Vive | 2004
by Marion Hume
I’ve had a long fascination with Bora Bora:- the promise of the exotic; a lush island hemmed by a lagoon; even the way its sounds. That this exotic isle lies, way out there in the ocean, somewhere between Sydney and LA, has always struck me as both impossibly alluring and possibly convenient. “Next time”, I’ve promised myself on those endless flights across the Pacific; “Next time, we’ll stop over”. So this time, we did.
I say “we”, meaning the husband and I, but unlike the other couples decked with floral garlands at Pape’ete Airport on Tahiti, we are far from newlyweds. The other couples dozed and snuggled on the shuttle bus and, had that not been enough of a sign that we had landed in honeymoon-central, the fact that no other women paid any attention to the man – nay, the god – who stood naked to the waist and preening as we pulled in at our first stop, convinced me I was surrounded by love-struck brides. While I watched, the god let his waist-length ink black hair fall, then he twisted it up into a knot, and then, following a languid smile, he hoisting a suitcase up onto his muscular and tattooed shoulder and lead guests into some luxurious resort.
Alas, it wasn’t our luxury resort – we were in one of those “slightly gussied up but still transit” hotels. When we disembarked, we had to manhandle our own luggage and then be ignored as we tried to check in – only to be told as a sugary “welcome” juice was proffered at last, that room service had stopped at 10 pm, 5 minutes ago. The husband – a bear when hungry – was still ranting after I had demolished the mini bar peanuts.
We were up at dawn to catch the connecting flight, which was followed by a connecting boat ride across Bora Bora’s famed lagoon – except it was grey instead of turquoise while were being lashed with rain. The famed volcano? Completely obscured. The Bora Bora Lagoon Resort, our first stop? Distinctly storm-lashed.
Thank heavens, I’d pre-booked that afternoon at the spa. This was set in a tropical equivalent of Monet’s garden at Giverny, except that the water lilies were far more lush and here, the heavy rain drops only added to the beauty – although the treehouse treatment rooms were off limits as they were too damp. Instead, I was met inside, in the dry, by a goofy-gorgeous masseuse who looked like a Polynesian Cameron Diaz, which was slightly unnerving as I lay wearing nothing but paper pants. But then the sun came out, the shutters were thrown back and “my” suite had a magnificent view over the lagoon, which really was as blue as on the postcards. I was stunned.
My husband was supposed to be “surprised”. Summoned from our room to join me after I had been buffed and scrubbed, he was asked to join me in a “couples coconut bath”. Now, few men who have been married more than five minutes are ever going to get into a coconut bath, especially one scattered with hibiscus blooms. “They’re kidding,” he barked as I sunk under the water and completely ignored him. “Can we go now? It’s really hot in here,” he moped as he sat on the floor, shirt on, sweaty and cross. “Have a grape,” I said as I nibbled one slowly while I soaked.
I guess the advantages of holidaying with a man you’ve been married to for years is that you already know they don’t like surprises. Although he really should have known I seriously don’t like sharks. “It’s something to do, isn’t it?” he announced, beaming, having booked a “shark feeding tour”. Briefly, I imagined a steel cage, Great Whites and feeding him to them. As it turned out, these sharks were hardly big enough to fit in a bath tub – mere babes, but thankfully not remotely cute, so that in photographs, they look really scary as long as there is nothing to give away their diminutive scale. A colleague in New York, to which I had to fly for work after the tropical sojourn, would later call me as “a female Indiana Jones” after I described “diving with sharks” (OK, I stuck on a snorkel and mask and hung off the side of a boat but as she attempts no adventures you can’t do in a four inch heel, I knew I could embellish a wee bit). “Eeew!” she exclaimed when I told her about swimming with stingrays (The truth? We paddled). “Didn’t that guy die doing that?” Compared to the size-of-a-doona versions, “my” stingrays were tiddlers, the width of a couple of pillowcases, but my colleague was almost put off her fennel and mushroom salad as I described the feel of them against your skin as like giant, damp porcini..
My macho mate loved the rays; loved the tingle of their barbs against his legs. Last out of the water, he was also first in at the “coral garden” where vibrant tropical fish were so bountiful, it felt like we were inside one of those ridiculously overstocked aquariums you get in so-called seven star hotels in Dubai. Not that you need to put a toe in the water to see fish in Bora Bora. You can feed them and eat them without leaving your room. Well, not the exact same fish, but as you are enjoying tonight’s “plat du jour” via room service, the table is glass and floodlit from beneath and your dinner’s little cousins are swimming right beneath your over-water bungalow.
You must, of course stay in an over-water bungalow in Bora Bora (indeed there seems to be little choice. In an island bristling with ever-posher hotel developments, everything is being built out, not up). We tried several, which is not of course what normal people do, but the husband won’t stay more than two nights anywhere because “why get bored?”
The Bora Bora Lagoon Resort is, as the name suggests, right on the lagoon so breakfast arrived by canoe. I really do not like getting up early on holiday and the idea of having to be up and dressed before a couple of canoeists pop into my morning was too much so I stayed out of sight in the shower. The husband polished the off bacon and egg while I toyed with cracking open the bottle of champagne for breakfast Bucks Fizz. “Now?” he said, incredulous. “But if we run we can still catch the 9 am boat into town.”
“Town” – once it opened the shutters hours later – included a swanky boutique (Don’t forget, Bora Bora is part of –French– Polynesia). As I put my foot down (hard to do with gusto while wearing thongs) and insisted I wanted to go back to the resort and relax, the husband handed me a rather lovely hair clip he’d bought while I was sulking, which proved useful later when he insisted we go snorkeling. Had I known how much it cost, I would have put it in the safe, not in the water. Bora Bora is staggeringly expensive; nervous laughter-inducing expensive, plus, if you are not that good at maths, the French Pacific Franc is a confusion of too many naughts – as we were to find out later when our credit card bill arrived. Which is to say, don’t go if you are on a budget – unless it is one of Nicole-and-Keith on honeymoon bounty – and it’s not like he was ordering wine with dinner. A second bottle? Consider handing over the deeds to your house.
If money is no object, do splash out on The Intercontinental Bora Bora Resort and Thalasso Spa (read the small print – there are two Intercontinentals on this island). I say “splash out” because frankly, the cost is more akin to drowning, except it is so FABULOUS – beautifully conceived in every detail including, should you still be speaking to your spouse, a divine little chapel, if you want to renew your vows.
But should you visit Bora Bora at all if not on honeymoon? Truthfully, it’s deliciously dull and therefore so perfect had I been, say, with a similarly stressed-out platonic girlfriend who was happy to do nothing more than chat, snooze, dip in the azure waters, and indulge in spa treatments (at the Intercontinental, the floor of the spa is glass so as you lie, supine, you can watch the fish through the hole in the massage table). However, while the bungalows are big enough for a family of ten, everything is designed around one vast bed. Perhaps there are twin-roomed bungalows that friends could share, should you have the kind of friends with either large trust funds or very big divorce settlements.
As for the second honeymoon market, do consider what you know of your life partner before booking the flights. “Is it possible that you could just sit still and read a book?” I snarled at mine, knowing the answer of course. Splash! There he was swimming out to the horizon yet again. But if, oh lucky you, your spouse loves to sprawl on a lounger, welcome to Bora Bora, paradise on a charge card.
FACT BOX
We flew: with Air Tahiti code sharing with Qantas. Visit www.qantas.com.
We stayed: at Bora Bora Lagoon Resort and Spa
www.kiwicollection.com/property/bora-bora-lagoon-resort-spa.
&
Intercontinental Bora Bora Resort and Thalasso Spa
www.boraboraspa.interconti.com
We spent: More than we are admitting out loud to our bank manager or each other.









