Aitutaki: End of the Road

Well, this is it. I highly doubt I will ever be as far from home - or anywhere generally so remote - as Aitutaki. To illustrate, here is a map of the Cook Islands, with the nearest commonly known (in terms of where exactly it is) reference point - Auckland, New Zealand:



Maybe most poignantly, the islands - or even their labels - aren't actually visible at this level of zoom. Zooming in reveals the Cooks, which are scattered over an area of the Pacific the size of Europe, but the land surface is about a sixth of London. In fact, it is impossible to zoom in any more without losing sight of some of the more remote islands in the group, namely Penrhyn (B) and Mangaia (A):



The so-called "northern group" of islands is so inaccessible to travellers (and pretty much everyone else) on account of their distance even from Rarotonga that they are practically unvisited. Apart from private yachts (intrepid travellers have apparently "hitchhiked" on these from Raro), the only way to get there is on cargo ships which go irregularly at best; flights go rarely and irregularly. Fortunately, Aitutaki is rather closer to Rarotonga (which is where the "Cook Islands" word shows up on google maps), right at the bottom of this map:



To be precise, it was about a 45-minute flight on one of these bad boys to get there. 

A Saab 340, apparently. The flight attendant was one of three employed by Air Rarotonga (their other planes being too small to need a flight attendant), and she did the return flight to Aitutaki thrice a day. Fun times...

On the plane's approach my mind struggled to accept the fact that I was actually about to go somewhere as beautiful as what I was seeing. Since photos from a plane rarely do anything justice and I was sat on the wrong side anyway, here's one from the interwebs. The main (inhabited) island is the big one in the back, with the runway visible at the far end. The other motus, or islets, are uninhabited and sometimes little more than permanent sandbanks. They encircle a frankly out-of-this-world lagoon: when I explored the island on a scooter and found a hilltop vantage point, I just sat down for a good hour and a half and tried to drink it all in.

This was the spot...

Now after having spent a few days on Raro I thought I had a rough grasp on islander lifestyle. I was about to be proven very, very wrong. It was a joy to see how uncorrupted Aitutaki is by tourism - a few luxury honeymoon-style resorts exist and provide employment, but the locals' lifestyle is completely unaffected by these. The resort guests rarely mingle, at most renting a scooter to zip around the island on their own, and the "cultural shows" serving clichés to flower-garland-wearing westerners are thankfully constrained to Rarotonga.

As you can imagine, then, I did not stay at a luxury resort. My home was the Paratrooper's Motel, an institution without a website which I only found out about from another hotel proprietor when I told her I couldn't afford her rooms.I stayed in a basic but spacious bungalow (2 rooms, all to myself!), effectively an outbuilding on a family's property near the main "village" of Arutanga. I hesitate to use the word village here because the only thing that distinguishes it from the rest of the island is that what few administrative buildings there are are mostly located in this general area.

Arutanga City.

Stark reminders of a tsunami 2 years ago which devastated 80% of the island's buildings. I chatted to an English woman who ran a crafts shop, and she said that despite having 4 children and a completely destroyed house weighing on her mind, the first thing her neighbour did afterwards was come by to see if *she* needed food. 

Now my position - not unique, but rare among visitors of Aitutaki - of effectively living among the locals rather than in a segregated little bubble allowed me to experience fully just what friendliness means. With only 1000-odd inhabitants, everyone on the island knows each other (there are no addresses; the mailman simply knows where everyone lives). This means lots of waving, chatting, and general hanging out anytime two or more people cross paths. A far cry from London-style anonymity! 

It also means that when an unknown face - like mine - shows up, people are curious and intrigued. On multiple occasions every day, whether I was on a bike, a scooter or on foot, people sitting in their front gardens taking a break from working (or not working - self-sufficiency is easy here, it seems!) would wave and call me over for a glass of water or some juice or ice cream, and for conversation. There was a lot of curiosity as to where I was from, what I was doing all the way out here, and, on the whole, smiles and good cheer absolutely everywhere.

In fact, it was impossible to just watch goings-on from a distance. During my days on Aitutaki, I watched a practice session of the island's boy scouts' brass band (I had stopped at the garden gates wondering what the music was when one of them saw me and called me over), went to a Sunday church service I was initially skeptical about (having never attended one before) and, after following the Henley Boat Races from 4 to 6am (time difference fun...), joined a bunch of revellers as they finished their last few drinks at the end of a long night. I also took a passport photo for a middle-aged woman who said she needed to get one to travel to New Zealand - her first time leaving the island! 

Aitutaki's main church - there are several, including a Mormon church and a few other Christian denominations, but this is the oldest church in the Cook Islands. It dates back to 1821 and is made of coral, which makes for the blinding white of both church and graves.

More impressions from the service - the preacher also ran the boy scouts' band, and he gave me a cheery wave when he spotted me mid-sermon.

Wherever I went, I was invited to join whatever was going on - it was great. In fact, the day following the post-HBR morning drinks, the same family invited me to dinner spontaneously: it was a Sunday evening, with lunch being the big meal (similar to an English roast). They offered me enormous quantities of taro, rice, coconut milk and the local specialty: raw tuna marinated in lemon, lime and spring onions. This is not dissimilar to sashimi but eaten in chunks rather than thin strips, and bursts with flavour from the marinade; absolutely delicious! 

All that said, I did find one thing a little grating, or disappointing. Aitutaki was the first of the Cook Islands to be converted to Christianity in 1821, and every last Aitutakian is now a devout Christian. There isn't anything wrong with this, of course, but they did seem a little intense about it, using "God bless x or y" at every possibly opportunity - and putting up a LOT of signs along these lines:

Sadly, it felt like "their" tradition was rather thoroughly replaced about 200 years ago...

Even this wouldn't really bother me much - each to their own, after all - but when I asked one of the island's high school (science) teachers why they were so comfortable with having left behind all of their old Polynesian culture (although not, fortunately, the language: everyone grows up fully bilingually) so completely, he couldn't, or didn't want to give me a straight answer. All I got was mumblings about "the Bible" and how everything was so much better now - and how the pre-Christian days had been "dark days". What I find sad and a little disturbing is that they see Christianity not as something different from Polynesian beliefs but something superior - and that they could not tell me why this would be so. 

After all, the issue of young people leaving the islands for better money and job prospects in New Zealand is mostly caused by Christianty and the arrival of the Western notion that self-sufficient life was somehow not enough and that money and wealth should be striven for. I do not doubt that island life can be tough, but I have never seen people so universally content with their general situation. Yet, when confronted with this idea, I got no response apart from mutterings about "the Bible". 

Eventually I let the issue rest as there seemed little reason to be argumentative - with these things there rarely is. Instead, it is time to turn to the other important aspect of Aitutaki - the fact that it is famous as one of the most beautiful islands/lagoons in the world.

It is not easy to put into words - or, for me, into photos - just how scenic the entire island is. Part of this stems from the untouched nature of it, with most of the few roads being unpaved, and from the complete absence of anything with more than one floor. But mostly, to be honest, it is simply the classic island paradise in its most ridiculously over-the-top form; no wonder people come here on their honeymoon - if this is your kind of honeymoon, then I cannot imagine anywhere better in the world. 

My wider-ranging explorations were mostly undertaken on the one day I had a scooter, as the heat and humidity (and a rental bike on its very last legs) prevented me from getting around as far on most other days. They took me first to the southern tip of the main island, which is devoid of habitation and really just a track through empty jungle to, well, the other end of the island. 

Once there, I had a little break for lunch and reading at a spot where I later attempted some good-luck photos for HBR (there was a BB one, as well...); I later completely failed to upload these due to the sketchy wifi connection...

Finally, it was time to hit the hills in the middle of the island, such as they are; the highest point is 123m above sea level. The view - yet again words fail me; I'm afraid these photos don't even come close to doing it justice. But hopefully they will convey something of just how I felt looking around. 

I have to confess it made me quite happy that most of the houses up there, which boasted some incredible views (not least the two pictured above), belonged to locals rather than being holiday homes for rich New Zealanders. Another testament to how unspoilt this place really is. 

In the evening, then, I tended to unwind from the day's strenuous activities with a book on the Pacific Resort's beach chairs. The resort being pretty empty at this point, nobody seemed to mind - and in fact, the whole beach was spectacularly empty for its whole length of at least a couple of miles: 

This cheeky crustacaean was the biggest of his kind I could find - by some way.

And then, of course, there's the sunrise. And what a sunrise I was treated to - the next morning I sought out my hilltop spot from the previous day hoping for some nice colours on the water and in the sky.

Early on I suspected that this might be as good as it would get...I have rarely been gladder to have been horribly, horribly mistaken. 

I really, really didn't want to cut down any further than this. May I be forgiven...

Righto - I think that's as close as I'm likely to do this incredible island justice. Having fallen behind with my blog in the lovely fortnight I spent in Japan with Helena, it is now catch-up time! Expect floods of photos from Japan, as well - being in a country (unlike, say, India) where running around with a DSLR is not just not unusual but, in fact, more common than running around without one, has contributed to my snap-happiness quite a lot.

Into the Great Blue Yonder: Rarotonga

We come at long last to one of the more out-of-the-way countries I have had the good fortune to visit these last few months: The Cook Islands. In many ways, this tiny island nation in the middle of the South Pacific (east of Fiji, west of Tahiti and South Polynesia, and a 4-hour flight northeast from Auckland across the date line) was the country I was least prepared for. There are few references to it in popular culture (none that I could name offhand) and I have had little opportunity so far to learn much at all about the Polynesian islands, so apart from it being a group of islands of rare and famous beauty - as I had found when googling where I was going - I had very little idea what to expect.

The most important thing I had to get used to upon my arrival on Rarotonga was 'Island Time' - a bit of a cliche, but things really do work at their own pace and in their own way out there. Since my flight arrived at 1am I decided to save a bit of money, spend the night at the airport and make my way to my hostel the next morning. Now at most airports this would involve an uncomfortable night on a set of chairs in a vast floodlit hall, to the accompaniment of loudspeaker announcements and over-the-top air conditioning. Not on Rarotonga: the airport consists of one room - where we were greeted by a rather tacky but welcoming ukulele player -

surrounded by grassy courtyards which provided ample space for a weary backpacker to curl up in his sleeping bag and admire the stars which became visible in all their glory once the airport lights were turned off. The spot I chose was right at next to the stone wall pictured below and was dark enough at night that security guards passed me by and I slept unhindered till 7am. 

Baggage retrieval accompanied by ukulele choons...

...and followed by a surprisingly pleasant night by the bottom left corner of this stone wall!

And so I found myself surprisingly well rested for my first day on Island Time. Rarotongan public transport, there only being one road, consists of a bus which goes clockwise along said road once an hour (and an occasional counterclockwise one). The driver will pick up and drop off passengers at any point along the road and, in my case, dispense helpful advice on where to get some good breakfast. 

Arriving at Vara's Beach House, then, I found a dorm that was delightful in a number of ways. Not only did it open right onto the property's balcony on the beach at the picturesque Muri Lagoon, it was also permanently open and host to a plesant sea breeze: there is simply no need to lock things on Rarotonga.

The path leading to Vara`s; it doesn`t really get much lusher than this...

The view from the dorm and the verandah adjoining it...

...and from a few minutes` walk down the beach, closer to the motu (islet) shown here; it is the biggest of four in the lagoon, easily reached by snorkelling and home to some pretty spectacular fish.

 With a big smile on my face and still not quite believing that places like this really (still) exist (how many more times I was yet to think this over the course of the next two weeks...but that's a story for the next post!), I headed off to the weekly Saturday market in the Cook Islands' capital, Avarua. This is basically a larger-than-usual accumulation of buildings lining the island road, with a couple of roads leading a block or two inland. The market proved a pleasant introduction into the way things work out here. It was nice to see that the "local" arts-and-crafts market is actually local here, and the food...oh, the food. The aforementioned breakfast consisted of a big slab of coconut bread (a lot like cake) and coconut milk to go with it - and some taro, a purple but otherwise very sweet-potato-like affair which one of the vendors just gave to me for free when I asked what it was; I tried to pay for it, but she flat-out refused when she heard I had only arrived that morning.

A local drumming group fundraising at the market.

Downtown Avarua.

On my way back to Vara`s - about 12km down the road - I decided to walk: how hard can it be? However, I did not reckon with the ridiculous humidity - manageable when not moving but deadly otherwise - and the shitness of my flip-flops, a 2-pound leftover from Goa, and at about halfway I began to think walking might not have been the best plan in the world. Yet again, Islander friendliness (or laziness?) came to my rescue. Bewildered that anyone, let alone a tourist, would walk instead of renting a scooter or a car, an elderly lady driving her even more elderly mother home from church stopped next to me to check if I was alright and if I wanted a ride, an offer which I gratefully accepted. 

OK, so I lied above: a few impressions from inland Rarotonga confirm that it does indeed get lusher...and this isn`t even Aitutaki yet!

I say "laziness" above because, in general, exercise seems to be a bit of an unknown concept on the Cook Islands. Obesity is abundant (although this is partly due to the recent influx of fatty western fast food - there is no McDonalds but a incredibly tasty burger-type takeaways abound), and when I declared at the tourist office that I intended to walk some 2km they looked at me aghast, like that was some outrageous feat. Granted, it is sweaty work doing anything out there, but still...

I will be frank - most of my remaining time on Raro was spent doing very, very little. It was far, far too easy to spend the days lounging on Vara`s verandah reading and chatting to other travellers marvelling at the nature of the place. That aside, abundant and beautiful snorkelling, a massive rope swing (mounted some 15m up in a tree), and the couple (a Cook Islander and an American) who ran the kitesurfing school next door and provided a coolie bin full of beer one afternoon - leftovers from a house party the previous night - made sure that boredom never became an issue. Unfortunately, this also means that I never got around to doing the famous cross-island trek, a 4-hour walk through the forested interior of the island and up to the spectacular 650m "Needle", the highest point of the island. However, given the ridiculous views which are apparently mostly obscured by the foliage up there but readily accessible at the beach, and the fact that I had such a good time nevertheless, render my feelings of guilt minimal.

And thus I leave you with a few final impressions of Raro, to return soon with an update on Aitutaki and, as soon as possible, Japan!

The Needle providing the backdrop to a grave: in the Cook Islands people prefer to bury family members on their own land, so that public cemeterie hardly exist. This also means that the graves are often either decorated to provide a tasteful addition to a garden, or are even incorporated into the house in some way.

A Tale of Two Springfields

So the title is a little random here - I was thinking about the two cities I am about to cover here, and from nowhere at all this title of a great old episode of The Simpsons sprang to my mind. Given how different my experiences were in Canberra and Melbourne (which I revisited), it certainly seems apt. 

After spending a fair few days in a rain-sodden Sydney doing, on the whole, very little, I decided to take action and head down to Canberra; it's not reputed to be the most riveting place in the world, but if one has the time, one might as well go see the capital of this continent-country. 

My generally none-too-high expectations for Canberra were, however, did not prepare me for the dreary reality. The place is basically a bunch of giant, often unsightly, concrete creations separated by cumbersome distances and connected by empty superhighways, with the empty spaces in between filled with what could be lovely parks but what are ultimately just vast expanses of dull, unplanned lawns and scrub (see below - both photos are taken right in the city "centre"). I'm a little loathe to paint such a bleak picture of any one place, but within a day and a half or so I had had thoroughly enough of Canberra. Getting anywhere is an enormous faff (which, to some extent, is of course my own fault for coming to a country this size without a driver's license), but that's no excuse for the complete absence of any character or soul or, for that matter, life. 

The one good thing I will say about Canberra is that the Parliament building does look cool, integrated as it is into a large hill. It's just that the rest of the city feels like a sort of motorway rest station catering to the Parliament, which for inexplicable reasons was put in the middle of nowhere. It's a beautiful example of a compromise benefitting nobody, as the only real reason for Canberra's existence is Sydney and Melbourne squabbling over which should be the country's capital. 

Clearly whoever planned Canberra lacked a thorough understanding of the complex intricacies of Basketball...and of sports courts in general, as this one was completely fenced in and there was no door.

It comes as no surprise, then, that I was glad to see the back of Canberra and make my way, for a second time, to Melbourne - the joys of a rail pass and infinite free train journeys! This turned out to be an excellent decision, although you wouldn't have known after my first night at the hostel I checked into. Nestled snugly between two train stations it was never going to be a quiet night, but the guy on the bunk below me returning completely drunk at 4am with a lady conquest and having (or attempting to have...?) sex for some 3 hours took levels of general discomfort to a whole new level. The muttered German sentence fragments drifting up from below were nothing short of depressing at times (the girl said "it's too small" several times - I struggle to conceive of any sexual situation where that might be good for the guy), and the squeaky rocking of the bed was not much of a lullaby, either. 

The next day, however, I got home to a very hungover, contrite and thoroughly apologetic bunkmate who actually turned out to be a good guy; with him and 4 others we spent the evening drinking cider (they had actual Bulmers, which is about the best that can be hoped for here) at an Irish Pub. On our way back the buskers lining the streets - which were still teeming at midnight as it was Chinese New Year - were nothing short of fantastic. They included a guy with a telescope trained on Jupiter, which thoroughly blew my mind, and someone in a penguin suit playing the bagpipes which is not easy to top in terms of sheer randomness. 

The hard at Melbourne's central rowing clubs. Not bad for a backdrop!

You know you have it good when palm trees grow where you row. Bit of a contrast to hearing of windswept -10C outings in Ely from Helena...

More importantly, earlier that day I had been for a run. This is not unusual in itself, but the halfway point happened to be at a place called Power House Rowing Club, and this also happened to be where I suddenly needed the loo something fierce. The girl outside the club turned out to be their captain, Caitlin, who kindly let me use their facilities. We chatted for a bit (I'm not one to forgo the possibility of rowing chat) and one of the club's men squad joined us. Nick turned out to be an HRR semi-finalist and they invited me along to the next day's squad session; I don't think I've ever accepted an invitation quite so gratefully. 

And so it was that I found myself in a shiny new pair, going for a pretty good sightseeing paddle down the Yarra - and subbing into a couple of the club's crews at the Ballarat Regatta the next day. This was a fun, laid-back affair, the equivalent maybe of St Neots Regatta or something along those lines, and I raced in a novice 4+ and an IM3 4+ (or thereabouts). Incidentally, we won both races, and I am now a proud owner of 2 Australian rowing medals and a new one-piece. It was the best possible way to spend my last day in Melbourne, and a thorough pleasure to fully immerse myself in all that we love (and love to hate) about the rowing world, including the terrible chat, the faff, blisters, scratch crews and dodgy rolling starts in awful conditions. Thanks again to all of PHRC! 

The winning Nov4+: Pav, Marcus, Tara, myself and Brad

Closer action in IM3 4+; also me stroking my first ever non-small boat!

Winning IM3 4+: Ross (I think?), Nathan, Dave, Caitlin and yours truly

In other vaguely cool news, I have now rowed on three Olympic rowing lakes: Melbourne 1956, Moscow 1980 and London 2012. 

And suddenly I find myself just a few hours shy of leaving Australia for New Zealand, where I will attain the furthest distance from Europe at 19-odd thousand kilometres. I am planning several sweet hikes which will hopefully result in some more exciting photos, so stay tuned!