Raivavae

If Jacques Cousteau ever met Willy Wonka, they'd undoubtedly hatch something like snorkeling in Raivavae Lagoon-a place so aggressively turquoise it could be accused of Photoshopping itself. Floating serenely amid coral formations teeming deliriously with marine creatures with color schemes straight out of a Grateful Dead concert poster, you'll feel instantly superior to land-bound mortals. Historically, Raivavae has managed to dodge the cruise-ship hordes and selfie-stick brigades, preserving a lagoon ecosystem that remains thrillingly Jurassic Park-esque-minus the carnivorous dinosaurs, thankfully. Aim for early morning, when visibility is crystal clear enough to spot an existential crisis in a passing clownfish, and plan at least a couple of weeks ahead especially during peak season (May to October). Bring along reef-safe sunscreen, a waterproof camera, and roughly $60 to $100 per person for a half-day excursion-an absolute steal considering it's cheaper than therapy and far more visually stimulating. Yes, sunburns may happen, and damp wetsuits could become your personal nemesis, but snorkeling this quirky lagoon paradise is worth every awkward flipper-fumble-if only so you can smugly recount tales of aquatic misadventures at every dinner party from here to eternity.

If your idea of nightlife involves fewer cocktails and more cosmos, pack a blanket, grab an irresponsibly large thermos of coffee (or rum-no judgments here), and wander down to the remote beaches near Anatonu, arguably one of the last truly dark skies left on Earth. In these sleepy, isolated sands miles away from civilization-and blissfully free from the glow of urban narcissism-you'll be treated to an absurdly clear celestial spectacle, a cosmic slap reminding you of just how tiny and deliciously insignificant your daily worries really are. Aim to roll out your blanket after 10 pm (the stars tend to show up fashionably late), and plan at least a day ahead so you can scout a secluded stretch of sand to claim as your very own observatory. Budget-wise, it's the most refreshingly affordable luxury: zero dollars, unless you're the type who insists on artisanal snacks-then maybe twenty bucks. Bring layers, bug spray, and a red flashlight to avoid blinding your night-adjusted retinas-and don't worry, the sand fleas will be more impressed by your dedication to amateur astronomy than your brand-name fleece. Stargazing at Anatonu might not make your Instagram feed explode (Let's face it-no filter can capture the grandeur), but the sight alone will leave your existential angst comfortingly soothed, and if nothing else, you'll earn the perpetual right to smugly shrug and say, "Oh, you've never experienced the Milky Way from an untouched Polynesian beach? You really should."

Camping overnight on a motu-the Polynesian world's answer to a desert island-offers an almost indecently idyllic escape, especially when you're marooned voluntarily on Raivavae's Motu Hotuatua. Picture yourself in a scene straight from a Gauguin painting, minus, hopefully, the existential angst and dodgy moral choices, as you pitch your tent alongside swaying palms and sugar-white sand, with nothing between you and the Milky Way but warm ocean air and the occasional crab with territorial ambitions. Set off from Raivavae's main island around late afternoon to witness a disgustingly photogenic sunset and wake up annoyingly refreshed to sunrise hues so radiant they'll challenge your Instagram filter game. Planning ahead is key-arrange transportation and permits at least a few days in advance through friendly island operators, budget about $80-$150 per person to cover gear, guides, and provisions, and for heaven's sake, bring mosquito repellent and rum; you'll consider both lifesaving by midnight. Ultimately, camping here is less about comfort and more about collecting a great story-one you'll revisit during boring cocktail parties, casually dropping lines like, "Did I mention that time I was gloriously stranded on a South Pacific motu?"