On our first morning on the island I woke up to roosters crowing, near and far, and the whining and roaring of a line trimmer and scrub cutter, of the full noise petrol motor variety. I stepped out onto the deck, still a bit bleary eyed, to see two workers cutting vegetation on the vacant land near the villas. “Enjoying the peace and quiet?” Our neighbour was out on the deck of the villa on the other side. “They were cutting the grass right outside our door with a whippersnapper the other day,” he said. “Bloody annoying. The roosters too.”
A whippersnapper? A young guy cutting the grass? No, apparently what we call a weedeater, is known to Australians as a whippersnapper. “It’s a great view,” I said, gesturing toward the Muri lagoon the villas overlooked. I gazed along the vista between the coconut palms to the fading orange sunrise splayed on the water.
“Sure is,” my Aussie neighbour agreed. “I see you’ve got visitors.” Two of the many wandering dogs on the island had settled complacently on the deck. A bantam rooster strutted across the lawn and crowed, followed by the rest of the chook family: hen and chicks. Chrissy joined me on the deck, her counterpart next door also appeared and introductions were made. We were like players making our entries onto two stages. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances… (As You Like It). Act 1, Scene 1. Kiwis and Aussies at Little Oneroa, Rarotonga, not the Oneroa on Waiheke Island. Since the borders had reopened after Covid lockdowns Kiwis had been flocking to the Cook Islands, and a few Aussies.
After some polite chat we went about our day and our separate excursions, though not so separate as it turned out. We met each other again at the market in Avarua, getting provisions for our self-catering villas. Chrissie and I had hired a scooter and Aussie Bob and Caroline had hired a car. The market was a heaving mélange of sights, sounds, and scents, and crowds of locals and tourists. We caught snatches of Kiwi accented conversations as we threaded our way through the throngs of people, and dogs and chooks underfoot. Many of the Island women wore wreaths of artificial flowers on their heads, occasionally one of real flowers, with an aura of tropical fragrance. Island and Gospel music wafted over the whole arena from a stage at the edge of the site.
Next morning we boarded a glass bottomed boat with Bob and Caroline for an excursion out onto the reef for a bit of snorkelling. Purely coincidence. We were not presuming a friendship with planned outings together. We were a boatload of Kiwis, bar the Australian couple and two American girls in skimpy bikinis, one whose top barely contained her breasts and the thong of the bottom disappeared into her butt crack. ‘Captain Sharky’ briefed the passengers and ‘Captain Fabulous’ counted us off. Twenty-two… victims, he added in a theatrical aside. The crew were very jokey and did their best to live up to their billing as ‘hilarious’. They kept up an atmosphere of noise, with hip hop music interspersed with banter, audience participation and good natured jokes at the tourists’ expense. And lessons in basic Cook Island Māori, which is very similar to New Zealand reo Māori. They had us shouting Kia orana frequently on cue.
With our masks, snorkels and fins, we all swam about ogling the multicoloured reef fish. When the skimpy bikini girl emerged from the water and climbed back onto the boat a shoulder strap slipped down, exposing one breast entirely. “Oops, sorry about the nip slip,” she laughed. ‘Nip slip’ – a phrase much in the media for an accidently exposed nipple, along with the more general term, ‘wardrobe malfunction’, which had become a common occurrence on the stages at gala events like Oscar and Emmy awards. A misnomer, it seems to me because the wardrobes usually looked obviously designed to ‘malfunction’, to expose breasts and bums and even groins. How could they not when a dress has multiple slits to the waist and a low cut, loosely draping top barely covers breasts? And it’s oops, ‘side boob’ and ‘nip slip’. Not that I’m complaining about women flaunting their bodies, but to call it a wardrobe malfunction is patently disingenuous when garments are carefully designed to be revealing. But I digress. We males are readily distracted by female flesh. The crew cast furtive glances at this spectacle of immodesty and at each other, registering salacious admiration and moral disapproval.
After the snorkelling we moored at a sandy island base for barbecue lunch and entertainment. The crew were handsome, young men, brown skinned, with lithe, muscular physiques. They were also accomplished musicians: ukuleles, singing, and drumming: the traditional Cook Island wooden slit drums, plus one bass skin drum and a cabin biscuit tin. Vibrant traditional music and a few pop songs, with variations, like:
Hair of gold and lips like cherries
It’s good to smoke the green, green grass of home
After lunch, we were treated to some more Cook Island culture and our crew demonstrated various ingenious ways in which a sarong can be tied as a garment for men or women: skirt, shorts, loin cloth, MC Hammer pants, even bikinis. For this they required ‘volunteers’ to join them on the stage, and they selected a couple of fit looking young guys, none of the old codgers like me or Bob, and a couple of attractive female models, the bikini girls. Captain Fabulous had the two guys strip to the waist and then asked one of them to take off his white T shirt. He singled out his wife in the audience and joked about who wears the pants. He dextrously wrapped the sarong around his waist, twisted an end of the fabric and passed it between his legs from behind. “Grab this and pull,” he said, “and shout, ‘I am the man!’” The tail of fabric emerged on cue from his crotch like a phallus, prompting much laughter and applause. After the stage acts, we all had free time on the island, relaxing. Island time. Chrissy and I chatted a bit with our Aussie neighbours. Our captains, I noticed, were relaxing chatting with the bikini girls.
On our third day, our neighbours invited us over for drinks in the afternoon. Lounging on the deck, with snack food, beer and wine, in the tropical garden setting with the sweet scent of frangipane, on a balmy afternoon. Togs and towels were draped on the railings to dry. Bob was late middle aged, Caroline maybe a bit younger, both recently retired, like ourselves. They were both on their second marriage. Chrissy and I were still on our first, and celebrating fifty years married. “Congratulations,” Caroline said. “You don’t look old enough to be fifty years married.” Chrissy made her usual claim to being a child bride.
Bob had been a dentist and Caroline had been the manager of the practice, which they sold before retiring. I had a good look at Bob’s teeth, as you do when you meet a dentist, and to be sure, he had a fine set of incisors. Not that he’d work on his own teeth, but you imagine dentist mates in the same practice working on each other’s teeth, like hairdressers doing each other’s hair. I wondered if Bob was checking my teeth. And Caroline? She had a lovely smile. Had Bob done some work there? They were both grey haired but actually Caroline looked pretty good for a retiree. Maybe she took early retirement, having made enough money. Curiously though, she looked youthfully well-toned from the waist up, but broad in the hips and quite ponderous in the legs, as though she’d been assembled from two mismatched bodies.
“And what sort of work did you do?” Bob asked.
“I was a teacher,” I said.
“What was your subject?”
“English and Drama.”
“I was a real estate agent,” Chrissy said.
“I’ve noticed they don’t have real estate agents here on the islands,” Bob said. “Everyone builds on family land. And you see the family cemeteries next to the houses.”
“Yes, we’ve seen the plots and headstones right in the front yards,” Chrissy said.
“Too bad Māori in New Zealand haven’t been allowed to build homes on family land,” I said.
We didn’t go any further with that topic or get into politics in New Zealand or Australia, nor did Bob or Caroline enquire any further into our professions, and conversation returned to attractions on Rarotonga.
“Dentists. No wonder they can afford a week on Aitutaki,” I said later to Chrissy back in our villa. They were spending two weeks on Rarotonga and one on Aitutaki. Our budget couldn’t quite stretch to the very expensive accommodation on Aitutaki and we were a bit envious.
We saw less of our neighbours over the next few days, as we went on outings to different places. They booked an excursion to the Highland Paradise Cultural Centre for a show and a hangi, also the Progressive Dinner Tour for local food and storytelling in people’s homes, and an outback tour in a converted army jeep. We splashed out on restaurants occasionally but we also found a good takeaway for fish and chips. We looked for less expensive activities and explored the island on our scooter, took a backroad to a waterfall and the coast road to go snorkelling on our own.
On the day before their departure for Aitutaki and two days before we were due to fly back to New Zealand, we invited Bob and Caroline over for drinks to reciprocate their hospitality. We talked of our different experiences and they seemed genuinely interested in what we had seen and done. We told them we went to a local church on Sunday morning. “We’re not really church goers,” Caroline said, “but we’ve seen how so many of the people dress all in white to attend church on Sunday and we’ve heard the amazing singing.”
“Yeah, it’s quite unique the way they sing their hymns in multi part harmonies,” Chrissy said.
“After the church service we went across the road,” I said, “to where there was a break in the reef and a monument to where the waka fleets departed for New Zealand. There’s also a lot of interesting stuff about the history of the Cook Islands at the museum just down the road, like how they came to be a New Zealand Protectorate and how they had asked the British for protection because they feared the French after they invaded and colonised Tahiti.”
“Wasn’t there some slave trade going on here in the early days?” Bob said.
“Yeah, it was the so called Blackbirders from Peru that raided the northern islands for slaves. Most of them died. Not many ever returned. Some made it back at a time when there was a small pox epidemic in Peru and they brought the disease to the islands.”
“Dark times,” Bob commented.
“Australia’s got some pretty dark history too,” Caroline added.
This brought a pause to the conversation and Bob fetched more drinks for the table.
“We went to a good show at Te Vara Nui Village,” I said. “I was keen to see some Cook Island dancing, which we did at their buffet dinner and Over Water Night Show. Our genial host for the evening introduced the show by proudly recounting the history of the family business that had developed the resort on reclaimed land on the site of a swamp. He was standing on a peninsular wooden stage separated from the dining area by a large water feature, presumably what remained of the swamp, though cultivated with copious water lilies. A costumed warrior poled an aluminium outrigger canoe along the water course as part of the show.”
“Nick, you’re sounding like a tour guide,” Chrissy said.
Caroline said she was enjoying the tour, and I needed little encouragement to go on. The stage was mine.
“After our main course our MC invited us all to sit on the edge of the raised floor to view the show. Drummers and costumed dancers took to the stage and performed traditional stories. The men wore raffia skirts round their waist and leg skirts tied below their knees, which accentuated the energetic leg flapping, scissoring and stomping to the beat of the wooden slit drums. A few of the male dancers twirled flaming batons on the darkened stage. One dropped his baton and set fire to his raffia leg skirt, which added to the drama of the performance.”
“The female dancers shimmied gracefully onto the stage, wearing polished coconut shell bras and floral wreath head dresses. They also wore raffia skirts, with the addition of raffia and hibiscus hip hei, like bustles, which accentuated the hula hip shaking of the dance. Hip movements accelerated from gentle swaying and bumping to extraordinarily rapid shaking, keeping time with the frenetic beat of the drums. It was mesmerising, it was erotic, and it was far more aesthetic than any twerking. I could see why the early puritanical missionaries tried to ban dancing on the islands.”
“I found I was scratching my legs as I watched the show. Here we were dangling our legs over what was basically a swamp and mosquitoes were feasting. I thought I would have been safe from mossie attacks, having changed from my shorts to long trousers, but they were getting up my pants legs, so I tucked my cuffs into my socks. But the damage was already done and I recalled being warned about Dengue fever.”
“I haven’t heard of any recent cases,” Bob said, “but Dengue’s always a risk here. We’re using lots of repellent.”
“Yeah, us too when we think of it,” Chrissy said. “At least there’s no malaria.”
“And no poisonous snakes or crocs,” Caroline said.
“And safe drinking water,” I said. “I really appreciate the filtered water stations all over the island. We’ve been filling our bottles just down the road. Just a few minutes’ walk away.”
“Very sensible,” Bob agreed. “Cuts down on all the plastic bottles that end up in landfill or in the sea.”
“Another thing I really appreciate about this place is everyone speaks good English.” Caroline looked to Bob and said. “Remember how we struggled with the language in Thailand and Indonesia and Vietnam?”
“Yes, they’re very literate with spoken and written English,” I agreed. “Mind you I’ve seen some interesting typos, like the sign in the museum about ‘stainable tourism’. And there’s lots of market traders apostrophe S but we get that back home too – like coconut’s for sale. And look at the No smoking signs in our villas: No smoking. Thank you! The exclamation mark would be better placed after the No smoking.”
“He can’t help himself,” Chrissy sighed. “Once an English teacher, always an English teacher.”
“Anyway, it’s been a good break, getting away from the cold, wet New Zealand winter,” I said. “I’ve really enjoyed the relaxed pace of life here. It’s so laid back.”
“The slow pace has its charm,” Bob said, “but it has its frustrations too. It took us over an hour to get through the airport when we arrived. We were drafted like penned sheep, shuffling along, back and forth through the tapes, inching our way toward the customs booth.”
“An exercise in patience, dear,” said Caroline.
“And things don’t always happen on time when you’re on Island time.” Bob continued. “I just hope our airport shuttle arrives on time in the morning to catch our flight to Aitutaki.”
We all agreed Rarotonga was an ideal holiday destination. Ticks all the boxes. Warm tropical climate, safe, civilized, good coffee, plenty to see and do, and such a relaxed pace of life, notwithstanding the occasional frustration with waiting.
“My only regret,” I said, “was not getting to see Aitutaki, ‘the jewel of the South Pacific’, ‘the most beautiful island in the world’, according to Lonely Planet. We had tried to book the one day flight and tour of the island before leaving New Zealand but the day trips had been fully booked.”
“Maybe next time,” Caroline commiserated. As though we took regular overseas holidays.
Maybe. Hopefully there will be a next time. The view of the lagoon suffused to pastel water colour hues in the fading light.
“You need to go to the other side of the island for a decent sunset,” Bob said. “We had a few days at the Edgewater Resort on the west side.”
“Maybe next time,” I said, without conviction.
Bob thanked us for our hospitality and said, “Must go and pack. Early start tomorrow.”
Twilight dimmed quickly to darkness as it does in the tropics and we too moved indoors.
In the morning I woke as usual to roosters crowing and I also heard Bob outside giving Caroline the hurry up. “The shuttle will be here any minute,” he said.
“It’ll be running on Island time,” Caroline said.
When the white van arrived Chrissie and I went out to see them off and wish them well for Aitutaki. “Enjoy your last day in paradise,” Bob said and heaved their luggage into the back of the van. To Caroline he said, “We’re running late and he’s got other pickups to do on the way.”
Caroline gave us a cheery smile and said, “It was nice spending time together.”
No grand farewell gestures. We waved them off as the van left. It was a hurried exit but a parting as casual and fortuitous as our meeting. And that was the comment I made to Chrissy, and she said, “Fortuitous? Lucky?”
“No not fortunate,” I said. “People think fortuitous means lucky but it actually just means happening by chance. It’s quite neutral.”
“Always the English teacher,” she sighed.