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It rose above the surface. A hand—I could clearly see fingers. Then it was gone. Just outside the shelter of the reef, our little white sailboat was hit by the full force of Pacific Ocean. The boat was thrown high then it crashed back down; wind, spray and a smile hit my face. I couldn’t believe that I just saw a mermaid. Of course, I couldn’t believe it because that’s not what I saw. Dugongs have long tricked travellers that way. Lost at sea, men desperate for women conflated this sea-cow with a lady—thanks guys. At Aquarium des Lagons Nouvelle Caledonie there is an entire display dedicated to this myth. It has a particularly amazing section which highlights that while human women have breasts, dugongs do not—again, thanks guys. But, see, I did see it. A slight flicker of a flipper. In those waves. For a moment, I could have sworn it was a hand. The myth continues in this little Pacific pocket of France. Myths and magic; very much alive. Something about New Caledonia—its brightly coloured buildings, beaches, birds, reefs, flowers—feels mystical. Just eat the Crème brûlée à la vanille de Lifou at L'Ed'Zen and you’ll be in another realm. Fly five hours from Melbourne, and you can be in France. ‘04 Dom Perignon is stocked at the supermarket and there’s an entire aisle dedicated to cheese. Though, New Caledonia is not just France. It is a land of two official flags; the French and Kanak. I embarked from the city of brunch to come to the annual Avocado Festival. Embracing local culture while smashing avos? The perfect trip for an Australian. The festival is held alongside the public holiday, Jeudi de l'Ascension, which celebrates the day Christians believe Jesus ascended to heaven. Eating avocados and heaven? The perfect match. Maré—the island that host’s Fete de l'avocat—feels incredibly different to Noumea. Nengone can be heard just as much as French. Buildings are just flittered throughout nature, and the roads are thinner with sand creeping up at their edges. The shore is white, and the sea has two distinct layers; pale sky blue and deep dark ocean. Before and after the reef. The festival is hosted by the Nece tribe, which welcomes different peoples from all over the archipelago. There is an old colonial ruin that overlooks the bay. Inside this old, abandoned French building, someone is rearing pigs. The roof is long gone and coconuts can just fall to the floor. It crumbles as the bay remains unchanged; local children still play in the shallows as the adults chat in the shade. The stage is ready for the music to begin. An avocado tree stands in its full glory, decorated with streamers and other varieties of avocado. It looks like it could be a traditional offering. But this isn’t a traditional festival. It’s under twenty-years old. Avocados are an introduced species to Maré. They love the limestone soil and now have a foothold in the local economy. And here we have it, these Melanesian people celebrate the harvest of a South American fruit on a European holiday. But is this melding of cultures another flicker of a flipper? The myth of a united country? In 2020 there will be another referendum on whether they abandon the red, white and blue. This is an exciting time to visit New Caledonia. They are in the middle of analysing their histories and myths, and that energy can be felt everywhere. The divide is everywhere. The choice is everywhere. And the difference between cultures is huge. The Kanak slowly cook yams underground in coconut leaves to make bougna and the Caldoche flambert a crêpe at your table. But in both, there is magic in every bite. The secret of New Caledonia is while the culture is so rich and diverse, the closest I came to ascending to heaven was descending off a reef in La Baie des Tortues. There, I waited, treading water until they came, the ancient shelled bodies, their flippers guiding them along. The turtles. Their calming presence, their beauty, their mystery. Under the surface of the waves, there is another mystical side of the divide.