I was waiting at passport control in Fa’a’a airport when I got talking to Michelle. She was returning to Tahiti to see her boyfriend after a couple of years back in England. As usual, I had no plans, so Michelle invited me to go with her to Moorea.

Riding the bus into Papeete, the fragrance of the gardenias was overwhelming, and the scent of coconut oil filled the air. The sides of the road were decorated with flowers, market stalls, and beautiful, beautiful women. Everything you have dreamed about Polynesia is true.

When we reached the harbour, the ferry was not due for a while, so Michelle took me to a bar. I was going to bring my backpack, but Michelle said to leave it by the ferry landing. ‘They don’t have theft in Tahiti,’ she said.

We left our backpacks and crossed the road for a bottle of Hinano.

When we came out of the bar, the ferry was there, but our backpacks were gone.

‘Oh, shit!’ I cried out. ‘My passport and travellers’ checks were in there.’

‘That was a bad idea,’ said Michelle. ‘You should have kept those on you.’

‘Thanks!’ I said.

While I was regretting my folly, a ferryman told us he had put our backpacks onto the ferry for us.

‘Phew!’ I said.

And off we sailed for Moorea.

When we landed on Moorea, we hiked down to our holiday digs, which used to be barracks for French soldiers. We were allocated our barracks, Michelle and her boyfriend rekindled their love with a big kiss, and we wandered into the bar for some wine.

‘Un verre de vin rouge, s’il vous plaît!’

It was my first attempt at speaking French since my O-level six years before, et mon français n’était pas très bon. I think no one in Tahiti — except for Michelle, Jürgen and two Amys from Long Island — spoke English. But I got by and the wine helped. The waiter gave me some lessons, too.

Over the next few days, I hung out at the beach with the two Amys, hiked around the island with Jürgen, and we drank plenty of vin rouge at the bar. As the days drifted by, I fell in love with Polynesia, and I fell a little in love with one of the Amys.

After a week or two of paradise, my Amy got sick and she had to leave. She told me I could track her down in Sydney in a month or so, but she insisted that I stay and enjoy these lovely islands.

Some enchanted evening, when you find your true love.

A few days later, Jürgen and I were out walking when a car stopped to offer us a ride. The driver was the Most Beautiful Girl in Tahiti (according to me), and she invited us back to her house for some tea. After our tea, as we walked back to her car, Ida said, ‘Hey! I am going to a funeral this afternoon. Would you like to come?’ I’d never been invited to a funeral by a stranger before, but I answered immediately. ‘Of course! I’d love to!’

Ida told us we’d have to dress respectfully — all in white, with long trousers. I had some white linen trousers, but Jürgen didn’t, so it was just me and the Most Beautiful Girl, and we headed off to the funeral together.

The funeral was as moving as you might imagine. There were hundreds of Polynesians dressed in white and an ocean of singing. I was so deeply moved, it carried me away.

After the funeral, the Most Beautiful Girl took me to a party on the beach, where we danced and danced. When Tahitian couples dance to European music, they hold each other close like ballroom dancers, but when the Polynesian music begins with a thundering clash, the band drums out an intro, the ukuleles join in, and the dancing erupts into Polynesian style. You have never seen hips move so fast.

After the frenzied hip-shaking, the band played something slow while everyone caught their breath. While we danced, the Most Beautiful Girl in Tahiti looked into my eyes. ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ she said. ‘But I have to leave you now because my boyfriend is waiting for me.’

Over the next few days, I was joined in the barracks by an American man and two Danish girls, Anette and Helle, and we set off together for more distant islands. They were all headed for Raiatea, but I jumped off at Huahine and said I would catch them up.

Huahine had nothing for tourists, and I just sat on a step in the market square. I leaned against a wall, feeling the moment.

My moment lasted an hour, then two hours, until an enormous cruise liner stopped outside the harbour and dozens of little motor boats brought in tourists by the thousand. The market sprang into life with stalls selling tourist crap, and the tourists hustled and they bustled until, suddenly, they all rushed back to their motor boats and they were gone. My moment returned.

I’d been there for several hours by now, and I still had not thought about where I could pitch my tent, but just then, an American stopped by and asked if I needed help. I told him I had no plans, but he said that if I walked a couple of miles south, I’d find a marina. I could pitch my tent there.

It was late afternoon by now, and I set off to the south to find the marina.

When I woke the next morning, I crawled out of my tent, and three Tahitian girls came to see what I was up to. They took me down to the rocks for a swim. We had fun for a while, splashing and diving down into the clear blue lagoon. When it came time to climb out, we swam to the rocks, and I felt the most exquisite pain it is possible to imagine. I looked down at my foot and saw that I had stepped on a sea urchin.

Sea urchins have a venom that causes immediate, severe pain and can lead to symptoms like nausea, muscle aches, weakness, and, in extreme cases, respiratory distress, cardiovascular collapse, and even death.

‘C’est un oursin! Tu dois faire le pipi!!’

I wasn’t quite sure what le pipi meant, but I could guess, and I didn’t want to faire le pipi in front of my lovely new Polynesian friends. The pain grew and grew and I hobbled back to my tent where I found a bunch of gendarmes smashing my tent with their batons. My trouble with the police took my mind off the burning pain in my foot, and once everyone had calmed down, my gendarme friends escorted me to the mayor’s office to explain myself.

The mayor of Huahine had the finest office — all oak panels and leather chairs — and I felt quite out of place in my flip-flops and a t-shirt that had not seen a washing machine for months. The mayor invited me to sit down, and I explained my situation in broken French. After I apologised for camping where I shouldn’t, the mayor told me of a friend who had a field where I could spend tonight, but I’d have to leave on tomorrow’s ferry.

I arrived on Raiatea in the pitch black tropical night in a rainstorm. It was too dark and too late to find anywhere to stay, so I slept on a park bench under the bandstand in the town square. When I woke up in the morning, the rain had stopped, and there was a guest house about twenty yards away. I banged on the door, and all my friends were there having breakfast. They were ready to leave, though, so the next day, we got the ferry to Bora Bora.

Bora Bora’s reputation says it is the most beautiful island in the world, and it’s not wrong. The island is surrounded by a coral reef, about 200 yards out, and the clear blue water inside the reef contrasts starkly with the deep, inky blue outside. There weren’t too many resorts on Bora Bora back then, and the only people who could make it there were squillionaires with their own yachts and poor people like us who could tolerate the ferry that doubled as a cargo ship. As we got off the ferry, a young Polynesian man told us we could sleep on the beach outside his house, which was a damn sight cheaper than those hotels the squillionaires stayed in.

There was nothing to do but swim every day in the beautiful lagoon, and I swam every day with Anette and Helle. Anette and I were swimming together late one evening when she told me she had a boyfriend back home. ‘I wish I didn’t!’ she whispered.

We couldn’t afford to eat anything but packets of ramen, which we cooked on a small gas stove on the beach, and every evening we traded stories of our adventures and wished they would never end.

But come to an end they did. I got the next ferry back to Tahiti, which happened to be the first one after a four-day holiday, so it was cram full. I spent the next 10 hours perched on top of an oil drum, chatting with the French couple on the next two drums. They were headed for home in Paris with a new baby after several years on Bora Bora.

I had just enough Polynesian Francs to get me back to Tahiti, but not enough to buy food or a place to stay when I got there. For my last three days in Tahiti, I slept under the trees and ate mangos and coconuts that I picked myself. When those last days were over, I jumped on the plane to Sydney for the next stage of my adventure.