The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,000 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 33 trips to carry that many people.
My wife and I spent most of 2001 living and working in the Cook Islands, specifically on the main island of Rarotonga. Three years later, I published a novel called Brown Girls (available as an e-book here: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1937) featuring the adventures of newspaper photographer and novelist Jack Nolan.
I returned to Rarotonga in February 2010 on a one-year contract that expires this week. As part of my personal farewell ritual, I did one more circle of the island on the weekend. As well as mentally bidding goodbye to my beloved tropical paradise, I also focussed on some of the businesses and sights that were featured in Brown Girls, albeit with fictional names.
As it turns out, little has changed in the nine years since I last lived on Rarotonga as far as those places are concerned, although lawyer Tim Arnold is no longer operating his Rarotonga Steam Railway (the inspiration for Alex Benning and his Raro Railroad) as a tourist attraction.
1. The house in Matavera where my wife lived is also where Jack and Maina reside. But the hedges are thicker than when we left and the house is now barely visible from the road.
2. Matavera Village Traders is still open, although the petrol pump has been removed. Located adjacent to the house, this is where Jack bought bread for his chooks from Mama Rosie.
3. Rarotonga’s new police station was built by Chinese money and labourers after we left. There is no way Jack would be bursting into Karl Lamu’s office in this building.
4. Palace Takeways (formerly Palace One Takeaways and renamed Sunset Takeaways in my book) is still located beside the Avatiu Harbour and still sells the best fish burger on the island. While we lived on Rarotonga, we sent many a friend back to The World after a final meal at Palace. And then, one day in October 2001, it was our turn to return to The World.
5. Avatiu Harbour, where the superyacht Le Chacal was anchored.
6. Tetini ‘T’ Pekepo (named Andrew Tuara in Brown Girls) has done both of my Cook Islands tattoos. The description of Andrew working on Jack’s tattoo is based on my own encounter with T’s ink.
7. Maeva Arnold (self-portrait from her Facebook page) is Tim Arnold’s daughter. I based the character of Maeva Benning on her.
8. Larouche’s house overlooking Blackrock beach was inspired by this rental accommodation.
9. The hospital where Nurse Heather works in my book, and where my wife worked in real life.
10. The Sheraton is called The Endeavour in my book. Nine years on and the ruins still stand as a sad reminder of greed and graft. Every couple of years someone pops out of the woodwork to announce grandiose plans to revive the hotel, and then disappears just as quickly.
11. Trader Jacks – home to the Viagra Club and known as the Rocket Bar in my book. Located on the lip of Avarua Harbour, Jacks (not sure if the missing apostrophe is a spelling error or a typo) has been damaged by storms on several occasions over the years, including in February 2005 when Cyclone Meena pounded Rarotonga. As a result, this is not the same building that stood in 2001. The balcony does not jut over the beach anymore, meaning there is no place now for illicit lover to sneak away for a quick root.
12. The Café (called Sparky’s Café in my novel) is still operated by the Dearlove family but has moved into a new building since 2001, and now sits just south of its old location. It was the place for expats to meet for breakfast every Saturday after the market. Probably the best espresso drinks on the island. Too bad they don’t serve pancakes anymore. They were darn yummy.
For those faithful readers in need of their next Jack Nolan fix, you’ll be pleased to know I’m nearly finished writing the sequel, The Blue Beneath. I hope you like it.
Things I learned from living in the Cook Islands for a year:
Coconuts are hard. Coconuts will drop without warning. You do not want to stand or park under a coconut palm. Ever.
Super Brown makes the best, and cheapest, chips on the island. Their cheeseburgers are mighty yummy as well.
When he’s careful not to scald the milk, Neil Dearlove at The Café churns out a damn fine latte. Poko Hosking at Café Salsa is an excellent barista as well.
The place to be an hour before the clubs close on a Friday or Saturday night is the Rehab bar. So I’ve been told.
Pizza? High Tide Bar & Grill. But hurry: their liquor permit only allows the place to stay open until 9.
You will share your living space with lizards. They don’t bite and they eat the insects. Let them be.
The circle of life is a bitch. Of those eight chirping balls of fluff following that hen around, maybe two will reach adulthood. If they’re lucky.
Those barking dogs and crowing roosters that kept you awake and drove you crazy on Night 1 will fade into background noise. By Night 365, you won’t even hear them.
There are ants. Millions of them. Don’t leave crumbs . . . anywhere. Put your rubbish in the freezer. Kill the scouts. If they don’t make it back to the nest, they can’t tell their friends where you live.
It rains. A lot. Sometimes while the sun is shining. Always take a raincoat with you. Even when it’s 30 degrees and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Mother Nature detests over-confidence.
Cook Islands doughnuts are filled with saturated fats. They will kill you. But you will die with a smile on your face.
Coconut water is good for you. Good luck getting at it.
Swim in the lagoon at your own risk. The water looks pristine but you don’t know where it’s been.
Mosquito coils are your friends. Not sure what they do to your lungs but if the smoke discourages the little buzzers, then the cancer will be worth it.
If a bug is flying around a large room and has to land somewhere, it will land on your eye.
You’ll be wanting to keep a close eye on your receipt at Foodland and the CITC Supermarket. Just because the sign said an item is on sale doesn’t mean anyone bothered to change the cash registers.
Check the best-by dates. Unless 2002 was your favourite year.
At Raro Fried Chicken, the $2 one-scoop ice cream cone will have at least two scoops.
Passionfruit is the new manna. Papayas are like eating heaven. Mangoes? Meh.
There is food at every celebration and ceremony and meeting and workshop and seminar. There will not, however, be utensils. Or napkins.
Your eyeglasses will never be as filthy as they are on Rarotonga. Must be all the sea salt in the air. Or the dust. Or the smoke.
Feed the chooks. They are your friends. They eat centipedes. Say no more.
Do not feed the dogs. They are pests. If they’re not biting you or making new dogs, they are running out in front of your motorbike.
Centipedes are evil. If you spray them with insecticide, they will come after you.
Cockroaches are faster than they look. They also have lots of guts. You’ve been warned.
You do not want a Cook Islands tattoo. That’s what they call the scab on your leg after you burn it on the exhaust pipe of your motorbike.
Pedestrians do not have the right of way. Pedestrians, however, are eligible for the Last Rites.
You can arrive at the Catholic Cathedral at 10:29 for the 10:30 English-language Mass and still have your choice of pews.
If a Cook Islands woman smiles at you and strokes your arm, it does not mean she wants to sleep with you. She is just being friendly. Trust me on this one.
Young ladies who will drop their drawers at the sound of a beer bottle opening will not pose topless for a photographer. It might ruin their reputation.
The cashiers at Foodland will comment on your purchases – “You’re eating THAT for lunch?” – and occasionally talk you into giving them the chocolate bar you just bought for your afternoon snack.
If people ask if you want “coffee” what they really mean is “instant coffee.” Just say no.
Boil tap water before you drink it. The heat will kill whatever that thing is wriggling in the kettle.
The locals eat at Café Ariki. That’s your first clue that the food is: a) cheap, b) good, c) plentiful.
At the end of each Island Night performance, the dancers will fan out into the crowd to drag tourists onto the floor to join in. If you enjoy being embarrassed, stick your hand up. Everyone loves a volunteer. Me? I’ll be hiding in the shadows. At the back of the room. On the floor. Hey, whatever works.
Wanna have some fun? Announce in a very loud voice that rugby is for pussies. Then start running.
The locals refer to “hockey” as “ice hockey” and then scoff at a sport that needs so many pads to protect the players.
Tourists who have not even been on a bicycle for 20 years will be handed a licence to operate a 125cc motorbike through the simple act of weaving in and out of a line of orange traffic cones without tipping over. And then will proceed to terrorize everyone on the road for the next 7-12 days.
It’s a small island. There are no secrets. Nice circumcision scar, by the way.
You are the minority, white boy. Now go sit in the back of the bus.
There is no sharper reminder that one is merely a visitor to Paradise than being informed your contract will not be renewed and it is time for you to leave.
That’s the situation I find myself in, as the Pitt Media Group has decided to take the newsroom in a different direction. A direction that does not include me.
I am saddened – nay, devastated – at the thought of leaving Rarotonga. I have come to think of the island as my home, and its people as my friends. I have no desire to return to The World, but return I must.
With less than two weeks before I depart, decisions must be made. What to pack, what to pitch, what to donate to the CISPCA. I have to keep a close eye on my groceries so nothing goes to waste. I have sheets and towels to wash, a shower stall to scrub, shelves to dust.
I must have one final fish burger from Palace. I must finally sample the pecan pie (as recommended by my dear friends Simon Spinola and Samantha Jones) at Cafe Salsa. I must do at least one more circuit of the entire island and dip my toes in Muri lagoon, this time on purpose.
At some point, I will have to decide what to do with the 25,000 photos I’ve taken over the past year – the wonders and the curse of digital photography. Whom did I promise photos to? What scenery have I neglected to capture? What beautiful brown girl has somehow escaped the attention of my telephoto lens?
I need to put aside $55 for the departure tax (no, Air New Zealand does not include it in the ticket price. Yes, it is rather dear.). I need to hope that the amount of toiletries I’ve used up over these past months weighs more than the new items I want to pack into my suitcase.
I need to bid farewell to a copious amount of new friends and assure them that, yes, I will be back. All the while knowing chances are very good I will never see them again.
I never did get to Pukapuka, but I did see Aitutaki and Atiu. I never did poke my nose into either of the island’s two libraries. I never ate at the Tamarind House nor shared war stories with the members of the Viagra Club at Trader Jacks.
I’m going to save those activities for next time, in the fervent hope that there will, in fact, be a next time.
***
It was rainy and grey as I drove into town this morning. Looming out of the mist just off the reef at Avarua was a cruise ship, its outline wavering and indistinct in the low cloud cover.
As I drew nearer to the office, I spotted small clots of the ship’s passengers, meandering through the deserted downtown core, staring at closed doors and shuttered windows as if they’d somehow stumbled across a ghost town in the middle of the tropics.
I’m not sure who puts together itineraries for cruise ships, but Sunday is the worst day of the week to deposit tourists on these shores. It’s Sabbath: nearly everything is closed in this Christian country.
Oh, sure, you could buy petrol or a can of pop or a Snickers bar at the Energy Centre. Or a box of greasy chicken and a scoop of hot chips or an ice cream cone from Raro Fried Chicken at the Avarua wharf. But that’s it. The rest of the downtown core is locked up tight and will remain that way until 8 a.m. Monday.
It’s quaint and it’s old-fashioned and it’s good to see the Lord’s Day still means a day of rest for most people. But when I look at these passengers, I see walking dollar signs. There is money in those jeans, a much-needed cash infusion that the local economy badly needs.
When I lived here in 2001, the Blue Note Cafe was the only downtown venue open on a Sunday. And it was always packed. The Blue Note is long gone. When those passengers board that cruise ship this afternoon, so too will their wallets be long gone.
They will have left nothing behind but the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty spaces between the closed shops. Tahiti will get their money instead, or Fiji or Samoa.
What a waste. What a shame.
Jenny Vaipapa has always taken a hands-on approach when it comes to touching lives on Atiu.
That’s why Vaipapa, who operates Massage on Atiu, is currently visiting Rarotonga to train in physiotherapy and Zumba. She will take those skills back to Atiu, where she has worked for eight years to disseminate the advantages of good lifestyle habits.
Vaipapa said the training will aid in her goal to help Atiu residents build an awareness of how to look after their bodies.
To that end, she already offers free advice on weight loss and fitness, including promoting a better diet and plenty of exercise.
“It’s about how to put together a lifestyle plan of eating and moving, and looking after the body, mind and spirit,” she said.
Originally from Brisbane, and an Australian Certificate 3-qualified nurse, Vaipapa and her partner located to Atiu to fulfil a dream she had years ago of raising her children on an island.
Vaipapa’s nine-year-old daughter Mere has accompanied her to Rarotonga. She may be young but Mere is already an entrepreneur, having set up a business filing and painting fingernails. To date, she has banked $65.
“I’m going to save it for university,” she said with a confidence that belies her age.
Even though she has operated Massage on Atiu for less than 10 years, Vaipapa said she has always been interested in massage.
“I have a sensitivity to what I’m touching and feeling,” she said. “I can usually just go along and find the problem.”
Massage, she said, improves flexibility and movement.
“It’s about circulating the blood, warming up the blood,” she explained. “And breaking through the thick muscle tissue. Tissue can be painful if it sets and isn’t stimulated and moved.”
Vaipapa didn’t have any plans to open a massage business when she first moved to Atiu, but quickly ascertained that her skills could be put to good use. In the beginning, she was oftentimes paid with a frozen chicken or a bowl of fruit, which was just fine with her.
“People bring you things all the time,” she said. “Things go back and forth – it’s such a community way of life. We never go without.”
After years of living on a small island, both mother and daughter have acquired a survival skill set they have put to good use.
“You learn how to get your food off the trees and out of the ocean,” Vaipapa said. “How to kill and pluck a chicken. You’re not wasting time and wasting money on ridiculous, over-materialized, over-promoted items. You’re living like you’re on the beach – you’re just relaxed.”
Their visit to Rarotonga coincided with last week’s Queensland Flood Appeal at the Banana Court. The Vaipapas were one of the few Australians to perform at the fund-raising variety show. Included on their repertoire were renditions of Australia Calling and Stand By Your Man.
“It was my contribution to Australia, being a long way from home,” said Vaipapa of putting her hand up for the concert. “I still love Australia – it’s still the mother country for us.”
Despite that ingrained loyalty to Oz, Vaipapa doesn’t see herself living anywhere but Atiu for the immediate future.
“I feel like it’s a little safe nest and we love to be there,” she said. “I could never imagine myself going back to Australia and the big city and living among all the falseness and fakeness. It’s just not me – we’re so down to earth now.
“I like the peace, I like the birds, I like the trees, I like the nature. And I like to be able to sit and listen to God in my heart.”
I am constantly impressed with the generosity and community spirit displayed by Cook Islanders.
These people live in a country where the minimum wage is $5 an hour. Where often what is on the table has been picked from the trees in the yard, or pulled from the small garden out the back, or hauled in from the water on the seaward side of the lagoon.
This is a country where relatives willingly take in children whose parents can’t afford to feed or clothe them, to raise them as if they were their own.
These are people who will dig the last coin out of their pocket to help those who might need it more.
I’ve seen happen this on numerous occasions: telethons for the victims of Cyclone Pat on Aitutaki. Selling plates of donated food to help an unfortunate family that lost everything to a house fire.
This past week saw the Queenstown Flood Appeal variety show hosted by the Banana Court nightclub. Nearly 400 people paid the $5 cover charge. Altogether, just under $3000 was raised and handed over to the Cook Islands Red Cross, to be wired to its counterpart in Australia.
I helped count the money later at the police station. There were hundred-dollar bills in the donation cans, and a cheque for $200. I saw people rock up to the Banana Court for no other reason than to hand over cash, to help in some small way.
Too bad they didn’t have time to go inside, because a who’s who of the Rarotongan music scene performed their hearts out, all for the cause. Along with local acts – Ru and the Boy, Tani and Rose, Kura Happ, Raro Idol winner Emile Rima, Kiley Herman, Engara Gosselin, Uirangi Bishop – a number of New Zealand-based stars also took to the stage.
Peter Morgan, for one, had the place rocking, prompting several members of the appreciative audience to take to the dance floor.
People having fun and donating their hard-earned dollars. If you wanted to encapsulate the spirit of the Cook Islands, it was on display that night in the Banana Court.
Just another reminder of why I love living in this country.
***
I think long and hard about going to church these days.
It’s not because my bed refuses to release its embrace on my tired body and mind, or that the rain showers that have plagued the island all month are threatening again.
What has me hesitating at the cathedral door is an island-wide outbreak of conjunctivitis – what we call “pink eye” in North America and the locals call “sexy eyes.”
It’s spread via direct contact, which is exactly what happens during that part of the Catholic Mass when the priest insists that the members of the congregation exchange a sign of peace.
Cook Islanders are a friendly lot – they always want to shake my hand or kiss my cheek – and usually I appreciate the attention.
But bloodshot eyes glued stuck by yellow pus has never been my idea of fun.
In effort to avoid such an occurrence, I purchased a package of baby wipes at Foodland. That way, I can tuck a couple into a sandwich bag in my pocket and clean my hands after that whole touching bit.
Except everyone on the island knows everyone else’s business, which means the lady at the Foodland checkout said this to me: “What do YOU need BABY wipes for?”
The implication she left hanging in the air was that perhaps I’d been doing more than just shaking hands during my year on the island. I know the coconut wireless is humming even as I write this.
That’s OK: I can tolerate a bit of chinwagging. Sexy eyes? Not so much.
I recently had the opportunity to visit the island of Atiu.
Of the 15 specks of land that comprise the Cook Islands, Atiu (pronounced AT-CHEW) is ranked third – behind Rarotonga and Aitutaki – in terms of population and development. As such, it is very much on the radar as a destination project for the Cook Islands Tourism Corporation.
When the CITC invited a group of nearly 30 travel industry types to the Cook Islands – in a marketing effort designed to spread the gospel of this tropical paradise – and a day trip to Atiu was added to the itinerary, I put my hand up to cover the event for the Cook Islands Herald.
It’s been 10 years since I was last on Atiu. Nothing much had changed. And that’s a good thing. Development is fine but, sometimes, you can develop the character right out of a place.
The airport terminal is still little more than an open-sided building with a roof. The cheeky sign – the one claiming to be an Atiu Airport Voluntary Security Check and asking passengers to “please hand their AK47s, Bazookas, grenades, explosives and nukes to the pilot on boarding the aircraft” – is still in place.
Our visiting party – flown in aboard two of Air Raro’s turbo props – was greeted by the locals with flower eis and kisses on the cheek. We were then divided into two groups for a tour of the island. I found myself with the larger group – along with Nerys Case of the Cook Islands News – sitting in the back of a truck belonging to George Mateariki, Aitu’s famed “Birdman George.”
George gave us a sample of the tour he provides for tourists, one where we were bounced and jounced over rutted jungle trails (I hesitate to call them “roads”), stopping at intervals so George could point out various bird life and explain the medicinal use of assorted flora. At one point, George skimmied up a palm tree to liberate several coconuts. Using a machete as skillfully as a surgeon’s scalpel, he hacked open the tops of the coconuts without spilling a drop of water and passed them around.
The majority of the passengers grumbled amongst themselves about they’d rather not be sitting there, watching a man climb a tree, because their lack of mobility made them easier targets for the swarms of voracious mozzies. Nerys and I watched in bemused silence. Neither of us is a local – Nerys is English; I’m Canadian – but we’d obviously been in the Cook Islands long enough to no longer qualify as fresh meat, because we were virtually ignored when it came to the involuntary blood donation.
The coconut water was refreshing and, much to my surprise, rather on the carbonated side. Not sure how that works. A touch of fermentation? Perhaps.
We stopped for a quick visit with Andrea Eimke at the Atiu Fibre Arts Studio, where we marvelled at the tivaevae – ceremonial quilted bedspreads – on display. Later during our tour, we drove past the coffee plantation run by Andrea’s husband, Juergen Manske-Eimke (known locally as “The German”). All of us gazed longingly at the coffee cherries, hoping – in vain, as it turned out – for a taste of their magic elixir.
Lunch – provided by Birdman George and his helpers – consisted of a variety of local food cooked in an umu, or underground oven. I’m an old hand when it comes to such traditional meals and so knew going in that, while there would be plenty of food, there would be a distinct lack of utensils and napkins. And so I only took what I could eat with my fingers, and sat close to the tap so I could rinse my hands off as soon as I was full.
The afternoon was spent inspecting accommodation properties, so these travel agents and travel agency owners could see first-hand the types of places on offer for their potential customers. Nerys and I hopped out of the truck bed the first few stops, if only to stretch our legs but – honestly – if you’ve seen one room, you’ve seen them all. Eventually, we just stayed in the truck and turned our faces to the sun, soaking up the heat like lizards on a rock.
We were accompanied through most of the day by an Australian girl of maybe nine or 10, named Mere. Mere’s mother informed us that, yes, Mere should have been in school but woke up that morning feeling a bit on the crook side. Until, that is, she heard two planes filled with visitors were about to land and then – it’s a miracle! – she suddenly felt a whole lot better.
Mere – all toothy grin and red hair – was so thrilled to see us that she acted as a one-person welcoming committee all on her own. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t technically a native of Atiu – or even a Cook Islander, for that matter. Her genuine pleasure at seeing our group was a reflection of how everyone on the island greeted us.
Yes, there are rare birds to be seen on Atiu. And you really must swim in the sea caves. And tramp through unspoiled jungles. Or drink the home brew that will take the hair right off your tongue. But, in the end, it’s not the scenery or attractions that make a place special for me.
It’s the people.
Atiu hasn’t changed much in 10 years. Neither has the sunny attitude of its population. And that’s a good thing.
The first thing I noticed about Talia Goldenberg was her body – she was showcasing a goodly portion of it and what was on display wasn’t very meaty.
Those two aspects alone were enough to tell me she wasn’t a local. The clincher was that all that bare skin was the colour of fresh milk on a snowy Minnesota morning.
I encountered Talia at the Avarua Wharf. I had ventured there because I was bored at the office. When your contract is nearly up and you’re desperate for a new one, sitting around the office looking bored is not the prescribed method for ensuring future employment.
I was hoping to find local kids leaping from the wharf into the harbour, so I could hand in enough photos – Hey, Look What The Kids Are Up To On Their Summer Holidays! – to fill a page in the Cook Islands Herald.
Instead, I encountered My Fine Young Colleague (MFYC), sitting on the top level of the lone set of bleachers that resides outside Trader Jacks. MFYC is 19 and and model-worthy and eager to embrace all the adventures the future may hold. Everything I’m not, actually.
Talia was sitting on the bottom level of the bleachers, drawing in a sketchpad.
I greeted MFYC and, once I had his attention, indicated the young lady with the pen and paper. He shrugged in a way that told me he didn’t know who she was or what she was up to.
Being the grizzled veteran, I took the lead, sitting down beside the young lady to ask what she was drawing. “Water,” she said, and then introduced herself as Talia Goldenberg, 20, from Portland, Oregon.
I do things like that – march right up to the Talia Goldenbergs of this world – because I am a highly-trained professional journalist and, as such, understand that stories do not drop, neatly wrapped and tied with a bow, on your lap. Sometimes you have to plunk yourself down beside a young lady and go fishing.
It turned out that Talia was one of 25 art students – 21 ladies and the four luckiest lads in the history of the world – from Carleton College who had stopped in Rarotonga for six days en route to New Zealand and, later, Australia. They would spend 10 weeks away from home as part of an art course that would include such topics as drawing from nature and printmaking.
Home – as MFYC and I, now armed with our recording gear, discovered later when we met up with various members of the group at Paradise Inn for a round of interviews – is Northfield, Minnesota.
For what it was worth, I scored some serious brownie points by knowing Northfield was the setting for one of the James-Younger Gang’s heists.
It was at this point, however, that my fear for the future of the world was cemented.
MFYC: What gang?
Me: James-Younger. You know: Jesse James. The bank robber.
MFYC: Wasn’t he married to Sandra Bullock?
Me: Um, actually, I’m talking about the OTHER Jesse James.
MFYC: Never heard of him.
Me: Oh. Dear.
This exchange, conducted in front of Talia and her friends, their faces shiny with pride as they displayed their sketchbooks, was not the first time that day MFYC had demonstrated how big the gulf actually is between baby boomers and whatever generation is just now graduating from high school (iGeneration? Wii Generation?).
Earlier, at the office, MFYC had spotted a pile of LPs on a desk. We’re talking vinyl here, folks, the real deal. Classic with a capital “C.” MFYC held up Hot August Night, Neil Diamond’s live double album that every self-respecting baby boomer played until the needle on their turntable wore down to a nub.
“That, my young friend,” I said, “is one for the ages. They don’t make music like that anymore.”
His brow furrowed. He peered at the image on the front of the dust cover. Then he looked up at me.
“Who,” he asked, “is Neil Diamond?”
The generation gap just widened. If it continues to do so, it may just swallow me completely.
Six weeks ago, three albizia trees were turned into logs. In late December, those logs, having been carefully crafted into traditional fishing vakas, entered the waters of Avarua Harbour for their maiden voyage.
A blessing ceremony, conducted by New Zealand Maori activist Tame Iti, preceded the launch, as did a haka performed by Kiharoa Nuku and Mahara Nicholas, students from Te Kura Kokiri Maori school in Tauranga.
The two had been dispatched to learn the art of canoe making from local master carver Mike Tavioni. Their final product will be shipped to New Zealand in the near future and displayed at the school.
Tavioni, looking like a proud father as he sat outside Raro Fried Chicken, refused to take credit for the production of the Te Kura Kokiri vaka.
“I didn’t accomplish it – they did,” he said of the efforts of Nuku and Nicholas, who also received some help from fellow student Toko Haora.
“I more or less showed the way,” Tavioni explained. “You can tell I didn’t do it because I’ve never seen seats like that before. They made them themselves – the seats of our traditional vakas don’t look like that. I allowed them to go wild and do what they felt like. But the vaka itself is good. Well-done, solid, well lashed together – that part of it I’m very proud of.”
Cook Islands Tourism has spoken for one of the other two vakas, while the third is still available for purchase.
“For the past four years, we’ve been trying to revive this part of our culture, which is the perpetuation of the art of canoe making,” Tavioni said in his opening speech. “They have been used to fish and sustain our families for thousands of years. You may not believe this, but one of these vessels can bring in up to 20 or more tuna from just beyond our reef.”
Tavioni believes that future fuel shortages will see Cook Islanders turning back to fishing vakas in order to continue with their way of life.
“My question is: why should we compete with the outside world?” he said. “We should have our own programme and be self-sufficient as much as we can.”
Tavioni extended kudos to his team for the work they accomplished on the trio of vakas but once again bemoaned the fact that he had more local onlookers than helpers.
“Maybe they’re afraid to get involved – I’m not sure,” he said.
With the Vaka Eiva paddling competition and the vaka carving now off his schedule, Tavioni is turning his attention to his backlog of jobs.
“I’ve promised myself over and over again that I will finish my books,” he said. “Now I’ll have to focus on that.”
There are kids here in Rarotonga who have never touched a snowflake.
That’s the price you pay for living in the tropics but, having once lost a car axle to the combination of an icy road and a very hard curb, I can’t say I miss the demolition derby that is winter driving.
I’ve now spent a number of Christmases in the Southern Hemisphere, where Dec. 25 falls four days after the summer solstice. I still don’t like it.
Just as I prefer a hint of mint with my chocolate, so too do I like a touch of winter in the air come the time St. Nick makes his annual sojourn. I like it when Jack Frost nips at my nose. I like to see my hot breath exhaled into cold air like so much steam released from the twin bellows of my lungs.
Yeah, not going to happen here.
The Pitt Media Group held its staff Christmas party on the weekend. Most everyone played and swam in the lagoon. Afterwards, we ate sausages and patties grilled on a barbecue and drank chilled refreshments. In December. The week before Christmas Day.
I asked a workmate if, as a child on Rarotonga, his image of Santa was the same one I grew up with in Canada: a big-bearded man with twinkling eyes, all bundled up in a fur-trimmed suit, hat jammed down over ears, gloves pulled tight over fingers, perched in a sled from where he commanded a team of flying reindeer.
The answer was yes.
Apparently Santa – or at least the one the marketing department at Coca-Cola have fed us for decades – is a universal symbol. Brown-skinned children, who shiver if the mercury drops below 15C, believe in a jolly fat man who lives in a place of eternal winter.
I attended a pair of Christmas-themed events last week. Rotaract presented its annual Christmas in the Park at the BCI Stadium, while the CITC main store hosted a CD launch in its parking lot.
Santa attended both events and posed later for photos with children on his lap.
Considering the natural girth of Polynesian men, I naturally expected a local lad to don the traditional costume. Instead, on both occasions, it was a papa’a (white) man behind the bushy beard and the padded tummy.
Maybe none of the locals felt up to the task of being mobbed by children clawing for lollies dispensed from the trademark sack o’ goodies.
Or maybe Santa just needs to be Caucasian because, well, that’s the way he’s depicted on all the cards and decorations and Advent calendars and wrapping paper in the shops.
I can only hope, considering the heat and humidity of a South Seas December, that Old St. Nick has time for a quick dip in the lagoon before carrying on, if only to doff all those winter clothes for a couple of minutes.
Santa dropping from heat stroke in Rarotonga would be very naughty indeed.
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