A Country off the Map.
• Tim Pile loses all track of time in a remote corner of the South Pacific.

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The Cook Islands are difficult to find in more ways than one. On a map of the world you’ll need to squint and scour until you see a series of tiny specks somewhere near the drawing pins. Some cartographers don’t bother with them at all. Things aren’t much easier for those in charge of getting you there. It’s a ten hour haul from Los Angeles. After spending nine hours and fifty eight minutes flying over the featureless South Pacific Ocean, the pilot somehow locates a sliver of land six miles long. Suddenly you’re in the tiny arrivals hall. It’s three o’clock in the morning and it appears that all 10,000 Rarotongans are at the airport in either a meeting, greeting or touting capacity. Airport staff and hotel representatives move with purpose. Photo:© Tim Pile

Excited relatives peer through railings and Ukulele Jake serenades all incoming passengers. Add the taxi drivers and miscellaneous insomniacs and you start to feel that 3.00am in the Cook Islands is like 5.00pm anywhere else.

Jet lagged tourists sleepwalk through customs unsure of the time of day, or even the day of the week. They have a good excuse; the International Dateline lurks invisibly offshore to the west. New Zealand is a four hour flight away. It’s also 23 time zones ahead. Feeling like an extra in Back to the Future, you browse the following day’s Auckland Herald, wondering if there is some way of using tomorrow’s racing results to your financial advantage.

Rarotonga is the largest and most populous in a chain of fifteen islands scattered over two million square kilometres of ocean - an area the size of India. By contrast, the entire land area is only 490 square kilometres, twice the size of Lantau. Some of the far flung northern atolls are so isolated it can be months before supply ships arrive, particularly during bad weather.

The islands are named after the British explorer Captain James Cook who claimed them for the British Crown on his voyages of discovery in the 1770s.
European missionaries came next, spreading both puritanical values and disease, to which the Polynesians had no natural immunity. Declared a British protectorate in 1888, the islands were annexed to New Zealand in 1901. The Pacific ‘neighbours’ share a free economic association to this day. The kiwi dollar is the official currency and English is the official language, although Maori is widely spoken. Cook Islanders are granted automatic New Zealand residency.
Due to its isolation, the archipelago receives a limited mix of visitors. Australians and New Zealanders, many of them honeymooners, fill the luxury resorts, sign up for excursions and attend the evening shows. They share the beaches with young backpackers who stop over on their round-the-world itineraries. The students fill the dorm rooms, do all the same activities slightly cheaper and spend the difference on beer.

For those seeking neither five star nor five bunk bed accommodation, the solution is to rent a house. With more Cook Islanders living overseas than in their birthplace, there are plenty of empty dwellings around. Rents are reasonable; most accommodation comes with a kitchen, and what you lose in room service you gain in independence.

We found a simple cottage in the lush east coast settlement of Matavera. Our garden was an orchard of papaya trees surrounded by a taro plantation. Cicadas chirruped, waves thumped on the reef. The rat race seemed a million miles away. The only cloud on the horizon was a local knicker thief.
‘Don’t leave your smalls on the washing line overnight’ our landlady Nida warned us. ‘Underwear is expensive in the Cook Islands.’

Rarotonga packs a lot in and is made for exploring by bicycle. A quiet coastal road circumnavigates the island, bringing you back to where you started after three or four hours of leisurely pedalling. Nida advised us to set out early. She was right. There are so many sublime swimming and snorkelling opportunities; a half day cycle is likely to become a full day outing. The road rarely strays from the beach and coral lagoon which run almost uninterrupted around the entire island. It’s best to wear your swimming gear and keep a bottle of water and a towel in your basket.

The hilly interior is reminiscent of Hong Kong, minus all the concrete and glass. A green carpet of vegetation softens the angular peaks, waterfalls beckon and rustic village huts peep out from behind coconut groves. Motor bikes and cars are also available for rent, but in a frangipani scented paradise, it seemed inappropriate to fill the air with noise and fumes. Besides, zip around and you miss all the smiles, greetings and waves.

Rarotonga’s tiny capital is Avarua. Low rise, laid back, and low key. The modest supermarkets betray an unhealthy reliance on products from New Zealand. Fruit and vegetables are air freighted in, penny pinchers can choose from the sea freight section, although the potatoes looked like they began their voyage in Sir Walter Raleigh’s day. Fortunately tropical fruit grows in abundance just about everywhere, so starting the day with a papaya, avocado and mango salad makes sense. The best place to buy local produce is from the lively Saturday market, which doubles as a place to exchange gossip and discuss church outfits for the following morning.

We left Avarua heading anti clockwise and wobbling slightly under the weight of picnic provisions. Beyond the docks and airport, the road finds its way back to the water’s edge - all turquoise shimmer, the sand as white as washing powder. We soon found ourselves an uninhabited stretch and unpacked the snorkelling gear.

A while later feeling refreshed, our hair drying in the warm breeze we continued. It’s an easy pedal along the south coast past Wigmore’s Waterfall and more sandy beaches. Set out on a Sunday and you’ll hear rapturous singing from the faithful at Titikaveka church. Pop in, you’ll be heartily welcomed.
We saved the best stop for last. Muri Lagoon is the postcard photographer's favourite. The busiest resort on the island was ‘crowded’ with fewer than a hundred people sharing three kilometres of beach and four offshore atolls that help form the sheltered inlet. Swimming pools everywhere should be a Muri Lagoon Blue shade. The sun slipped behind the jagged hills. A day over in Polynesia: another just beginning somewhere half a globe away. The backpackers, world weary at 18, sat on the sands and exchanged tales. Honeymooners exchanged kisses. There weren’t many locals around. With another late night at the airport ahead, they were probably asleep.

© Tim Pile march 2003
tim pile timpile@email.com

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