Once again, it was time for a little something, so I refreshed myself with a fresh orange juice at Blue Note Café, where ‘Pa’ of the famed volcano/cross island walks is based. His striking dreadlocks made him unmissable, and I’m not sure why I didn’t ask him to escort me on an energetic trip up and over ‘them, there hills’ – the sharp cone of Te Rua Manga (The Needle) and the flat topped Raemara. Possibly the thought of expiring at the top from heat exhaustion, was a deterrent. Instead, dawdled back through town passing the Cooks Corner bus stop to the last hat shop where I completed my shopping mission. My crowning glory was chosen in desperation (it’s hot ambling around in the midday sun) rather than for any sartorial edge it gave me over my fellow travellers.
Continuing my island circumnavigation, I caught the two o’clock clockwise bus and sat back to enjoy a somnambulistic journey, peeking heavy-lidded over hibiscus-festooned hedges watching the leisurely pace of Rarotongan life. In the heady warmth of the afternoon, the sights, sounds and smells envelop you in a cosy sensory-blanket and gradually the effort of keeping your eyes open begins to feel like an unnecessary waste of energy. Only the fear of sleepily drooling from flower-fuelled intoxication kept me semi-conscious with my mouth securely shut. Allowing for frequent stops a complete circuit of the island takes between forty-five minutes to an hour. The bus travels in both the clockwise or anticlockwise directions, and a return fare can bought for the princely sum of four dollars.
Back at the hotel, I walked along the road to a local store to seek out necessary supplies; water, beer and peanuts. The peanuts provided me with an adequate salty lunch, the water sipped as a constant top-up and the beer would be consumed later, sitting on my balcony. By mid-afternoon, it was time to test the snorkel again. This time I ventured further away from the hotel to the far side of a sand-spit and in this new location had even better luck with the sea-life. At this stage I still wasn’t really sure what I was looking at or what was looking at me. I was fascinated by a sleek silver arrow, about two feet long from tip to tail with two thirds of its body taken up by its pointy snout, which hung in the water motionless gazing at me with two kindly, but inquisitive eyes (am I romanticising about a fish?) I’d like to think it thought the same of my orbs, blinking back at him from behind my mask, but I doubt I was creating such a favourable impression – and my floating bulk was no match for his silver bullet physique which, with barely a quiver, shot off his curiosity obviously sated. Inert Quink Ink blue starfish and knobbly sea slugs occupied the sands, whilst anemones and sea urchins staked out their territory on the corals, and above and around whizzed gar fish, wrasses, angel fish and parrot fish – and me. Oh what bliss!
Three hours later, looking rather the worse for wear, I headed for the bar where, forgetting my earlier purchase, I knocked back a glass of draught beer – almost in one. Whether it was my sea swept appearance or the dribbly way I guzzled the much-needed liquid refreshment, either way I obviously less than impressed the barmaid who seemed reluctant to return my I’m in heaven – I’d spring a cartwheel if I could beery smile.
My floating bulk was no match for his silver bullet physique…
During my temporary single status, there were very few occasions when I felt any discomfort at being a singleton and when I did, it was usually because I was in the middle of nowhere without another soul in sight. Oddly, because this was a peopled-paradise, the first twinge was at the Beach Resort. Perhaps less than a week into my adventure my antennae were being hypersensitive, or perhaps some Cook Islanders are less cheery than others, especially in the presence of a middle-aged lady who’s rather enjoying herself… and the beer. I’m quite certain that my sea/salt/sand appearance was rather more mumsy than sexy, but for whatever reason, the barmaid continued to scowl.
Happily by the end of my stay, there was only one (similarly middle-aged) waitress left who wasn’t either chatting to me or at least returning my smile in a polite way. It was the barmaid who had disdainfully served me with that first pint. She determinedly refused to return my ever broadening smiles, and I sensed that if she could she would have handed me my beer via long tongs. Disapproval radiated from her every pore, delighting me. Not being renowned for my rebellious exploits, here was someone ‘tut-tutting’ over my nightly beer-swilling activities (two pints on a good night). Hooray for frowns, I felt liberated! Although, on reflection, from what I’m not really sure.
Back at home, lazing in the bath is a daily form of bliss, but after hours submerged in seawater, nothing beats standing under a cool shower. The powerful hotel shower plus the delicious island coconut soap equalled an ideal restorative at the end of a busy day in paradise. Refreshed, thumbing through the hotel information, I read that Monday night was curry night, with a flamethrower providing the entertainment. Uncertain if this was a coded warning that the curry was going to be HOT, or just the hotel supporting local talent, either way it seemed a reasonable ending to the day. Selecting something cool to wear, I studied my shoe options: the trainers which had played a lead role in my departure from London, coral creepers which kept a safe distance between my toes and the spiky things on the sea bed or a pair of patent leather strappy evening shoes. No contest really. Clad in black patent I clattered down the steps from my room, scrunched over Muscle Beach reminiscent sand encrusted pathways and squeaked towards my destination. Unsurprisingly, the next night I chose the fourth option and, with eyes down, sallied forth shoeless as all things many-legged scuttled into and out of my path.
Returning to curry night and its promised entertainment. As I neared the restaurant the now familiar sounds of melodic Polynesian voices greeted me. Two chaps, accompanying themselves on guitar and ukulele, sang with gusto and passion to, I imagined, an entranced audience. As I rounded the corner my dismay must have matched theirs as, in a sea of empty seats, my lonely table for one was going to make a considerable difference to the attendance figures. Where was everyone? How could they sing so passionately to so few? And where was the flamethrower?
With a sad inevitability, guest numbers had fallen since the September 11th atrocities but as Easter approached they were creeping up again. Most visitors to the Cook Islands are from Australia, New Zealand, the UK and Germany – with virtually no tourists from Asia. Although guest numbers were down, the hotel’s kitchen seemed oblivious. Having dithered about where to sit (too much choice), I watched as the waitress, with a shake of her head, removed unwanted cutlery and glasses from my table; she thought it very sad that I was eating alone. Curry night being buffet night, I made my way towards a blue haze of meths hovering over acres of chaffing dishes, where I further dithered about what to eat (again, too much choice). Not wishing to inflict the same sense of disappointment on the kitchen staff that the singing duo must have been enduring, I dutifully worked my way through a mouth-watering selection of curries and sambals.
Returning from a second gluttonous foray amongst the chaffing dishes, I realised that I had been sitting with my back turned to the only other occupied table at which sat the friendly couple from Derbyshire and so spun round for a quick chat. We were becoming quite familiar, as we’d also met at the internet shop in Avarua where they were buying a telephone card as they were still failing to make contact with home via the hotel and wanted to try the local phones. Anyway, by Monday night they were swinging between a laidback “it’s OK” approach to one of sheer panic as they wondered what was happening at home, imagining of course the very worst of scenarios. Failing to reach assorted grandparents the sheer panic mood swings were beginning to far outnumber the ever more timid “I’m sure it’s fine really” attempts to soothe one another.
As I left my table for another early night, I wished them good luck with the telephones and said that I wouldn’t be shadowing them on the morrow as I was heading for Aitutaki Island and the day after they were off to New Zealand. Although NZ is a fairly large country, I sort of imagined that I would bump into them in some remote spot, still clutching
a phone card and looking ever more distressed. Back in my room, I spent half an hour deciding what might be needed for tomorrow’s adventure and lined up the chosen items, ignorant of the fact that a passport might have been handy. Had I not read the guidebook cover to cover? Satisfied with my choices, I climbed into bed and once again as my head hit the pillow… curtains. Why isn’t it like this at home?
Tuesday 26th March: another flight and serious sunburn
I beat the 6am alarm call by fifteen minutes, giving myself time for a leisurely cup of tea accompanied by a few pages of The Skull Mantra an excellent holiday read – an intriguing murder/mystery with a bit of Buddhist enlightenment thrown in for good measure. A happy bon voyage gift from my sister, Josephine, and a greater temptation than my unopened Open University books which were taking up ten of my fifteen kilo baggage weight: Brecht on the beach… I don’t think so. An hour later I was wandering around the hotel garden waiting for my transport, which finally arrived on a whim rather than to collect a named individual. I’m still not sure how or why the driver turned up as neither I nor the hotel appeared on his list but he’d decided to call in at the Beach Resort anyway.
Rarotonga’s Domestic Departures Terminal is basic, just some weather proofing to cover the two check-in desks from the worst of any rain, but totally adequate. I thought the tray sitting on one of the check-in desks covered with a tea towel might have been the in-flight catering… and it was: fresh muffins. I chatted to Tammie from Alberta who was rather dubious about the airworthiness of the Saab 340 (a twin turbo prop thirty-four seater). Digging into my fund of aircraft knowledge, I reassured her by saying that small planes were particularly nifty at scrambling up through clouds, embellishing this fact with the further fact that they are used for flying into the eye of storms. Inevitably my enthusiastic words made her glance nervously skywards, where indeed a hefty blanket of clouds was obscuring the volcanic peaks. Judging by her worried scowl, I don’t think I had given her the reassurance she was seeking.
Clouds were not the only concern. The tiny plane would probably have made my husband’s brow furrow a little, had he been standing on the tarmac at eye-level with the tiny cockpit. Through a hole just below the cockpit’s windscreen, the pilot’s hand appeared and into it the dispatcher placed a copy of the flight manifest, or possibly a shopping list or maybe both. The disembodied hand withdrew silently into the aircraft leaving the hole seemingly open to the elements and air pressure; perhaps we were only going to skim the wave tops. The configuration was one seat, the aisle and two seats, with a row of four seats at the back. From 3A I had an unobstructed view of Helena, the immaculate flight attendant, as she worked in a galley no wider than her shoulders which simultaneously brushed both sides of the tapered space. She was efficient, speedy and charming and in forty minutes had fed and watered passengers and flight crew and diligently washed and cleaned the equipment she had used.
The arrival at Aitutaki was even more chaotic than the arrival at Rarotonga had been, but as ever the mayhem began to subside and miraculously everyone found themselves on the right tour with the right guide. Ours emerged from the cockpit where he’d squeezed in behind the pilot and greeted us with a row of dazzling white teeth which complemented his cheery demeanour. The fact that I was travelling without any sort of papers or tickets just wasn’t an issue. Try commuting in London with just a “good morning” as your ticket.
The first part of the day was a trip round half of the volcanic island. It’s much smaller than Rarotonga with just one pointy cone. The largest volcano on Rarotonga, Raemara, has a flat top and according to legend, the pointy bit flew off and landed on Aitutaki. Sad but inevitable the population which currently nudges 2,000 is dwindling. The island pays for students to receive degree level education in (typically) Fiji or New Zealand but graduates must then return to the island to give back three years of work. Those parents who can afford it pay for their children’s education, so that they can enjoy better career prospects as soon as they have graduated by circumnavigating the three year requirement. Four of the Cook Islands’ presidents since independence in 1960 have come from Aitutaki and the islanders are rightly proud of their political nous.
The first stop was a visit to the main town, just a couple of shops and at least twice as many churches. The island’s predominant religions are the Cook Islands Christian Church, 7th Day Adventist, Church of the Latter Day Saints, plus a further smattering of Presbyterian non-conformist churches and one Catholic Church. Christianity arrived via the London Missionary Society and, with apologies, some of the items in the shops looked as if they had been brought to the island by the original Christian missionaries. I have never seen such rusty tins of food for sale, and I’m not talking a little discolouration, I mean rusted through to the point where the contents were just a rust atom away from explosive freedom. With the best will in the world, a display of rusty tins can never look truly enticing to the avid shopper. Perhaps they’d be more appealing as an art installation?
A drink came next then a stroll by the quayside before returning to our transport for the remainder of the journey. We bounced along in an open truck of mixed origins with wobbly bench seats and a wooden canopy providing intermittent shade until we reached the Pearl Beach Resort where our boat was moored. It too seemed of hybrid parentage and was necessarily large as it was already teeming with islanders and tourists. The Rarotongan arrivals found seats where they could, stumbling and lurching as the boat waddled from its moorings (it wasn’t a pretty boat) and then headed across the shimmering water to the tiny blot of an island. This island’s claim to fame was that it played host to the TV Survivors programme: who could survive on a desert island the longest, complete impossible tasks and not get stabbed in the back by a fellow castaway. It was tiny, had been a leper colony and was now home to wild pigs and chickens. It took about three and a half minutes to walk around. The highlight of this stop on our itinerary was a demonstration of 101 things to do with a coconut. And I got to drink some fairly grubby coconut cream and smear it on my arms as sun oil: m’m, m’mm. Before the demo we’d been allowed a quick swim which served to whet the appetite for what followed.
Back on the boat and off to enjoy a snorkelling session. Aitutaki and its sister islands are part of an atoll circling an enormous lagoon. So wide is the lagoon that when crossing it you get a 360 degree view of water and sky separated by a frilly white collar of surf. From the middle of the lagoon, the few islands look like green smears on a pure white shirt-collar and up above, like an upturned pudding basin, stretches a canopy of the deepest sky blue. The colour of the water is the brightest and clearest turquoise and sparkles like a liquid gem. The sand which fringes the islands and carpets the lagoon is a dazzling white. Happy to be back in water, but having been spoilt by the abundance of fish at the bottom of my temporary garden, I simply floated whilst squinting up at the glorious sunny sky – a treat beyond measure. Whichever way around we chose to wallow, a fun time was had by all.
A blast from a conch shell summoned the end of playtime and a return to the mother ship where lunch was served as we cruised towards One Foot Island. The highlights of lunch were barbequed fish, a bit like tuna, coleslaw, lots of exotic fruit and a yummy coconut pudding. Tammie, having lived about as far from the sea as you can possibly get had never eaten fish, and didn’t seem keen to experiment. After much coaxing from our tour guide and yours truly, she managed a few mouthfuls but judging from more of her facial expressions, didn’t appear to share my view that this was a meal worth waiting for. I had hoped she might be warming to my motherly coaxing.
A long spit of sand edged by shallow water led to our island destination and several of us opted to slip from the boat to wade across the first watery grains of sand towards the shore. We paddled, chatted and watched a magazine photo-shoot, which had been going on for ages signifying the models’ stamina. I’m surprised they didn’t simply keel over in the glare of the sun. And just how many shot
s are needed to get the right one? Surely there is only so much you can do with sun, sea, sand and a skinny girl in a scanty bikini?
Nearing dry land, the thought was beginning to dawn that perhaps walking over white sands in ferocious sun had been less than sensible. Consequently, a posse of lobster-like tourists waded ashore in front of the Post Office, the only building on the island. The beach bar doubles as a post office where passports can be stamped – a great bit of tourism savvy. So, now I realised why passports might be needed as a surprising number of people, including Tammie, produced their passports from the folds of their beachwear for a One Foot Island stamp. We all bought postcards and sent them home, writing with a wobbly collection of biros, which had been squirreled away by the ‘post master’.
A wander around the island, a drink and then back into the water and it was fabulous – this time the marine life had decided to come out and play. But I was beginning to feel the heat and found swimming in a water-logged t-shirt heavy going. Anyway, mustn’t grumble as the whole day was magnificently memorable, a view shared by my fellow travellers – even the very seasoned ones who had been here, there and everywhere seeing and doing everything. One of whom obviously thought that travelling solo with a suitcase, even one called George, was nothing like travelling solo with a backpack, especially if the environment meant that it had to be slung over your stomach for safety’s sake. I obviously have a lot to learn, so naturally kept very quiet about my very non-backpackers hotel room: no shared lavatorial facilities for me. Nor did I mention my addiction to an evening squirt of Dior perfume, even if it was appropriately called Dune.
Travels with George Page 3