Olry

Forget those polite seafood festivals you've encountered elsewhere; the Olry Coconut Crab Festival in Vanuatu is a deliciously anarchic tribute to one creature that looks like it crawled straight out of a Jules Verne fever dream-and tastes like lobster's badass delinquent cousin. Nestled away in the sleepy village charm of Olry, this festival isn't simply about sampling the famously elusive coconut crab ("Birgus latro" to marine biologists, prized delicacy to everyone else), it's a full-blown island party-with hypnotic traditional dances, rousing songs, and feasts so lavish and aromatic they might just make you believe in culinary gods again. Go at sunset when the crabs appear-giant crustaceans known to shimmy up palm trees with unsettling ease-and book accommodations months in advance because this tiny South Pacific village only indulges visitors once a year. Bring a sense of humor, comfortable dancing shoes, insect repellent (tropical evenings aren't shy with mosquitoes), and roughly 5,000-7,000 Vatu (about $40-$60 USD) to dine like a conquering explorer. Even if the thought of eating a creature that could probably steal your watch makes you squeamish, go anyway-because nights spent feasting on prehistoric-looking crustaceans beneath a star-soaked Melanesian sky make for wildly memorable stories back home.

Launching off on the Next Door Olry Island Canoe Adventure is a bit like stumbling into a Joseph Conrad novella-minus the existential dread, plus a liberal dash of sunscreen and rum-fueled optimism. You're handed a paddle that's seen more saltwater than Captain Cook himself, guided toward a traditional dugout canoe, and promised hidden lagoons that feel suspiciously like they're lifted from an episode of Survivor (minus meddling producers). Mornings here are your best call: the lagoon's turquoise mirrors hit peak Instagram envy status around 8 a.m., and booking at least a day ahead saves you from the embarrassing fate of waving sadly from shore as luckier early-birds paddle smugly away. Budget about fifty bucks for the privilege of half-day bragging rights, pack water, snacks, and a sense of humor-because you absolutely will get wet, lost, and wonder briefly why you didn't just stick to sipping cocktails on the beach. Yet, between the rhythmic splash of your paddle, the whispering mangroves, and lagoons so private that even Google Earth might blink and miss them, you'll realize this quirky, sweaty, mildly bewildering escapade is genuinely something worth boasting about back home. Plus, "I paddled a traditional Oceanic canoe into a secret lagoon" provides infinitely better dinner party conversation than another dull anecdote of catching sunburn on a resort lounger.

There's something undeniably thrilling-and perhaps a touch unsettling-about willingly plunging your face into a bottomless freshwater pit in the lush heart of Espiritu Santo. Snorkeling in the Blue Holes is akin to floating above an aquatic wormhole: a surreal portal, shimmering sapphire-blue at the surface, plunging mysteriously into unfathomable darkness below. Formed over centuries by collapsed limestone caverns, these geological oddities dot the island's adjacent coastal landscape, evoking the feeling that Indiana Jones might just paddle past any second, wearing trunks and a bemused expression. Go early-preferably around mid-morning-when the sun hits just right, illuminating the eerily crystal-clear waters and revealing the ghostly shadows of fish hovering cautiously on the fringes. Forgo elaborate plans-booking a day ahead is fine, as island pace here is cheerfully indifferent-and budget around $10 to $20 for entry and gear rental. Bring a towel, sunscreen, bug spray, and a healthy sense of respectful trepidation. Even if the idea of floating above a bottomless pit sounds mildly alarming, it's worth it-if only to casually slip into future dinner conversations the fact that you've peered boldly into Earth's liquid abyss, half-expecting some mythical sea-beast might peer curiously back.

In a world where "authenticity" often means paying double for half the comfort, spending a night in Olry Village is refreshingly-and brutally-genuine. Perched serenely on the coast of Espiritu Santo island, Olry offers weary travelers a rare glimpse into Oceania life untouched by latte art and Instagram filters. Arrive mid-afternoon (book at least a week ahead, lest someone beats you to your hammock), and bring plenty of mosquito repellent, a sense of humor, and a willingness to relinquish Wi-Fi for storytelling under impossibly star-strewn skies. For about thirty bucks, you'll get a woven mattress, lovingly skeptical glances from village elders, and a banquet of coconut-drenched fish fresh enough to make sushi chefs weep. Sure, the roosters crow at ungodly hours, and your equilibrium may never fully recover from sharing a palm-walled hut with a family of friendly geckos. But trust me, waking at dawn to the rhythm of gently rolling waves and an invitation from locals to paddle out in a hand-carved canoe makes it all absurdly worthwhile. And really, even if your back protests and your sunburn lingers, you'll leave Olry with a story that'll forever win barroom bragging rights.