw, close to life, almost like a memory of origin and everyday existence. To the right, it tilts into tension and symbolism, grows more restless, harsher, as if telling of loss and resistance. And right in between stands this country.

The people I met were friendly. At some point I arrived at Kuendu Beach. A beautiful place. Music, the smell of meat roasting on the grill, life. I sat down in the sand, listened, watched, and knew that I was excluded, and at some point I had to go back. The sun was setting, I was done in. This time by road.

A car stopped. A woman spoke to me and offered me a ride. I accepted. Shortly afterwards I was back in town. Time to buy swim trunks.

I had asked for advice, because the next day I wanted to see some nature while snorkeling, and I had booked a trip to Îlot Signal. But first I wanted to take some sunset pictures that evening, so I went back to Port Moselle because it is so conveniently close. Good pictures again, but once more one of those unwashed men in a torn T shirt started talking to me. I walked away, he followed me. At some point I got fed up, stopped, and listened to what he had to say, then I chose the stupidest strategy I could think of and played dumb. I let him talk, shrugged my shoulders, and acted as if I did not understand him. “Je ne parle pas français.” More shrugging. When he tried to grab my arm and pull me somewhere, I slipped out of his grip, just stood there, and kept acting dumb. It took five minutes before he finally stopped talking at me. I found his attempts to drag me somewhere genuinely disgusting, and I had to summon all my self control not to slam him into the ground. Again and again I pulled my arm out of his grip, certainly easily enough, but still. I stood there, played dumb, and kept shrugging, repeating “je ne parle pas français.” I think I should avoid Port Moselle in the evening in the future.

I had read somewhere that there was a kind of art market in one of the nearby parks, so I walked there in the dark, no problem. Unfortunately it was already too dark to see much, but the music was good, so I sat down on a hill and let the whole atmosphere wash over me. It was beautiful. At some point I managed to tear myself away and headed back, because I had to be up early the next morning.

And so in the morning I was on my way to Brunelet harbor at Baie des Citrons. Right on time at eight o’clock the speedboat left. Compared to New Zealand, where first you have to sit through a ten minute safety briefing from the captain, here it was simply onto the boat and off you go. Thirty minutes by speedboat, then you get dropped off on Îlot Signal and your rented diving mask is tossed after you. “Ah, so it is your first time here?” There they were again, the French, I had missed them. I thought I would explore the island first, so I walked all the way around it. In between I was chased by a gull, probably a silver gull, and I am fairly sure I saw flying penguins, although in reality they were probably tropicbirds or boobies. I also found the local thunderbox and a lighthouse. At the moment it is school holidays, and what do people in New Caledonia do during school holidays? Exactly, they go camping, and they go camping on an island. Which meant there was one small camp, or rather several small camps, full of teenagers on the island. Otherwise there is no infrastructure there at all, so I had no choice but to go snorkeling and cross another childhood dream off my list. In the coral reef, several times, with many colorful fish, a few jellyfish, and turtles. They were immediately impressive, the way they grazed on the coral and kept pushing their heads up through the surface of the water. At first glance it becomes clear why these animals have exactly that kind of patterning. It is the same pattern as the light of the sun when it is broken by the waves. That same pattern is on their shell. Almost invisible from above. I was diving along next to this turtle and could not really stop marveling, while other fish nibbled at my toes. Again and again I felt a little tug there. During the snorkeling breaks, my rented mask did not really fit my face, so I swallowed a fair amount of salt water, and I lay in the ever shrinking shade of a bush. The sun climbed higher and higher, and all the sunscreen, all the shade, none of it helped. Today I have sunburn, ouch, and I let the time drift by. They were probably the most boring seven hours of my life, lying there and burning, and I enjoyed every single second of them. In that spirit.