Our Winter Holiday
Well, here we are at the Cook Islands New Soup office. We arrived on Tuesday past and it was our intention to blog daily. The internet connection has been a little spotty in its availability. Nonetheless there have been some observations in the intervening days that may be worth recording. Rarotonga is much as I had imagined an island in the pacific to look. I mean my personal cherished image of such islands will always be that of Mutiny On The Bounty-esque palmy, breezy, semi-clad nubiles-everywhere splendor, don’t get me wrong. But having seen TSO’s family snaps of growing up in Tonga and those in any other book I’ve read (most recently the one about the Pitcairn Paedophiles) left me in no doubt that today’s Pacifica is a bit more lean-to sheds with Palm corned Beef posters on their sides than grass huts and coconut brassieres. However, if one can look past all this makeshift, man-made pedestrianism, the country remains geographically the same. That is to say – beautiful beyond measure.
We’ve found Rarotonga in mid-winter by their calendar so it’s not as stinkin’ hot as I feel sure it will be in high summer but even so, we’ve only seen a spit of rain the once in almost 5 days now. There’s a prevailing offshore wind pointing straight at Muri Beach where we’re camped out, lashing the reef with some pretty heavy swells (2-4m at times) but here in the lagoon, the waters are calm and lovely. We’ve gone snorkeling two or three times round the other side of the island at Black Rock and near the Rarotongan Resort where it’s sheltered from the wind. Christ! It’s like diving into the tank at a Chinese restaurant. The decorative one, not the one with the Koi waiting to get et. Some areas people are obviously feeding the fish cos they are bold as brass and yesterday I had the uncanny sensation of claustrophobia underwater when scads of these gaily-hued little reef fish crowded my mask as though they themselves were looking into some kind of tank containing an exotic curiosity. I must say, having only recently learned to enjoy the sights underwater while snorkeling – what a difference to not have to be sheathed in 7mm neoprene and need 13kg of lead at ones waist to be able to get down to the bottom for a look! And to be diving in lukewarm water! What a joy! Loving the life aquatic in Raro.
We’ve been blessed with a pretty swank place to live. We’re in the garden cottage of a place that has one huge mansion-esque villa with four bedrooms, pool, hottub, art on the walls etc. The cottage itself is lovely. We have use of all facilities so far except, damnably, the hot tub. There is a couple from the Philippines that looks after our whims and cleans the place up daily – the lady even brings us by delicious cooked specialties. If I could but impart in her how very much I long to be in the big lovely hot tub overlooking the reef, we’d be laughing. Meanwhile, we’ve been making use of the kayaks as and when weather permits.
This morning was the Saturday morning market and it was a special week for there was a large, very organized tent revival happening in the middle of it all. Their appeared to be evangelic hopefuls attending from the length and breadth of the Pacific rim, if the emcee was to be believed. A young gospel singer from San Diego, California and her band whipped the crowd into a huge, devout froth with dance moves, hollers, “praise jesus”-es and “hallalujah’s” that had to be seen to be believed. The elderly church ladies in flower headdresses doing the hip-hoppish dance moves the young American was leading the crowd in, and their serious faces as they did so, was a treat. Yea! By crackey they do like their Jesus down here – I’ve counted the churches of ten completely different faiths so far as we drive around, and I’m unconvinced that’s all of them. Even the Ba’hais are representing for the Raro bretheren!
Raro is, to the New Zealander, kind of a Cabo to the Americans or a Magaluf to the Brits, in many ways. The island appears half populated by middle aged-to elderly Kiwis in their brand new summer holiday outfits. These generously-sandaled hopefuls wander around in goggle-eyed wonder at how different the world can be. I noted at the big market this morning that the only place I saw sell out of anything was the stall selling gourmet breads containing olives and sun dried tomatoes, pizza bread with pepperoni and chocolate croissants.
I was thinking in fact, what a ubiquitous thing the holiday sandal has become in the world at large – does anyone wear the thick-soled, webbing-strapped, 100% man-made Jesus boots when actually at home? Yet enter a holiday destination and you can bet your basket every second person is sporting pale, orange-heeled feet with unkempt toenails full of sock-fluff, enrobed in a set of these clumpy big heel-shredders! When coupled with the south-islander short-shorts or “stubbies” as I believe they’re called, baring legs brown as berries from above the knee to sock-level, white as yogurt from upper-knee to crotch and from ankle down, the sandals off the market stall are a holiday look in and of themselves. To complete the male top half of the outfit, one must seek out either a thirty-year-old rugby shirt, washed to oblivion or else the promotional polo shirt from your local plumbing supply depot – either one must be worn with the collar up and, if possible, a moustache.
The ladies are no slouches either: everything must be white or damn near it. The top half: Sleeveless wherever possible to maximize arm-heft exposure and with a neck low enough to show off the gold necklace and the yawning, plunging, leathery canyon leading to unimaginable depths. On the feet: same $5 sandals as the men only in tan or purply, pinky palettes. Toenails: painted. In between: pedal pushers in neutral colours. These must be thin enough to show clearly the distinct VPL of old-lady pants once the sweats come on when in tropical climes.
Photographs and food updates will follow sporadically
