Tales FROM A SMALL ISLAND

Trying to find St Helena on Google Maps? It’s easy: Just go to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean (about halfway between Angola and Brazil), and zoom in approximately eleventy million times until you find a microscopic dot...

- Nicci Botha

AS an eager young maritime journalist, I was fascinated by the island of St Helena. So, more than two decades later, when a St Helena Tourism post popped up as I was scrolling through Instagram one evening, I couldn't possibly resist. Fast-forward a year, and I found myself touching down in one of the most unspoilt places on the planet. St Helena is so remote that until eight years ago, when St Helena Airport opened, the only way to get there was a five-day sea voyage from Cape Town.

Visiting the island is like stepping into a kinder, more caring world. It feels like a warm hug from your dearest friend. You're not just a face in the crowd, and there’s none of the low-level awkwardness that sometimes comes with being a solo traveller. The locals, or Saints, are a close-knit community with their own traditions, dialect and identity, influenced by their European, Asian African and South African ancestry.

Everyone is ready to help with directions, or give you a wave in passing with a cheerful, 'You aw'right?'

I can honestly say I have never felt as safe as I did on St Helena. I was comfortable walking around on my own because, with the almost nonexistent crime rate, there was absolutely no fear of being pickpocketed, robbed or worse.

MELTING POT

On such a small island, you come across the same familiar faces on your wanderings — all with fascinating tales of how they happened to be there. I crossed paths with a roguish sailor (echoes of Jack Sparrow) from Los Angeles, who was three years into a solo world circumnavigation; and a French mother, accompanied by one female crewmate, who had sailed from Cape Town with her three small children — the youngest not yet 2 years old.