August 2010

–
Rob Szumlakowski
Toronto, Ontario, Canada

“Are Manuiri” simply means “the guesthouse” in the Cook Island Māori tongue. Juergen, the owner had left a tin of the Atiu Coffee he produced on his own tiny plantation. It was very tasty stuff and I enjoyed it each day so far. That morning, though, we had consumed the last of it. We made some faint pleas over the telephone to Juergen and his wife Andrea to bring us some more, but it never came. Alas.

There were, actually, two different producers of coffee on Atiu: Juergen’s “Atiu Cofee” and a locally-owned operation, Mata’s “Atiu Island Coffee”. Although they both bought hand-picked the coffee berries from their own tiny plantations, Juergen uses some kind of machinery to process his beans and Mata’s is done all by hand. Since they were technically competitors, none of the documentation or hand-out maps at the guesthouse mentioned the existence of Mata’s coffee. My Lonely Planet guidebook and the other villagers knew the truth and pointed out the location of Mata’s place for us.

Mata, herself, was on the mainland (i.e.: the small island of Rarotonga) to visit other family, but her niece was there to show us around their operations. Some of their equipment had Government of Canada stickers on it. In fact, it looked like the Canadians had made many donations of stuff to the Cook Islands. I had already seen bus stops (although there is no bus that runs on Atiu) and tennis courts that must have been constructed with Canadian foreign aid dollars. Yay for us! It is odd, though, that an island with a population of only 500 people had at least five tennis courts… and I never saw anyone play tennis. Perhaps we could have spent our foreign aid dollars more wisely?

Mata’s operation seemed very basic. This derelict stove, covered with ashes, was used to roast the beans. I learned that they mixed coconut cream with the beans. Very interesting!

Coffee Bean Roaster

I bought a packet of the coffee to take home. I couldn’t wait to try it, but I had to wait several weeks. Once I did try it, I discovered that it was really amazing. Possible the best coffee I ever had. I do not exaggerate. It’s too bad that the level of production is so tiny. They only export the coffee to the island of Rarotonga. You can’t get it anywhere else. The low level of production is certainly one of the reasons that the coffee is so good, though. The secret ingredient is always love.

After stopping at the general store to get some ice cream (it has been literally DAYS since I had ice cream and I needed it bad), I went to the guest house and chilled out for a few hours before Fabian and his friend Eddy came by on their motorscooters to take me to he cave. Verena was considering going, but chickened out. A lot of things frightened her, it seems. She was attacked by dogs twice while visiting islands in the South Pacific (once on the island of Savai in Samoa and somewhere in French Polynesia). The dogs on this island intimidated her, too.

Anyways, the cave we went to wasn’t listed in the guidebook or on any of the maps in the guesthouse. Fabian told me that it was on his own family’s land. The land, of course, consisted of overgrown jungle, far from the village. We rode there on motor scooters (they just called them motos). I sat on the back of Fabian’s. There was no way I’d be able to negotiate the muddy, slippery, bumpy, rut-filled roads myself (especially considering that the only time I tried to drive a scooter myself I crashed into some bushes). These guys knew what they were doing.

We had to walk for about three minutes through the jungle and over a old stone wall to reach the cave. It was less of a cave, and more of a sinkhole, filled with cool fresh water. We had to climb down over some rocks to get access. We could jump off of these same rocks and splash into the water below. I don’t know how deep the hole was. I jumped many times and I never touched the bottom. Fabian seemed to amuse himself by making the biggest splash that he could. Here’s a picture of Fabian at the top of the cave.

Fabian and his Cave

That night, Verena and I walked back to the tumunu (the bush beer drinking session). Many many years ago, after the Christian missionaries banned the drinking of kava (which is still drunk in places like Fiji, Samoa, and Tonga), the locals started to make their own “homebrew” and started meeting in the jungle to drink it away from the prying eyes of their new European overseers. The homebrew was contained in simple white buckets and served from a small cup made from a coconut shell that was passed around. It was yummy! They didn’t officially ask for payment, but accepted a $5 donation to help cover the costs.

After the tumunu and some dinner at the guesthouse, Fabian and Marin came by to hang out on the patio to serenade us again with the ukelele and the human beat box. They put on a good show and I recorded some videos with my camera.

Today was mostly a nothing day.

I was kind of tired of Verena and wanted some time to hang out by myself. She went on a long four of five hour walk. I stayed behind to read and work on my journal. I also went and visit Andrea (Juergen’s wife) at the Atiu Fiber Arts Studio to look at the weavings. Weaving is one of the traditional handicrafts practiced in the Cook Islands. The quilts are called tivaevaes and were made with tapa fiber in the past. Andrea uses more contemporary materials in hers, though. She used to have some of the local women working with her, but they left to concentrate on their families. The artwork was really good so I did something very outlandish and purchased one for myself, entitled the “Hurricane of Fish”. This tivaevae now hangs in my living room above my couch.

Inside the Atiu Fiber Arts Studio

If Verena were there, she’d probably complain that I was supporting the “pa’anga (white people) oppressors”. Bah! I wasn’t convinced that Juergen and Andrea were as evil as she says they were. Yes, they were business people and stingy as a consequence, but I didn’t think they were nasty dictators.

True, it might have been nicer to actually buy a tivaevae produced by a Cook Islander. These items were in short supply. Rumour had it that sometimes you could find old tivaevaes at garage sales on Rarotonga, but that’s tricky. It was a dying art. Andrea was trying to keep it going and I respected that.

The rest of the afternoon was quiet. Verena came back and we finished the vodka. We had more breadfruit for dinner.

Fabian came by to take us to a sunset bonfire he planned for us on the beach. Verena was afraid to ride the motoscooter in the dark so we walked for forty minutes to get to the beach. Five minutes after we left, Fabian asked me if we had any matches. We didn’t, but I offered to go back to the guesthouse to get some. Fabian told me to not bother since Eddy was going to bring some. Fair enough.

Eddy never came, though. Fabian’s lighter seemed to be out of fuel, so we never had the bonfire. Ha ha… oops.

The stars were beautiful, however. Fabian played his ukelele for us and we sang some songs. He also joked that the little hut on the beach was made my the contestants of Survivor just last week (Survivor was actually on the neighbouring island of Aitutaki, not Atiu!). I said, if it was, we should burn it down. We had no way of making fire, though. Doh.

I got bored after a while so we made the long walk back. I was pretty tired and went right to bed upon our return at 10:30 PM. It was my last night on Atiu. Tomorrow I was departing for Aitutaki!

Now see here, I’m not in the business of writing restaurant reviews. My professional interests are in other areas. I am very enthusiastic about food, travel, and photography, however. So, let’s call this blog post a “restaurant experience” rather than a “restaurant review”.

I went to the restaurant. Someone opened the door for me. Woah, this place was classy. I had considered changing into t-shirt and shorts at the hotel. It’s a good thing I didn’t and was still wearing my nice shirt, jeans, and shoes that I wore to the office that day. Close call, that one.

I was offered a seat inside the dining room or on the fine patio. It was rather humid out, so I opted to stay indoors. I decided to order the Pan Seared Scallops & Fresh Bacon with sea scallops, slow smoked fresh bacon, English pea Carolina risotto, housemade pepper jelly. I also ordered my new official deep south cocktail: a mint julep (which I really hope isn’t considered a girl’s drink!).

Mint Julep

After only a couple minutes, my waitress brought out some freshly baked biscuits with some whipped butter on the side. One of them was corn bread. Both were still warm. These were great. Fresh bread is one of my favourite foods. It’s so simple and so comforting.

Freshly Baked Biscuits

My service was very prompt and the waitress was very friendly and checked on me often. Since I was taking so many pictures and eating by myself, I started feeling uneasy. Did they think I was writing a restaurant review? Oh well, I wasn’t about to stop taking pictures. I had just bought a new lens for my camera and was having fun playing with it.

After only about five more minutes, my main arrived. This dish looked great. The scallops were, indeed, nicely seared. I had expected, perhaps, the scallops to be wrapped in bacon. Instead, they were resting on a long piece of thick bacon. The bacon was grilled with the slightly-sweet red pepper jelly. All of the meat was served on a bed of fine risotto with sweet corn and topped with some fresh greens. I ate this part of my meal very slowly — carefully dissecting it and savouring each bite. I tried different bits in different combinations. Although each part was good on its own, it was fun to experiment trying two or more parts at the same time.

Pan Seared Scallops and Bacon

My waitress asked me if I’d like more bread. I declined since I wanted to save space for dessert. I had a hard time choosing between the pecan pie, the chocolate terrine and the cinnamon-raisin bread pudding. I had no idea which to choose. I needed to ask the waitress for a recommendation. When she back, right away she said that the pecan pie was a “must have”. I didn’t even have to ask. She was on the ball! The pecan pie was ordered.

I didn’t make a mistake. This pie was delicious. I’d have been nuts to order one of the other desserts. Topped with a generous dollop of vanilla ice cream, this pie made me feel like I was in heaven.

The Signature Pecan Pie

A man came out to ask me how my meal was. I think he was the owner. Shortly later, wen the waitress brought me the bill, she politely asked me why I was taking pictures. I explained that I was enthusiastic about food and photography and I was traveling here and felt like I had to document meal. I further explained that I felt a bit self conscious. I thought that they thought I was a reporter or writer who was doing a review of the restaurant. She told me not to worry about it: lots of people came in there to take pictures of their food! Ha ha!

–
Rob Szumlakowski
Atlanta, Georgia, USA

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.

Beach Feast

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!

Coffee Berries

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!

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 :)

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:

Coral Macro Shot

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.

Beach

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.

Kids!

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

Patio Party

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

A couple of weeks ago, I visited one of the health food shops in Kensington Market. I had a craving for tempeh. I hadn’t had it in a while. None of the shops in my neighbourhood (Yonge and Eglinton) seem to carry it. As such, I picked up a couple packages and brought them home.

I have randomly tried to prepare tempeh while traveling. I didn’t really know what I was doing and usually just fried it to enjoy its simple flavour: denser and meatier than tofu; maybe a little nuttier. I know I could do better once I was armed with my own kitchen. What was I to do? I asked Janet for recommendations. She confessed that she’s never tried tempeh before. Oh my! She’s a clever one, though, and was still able to make some suggestions for me. This recipe for Maple Grilled Tempeh looked very intriguing to me. Since I don’t have any maple syrup (what kind of weak Canadian am I, anyways?) or rice vinegar, or a proper grill to cook these on, I decided to adapt the recipe and created the marinade listed below.

Oh wow! These were tasty! They were bursting with flavour!

The first time I had these, I had some parathas and steamed broccoli on the side, which is very typical for me. I didn’t choose the broccoli for its complementary qualities to my tempeh; but simply since I usually have some in the fridge and it’s my favourite vegetable anyways. Parathas are just delicious… period. I might have chosen rice as my starchy side, but I my rice cooker is currently out on loan.

These marinated and fried tempeh pieces were great when they were fresh. As leftovers, however, there was much to be desired. They had dried out and weren’t nearly so flavourful. Eat these fresh, or don’t eat them at all!

The following weekend, I planned on going to Olympic Island with Janet and her friend, Marina, to see Arcade Fire play a show. The concert was really great! This blog isn’t a music blog, though. It’s a food blog. You’re certainly not interested in any concerts.

I’ve read somewhere that tempeh is great as a meat substitute in sandwiches. Now that was my master plan!

We preceded the show with a picnic. The picnic was really great, too! I decided to take on the task of bringing sandwiches by combining the same marinated tempeh with alfalfa sprouts and cucumber on ciabatta bread. In my head, it sounded like a match made in heaven. It worked out just fine! This recipe is not one that I found anywhere. I just thought it would work…. it looks like it did!

Oh. What does “CAT” stand for? Cucumber, Alfalfa, and Tempeh, of course! What did you think it could be?

Ingredients

3 tbsp soy sauce
3 tbsp balsamic vinegar
2 tbsp honey
2 cloves garlic, peeled, crushed, and chopped finely
1 pinch of chili flakes (Aleppo chilies recommended)
1 package tempeh (240 g)
1/2 cucumber, peeled and washed
Alfalfa sprouts
1 load ciabatta bread – or similar

Instructions

1. Mix the soy sauce, balsamic vinegar, honey, garlic, and chili together in a bowl in order to create the marinade.
2. Cut the tempeh lengthwise into two halves. Cut each half into four triangles.
3. Marinate the pieces of tempeh in the marinade for at least half an hour.
4. Fry the tempeh in a non-stick pan on medium to high heat. Spoon the remaining marinade onto the tempeh pieces.
5. Assemble sandwiches with the tempeh, cucumber, and alfalfa sprouts on the bread.

The photos above show the sandwiches with unpeeled cucumber. I later remade one with peeled cucumber pieces and it was much better. That’s why I’ve written this recipe with the peeled cucumber.

Makes four big sandwiches – enough to feed four to eight people.

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.

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.

The Island of Atiu

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 People

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.

Atiu Airport

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

Bah! My alarm woke me up with a start in the middle of a dream. It was way too flippin’ early: 5:50 AM. I skipped the shower. I didn’t put on hair gel. Just deodorant and clean clothes and I was out the door. I must have been some sight. It wasn’t even light out yet! I didn’t even eat! *shock*

My bus to the airport left the city centre of Christchurch at 6:30 AM. This bus was no airport express: simply a local bus. It took half and hour to get there and cost NZ$7.

I checked into my flight. I had a one hour and twenty minute flight to Auckland, starting at 8 AM, followed by a short layover, then a four hour flight to Rarotonga from there. The ticket agent advised me that there probably wouldn’t be a meal on my first flight. That made me sad so I grabbed a coffee, muffin, and sandwich at the airport cafeteria. I felt like I was in such a rush that I didn’t even have time to drink my hot coffee and got them to dilute it with some cold water. How sad. I then went through security, got to the waiting room with a few minutes to spare. Perfect timing…..

Or not! Apparently I didn’t actually look very closely at my ticket since it very clearly said my flight was supposed to leave at 8:40 AM. Idiot! I could have had more sleep… and a shower… and a better breakfast. Alas. Anyways, I picked up a free copy of The Press, Christchurch’s daily newspaper. As always, the coverage of the world news in the NZ media was somewhat poor.

The flight was short and fine. I sat in a window seat. Kristina, a German girl who was staying in the same room as me at Hogwartz, was in the aisle seat of the same row. Some Kiwi guy sat in between us. The three of us talked quite a bit, which is very unusual for me. I’m rarely talkative on flights.

We landed at the Auckland domestic terminal. I exited the terminal and walked 900 metres to the international terminal. Air New Zealand interlined my bag for me, so I didn’t have to carry it. I already had my boarding pass. That’s nice. All I had to do was go straight to security. I visited the duty free shop to buy a 1 litre bottle of 42 Below kiwifruit flavoured vodka for only NZ$48 (CA$33). That’s a great price since 0.5 litre bottles are usually NZ$36 to NZ$44 in regular bottle shops. I also purchased some new moss-top flip flops. Thank goodness… I couldn’t go to any tropical islands without flip flops!

My flight was annoying. The people I was sitting beside were very annoying. I was on an airplane filled with tourists. Oh god. At least the shiny new Boeing 777 plane was kitted out with seatback TVs to entertain me. I watched “Burn Before Reading” (okay), an episode of “The Big Bang Theory”, the Flight of the Conchords HBO special and the episode from season 2 of Flight of the Conchords where Brett and Jemaine become prostitutes.

Part way through this flight, the airplane passed over the International Date Line. Since we were moving eastwards, that meant that the day changed to…

March 12, 2009 – AGAIN

We landed in Rarotonga in the afternoon. The timezone was now six hours BEHIND Toronto instead of eighteen hours AHEAD.

The Cook Islands are the thirtieth country I’ve been to (assuming that Macau and Hong Kong are part of the same country, China, even though I had to use my passport to go between them). I didn’t really count countries very closely before. Thirty is probably more than most people will ever go to. I’m sure I can get many more! Which country will be my fortieth? How long will it take for me to get there? Not any time soon, however. My rate of traveling will surely be reduced in the next few years.

The Cook Islands are a rather obscure place. Perhaps you’ve never even heard of them? The country consists of fifteen small specks of land in the South Pacific Ocean — located approximately between Tahiti and New Zealand. The Cooks are in the same time zone as Hawaii, about the same distance south of the Equator as the Hawaiian Islands are north of the Equator. This tiny country uses the same currency as New Zealand: the New Zealand Dollar.

View Larger Map

I like clicking the zoom out button on the map. It takes many many clicks before you can tell where the Cooks are. It shows how far from the rest of the world they really are.

My plan here: do some island hopping. Rarotonga is the main island — that’s the starting place. Air Rarotonga is the Cook Island’s domestic airline. It flies to many of the individual islands from Rarotonga. It does, however, run one other flight between a pair of islands: Atiu to Aitutaki. So, taking advantage of that flight, I could fly in a triangle and visit three islands.

I had booked a night’s accommodation at the Ariana Bungalows. I had originally booked two nights, but Air Rarotonga decided to change my flight to Atiu to the day before. My initial time on Rarotonga would be very short — less than twenty-four hours. The owner of the bungalows met me at the airport to pick me up. She advised me that since I’m going to the outer islands where there are often shortages I should stock up on food while I’m still on the mainland. It’s funny how the term “mainland” is always relative. In the Cook Islands, the tiny island of Rarotonga (only 12 km long) is called the mainland. All of the other islands in the country are the Outer Islands.

So, we stopped at a supermarket in Avarua (the main settlement on Rarotonga) to stock up on portable, but boring, food. We also stopped at the Telecom office to inquire about purchasing a SIM card for my mobile phone. I decided to not get one since there’s no coverage on the island of Atiu. No +682 phone number for me.

If Rarotonga was a clock, the airport would be at 10 o’clock. Avarua would be at 12. The Ariana Bungalows would be at 1. My airport pickup and dropoff the next morning would cost me NZ$30. It seems a bit dear considering it’s only a twelve minute drive, one-way. I think, though, that the fact that the owner of the bungalows stopped at the supermarket and waited for me to do some grocery shopping was nice. We also stopped on the way at a road-side stand to pick up some papaya.

I actually booked myself my own private bungalow that night. It was expensive, NZ$80 (CA$55), but it was pretty nice. My own kitchen! My own bathroom! My own bedroom! My own patio! Mine! No sharing! The ocean wasn’t nearby, but there was a swimming pool right in front of my bungalow. I went for a bit of a swim and let the jets massage my nethers (tee hee).

The owner showed me a brand new fruit that was in season and was grown all over the Cooks: starfruit! It was called “raparapa” in the local Cook Island Māori language. It was nice, juicy, and had a decent flavour. She said you could eat the whole thing, but the centre had these stringy bits that I didn’t like as much. It’s a decent fruit, but not as good as mango. It was too bad that mango was out of season. Before coming to Rarotonga I was dreaming of the bounty of mangoes that I would eat. Alas, it was not to happen.

Before bed I enjoyed some of my kiwifruit vodka, worked on my journal, played some Nintendo DS and read William Gibson’s “Idoru” for a while. I wasn’t feeling as asocial as I was a couple of weeks ago, but it sure was nice to revel in my own solitude for once, even if I had to pay for it. There were many other people staying at the bungalows, anyways.

–
Rob Sz
Toronto, Ontario, Canada