Trip to Bountyful

I have to put the Norfolk Island telephone directory aside because I’m laughing so hard. For the past half hour I have been curled up on my cottage sofa with a cup of tea, perusing the pages of Buffetts, Coopers, Christians and Quintals of Norfolk Island. There are so many members of a handful of families here that their nicknames are included in the directory listing: Buffett, Allen (Puddles, Esq.); Christian, Les (Lettuce Leaf); Cooper, R. (Smudgie); banker Bernie (Slow Bern) Fraser. Multitudes of Evanses are distinguishable as Bubby, Diddles, Tardy, Pelly and Trigger. Here I am, sharing an island 1,000 miles northeast of sophisticated Sydney with Doos, Sputt, Diddles, Biggles, Wiggy and Booda.

The directory is not only a rib-tickler; it’s also a roster of the survivors of the South Pacific’s most famous--or infamous--tale, the 1787 mutiny on the HMS Bounty (or MoB, as it’s known here).

Of course there’s no Bligh among the surnames, as the British naval officer was set adrift by the mutineers. They eventually landed the Bounty on tiny Pitcairn Island in the eastern Pacific.

When the Pitcairners outgrew their island, thanks to the Tahitian women who had accompanied the crew, Queen Victoria offered them Norfolk Island, a penal colony that had just been closed, 4,000 miles to the west. In 1856, 194 Pitcairners made the move, and today 35% of Norfolk claims descent from the Bounty crew.

Norfolk, a volcanic outcrop only three by five miles, became a British possession after Capt. James Cook discovered it in 1774 and dubbed it “paradise” in his log. It is now a self-governing territory of Australia, and as a result my passport was stamped when I jetted in from Sydney.

My tiny Japanese rental car was waiting for me at the airport (car rental is included in most accommodations on the island). It didn’t take long to get used to not wearing a seat belt (not mandatory on Norfolk), but I never did manage to break the urban taboo and leave the keys in the ignition as everyone on the island does.

I stayed at Dii Elduu, local dialect for “This’ll do,” a rental cottage smack in the middle of a palm plantation. In the mornings I picked ripe bananas off the hedge outside my bedroom window.

One day I went to Mariah’s Restaurant on a hill outside town, as much for its aerial view of the island as for its highly touted seafood chowder. I also sampled Norfolk’s “national dish”--a local fish called red emperor topped with fried banana, a Tahitian tradition brought by the Bounty descendants. And I dined on barbecue as a guest of the Lawn Bowling Assn.

Norfolk has little in the way of budget accommodations and no camping; it tends to attract “Nike Nannies”--the local term for outdoorsy older Aussie women. But I had no trouble tracking down plenty of challenging outdoor activities.

It’s puzzling that the island is not promoted as the eco-tourism destination it really is. When the tides and weather are right, a great trip is the trek along the rocky seashore to Crystal Pools, a brilliant turquoise tidal swimming area on the island’s southern coast.

The island’s Bounty Excursions specializes in small, offbeat group adventures. The group I wound up with was a lively mix--a Canadian couple, a pair of round-the-world backpackers in their 10th month away from home in Virginia, and two Sydney gays celebrating their anniversary.

John Adams, who runs Bounty Excursions, took us first to Norfolk Island National Park, an enclave of hiking trails through a peaceful rain forest, the silence broken only by the shrieking of parrots. By afternoon we were rappelling down the cliff to Anson Bay on the northwest coast of the island, where we picnicked on a long crescent of sand beach. The outing ended with the cheeky and personable Adams taking us to the Norfolk Island Brew Pub.

“The Pitcairn years were fraught with troubles,” Adams told me over a pint. Capt. Bligh and some of his crew miraculously made it home to Britain, and by the time the government caught up with the mutineers in the early 1800s, all but one had perished. “That sole survivor was John Adams,” boasted the most recent Adams, seven generations down the line.

When locals came into the pub and called out to Adams, “Whataway you?” (asking how he was) his Aussie drawl slipped into Norfolk, a lilting cross between 18th century Cornwall English and sing-song Tahitian.

The island, like the language and its people, is an intriguing blend of Britain and the South Pacific. The landscape is often compared to that of Somerset, England--soft and rolling, lush with pasture. Tidy stands of indigenous Norfolk pine appear exceedingly British, with their rigidly horizontal branches and orderly needles growing upright as if trained. Round a corner, and the South Pacific rain forest takes over in a wild tangle of dripping ferns and vines, with brilliantly colored parrots shrieking from the palm tops.

It’s not England, it’s not the South Pacific and, to the chagrin of many, it’s not really Australia either. The islanders were a rebellious lot two centuries ago, and the tradition continues. For decades they have been attempting to exploit a historical legal loophole to challenge Norfolk Island’s status as an Australian territory. Norfolk still claims allegiance to the queen and has as its anthem “God Save the Queen,” not “Advance Australia Fair.” In short, Norfolk wants independence.

The 1,300 Norfolk Islanders pay no income tax. They are self-governed and have their own tough immigration laws, which bar most Australians from settling in their paradise. They use Australian dollars but issue their own postage stamps. Their economy is well in the black, even though tourism is limited; only 900 visitors may be on the island at any one time.

Framing shop owner John Pearson gets his dander up over sovereignty at the drop of a hat. “Australia can’t even balance their budget,” he fumed when I asked his opinion, “but they impose a 200-mile fishing limit for themselves around our island, and they want us to vote in their [capital] electorate 1,000 miles away.”

The island has one main village, Burnt Pine, where there are shops--one advertises tickets for rides on “Christians Glaas Bohtam Boet”--a few cafes and the terrific little Guava Gallery, displaying the works of local artists.

Though there are no street lights or house numbers on the island, some addresses are unforgettable because many of the roads have colorful historical names, such as Poverty Row and Rat Alley, from the island’s early days as a penal colony.

Norfolk takes pride in its gruesome origins. It became a British colony on March 6, 1788, just six weeks after the British began the settlement of Australia as a penal colony. Norfolk became the prisoners’ prison, the original Devil’s Island, a place of extreme punishment and no escape, for the worst of the criminals from the mainland.

Every March 6, Norfolk celebrates Foundation Day with a reenactment of its grim origins by costumed “officers” and “convicts.”

Ruins of the penal colony remain, and on a cloudy day there is an eerie aura about the stone arches and walls of the prison barracks; it is especially strong around the horrid human-powered mill.

The year after this monument to human misery was finally shut down in 1855, the Bounty descendants arrived and moved into the vacant staff buildings, renaming Military Row “Quality Row.”

House No. 10 on Quality Row has been restored to its 1840s condition. In the grand Commissariat Store nearby is one of the most fascinating small museums in the South Pacific, a curiosity treasure house stuffed with everything from false teeth to handcuffs, leg irons and cat-o’-nine-tails.

My last day on Norfolk was sunny and hot with not an iota of doom and gloom as I headed to Kingston’s foreshore, a dazzling stretch of beach known unappealingly as Slaughter Bay. Jack Marges from Bounty Divers met me with mask, fins and snorkel, and we set off at low tide through crystal waters where tropical fish darted among the coral.

Norfolk reminded me of Australia 20 years ago--charming, old- fashioned and welcoming, where I enjoyed a splendid natural environment without crowds. But I especially loved the island for its rich living history. It didn’t matter that the 90-minute outdoor Mutiny on the Bounty Show was a bit tacky; it was great-great-great-great-grandchildren telling a family story.

And when I dropped by the Fletcher Christian Apartments, I knew it was actually an offspring of the head mutineer behind the counter. Though I never did find out whether this Christian was Aggie, Morg, Toofy, Loppy or Bodge.