Laid Back
in the Cook Islands

Swirling paper umbrellas through perfectly chilled Pina Colada’s we looked deeply into each other’s eyes …and saw panic. Two weeks of paradise with nothing to do but relax? What would we Type A personalities do?

Why the panic? Parachuting from a frenetic urban life directly into this world of endless relaxation can be unsettling. Island ways and island time take some adjustment. With nary a trace of self consciousness, Rarotongans just smile benignly at those of us still trying to run our lives by the clock. After we’d been there a week and should have known better, we were reminded once again that the island runs on its own time. We’d booked a 4WD trip into the interior valleys and been told to be waiting in the lobby at 1:30. We promptly took our places at 1:29. By 2:00 we were pestering the front desk for reassurance.

“What time were you told you’d be picked up?”
“ We were told 1:30.”
“ Oh well then, there’s lots of time yet,” the desk clerk smiled patiently at us.

Sure enough, at 2:20 an ancient Land Rover with “Safari Tours” splashed over the zebra paint job pulled up, jolly tourists spilling out the open back bed of the truck. Our guide was Gazz. There isn’t much Gazz doesn’t know about Rarotonga and he shared it all. We visited ruins and sacred grounds, took goose-bump-generating tracks up vertical goat paths, rocked through crevasses big enough to swallow the truck and hopelessly lost control of shutter fingers in the face of stunning valley vistas.

It was Gazz who told us about the islanders’ initial interaction with white folks. This first meeting was with Captain Philip Goodenough of the Cumberland in 1814. The Captain was not a good man and his visit to the islands is remembered as bloody and violent. He stole food and ravaged the women. When the captain’s wife came ashore to gather shells one day, the islanders grabbed her party and ate them.

I’I'm not sure it was exactly fair to eat the wife, but cannibalism was the island way of dealing with intruders who misbehaved. It seems to have been extremely effective because it has led, I think, to the extraordinary sense of self possession that the population exhibits. What I mean by this is that in comparison to many of the Caribbean islands, where the populace was oppressed and terrorized by white colonizers, the Cook Islanders have always been in control of their relationships with white people. Where one senses strong undercurrents (and sometimes quite overt expressions) of hostility and anger towards whites in some Caribbean islands, the South Pacific Cook Islanders are genuinely happy to welcome visitors. There is an open-hearted friendliness to the people that springs from an inner well of self confidence. When confronted with oppression in 1814, they dealt with it. It’s behind them.

Captain Goodenough was effectively discouraged from further exploitation. However, he took one of the Cook Island princesses he’d already snatched and sailed on to Aitutaki, an island several hundred kilometers away. There, the princess was able to convince the resident missionaries that she had been kidnapped so the missionaries returned her to Rarotonga and brought Christianity to the island.

Cook Islanders are active church goers, arriving in a delightful parade of sunny bright floral frocks and intricately decorated rito straw hats. Although it’s not necessary for visitors to get quite as done up, “smart wear” as they put it, is necessary if you don’t wish to offend.

On Sunday morning we hopped on our motorbikes and buzzed over to the Cook Islands Christian Church at Arorangi, a massive white limestone building fronted by an intriguing graveyard. The dead lie side by side, many in above-ground crypts, topped with ornamental fences, statues, markers, and depictions of the deceased beneath. The interior of the church is stark white limestone, highlighted by sky blue trim, simple stained glass windows, and gorgeous arrangements of tropical flora, plentiful stalks of birds of paradise the signature flower of island florists.

Decked out in our smartest ensembles, we slipped into some empty seats in the middle row, towards the back. Unbeknownst to us, this positioned us in the middle of the choir!

The service was conducted almost entirely in Rarotongan, mellifluous tones that stroke the eardrum into a hypnotical state of total relaxation. Didn’t understand a thing, but how we mellowed out. The music is universal - anyone with a basic Protestant upbringing will recognize the first few bars of most of the songs – but only the first few bars. After that the Rarotongans let loose with indigenous rhythms and the most amazing vocalizations that transform even the most familiar standards into something uniquely Rarotongan. Acappella, the rhythm reverberates from wall to wall with harmonies vibrating from singer to singer. Booming baritones keep the beat …harrooomph …..harrooomph ….harrooomph.

The “choir” is scattered throughout the congregation, so sitting in the midst of these swells of sound is akin, perhaps, to sitting in the middle of a symphonic orchestra during Ravel’s Bolero. Amazing. Doing justice in words to this profoundly experiential music is hopeless. If you’re in the Cook Islands, go. A church bus stops at most hotels on Sunday morning for those who need transportation.

Speaking of transportation. There is the island bus and there are cars and jeeps for rent, but the main mode of transportation is small motorcycles and they are the only way to travel in paradise!

I could have spent the whole holiday hanging off the back of my husband’s bike, but I’d always harbored a secret desire to harness one of these beasts for myself. I saw local women riding, often with a baby in front and a toddler hanging onto the back. Humongous old women rode and skinny little slips of girls rode, so how hard could it be? If they could, surely I could too?

My husband, who grew up racing motorbikes through the back lanes of residential Vancouver, assured me there is nothing to it. “You can balance a bicycle and you can handle a stick shift,” he reminded me. “These little Yamahas are just somewhere in between.”

The lady in the Budget rental booth just hooted. “No,” she snorted. “It’s not that simple. I’ll rent him a motorcycle but I won’t rent you one until you get a license.” He was instructed to take me out to the local lacrosse field and teach me how to ride. Once I knew how, I would ride into the police station on his bike and take my test.

Considering that the motorcycle test consists of riding your bike in a one-block circle and you don’t even take the test unless you’ve already survived the ride into town, this “test” is a lucrative boost to the local economy.

So with me hanging off the back, we rode out to the lacrosse field where the groundskeeper put down his clippers to observe us. I assumed he was going to chase us off his field, but no. He just wanted to help me learn how to ride the bike. His instructions were very simple. No one actually needs all those gears. Don’t complicate your life, fourth gear will do nicely under all circumstances. The very idea made my husband apoplectic. He and the groundskeeper stood at opposite ends of the field screaming at me.

If I tried to change gears the groundskeeper got all excited, jumping up and down and waving his arms over his head. But if I tried to start off in fourth gear Steve spun into his own hyperactive dance to get my attention. I really wanted to please the groundskeeper. After all, it was his field I was tearing up …his country too, for that matter. I didn’t want to offend him. On the other hand, Steve is my husband and I have to go home with him, eventually.

I worked at ignoring them both and eventually gained enough confidence to escape the lacrosse field and head out onto the open road. There I proceeded forward for a couple miles. I didn’t mean to go that far on my own, but I was worried about turning around. My prior experience with turning had offered the width of a whole lacrosse field. Now I was supposed to turn around on a little bitty lane of a road?

My mistake may have been stopping dead because that made the bike very heavy and hard to manipulate. Straddling it, I did a kind of duck waddle maneuver at the edge of the road. There wasn’t much room and the ground was uneven, so I did the predictable and jackknifed the bike, pulling it over onto myself. Unfortunately this positioned my right calf over the burning exhaust pipe. OUCHHH!

The friendly pharmacist who filled my prescription for burn cream chuckled while she told me that she and the local doctor pay their mortgages off of treating what they call the “Cook Island tattoo”. Road rash pays for their vacations.

Fortunately I didn’t make a contribution to their vacation fund, but oh how we enjoyed those motorcycles. There is NOTHING in the world like flying through the humid heat, palm trees waving, ocean crashing, frangipani the very essence of the air you’re breathing. Your hair is streaming behind you ….oh yes, don’t tell the kids but there isn’t a helmet to be found on the island. Simply isn’t done. Talk about reliving your carefree, invincible youth. It was wonderful.

We used the bikes to explore every inch of the island, taking us to the Saturday morning Punangi-nui Market for snacks and souvenirs, to the beach for snorkeling and kayaking, and to a different place for dinner every night.

What else is there to do?

Water Fun
There are a number of “Raui” in the shallow lagoon that encircles the island. “Raui” means “not to be touched” and these are conservation areas that attract up to 500 different species of fish – all of them brilliantly flamboyant, weaving in and out of the coral – brain, plate, staghorn, and mushroom. The snorkeling is safe and easy, even for the fainthearted – most of the lagoon is waist deep or less. All the major hotels loan out snorkeling equipment as well as small kayaks for tooling around in. Wind surfing equipment is available for rent and glass bottom boats do lagoon cruises.

The reef drop off starts at around 100 feet and descends vertically to 12,000 feet. There are a number of professional diving operators to take you out to the wrecks, drop offs, canyons, caves and swim throughs.

From torch fishing for flying fish at night to deep sea fishing for tuna and marlin, to flycasing and angling for bone fish, trevally, cod and snapper, the fishing fanatics are happy on Rarotonga. As the reef drop off is so close to shore, a 5-hour deep sea fishing trip really means 5 hours of fishing!

Beach combing for shells is very productive. We collected so many we actually put some back before leaving.

Sports Stuff
Golf, jogging, tennis, squash, aerobics, volleyball, lawn bowling, sailing, and horseback riding. Rarotonga is also host to frequent marathons and triathlons.

Trekking across the island through the jungle is popular. There are no poisonous insects, snakes or wild animals, but the inland mosquitoes are big enough to carry small children away so use lots of repellant.

Cultural Stuff
The Cultural Village takes a half day to see – numerous thatch huts each feature a demonstration of some aspect of island life: costume making, fishing, medicine, weaving, coconut husking, boat making, cooking, carving, and so on. Several of the demonstrations are interactive and lots of fun. I learned how to play the indigenous slit drum, while my partner worked up a sweat trying to husk a coconut – it looked so easy when Aasi showed us!

Rarotongan’s are just waking up to the tourism potential of their island so initiatives like the Cultural Centre are sometimes endearingly hokey. On our visit, the same three people dashed from hut to hut, donning new costumes and adopting new personas – performances were sometimes amateur, but always charming. The grand finale was a demonstration of island dancing – normally fast, frenzied, erotic and suggestive. In this case however, we had our same three performers, plus an obviously petulant and unwilling teenage daughter – the effect was hilarious.

Night Life
There are a number of night clubs – some North American style, some more basic. The hotels usually offer Friday night club tours which are a good deal and lots of fun. Everyone piles onto a bus and sings their way through 6 to 10 watering holes. I couldn’t help wondering what the “clubs” had to pay to be on the tour as some were real holes. But the deal was always the same – no drinking allowed on the bus so into a club, buy a drink, gulp it down and move on. The grand finale of the night was stopping at the Fried Chicken takeout for a bag of chicken ‘n chips. By now it was 2am and the idea was patently nauseating. But as my mates all climbed back on board licking their fingers, the concept acquired merit and I too clambered off and paid my $5 for a bag of deep fried drumettes. Absolutely delicious and the next day - no hangover. It’s the island recipe, I was told.

Tours
As already mentioned, the 4WD Island Safari was great fun, and we learned a lot about island history and culture too. Another activity that I thoroughly enjoyed was the scenic tour in a Cessna 172 – four seater. There’s no doubt it offers a perspective on the island that you could not get any other way.

Rarotonga - Paradise
What qualifies Rarotonga as a paradise? It’s more than scenic beauty because while it is undeniably beautiful and tropical, so are many other vacation destinations. Rarotonga is a paradise because it is still Rarontongan. There are no chain restaurants or stores or tour operators. It’s run on island ways and on island time. This sounds great, but to North Americans this can be frustrating. We need to make some major attitude adjustments at times. But if you need to gear down and learn to go with the flow, the Rarotongans are great teachers.

Carolyn Usher

More Cook Islands Info.....

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