Oceania

Travel through Oceania by country:

Australia, Indonesia, Kiribati, Marshall Islands, Micronesia, Nauru, New Zealand, Palau, Papua New Guinea, Samoa, Solomon Islands, Tonga, Tuvalu, Vanuatu

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Auckland, Canberra, Melbourne, Perth, Sydney, Wellington

Travel through Oceania by popular things to do:

Cook Islands, Sydney Opera House

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In the Corner of the World, Work and Play in Queensland

Meet The Man Who Spent 11 Years Walking Around The World And The Woman Who Waited For Him To Return

by Dave Seminara on

On his 45th birthday, Quebec native Jean Béliveau went out for a walk. He crossed over Montreal’s Jacque Cartier Bridge in Montreal, where he originally dreamed up the idea of escaping his life as a neon sign salesman nine months before, and kept going for 75,554 kilometers through 64 countries. He burned through 54 pairs of shoes but somehow managed to maintain his relationship with his wife, Luce, who stayed at home while Jean spent 11 years walking around the world. But when he returned to Canada, some criticized the walk as a self-indulgent escape from a midlife crisis since it wasn’t done for a specific charity.

Seven months after returning home from what is believed to be the world’s longest uninterrupted circumnavigation on foot, Béliveau is being courted by publishers who want the rights to his story. We caught up with Jean to find out more about his motivation for taking an 11-year walk, how he pulled it off without losing his wife and what he’s up to now.

Why take a walk around the world?

Jean: I owned a small neon sign factory but when Quebec had a terrible ice storm in the winter of 1998, we lost power for weeks. We had to close the factory and then my wife had to move to Montreal for her job. I had a midlife crisis in the meantime. I began to sell neon signs but I wasn’t making much money. I said, ‘My God, what happened with my life? I’m throwing my life away.’

I felt like I was working just for money and giving my soul away, and for what? I ran over Jacques Cartier Bridge in Montreal one day and thought, ‘I wonder how many days it would take to get to New York. And how many weeks or months or years to get to Mexico, South America, the rest of the world.’

What did your wife say when you told her you’d be buzzing off for a decade or so just three weeks before your departure?

Jean: She said, ‘Will you be back on the way?’ and I said ‘No, but you enjoy travel, you can come if you want.’ But she couldn’t because she’s a social worker and was working towards her retirement. Finally she said, ‘Is it finished between us?’ I took a big risk, she could have said, ‘Go on your way, mate.’ And she took a risk too. She said, ‘I will support you, we’ll try it.’ She’s the one – a great lady.

Luce: I asked why he didn’t tell me about it sooner and he said ‘If you have a very special dream, you better not talk about it to the people who love you, because they might try to convince you to abandon it.’

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Had you traveled much before?

Jean: I never really traveled. I’d only been to Florida and Las Vegas.

Luce, you agreed to stick with him and help support him financially. Did your girlfriends and relatives think you were crazy?

Luce: Everybody said, ‘He’s leaving you and you’ll have to do everything by yourself.’ All my friends and relatives, especially the girls, said they wouldn’t put up with this and they didn’t know how I could stand it. They thought he was selfish.

How did you pay for this trip?

Jean: I took $4,000 Canadian, which was about $3,000 U.S. at that time. It wasn’t enough, I knew that, but for me I had to escape. I had to go. I needed to make a big pilgrimage. To see who I was and where I was in life. I preferred to be eaten by the lions in African than by the society. I probably spent about $50,000 or so for the whole trip. Some people spend the same amount for a two-week trip.

Luce: I had to make some financial sacrifices to help support him along the way, but I was so taken with his project it didn’t mean anything to me to go without some things.

How do you pack for a trip like this?

Jean: I had everything I needed in a three-wheeled stroller – a sleeping bag, tent, a pad, only a couple changes of clothing, a pillow, a First aid kid, some food and water.

How much ground does one need to cover to walk around the world in 11 years?

Jean: I averaged about 20 miles per day over 11 years, but I didn’t walk every day. It took about six months to cross the U.S., about 8 months for Mexico and Central America. Then I had to skip Colombia because back in 2002 it was considered very dangerous. I spent almost two years walking through South America and then I ran out of money. I didn’t want to call Luce and ask for her to pay for my flight to Africa. Eventually, a Brazilian guy offered to pay for my ticket to South Africa and the trip continued.

(Click here to see a video of his route)

Where did you sleep during this walk?

Jean: People invited me into their homes, they fed me, they phoned people 30-40 miles ahead to help me. Some people gave me money, brought me to the supermarket and filled my buggy with food. I stayed with about 1,600 families in 64 countries, but in general I’d say I spent roughly one-third with families, one-third camping and the rest being invited to sleep in churches, temples, mosques, schools and even prisons. I stayed with criminals, killers, extremists – all kinds of people.

How did you maintain the desire to keep walking? Didn’t you want to go home at some point?

Jean: You’re in a state of permanent culture shock. You get to the point where you become saturated; you can’t even see the beauty. In 2004, I was in the middle of Africa somewhere and decided that I wanted to go home. I felt like I was a prisoner of my dream. I had to finish the walk. I felt like if I went back home I would fail because the spirit of the walk is just one shot, no going back. I sent Luce an email telling her I was too tired and I couldn’t go further.

Luce: I told him I loved him but that everyone wanted him to continue, because if he cut his walk, it’s like he didn’t accomplish anything.

How did you maintain your marriage with him gone for 11 years? Didn’t you feel jealous that he was out seeing the world while you were helping pay for his adventures?

Luce: I wasn’t jealous, not at all. I started his website and answered all of his emails. I was writing newsletters for him. I couldn’t have gone with him, I can’t eat everything like he does and I would get fed up with staying in tents and other strange places. I enjoy my comfort too much. I visited him for a few weeks each year and we were like normal people on vacation. These were his little breaks from the walk.

How were you perceived on your walk? Did people think you were a beggar in some places?

Jean: In Europe and Japan a lot more people treated me like I was a homeless person or a beggar. You feel the rejection; you can tell it in people’s eyes. I was someone apart from the society. I was in Latin America and Africa for about four years, where I was welcome. In Europe, people would back away from you. You say hello to people and they think you’re crazy.

Were there moments of danger for you on the trip?

Jean: Not many. I was woken up by a puma in the night in Chile while I was in a sleeping bag, but thankfully it went away. I was almost robbed in South Africa. But there were so many more occasions where people were good to me. I needed prostate surgery in Oran, Algeria, but had no money. They said, ‘Don’t worry, we want to support you.’ I was in the hospital for six days and they paid for everything. Even in Iran, they were amazing people. There’s a difference between the regime there and the people. The people there are beautiful.

How did your feet hold up?

Jean: They were fine until I got to Iran. I walked in whatever shoes people gave me along the way, and someone gave me sandals in Iran. Those were terrible to walk in. I went through 54 pairs of shoes. Each year, Luce would take some pairs home with her, so we still have some of them.

What was the most physically demanding part of the trip?

Jean: I spent three months crossing the desert in North Australia. It was 45 degrees (Celsius). I was drinking 10-12 liters of water per day but it was brutal. It took eleven months to cross the whole country. But then I got lucky. I went to New Zealand next and Air New Zealand offered to fly me back to Vancouver and then I crossed Canada to get home to Montreal.

How did you avoid going crazy?

Jean: I did go crazy. You go deep in your own mind, you just have your imagination, you go far away in the universe, because you can’t calibrate yourself with other people. Then when I’d see people, I’d be careful to talk to them to make sure I wasn’t too far-gone, too crazy.

What was the homecoming like?

Luce: I met him on the last day and walked with him for about 12 kilometers and got tired so I had to take the metro home to rest. Later, I went to join him again when he was closer to home and there was a ceremony for him. And then the two of us walked the last 1.5 kilometers to our home, just the two of us. He was fine – he was full of adrenaline – not tired at all.

How did he transition back to home life?

Luce: The transition was hard for both of us. He kept leaving the doors of our condo unlocked and he had no idea where anything belonged. He got depressed after being home a few weeks.

Do you plan to ask Guinness to verify your walk as the longest on record?

Jean: No, but if someone else wants to submit it they can. I didn’t do it to set a world record. There are totally unknown people who might have walked farther than me. There is a guru in India, he walks naked and with bare feet. He’s probably walked 200,000 kilometers in his life, but just in India. In my walk, we can say it is the longest walk around the world without returning home in between.

You received some criticism in Canada after returning home. Some said your walk was self-indulgent.

Luce: We did read the negative comments. Those people would like to try something like this but don’t have the guts to do it. Jean was in a situation where he could do it – our children were grown. We were not wealthy at all. All the free money I had was needed just to keep him on the road. The negative comments came only in Canada. Canadians are more critical; we don’t appreciate people who do things. Look at Celine Dion; she wasn’t appreciated here at all when she started.

What’s next for you?

Jean: I’m writing a book. So far, we have offers from 16 publishers. Hopefully, it’ll be out next year. I won’t go back to selling neon signs. My past is another life. I’m on a new path now until I die. (Update: The book will be published by the Flammarion Group in February 2013.)

You’ve said that you did this walk for peace and for children, but you didn’t raise money for any charitable cause. What do you think you accomplished?

Jean: You want to do something before you die. I figured I had maybe 30 more years on this planet and I wanted to do it. I think we helped raise awareness for peace but I left with a humble spirit. My goal is to learn not to teach. The walk was about everyone I met – people’s humanity, their desire to explore the world. So many people supported me so it wasn’t just my walk; it was theirs too.

I bet people will read the story you are doing and it will make an impact on their lives. Some people will decide to change their lives when they read this.

[All photos provided by Jean Beliveau le Marcheur]

Vagabond Tales: Bodysurfing A Hawaiian Bombing Range

by Kyle Ellison on

If there were ever a Hawaiian island which had nothing to do with mai tais and beachfront massages it’s the island of Kaho’olawe. A low-lying mound, which rises to an unassuming height of 1,477 feet, Kaho’olawe – for most visitors to Hawaii – is shrouded in total mystery.

For one thing, there are no five-star hotels, nightly luaus, or horrendous timeshare kiosks on Kaho’olawe. You will find no discount activity companies, no parasailing, no surf schools and no paid parking lots making their money off of tourists who don’t know any better. You won’t even find any residents.

This is because Kaho’olawe has a history unlike any other island in the Hawaiian chain. This island marks a historic outpost of exile and aggression, which progressed down a different path. When the rest of Hawaii was falling into the hands of sugar barons and Western businessmen, Kaho’olawe existed mostly as an afterthought.

Sparsely inhabited during Ancient Hawaiian times, the minimal amount of fresh water on the island was ultimately an inhibiting factor for growth. Later on, during the mid-1800s, the island of Kaho’olawe was used as a penal colony for 23 years as a place where prisoners were sent to fend for themselves. Dry and barren and with few natural resources, some of those exiled would eventually starve.

Though sporadic ranching ventures over the next century proved to be mediocre in their success, when the Japanese Imperial Army launched a surprise attack on Hawaii’s Pearl Harbor on the morning of December 7, 1941, the future of Kaho’olawe would take a turn down a violent and destructive road.
With the events of the Pearl Harbor placing the entire territory of Hawaii under martial law, the island of Kaho’olawe was designated by the U.S. military as a practice bombing range and training ground for young American soldiers heading to the islands of the Western Pacific.

Even after the war was won, Kaho’olawe continued to be used as a target isle throughout the Korean, Vietnam, and Cold wars, with all bombing officially coming to a halt nearly 50 years after it began in 1990. Though no nuclear, biological or chemical weapons were ever detonated on Kaho’olawe, fire bombs such as napalm scorched across the already dry island, and a blast in 1965 dubbed “Operation Sailor Hat” detonated 500 tons of TNT as a means of testing the blast resistance of U.S. warships. The resulting craters have strangely enough created a marine ecosystem for two endemic species of shrimp.

Once the bombing raids finally stopped, however, the island was given back to the state of Hawaii and placed under the stewardship of the Kahoolawe Island Reserve Commission, a group who, to quote their mission statement, pledges “to provide meaningful, safe use for the island of Kaho’olawe for the purposes of the traditional and cultural practices of the native Hawaiian people, and to undertake the restoration of the island and its waters”.

Working in an area, which will never have any commercial use and will never be developed, the KIRC operates with limited funding and relies heavily on volunteers to enact projects such as replanting native plant species and creating footpaths.

One of the more authentic experiences a visitor to Hawaii can schedule for their trip is to place their name on a volunteer sign up sheet and spend four days volunteering on Kaho’olawe during a trip to the isles.

Granted, the waiting list is about two years long, but the cultural experience gained from visiting a Hawaiian island most will never set foot on is without question an experience well worth the wait.

After having laid waste to it for so many years, the U.S. Navy joined forces with KIRC and undertook a massive cleanup effort geared at removing much of the unexploded ordnance, which still lay scattered around the island. Although nearly three-quarters of the land was cleared of ordnance, only a small percentage was done so to a sufficient depth of four feet, and there are still sections of the island where no ordnance removal has ever taken place at all.

Given the explosive capabilities of the land, the general rule of thumb for those volunteering on Kaho’olawe is “if you didn’t drop it, don’t pick it up.” There are even still bombs in the ocean.

This is why it was such a thrill to bodysurf there.

Wait. What? You literally just said there were bombs in the water and that nobody lives there. Why would you bodysurf on Kaho’olawe?

Unbeknownst to virtually every surfer who doesn’t live in Maui County, the island of Kaho’olawe gets some of the best surf in the Hawaiian Islands during the summer months on waves sent up from storms east of New Zealand. Although there are no official docking facilities on Kaho’olawe, the southern-facing Honokanaia Bay features a long sandy cove where landing craft pull right up on to the shore and offload volunteers.

Seeing as this is the sole point of aquatic entry and exit from the island, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Honokanaia is sufficiently free of bombs. I don’t know this for a fact, but it’s just a hunch I’ve got.

It also just so happens that Honokanaia Bay features one of the nicest left-breaking points in all of the Hawaiian Islands, and the handful of old-timers I know who illegally surfed there in the 1970s and ’80s call it the “Kaho’olawe Pipeline.” Others who have surfed it refer to it as “Smuggler’s Cove.”

Although I didn’t have an actual board with me, as part of the transport crew shuttling volunteers to Kaho’olawe I was nevertheless able to spend 30 minutes catching sandy barrels in the shore break of the former bombing range.

Would I so casually jump into the water on other parts of Kaho’olawe not as expertly scouted? Probably not. But for this one moment, this one fleeting situation where beautiful waves were rolling through one of the last undeveloped white sand beaches in the entire state of Hawaii, bodysurfing the bombing range was a novelty I couldn’t dream of passing up.

Want more travel stories? Read the rest of the “Vagabond Tales” here

[Cover photo credit: Justin Ornellas on Flickr]

A Challenge: Learn All Of The Countries In The World

by Elizabeth Seward on

While in DC a couple of weeks ago with fellow Gadling writers, a few of us hopped into a taxi on our way to dinner. Our driver was an African man from a country he kept under wraps. He told us that if we wanted to find out which country he was from, we’d have to earn our way to the answer through his impromptu trivia. And so we tried to answer his questions.

“You have to exercise your anthropological and geographical versatility to comprehend my country of originality,” he teased us.

“I can guess the continent,” one of our writers chimed.

“Oh yes, guessability, no problem, Madam,” he cooed.

“West Africa?” she guessed.

“Well,” he drew out the word for a few seconds. “I will formally agree but I will formally disagree with you. I am an individual of complexity. You want a clue?”

“Yes,” we all answered in unison.

“OK. I am going to give you a complex geographical clue. Let me see. Name me 11 countries in the world that have four letters,” he began.And so we began: Oman, Iraq, Iran, Peru, Togo, Mali, Fiji, Chad, Laos, Cuba and Guam. Our geography scavenger hunt continued, question after question, until we arrived at our destination. The driver moved to DC from Sierra Leone.

After exiting the taxi in DC, I couldn’t get the ride and the driver’s questions out of my mind. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t definitively pinpoint Sierra Leone on a map. I found this to be both humiliating and humbling.

It’s been a loose lifetime goal of mine to learn geography as thoroughly as I can. To scratch the surface, my first geography goal is to learn the names of all of the countries in the world. This may sound ambitious, but it shouldn’t be considered a far-fetched goal for a writer who regularly writes about travel. I decided to finally begin learning geography the way I’ve always intended to learn it this past weekend. A houseguest showed me Sporcle, a website filled with quizzes, interactive games, trivia and other knowledge-based, time-wasting activities. When I saw “geography” listed as a section on the site, I knew I had found my resource for learning the world’s countries.

After spending an hour on the site, I knew all of the countries in Africa. I went back again the next morning to make sure I’d retained the information and I had. I’m now moving on to the rest of the continents. Never again will I lazily accept my fate as an American who hasn’t bothered to learn the names of the nooks and crannies throughout our world. Why should I think it enough to know the names of only 70 percent of the countries in the world? Why shouldn’t I know them all?

For a long time, I didn’t think it was incredibly relevant – not relevant enough to bother learning, at least. But I knew, like many do, the names of a hearty chunk of countries. These are the countries that come up in conversation, news and friends’ vacations. Moving forward, I am challenging myself and readers alike to learn the names of all of the countries in the world, at the very least. From there, let’s learn about the countries and their respective cultures in depth and begin travel planning, but first, let’s learn the names.

**Update 05.27.2012: I did it!**

Vagabond Tales: An Introduction To Possum Punting

by Kyle Ellison on

If you want to anger a New Zealand local ask them if their accent is from somewhere in Australia. While this is sure to elicit a stern yet polite correction, if you REALLY want to enrage a New Zealand local ask them what they think about possums. Strangely enough, the two annoyances are intertwined as New Zealand actually places the blame for the possums firmly on Australia.

Why? Because the non-native possums are Australian, not Kiwi, and many New Zealanders would simply prefer to see them exist solely in the country from whence they came.

Officially known as the Australian Brushtail Possum, the noxious pest was introduced to New Zealand in 1837 in an effort to kick-start the fur industry. All this managed to do, however, was allow the possums to populate with reckless abandon and quickly spread to over 95 percent of the country. Whereas in Australia the possum has a litany of natural predators to keep their numbers in check, New Zealand lacks any form of land predator to naturally stem the flow of hyper-population. Flower gardens, native birds and farmers’ crops have never been the same ever since.

Even the cows in New Zealand are at odds with the possums, thanks to the possum’s innate ability to spread bovine tuberculosis and cripple New Zealand’s lucrative dairy industry.

So how much do the Kiwis actually hate the possums? Enough that a local school recently held a possum-throwing contest, which unsurprisingly sparked outrage amongst the nation’s animal rights activists. Shooting possums is a right of passage for children growing up in rural New Zealand, and I’ve personally witnessed drivers swerve cars towards possums in an effort to strike them as they attempt to cross a road.

I simply cannot make this statement in any plainer terms: people in New Zealand simply hate the possums.Given this unified level of hatred there really are few limits on what’s considered unacceptable in terms of their general treatment. The degree of discontent never really sank in, however, until an evening spent camping along the remote shores of Abel Tasman National Park.

Having sea-kayaked for most of the day past a string of postcard-perfect sandy coves, two mates and myself pulled into the welcomingly-named Mosquito Bay to pitch our tents just prior to dusk. With no rain clouds to be found anywhere on the red and orange horizon, the team opted to pitch the tents sans rain fly to provide maximum star viewing and feel the ocean breeze. A few beers and few shots of whiskey later, our haggard troupe of semi-drunk paddlers retired for the evening into our three-man tent amazed that we had the sliver of sub-tropical perfection all to ourselves – or so we thought.

Somewhere between the hours of 1-4 a.m., I awoke to the sound of my city-bred college roommate Ted repeatedly making a sound I can classify only as “shooshing.” Ted was obviously attempting to “shoosh” away some unforeseen creature, yet given the depth of the darkness his passive efforts were simply lost in the coastal night. Chalking his antics up to the cheap brand of whiskey, I attempted to roll over beneath my Patagonia sleeping-bag liner and drift back into a blissful outdoor sleep.

That was, of course, until I felt the evil red eyes staring straight into my soul. If you’ve never experienced a face-to-face encounter with a possum while in the throes of a whiskey haze, the furry rodents, which appear as cute marsupials by daytime, change by night into real life Chuck E. Cheese rats seemingly possessed by Satan.

Amazed that at one point I had failed to see our evening visitor, I now sat within a claw’s reach of the foraging rodent – the thin fabric of the tent a laughably meager form of protection.

Then, just when it seemed that the red eyes and scavenging claws of the nighttime lurker were going to tear their way through the tent walls, a rogue human leg appeared out of the darkness and laid a swift and powerful kick right into the gut of the mischievous prowler.

Not even knowing that there were other people camping in the confines of Mosquito Bay, at some point during our booze-induced slumber a native Kiwi couple had arrived late and pitched their tent right next to ours.

As the possum was apparently disrupting their slumber as well, the largest rugby-playing, Haka-dancing Kiwi of man you have ever seen had emerged from his tent wearing nothing except boxer shorts and a single hiking boot, no sock.

As Ted was “shooshing” and I was entranced by the red pupils of evil, the mostly-nude Kiwi bushman was instead preparing for a possum punt of dramatic proportions that nobody saw coming in the darkness. With a single drop step and a rotation of his right leg – which could nail a field-goal from 50 yards out – the possum-hating forest dweller laid the top of his right foot into the underbelly of the possum with such ferocity that it sent the shrieking marsupial on an aerial departure from which it never returned.

“Just gotta lay a firm foot into ’em mate!” exclaimed the freelance rodent destroyer. “Let the little bahstards know who’s in charge. Nothing like a good possum punt!”

With the tips of his boxer shorts waving in the evening breeze, the mysterious possum punter single-stomped his way back to his nylon fortress – his work here was dramatically through.

I was stunned by what had actually just occurred and the fact that the man’s tent was completely gone by morning only added to his mystique.

So here’s to you, Mr. Possum Punting vigilante. I want to thank you for your swift and thorough cleansing of our campsite and your public display of where you stand on New Zealand’s possums. Your nationalistic pride shines like a beacon through the night, and you have served your country well.

Looking back, I’m just glad I never called him Australian.

[Image courtesy of turtlemom4bacon on Flickr]

Nakation Nation: Nudist Resorts And Beaches Solve Airline Baggage Fee Woes

by Laurel Miller on

And from the, “OMFG” department comes this information, via press release: The American Association for Nude Recreation (AANR) “encourages wholesome family nude recreation [“Nakations”] in appropriate settings such as designated nude beaches and AANR-member resorts, or around the home. Experts have attested that children raised in a social nudist environment grow up with a stronger sense of self-esteem, free of many of the body image issues that trouble the average textile youth.”

I’m most disturbed by the terms, “textile youth” and “Nakation.” I’m not going to touch those with a ten-foot…never mind. Why I’m so skeeved out by the naked family vacay thing is a bit more convoluted. I like to think that I’m pretty open-minded, and it’s true we’ve become a nation of body dysmorphic, eating-disordered freaks…when we’re not morbidly obese, that is.

I have no problem going topless on European beaches, and have often bemoaned the puritanical leanings of Americans when it comes to censorship with regard to nudity on television and in magazines. I just feel that it’s potential fodder for a therapist’s couch when children and their parents frolic about sans textiles after the toddler stage has passed; I also believe that public nudity past toddler-hood is something that should only be done by consenting adults.

I’ve been to a nude beach twice. Maybe it’s because I didn’t holiday in the buff with my family (my eyes, my eyes!) as a child, but I can tell you two things my nude sunbathing didn’t accomplish: providing me with a stronger sense of self-esteem, and freeing me of the body image issues that have troubled me ever since I was an average, deprived textiled youth.It could have something to do with the fact that the first time I went, it was with an exhibitionist Australian boyfriend who was a professional athlete. It was (as we discovered) a gay beach, meaning most of the men were totally ripped. I’d also been on a month-long food writing assignment, so I wasn’t feeling very good about my body. And I was covered – literally – with mosquito bites I’d gotten several days prior on a camping trip. This included my ass, because…let’s just say that women have a tougher time peeing in the great outdoors than men.

So, I wasn’t exactly feeling empowered about this experience, but I forced myself to do it. Just so I could say my boyfriend and I went to a gay nude beach in Australia. The second time, I was by myself in Santa Cruz and it was all good until some freak threw his towel down three inches away from my toes. I haven’t taken my clothes off in a public place in broad daylight since.

Clearly, I’m the one with the issues, because according to the AANR, the “2011 Portrait of the American Traveler tells us that at least 53 million people are interested in visiting nudist resorts or nude beaches. This confirms the increasing public understanding that family nudity is wholesome, natural and comfortable after the first daunting but liberating plunge.”

I guess the issue really comes down to, “Is this behavior hurting anyone?” and that’s open to debate. Personally, I’m not too cool with kids being, uh, exposed to naked strangers. I agree that teaching children to have a healthy sense of esteem about their bodies is important (as important, say, as feeding them a well-balanced, nutritious diet and encouraging them to be physically active and play outdoors), but I think there are plenty of ways to learn that without going on Nakations. Or, for the cash-strapped family, “Staycation Nakations.”

One thing I will say about clothing-optional travel: it saves money on baggage fees and laundry. The downside is explaining how you got melanoma.

[Photo credits, sunbather, Flickr user uppityrib; sign, Flickr user Sister 72]