David Whitley explores the natural treasure chest of Savai’i in Samoa, and tries not to get washed away like the coconuts.

Spurred on by manly bravado, the two coconut chuckers have crossed the white line. They inch ever closer to the edge of the precipice and toss in the husks. The swell of the Pacific Ocean clatters against the cliffs, prodding the blowhole into action and the coconuts high into the air.

Pleased with themselves, the guys turn round to pose for photos, and the Alofaaga blowholes go for a repeat performance. This time, however, the scale has been upped somewhat. The ocean crashes in ferociously, turning the whole strip of coastline into an enormous wall of spray. The main blowhole roars as if someone has held a microphone to a plane toilet while it’s flushing.

David Whitley goes hiking and riding inland on Viti Levu, and discovers that Fijian life isn’t all about dressing up as cannibals for tourists.

Health and safety regulations, it would seem, are not held in particularly high regard here. The closest approximation to a riding helmet is Adam’s baseball cap and when the stirrups are clearly too long for my legs, he tells me to just put my feet through the straps on top of them instead. Poor Blondie underneath me doesn’t look particularly cut out for the task ahead – lugging a visitor who has clearly had the odd pie too many up to the top of a mountain – but she just about manages it.  And I’m glad she does – sitting on horseback with sweeping views of the Viti Levu’s Sabeto Valley is a pretty special experience.

In the Cook Islands, David Whitley prepares for the burn in the thighs, and takes on Rarotonga’s cross-island trek.

There are few things more humiliating than panting your way up a heart-attack inducing mountain, only to be passed by a bare-footed man in his late sixties. But that’s Pa for you. A local legend on Rarotonga, he has been leading cross-island treks for decades and absolutely nothing seems to faze him. Except, perhaps, the Dutch.

Learning that one of our group has come from the Netherlands, Pa ponders and twirls his ridiculously wild white dreadlocks. “Many times I carry people from Holland,” he says with a little grin. “You alright with mountains?”

Pa is endearingly eccentric/ raving mad (depending on quite how you take to his frequent proclamations on the joys of organic food and the perils of just about everything else). If things get too tough, he’ll tell the struggling party to have a mini-sleep on the trail, apparently in all seriousness. He also encourages people to do the half day trek spiritually, not physically, as that’s the way to not get hurt.

David Whitley forgoes the soft option of cruising on Aitutaki’s lagoon, and heads out to the reef for a spot of properly-armed fishing.

Mike takes one look at the afternoon’s current forlorn haul, and turns towards the cabin. “If the fish aren’t going to come to us,” he says with a maniacal grin. “We’re just going to have to go to them.”

He emerges with weapons that are far more fearsome-looking than a rod, line and bait. In fact, they look precisely like what Bond villain henchmen would use to chase 007 around with in a lavish underwater sequence.

Mike, a big, burly New Zealander whose entire being screams “ex-military”, throws me a snorkel and masks, and then gives instructions on how to operate the spear gun. “Pull the trigger to fire it, try and keep it away from the reef. Oh yeah, and don’t point it at me.”

The reef in question fringes the island of Aitutaki, which is as close to the romantic vision of a Pacific Island paradise as you could ever wish to find. Channel 4’s reality series Shipwrecked was filmed here, and it is absolutely dominated by a giant blue lagoon. It is the sort of place that even the greatest photographer can’t quite do justice, and invites hours and hours of clichés about stunning turquoise waters.

David Whitley tries his hand at Kirikiti, Samoa’s unique version of cricket.

As sledging goes, it’s a novel approach. Before the bowler trundles in to unleash his worst, the entire team embarks on a mini haka-like chant. They clap in unison, accompanied by hups, heys and a high-pitched squeal. But it doesn’t work – the batsman unceremoniously deposits the ball into the bushland on the other side of the main road.

The umpire raises both his red and his white flag to signal two points, and the rest of the batting team turns into a choir. Sat crossed-legged and in formation at the edge of the pitch, they launch into a traditional Samoan song, performed with exquisite harmonies.

This, it is fair to say, is just not cricket.

Someone once said that strangers are just good friends you haven’t met yet.

One of the great things about taking an extended trip through so many countries is that you end up with so many great friends…and so many more excuses to pass back through the same places yet again, sometime in the future.

These days with email, facebook, skype and messenger it’s easier than ever to keep in contact with people you’ve met on the road…and even to hook up with ‘unknown good friends’ even before you arrive in a country.