Free Pants

March 15, 2009

It was Sunday on the island of Atiu in the warm waters of the South Pacific ocean. I decided that I would go to mass this morning. Many guidebooks about South Pacific islands recommend that travellers go to mass to hear the harmonious singing. This time, however, I also wanted to go since it was Lent and I was trying occasionally to be a good Catholic and make an attempt to go. I wasn’t always successful, but this time I made it!

I saw some familiar faces at St Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church, and some faces that would become familiar to me during the rest of my stay in the village. I think that by simply attending mass, and attempting to participate, this increased the respect the villagers had for me. I wasn’t just a tourist here to hear the villagers sing, I was actually at church for the correct reasons.

The most memorable part of the mass for me was during the part where you’re supposed to greet your neighbours, shake their hands, and wish them peace. At St. Anthony’s though, this ceremony was a much more elaborate process. The two priests (or one priest and one deacon) really walked around and shook every person’s hand. People roamed the aisles finding others to wish peace onto. Babies were passed around and kissed. Some people started spontaneously singing during the process. It was such a tremendous outpouring of positive energy! It made me feel good just to witness it. At the sort of masses I’m used to, we’d always rush through this part so we could get out of the place faster. I think we could definitely take a lesson from the Cook Islanders!

At 1 PM that day, Verena and I had registered for a tour. Birdman George came by to pick us up on his pick up truck for a nature tour. The bed of the truck had two long benches, just like I saw in Southeast Asia. I sat in the back on a bench, of course! We drove to the swankier Atiu Villas to pick up the other five people on the tour. It was funny that seven of the total of nine tourists on the whole island were on the same tour together. Sunday was the popular day for this tour since George brought some of his homecooked umu (underground oven) food for his guests to eat. George was a local, but had lived in New Zealand for several years. He was a cool guy and really good at spotting birds in the trees while still driving. We saw chattering kingfishers, the Cook Island fruit dove, and the local variety of pigeon. I could barely see some of these birds when they were pointed to me. It was stupendous that George could see them while driving!

We learned lots about the local flora, too. We learned how tapa fabric is made from bark, how the stinky nono fruit can be used to heal wounds, which vines can be cut to obtain drinking water, and how the sap of the ginger flower can be used as shampoo.

There were a pair of birds called George and Mildred that Birdman George called his “favourites”. They lived in the remote makatea (jungle) of the island. They’d usually respond to his birdcalls and show off for guests, but only one showed up today, and only briefly, at that.

We drove along the airport runway to spot some terns that migrated from Alaska to the Cook Islands, and even farther to New Zealand. There were no flights scheduled on Sundays, so we didn’t have to worry about dodging airplanes.

George then showed us how he climbed coconut trees to get young drinking coconuts which were slightly fizzy inside (like Sprite or 7-Up). I drank mine and allowed George to hack it in half with his machete so I could eat the meat inside — pulling it out with my fingers. I ate half of it there and saved the other half for dinner the next day (along with some noodles and carrots).

We drove past the beach where Captain Cook landed on April 4, 1777 — the first white men on the island. Verena said she could feel the history ince so much had happened to change the island and its people after that day.

We the drove to the pretty Taungaroro Beach for an exquisitely presented platter of bananas, guavas, passion fruit, star fruit, umu pork, chicken, taro root and taro greens. All of the serving platters and plates were made from leaves. We ate with our hands, of course. The taro was grown in swamp, and tasted much better than the taro I had in Samoa. It was flavourful and rich, instead than plain and dry. I also had the best pieces of papaya I had ever had in my life — topped with grated coconut and some lemon juice.

We continued onwards to a tiny coffee plantation where there were some elusive lorikeets. George tried to call them out for us to see. One flew directly over my head. I could barely see the red flash of its wings. Everyone else seemed to miss it.

Here’s what coffee looks like, on the bush: It doesn’t look anything like the brown crunchy beans we all know!

Nearby, there were some men engaged in a tumunu, or a bush beer drinking session. They let me sample some of their stuff. It was some very tasty beer! They confessed to flavouring it with oranges and bananas. It was simply called their “home brew”. I told Andrew, the very glassy eyed and visibly shmammered man who served me the beer that I’d be back the next day to try some more.

After that, the tour was over and George drove us back to the village. I pretended to ride his truck like I was in some kind of cavalry charge!

Honestly, I’m not drunk in this picture. I only had one wee sip of the bush beer!.

For dinner that night, Verena and I shared a breadfruit that George found for us. We didn’t need much more than that since the umu food on the door had been very filling. After being boiled and seasoned with only some salt, the breadfruit was just like eating potatoes.

That evening, some local guys came to hang out on our patio. One guy, Fabian, played his ukelele for us while most of the other guys sang. It was very fun since these guys were just singing for the fun of it. This occasion made be sure that I had made the right decision by staying in this village. Fabian offered to take me to a cave tomorrow for swimming. Rather impulsively, I happily agreed to go. It seemed like a great adventure!

I learned a new word that night: turituri, which meant “noise”. We certainly made a lot of turituri that night! Ukelele! Singing! Laughing! It was wonderful.

–
Rob Szumlakowski
Atlanta, Georgia, USA

p.s.: oh yeah I’m in Atlanta right now :)

March 14, 2009

Even though I was up late the night before, I woke up at my normally expected time of 6 or 7 AM. I didn’t really get enough sleep.

Verena related her nighttime experiences and spun off tales of paranoia on how Juergen was a slumlord and an evil pa’anga (white person) who thought he was the king of the island and took advantage of the local people. She claimed to have seen the pattern on other tiny Pacific islands much like this one. She was a very sweet and friendly woman, but now, she complained about these things too much and we projecting so much negative energy that I had to tell her to lay off. It was too much for me! She wanted to find a new place to stay, but many of the other accommodations on the island were closed (due to it being low season) or were simply too expensive.

Anyways. The weather was sunny and hot so it was time to complete that walk to the beach we had started the day before. Along the way, we ran into one of the other owners of bungalows, Man, of the Kopeka Lodges. He seemed nice. Verena liked him much more, though I suspect it was because he was a Cook Islander and not white. I’m not sure what to make of the politics on this island. I didn’t want to make any rash decisions.

We finally made it to the beach after about an hour’s walk through the makatea (jungle). There was lots of jagged and sharp fossilized coral to climb down to reach the beach itself. Up close, it looks like this:

The beach itself was composed of teeny tiny pieces of shells and broken bits of stuff; not much in the way of proper sand. There wasn’t much space here, either. The outer reef of the island was only 20 or 40 meters from the shore, leaving for a small lagoon that was awash with turbulent water. The swimming here wasn’t very good at all! The water was incredibly clear and warm, though.

Verena was determined to, in her words, “strip off” and enjoy beach topless in the typical German fashion even though it is well known that South Pacific Islanders are very conservative and are offended by such things. Juergen said that it wasn’t a good idea to do it, so I’m pretty sure she did it just because he said not to. Whatever. Pacific Islanders don’t really hang out at beaches anyways and none of them came by. The only people who came by were an old German couple who buzzed in on a motorscooter. That’s kind of surprising considering that there were exactly NINE tourists on the whole island at this time. I guess there’s not many places for tourists to go.

We eventually walked back to the guesthouse and sat on the patio out front for a while. Verena was somewhat mollified and didn’t seem so upset anymore… but clearly wasn’t completely happy. I said I was indifferent to the quality of the guesthouse (I had survived Asia, after all), and wasn’t interested in moving. This seems liked the classic case of a German person always speaking their mind, even if it consisted of negative things, and a British-style person (Canadian and British count as the same, in this aspect) being polite and bottling the negative stuff in. I had never been so aware that I fit this mold before! Anyways, as Verena was still friendly and nice with me, I guess I hadn’t offended her. I’m not evil, it seems!

We enjoyed some of the kiwifruit vodka and continued to sit for a while. This guesthouse is great since it’s located right in the village. You could watch all the local people walk by and see their lives in action. Later, some of the local kids joined us on the patio to hang out. I can’t remember all their names, but among them were Memory, Maya, Joshua, and Mark.

They played with my iPod and camera. It didn’t take long before they tried taking their own pictures, too.

It was really cool to be making friends with the local kids. It ended up being a good Saturday, despite all the dramas on the way.

–
Rob Szumlakowski
Toronto, Ontario, Canada

March 13, 2009 – AGAIN

Today was quite an active day!  I’ve lots to write about!

I didn’t have to leave the Ariana Bungalows until 10 AM and the crowing roosters woke me up around 7 AM, so I had plenty of time for breakfast, instant coffee, reading, writing, and enjoyment of my sweet solitude.  For breakfast, I had this bright and beautiful papaya.

I really did have solitude here. It seemed like there was only one other guest at the bungalows and he seemed busy working as a plumber, so it really felt that I had the whole place to myself. Indeed, it was the low season in the Cooks. No wonder I was able to get such a cheap flight on Air New Zealand to get here. High season was during the winter “Down Under”, which in this context includes both New Zealand and Australia.

I got my ride to the airport’s domestic terminal and checked in for my flight to Atiu, almost 200 km northeast of Rarotonga. The airport was fairly small, mostly open to the outdoors, and had chickens and roosters running around. I was originally scheduled to fly tomorrow, but for whatever reason, Air Rarotonga decided to move my flight forward by one day. Also, for whatever reason, Air Rarotonga decided that my flight should stop at the nearby island of Mitiaro (25 km north of Atiu) before getting to Atiu. My island hopping tour was going to include a free extra island!

There was only one other tourist in the airport waiting area (I’d be hesitant to call it a “waiting room” since it was partly outside) and we soon started talking. Her name was Verena and she was a German now living in New Zealand. By coincidence, she was staying for five days at the same place as me on Atiu and for three days at the same place as me on Aitutaki. That’s pretty random!

The flight was beautiful. Blue skies. Blue seas. Towering fluffy white clouds. A tiny airplane. Along the way to the island of Mitiaro, we flew past the island of Atiu. The island was tiny and I was able to capture it all in one photograph.

My flight in the tiny Embraer Bandeirante airplane was less than an hour. We touched down on the patchy and bumpy asphalt runway on Mitiaro. The airport buildings simply consisted of one shack. We were only on the ground for about ten minutes. I jumped out of the plane and ran to the bathroom — which was consisted of only a dirty concrete outhouse. I marvelled at the fresh sea breezes and tropical flowers. This group of local people were waiting to meet the airplane.

Mitiaro seemed quite nice — even smaller and quieter than the already small and quiet Atiu. I might have to return someday!

Somehow, everyone on the plane was greeted by these people and received necklaces and wreathes made from fresh flowers called ‘eis. A few people disembarked the flight at Mitiaro, and the rest of us piled back into the plane for the remaining ten minute hop to Atiu. The plane was filled with the perfume of fresh flowers. Some people were carrying potted plants to give as gifts to people on Atiu and I had to keep one of them on my lap as we were flying this final hop.

Finally, we landed on the bumpy runway of Atiu. The airport here was, too, little more than a shack.

Flying has lost much of its lustre and adventure for me. I’ve flown on far too many flights! Today’s flights, however, were more of a genuine adventure, so I’ve devoted more writing to them. I hope you enjoyed hearing about them. It was really an exciting time for me.

Juergen, the owner of my chosen guesthouse, the Are Manuiri, greeted Verena and I at the airport. Finally I received my own ‘ei. We drove out in his van, past the harbour — nothing more than a tiny artificial square lagoon enclosed in crumbling concrete walls. There weren’t any ships in it. Juergen told us that this was the best swimming spot on the island. I found that hard to believe, at first. The walls were shear, and the water inside was rough. The waves crashed at the the harbour entrance and sloshed around inside. I’d never want to jump into that (I’m not a good swimmer anyways)! Other local people later confirmed that, indeed, they did swim here. Crazy.

Juergen, a German man who now lives on Atiu, told us that we’d have to boil our own drinking water. I was somewhat annoyed since I assumed we’d be able to drink the rainwater directly. Apparently the plumbing in the house was a bit old and Juergen no longer trusted it. The guesthouse was a quiet place since we were the only two people staying there.

We wanted to go to a shop to check out the wares for sale, but we discovered that they were always closed in the middle of the afternoon. Instead we chilled for a few hours and absorbed the brochures and folders full of information about stuff to do on the island. I found an entertaining book on the bookshelf: “I Nicked Brehznev’s Brick” by Rob Shannon — a Kiwi’s tale of his four years of backpacking trips over Asia, North America, North Africa, and Australia from 1971-1974. He roughed it way more than I did: lots of hitchhiking sleeping on beaches, working, and getting a crazy intestinal parasite in India that almost killed him. My other book, “Idoru”, was put on hold until I finished this one.

Finally, we went to the tiny shop to discover how very little there was for sale. The supply ship was overdue. The whole island was out of flour. There was no produce since everyone grew their own and fruit trees were ubiquitous. Unlike the islands of Rarotonga or Aitutaki, no one owned the fruit trees and any fresh fruit on them or fallen by the roadside was free for the taking. The shopkeeper, Auntie Momo, encouraged us to roam and graze freely, but also promised to stop by the guesthouse in the morning to bring us some fruit.

I’m so happy that I loaded up on food at the supermarket in Rarotonga! I love tropical fruit, but I don’t think I’d be able to live off of it for five straight days. There was only one restaurant on the island, and it was only open for dinner, so that wasn’t a sustainable option.

We did go for a short walk in the afternoon. I saw a cloud that looked like Canada and we saw lots of fruit trees. We discovered the location of some guava and starfruit trees and some bushes with passionfruit in our very own front yard.

Later that evening, Verena and I pooled our groceries together to try and produce dinner. It was very classy: tomato sauce, green beans, and carrots on soba noodles. Partway through the cooking we discovered that that propane bottle fueling the stove ran out and we had to call Juergen to come and bring us more.

Even later, we discovered that we were living in a bit of a zoo. We had to open the windows somewhat to air the place out after the gas bottle replenishment. There were screens on the windows, but they had some holes that opens up when the windows were open so lots of mozzies flew in. We also found a bunch of fat cockroaches (once which I splattered across the kitchen linoleum floor with a book), and a 20 cm long centipede which we crushed and split in twain with a frying pan (definitely a group effort).

Verena was completely freaked out and became very very paranoid. I was annoyed by both the bugs and her wussiness, but I had stayed in dodgier places before, so I wasn’t seriously fazed. We both had some vodka to calm down and chatted and laughed until 2 AM before I shrugged off and went to bed. I think Verena wanted me to stay up as long as I could to keep her mind off of the infestation, but I ran out of steam and had to go to bed.

I had my own room and used the fan to keep the air moving, but it was still pretty warm. Apparently Verena slept with the lights on in her room. The next day she told me that she found some more roaches in the middle of the night, screamed loudly, and bludgeoned them with the frying pan, but I didn’t hear anything… I was sleeping!

–
Rob Szumlakowski
Toronto, Ontario, Canada