Rarotonga, The Cook Islands, South Pacific:

Often it’s only in retrospect that we fully appreciate the magic of some places. For me, Rarotonga, the main island in the Cook Islands group, was one such place. On the night flight in from Fiji I found myself in a familiar mode, vaguely wondering what language they spoke here. When I started out on this yearlong journey, language worries had been a passing concern. Soon however you content yourself that you’ll find some way to communicate, just like you quickly stop fretting about running out of daylight in the middle of nowhere while hitching: With my tent and sleeping bag I'm sorted. I can always find a comfy spot to crash out until the sun appears again, picking up where I left off.

Rarotonga is a small tropical island in the south pacific, half way between Tonga and Tahiti, not far off round and almost completely encircled by a coral reef about a mile out from the coast. The main road closely follows the coastal fringe and a complete circuit measures around 32km. As you move from the coast towards the interior of the island the land rises dramatically towards jagged mountains, heavily vegetated and significantly balmier than the coastal plain.

Disembarking into the tropical night air, we crossed towards the arrivals lounge where we were met by a small band of singing, ukulele playing, sun-browned locals, who welcomed us enthusiastically, placing garlands of flowers around random necks, Polynesian style, and I was vaguely reminded of some Elvis movie I must have seen as a kid, set somewhere like this (Hawaii, probably). This unexpected welcome made a colourful start to my two weeks here, even if it was transparently a product of Cook Islands Tourism inc. more than authentic hospitality. Once past the welcome party a more familiar scene engulfed us as a horde descended, offering accommodation of all sorts. I ended up at an unremarkable backpacker’s hostel.

Next morning dawned bright and crisp and I was impatient to get out and explore this new place. My accommodation was about 50 yards from the sea and I had awoke early to begin my habitual orientation walkabout for a few hours, heading inland along a minor road, absorbing the peculiarities of the place - the smells in the air, the activities and behaviour of people going about their everyday chores, the nature of the vegetation and wildlife: the scent of big bloomed flowers and fruit, a faint trace of fire smoke, the smell and sound of the ocean receding behind me, insects buzzing in the early morning sun, some locals tending their smallholdings, watering vegetable plots, clearing weeds, the intermittent snap and crackle of a small gardener’s fire and lazy tendrils of smoke drifting up through the broad-leafed foliage as someone burned off some leaf litter and musty earthy smells of agriculture as one person tilled the earth with a small hand hoe. The relaxed pace with which the people went about their chores was oddly therapeutic – watching them scuff along the track in floppy sandals, wheeling barrows and carrying huge machetes where their counterparts in rural England might walk the dog and carry a newspaper under their arm on a Sunday morning stroll from the village shop - was mildly soporific; already I liked the feel of this place.

Continuing inland the terrain began to rise toward the interior and the tangled jungle became almost impenetrable. Sharp edged mountains reared ahead, typical of the volcanically formed islands in this region, their angular lines softened though not at all disguised by a thin verdant blanket of vegetation. A climb was too much a temptation to resist, but not today. There was no clear way through the tangle of jungle from here and a little research and planning was called for. I made my way back towards the coast road and walked counter-clockwise along the beach between coconut trees for a mile or so: with the only major road circumnavigating this almost circular island, compass directions bore little relevance here, so any time I travelled, the only logical way to describe direction was generally clockwise or counter-clockwise. Fallen coconuts dotted the beach here and there, intact in their green husks, the sound of the ocean distantly gnashed at the coral reef, the on-shore sea breeze fresh in my face was invigorating as I peered out through clacking palm fronds at the azure coloured water just inside the reef, the reef itself acting as a natural obstacle that effectively keeps the bigger sharks out of the coastal lagoon, making it safe for swimming…one hopes!

A strange motorbike test
Around mid-morning I returned to the hostel and met some of my fellow guests, swapping our stories-so-far, since for most this stopover was a small chapter of a bigger story. The topic of motorcycle rental came up and four of us - me, two Danish blokes – Allan and Windy, and a Scottish lad called Derek, all decided to hire motorbikes for a week to explore the island since public transport was so poor. Riding a bike here required a Cook Islands bike licence so off the four of us went to the local police station to do our test… which went as follows:

Outside the police station a big sunny faced Polynesian policewoman describes a simple route that takes you through several minor junctions and brings you back to the station: journey time - approximately 5 minutes. As you pull off from the kerb she watches for several seconds, to make sure you don’t drive straight into the sea or fall off, and ambles casually back into the station. When you return there’s no sign of any officials so you linger for a few polite moments then try the station and at the desk is the big Polynesian policewoman. The atmosphere inside is time-warp sleepy colonial backwater. She doesn’t recognise you without your sunglasses and asks how she can help. “I’ve just done my driving test” you reply enthusiastically, eyebrows raised in anticipation, then a huge smile wraps around her jolly face and she says “Oh yes dear, come on in and we’ll take your photograph.” Five minutes and twenty dollars later you emerge with your license. My amused expression in that photo always rekindles the memory of that strange driving test and the generally relaxed and sensible approach to life in these here parts. They have three-dollar bills here so I guess I should have expected something out of the ordinary! In fact both these notions are financial genius for the local economy: 3 dollars for a little rectangle of paper and although it's legal tender, it's only tourists that buy them...and invariably take them out of the country as souvenirs. Ditto the bike licence. Invest in a photo/laminating device for a few hundred dollars and start clocking up the profits. It's ingenius because so many are perfectly happy to pay for the undeniable novelty of these things.

I discovered a route over the mountains and so we four dedicated one full day to a trans-island hike over the central mountains, which was something of a slog with the humid atmosphere of the interior and the gnarled tangle of brush that covered even the highest rock, making the going strenuous and twisted ankles a constant high-risk. We spent so much time watching our foot placements that, other than when we stopped, there wasn’t much opportunity to take in the view. It was a worthwhile outing though, the elevated perspective letting us see the island and seemingly endless ocean in a new light.

For the next week or so I explored the island on my little 100cc moped, nipping in and out of the warm water of the shallow lagoon from probably every stretch of coast around the island and making use of some hired snorkelling gear to investigate the coral gardens inside the lagoon, trying to sneak up on giant sea turtles as they munched on the coral, all the time hoping that the reef was doing its job and no sharks were sneaking up on me! Breakfast during these times was often a papaya or two: they were very inexpensive here and just the thing to lightly stave off hunger for a few hours without hampering swimming. Several times I had a coconut for lunch/dinner. These were cheap and were served as a cool drink: The shopkeeper would de-husk the nut on a well anchored wooden spike then expertly snick off the top of the nut, and using the point of the machete, drill a little hole through the flesh and finally pop a drinking straw into the hole and off I’d go, controlling the bike with my right hand while sipping from the coconut balanced in my left, happy and carefree as I rode off into the sunshine.

At last I managed to sneak right up on a big turtle - I like his paniced flipper blur here

Regaining his composure he sails majestically off into the wide blue yonder

Runway surfing
I feel I should say that the following episode was an innocent spur of the moment attempt at getting myself a grandstand view and nothing more: I never intended to break any laws nor aggravate the local police in any way……Just for the record!

The runway for international flights was located coastally by necessity of the topography of the island’s mountainous interior, and a popular activity for visitors was to see the inbound night flights from New Zealand or Fiji. So one night I putted along on my little moped to witness the spectacle and adrenalin rush of having a 737 bearing down on me from out of the south pacific night sky. By the time I got to the runway boundary fence, right on the coast road, a sizable crowd had gathered so for a better view I thought I’d scale the fence and barbed wire to get onto a little inclined grassy bank that fell away towards the roadside boundary fence from the end of the runway.

There I lay, facing skyward, fidgety and buzzing with excitement at the thought of my view as the plane came in to land, right above me. After ten minutes the runway lights powered up and I propped myself on one elbow, turning to look over my shoulder and up the runway behind me and enjoy the scene as parallel strips of orange beacons stretched out into the darkness like taught bowstrings. I lay at the top of the bank on my back with my head resting on the edge of the tarmac at the end of the runway: this was going to be interesting?.

Some minutes later a police patrol car appeared, cruising slowly up the runway, sweeping a searchlight around the edges of the tarmac. I shrank down the bank a foot or two so that I wasn’t visible from runway level. A few seconds later the beam swept over my head and adrenalin surged through my veins at the prospect of being caught. I hadn’t considered this until now! At an agonising crawl the patrol car passed within a few feet of where I lay and my heart pounded as a mental image coalesced of the beam coming to rest squarely on my recumbent form, and my having to stand up in sight of all and sundry, completely mortified with embarrassment. A few more nervous seconds passed but the police car continued at walking pace without pause and I breathed a rather large sigh of relief and relaxed once more to rejoin my vigil.

For the next few minutes I gazed into the starry night sky and set my thoughts adrift. Suddenly I was yanked back to the present as I became acutely aware of a silent policeman not ten yards away, strolling in my general direction, silhouetted by the runway lights behind; he and the beam of his torch creeping inexorably closer to my hiding spot in the dark. I quickly decided that time could only deteriorate my predicament so, not to forestall my hasty departure another moment, I stealthily rose in brisk mid-step, bristling with nervous tension and strode purposefully for the nearby fence, swinging up and over in one fluid movement, lowering myself hand-over hand to the coast road below, immediately mingling into the crowd of dark figures that lined the sea wall and as a few whistles and whoops were raised I shrank into the darkest shadow I could find and quietly awaited the arrival of the plane.

When the moment arrived the atmosphere was electric. First we spotted the pinpoint of twinkling light that could only be the plane, slowly growing in brightness far out over the sea. A murmur of anticipation spread through the crowd of 50 or so. Beer bottles hissed open, chinking a toast with each other in the near pitch darkness as the sound of the engines grew; and in the final climatic seconds the cheers and whistles and screams rose to meet the whine of the jet engines in a tumultuous crescendo and all was bright lights and crazy noise as the hulking mass of the plane roared above us and dropped onto the runway about half a mile ahead. Soon its passengers would be disembarking and wending their way towards the airport building and the ukulele-and-garlands reception that awaited them there.

On Reflection
My enduring memories of the Cook Islands (or more accurately, Rarotonga) are of riding around and around the 32km circuit road on my little 100cc motorbike, the wind in my knittin’ (hair) - crash hats not compulsory here, alternately passing through little micro-climate pockets of air – some cool while others were exquisitely warm, the occasional insect bouncing off my sunglasses – reason enough to wear them; Of riding through the occasional shower of odd, needle-fine rain that I’ve never encountered elsewhere, that caused me and all the other moped jockeys to drive along with one hand aloft, shielding our faces from the slight sting of the rain or stop under a roadside palm to wait out the heavier showers; Of not overtly friendly yet not unfriendly locals who seemed independent minded and quite content in each others company most of the time, leaving us blow-ins largely to our own devices; Of snorkelling in the warm shallow lagoon inside the reef chasing down the local marine life with my plastic disposable underwater camera: blue starfish, puffer fish, giant turtles and a multitude of magnificently coloured little fishes; Of the tiny dots of dimly lit night fishing boats as they zipped up and down the coast, phantom-like in pursuit of flying fish in the deeper water out beyond the reef, the noise of their engines lost to the constant muffled crashing of the ocean breaking against the encompassing reef; Of zooming down the near-deserted twisting, bumpy back road, feet on the rear footrests, chin on the speedometer, elbows tucked tight against the bike, trying to thrash the magical but elusive 90Km/H out of my little mount, half terrifying myself in the process as I crashed though the occasional unreasonably large pothole, sending the little bike’s front end bucking and thrashing wildly like a breaching Merlin caught on a fisherman’s line – that and bracing for the imminent impact with one of the multitude of slack-witted canines that casually strolled out of a roadside jungle shadow close ahead. Miraculously I managed to safely negotiate all these mobile chicanes but sadly never quite achieved the magical 90 Km/h, frustratingly seeing 88 and 89 on the clock a couple of times before some obstacle appeared and I had to initiate emergency evasive manoeuvres once again. Of course no impression of Rarotonga would be complete without the inclusion of the smell of fire in the air as leaf litter was burnt off all over the island, nor of course of the ever present sound of the surf breaking on the reef, around which all other things seemed to revolve.

My only regret about my time in the Cooks was not making it over to the striking atoll of Aitutaki with its huge iridescent lagoon. There were several flights a week between Rarotonga and Aitutaki so a timely decision had to be made: After 10 months on the road my funds were running low and with the expense of a month’s car rental in USA still ahead of me, I figured that since I planned to visit Bora Bora in French Polynesia, said to be the most beautiful island in the world, I would, with some regret, take a rain check on Aitutaki for now, leaving it for the next time I was in the neighbourhood.

In the event, the fast ferry “Ono Ono”, that was supposed to take me to Bora Bora from Tahiti 2 weeks later, had suffered some mechanical problems and the schedule was changed at short notice meaning that I could have gotten over ok, but not back in time for my onward flight to USA, so I missed Bora Bora too. Oh well, it's great to have a lot of incentive to return for unfinished business some day.

Aitutaki: photo courtesy of Rarotonga airways