For Lauren Ho, a deeply personal odyssey to the remote island of St Helena introduced her to an extraordinary landscape and a unique cultural heritage – even if the journey did not end as she expected
ONE OF THE FIRST THINGS I NOTICED ABOUT St Helena was the light. I arrived on the island during the afternoon and the blinding sun had mellowed to a ripe glow, reflected by the muscular rust-tinged cliffs that shape the intricate wind-carved coastline. As I stood at the tip of Blue Point, a rocky outcrop hidden away in the far southern corner, the air felt uncharacteristically still, stirred occasionally by a cooling light breeze. The shimmering ocean below, turquoise flecked with white, seemed to stretch into a deep sapphire as far as the eye could see: a quiet reminder of just how isolated this island really is.
Ever since my family told me as a child that my great-great-great-grandmother, Juanita Christina van Rensburg, might have come from here, I’ve been fascinated by St Helena. I remember spinning the beautiful antique floor-standing globe in my grandmother’s living-room, looking for this tiny speck of land in the South Atlantic Ocean. Part of a British Overseas Territory, which also includes Ascension Island and Tristan da Cunha, St Helena is remote. It sits about 2,000 kilometres from south-western Africa and 4,000 kilometres east of Rio de Janeiro, measures 16 by eight kilometres, and has a population of about 4,400 people. Before the much-discussed airport finally opened in 2017, the only lifeline to this lonely island was RMS St Helena, a cargo and passenger liner that sailed to and from Cape Town on a five-day voyage each way.
Weekly flights from Johannesburg have opened up this lost paradise to the world, but arriving here is still like stepping back in time. Families eagerly gather at the airport to welcome back loved ones, and passers-by stop to chat to you in the street. Television was introduced in 1995 and mobile phones a decade later, but coverage is limited and Wi-Fi is practically non-existent. The island imports nearly all of its supplies by ship, an inconsistent process that results in sparse supermarket shelves, bar – strangely – a lot of Marmite. Tracy, a shop owner, joked to me that St Helena is like this distinct, savoury spread – you either love it or you hate it.
Those aware of the destination usually know it as the place of Napoleon Bonaparte’s exile, worth a pilgrimage to visit his tomb, and Longwood House, the home where he spent his final days. Others might recognise it from the aerial pictures of Jamestown, the picturesque capital, which slots between the precipitous sides of a deep valley and runs, like a river, into the never-ending ocean. While St Helena has some must-visit spots, such as Plantation House, the official residen
