Sunday begins with a ‘special omelette breakfast’ involving a ziplock bag. (you had to be there !) Afterwards I walk to the local Christian Church. Religion is popular in Rarotonga and taken seriously. It’s Easter Sunday so the cool, wooden building is packed to the rafters. We’re all melting in the heat, despite every wide open door and window.
Religion aside, I’ve come to hear the Polynesians sing. I’m not disappointed. Half the church harmonise their hearts out, as if their lives depended on it. Such a privilege to experience. Many ladies have flowers in their hair or on their hats. Everyone is dressed in their ‘Sunday best’, toddlers to grannies. This is not like the churches I’ve been to: this is bright, passionate and uplifting. Eventually, the sermons start to get shouty, so I leave before I’m enlisted. Back at the beach it makes sense to cool off with a quick snorkel. Dory and her friends are still there. Yay.
In the pitch dark at 5am and again at 6 am I am awoken by drumming. Loud, rapid, rhythmic drumming. I fear I’m for the pot with a dash of tabasco, but, no, it’s OK. What an alarm call ! Local musicians are celebrating Easter on the back of a pickup circling the island. Hard luck if you want to sleep, they want to party !!! Mad, but beats the noise of jets at Heathrow, any day.
In the morning it’s sadly too wet for my planned walk across the island to be safe. Instead I join a Land Rover safari, taking the opportunity to see Rarotonga’s hidden places. Most habitation is around the edge of the island, on government land and focused on tourism. By contrast the fertile, volcanic slopes inland are Maori tribal lands, lovingly farmed to provide enough for the island to eat.
Rarotongans have to be self-sufficient. It’s a long, long way to the next nearest store. We pass small fields of pineapples, breadfruit, mangoes, avocados, guavas, tomatoes, kumara (sweet potato), bananas, taro and of course coconuts. I’m delighted to be handed a coconut straight from the tree, with its’ top cut off, swiftly followed by another. Yummy !! Pigs wander through the crops looking relaxed, unaware there is a pot with their name on it any day soon.
Camellias are the national flower. I’m told women wear a bloom behind their left ear to show they are married and right to show they are available ! Whatever, it’s lovely to see so many people wearing flowers.
Women are important in Rarotongan society. Of the Maori tribal elders on the island, 5 are women and only one is a man. The Maoris are fiercely proud of their history and culture. As in New Zealand, where many of their ancestors settled, there are many sacred sites across the island. Of the more modern, important sites there’s the Queen’s representative’s house, the University of the South Pacific and the grand-sounding parliament building looking just like a village hall.
In the evening it’s the Maori cultural show high up in the mountains. This is a feast for the senses and great entertainment. Aimed at tourists, it’s a mixture of food, drink, music, singing and dancing. The host is larger than life and takes us through the history of the Cook Islands Maori via song and dance. Ho ho. Those drums sound really, really familiar !
We hear about the 7 waka (war canoes) up to 180ft in length which set sail for an uninhabited New Zealand. How they left Rarotonga hundreds of years ago, navigating by waves, sun, stars and birds until Aotearoa – ‘the land of the long white cloud’ – appeared on the horizon. Some journey ! No wonder the Polynesians are renowned as skilled navigators.
The performers are a talented bunch and it’s a hypnotic evening; all lilting melodies, powerful harmonies, drums, grass skirts, flowers, hula hands, wiggling bums and coconut bras !
My last day in paradise is spent with my new American friends. Equipped with an old Nissan Micra, we hit the perimeter road, stopping where we fancy. A brewery tour, a liquor shack, several beautiful beaches, some shopping and lunch at FOB (‘Fresh off the Boat’). The latter is a hut on a beach, adjacent to the local fishermen. It’s a hugely popular place and with good reason. The choice is superb and made to order. I plump for mahi mahi fillet in a huge bap with salad and lime mayo. Add a homemade smoothie, a seat on the beach and I’m a very happy bunny. A memorable lunch stop and a great find.
Well fed, there’s an international fight due in at 14:00 . Flouting the 50km/hr speed limit we arrive at the end of the runway in good time. We are not alone. About 25 of us have the same idea. The road is the only thing separating the airstrip from the sea and planes generally approach from seaward. After a few minutes someone picks out a speck in the sky. It gradually gets bigger and bigger until it resembles an aeroplane. By this point it looks alarmingly low. Just as nerves start jangling there is a deafening roar and a blast of hot air that almost knocks us off our feet. The jet skims the chainlink fence (and our heads) to make contact with the tarmac. Whoops and screams erupt. Hats and sunglasses are airborne. Quite literally, what a blast !!!
Excitement over, the only sensible thing is to cool off in the sea and toast the sunset with another cocktail. Did I say that before ?
The next day is my last on the island and my shell collection is swollen yet again. Combing the soft, sandy beaches there are gorgeous and fragile violet sea urchins, electric blue starfish, tiny pink shells and coral fragments. Every so often a coconut husk rolls in the water from the trees lining the shore.
The internet may be an expensive luxury in the Cook Islands but who cares ? There are more important things in life. I gaze at the water endlessly, it’s so beautiful. I keep wading in to swim. More soothing hugs from mother nature. I’m so relaxed; hypnotised by the lack of urgency on every happy, friendly face here.
It’s a simple way to live and I right now can’t imagine life any other way.
