My Air New Zealand flight touches down before sunrise, Rarotonga airport's hilly backdrop barely visible, but by God is it warm. Due to lack of blank pages in my considerably dog-eared passport, I'm grateful that the immigration staff are kind enough to stamp a non-blank page. Hoorah!
Esther Rantzen asks me to help her find her bag, and I wonder if I might have hit my head without remembering.
A short minibus trip takes me and a couple of others to the beach front hostel, where we arrive in time to see sunrise clouded out by some heavy rainclouds. As reception wasn't scheduled to open for a couple of hours, I nipped to the nearby shops to buy some water, consider a pawpaw, and wonder why all the imported biscuits from New Zealand are quite so odd.
Don't believe me? Three words. "Milk Chocolate Afghans".
It turns out that the hostel doesn't have a reservation for me, I assure them they are wrong, and find it inexplicable that they know my name considering that I apparently haven't spoken to them before. Luckily, there is room available in a small shed-sized bungalow a stones throw away from a sharpened crowbar sticking out of the ground for husking coconuts. Getting tired.
I'm falling asleep at the computer for the first time since leaving work - and decide to supplement my day with a little adventure, taking one of the complimentary, decrepit bicycles for a ride to one of the few places that is recommended for snorkelling. Quite keen to get the right place, as other people have been dragged out through the reef (painful) by strong currents. Amusement reins as my snorkelling buddy from the hostel is repeatedly attacked by a small but belligerent little triggerfish, and I discover that it is possible to laugh with a snorkel on your face. Later, I open (read - destroy) a coconut with a subtle mix of crowbar and axe.
Scuba snacks
By my second day in Rarotonga, it's clear that three weeks here is a quite preposterous length of time. I find flights on the web that will get me to New Zealand and back for about 200GBP, and cycle up to the dive school to book myself onto a four-day PADI scuba diving course. The cost is half what it would have been to do it at home, plus this way the chances are I might see some real life fish, and not just revel in silent delight as used plasters float tantalisingly close to someone(else)'s mouth.
Put a map in front of me, and I will plan a trip. Even if I'm talking to you whilst I'm looking at the map, you don't have my full attention - merely enough to hold the conversation. That's the way it is. With feet up, relaxing after my swim, I consider my itinerary for the seven months ahead - New Zealand - Australia - Laos - Vietnam - Cambodia - China - Burma - India (whilst it's a little cooler) - and why the devil not! Kyrgyzstan - TajikistanUzbekistanTurkmenistan and a boat to Azerbaijan... GeorgiaArmeniaIran&Dubaiandthenhome!! Deep breath. Suddenly eight months isn't enough, but I'm strangely assured with the prospective addition of a few obscure destinations to the plan. Somehow it's more like my trip again.
As things turn out, I'm the only person on my diving course - and I'm happy for the one-to-one tuition. My mind is immediately put to rest when I ask about sharks in the Cook Islands, "you could slash your wrists and you'd not see one". Theory fills the morning, and in the afternoon I'm blindly fumbling and upside down in about 3 feet of water, tangled in neoprene and diving gear and struggling to fulfil the seemingly straightforward task of just paddling along the bottom of a swimming pool. Day two sees more theory, and kneeling at the bottom of a 3.2m pool and retrieving a lost mask and mouthpiece, and putting them both back on. I find this easier than doing the necessary skin dive, though if I can do everything else the course demands, there's not a lot going to hold me back for long.
I awake the next day from yet another football-related dream, QPR beating Chelsea soundly. I wolf down some toast and half a dozen sea-sickness pills in anticipation of my first open-water dive down to 12m. After about five minutes of that I somehow manage to float back to the surface, and decide that I need more weights. Day two, and I've completed my first dive to 18m - vomiting triumphantly over the side of the boat as we return to land, and once again whilst bobbing about in the water, desperate to descend to the sea bed where things would be calmer. Hopefully I wouldn't have to discover what you're meant to do if you need to be sick at the full depth of 18m, knowing that if I panicked - I was fucked. At that depth, you need a three minute safety stop at a depth of three metres before returning to the surface - or you'd probably get the bends and die. I'm amazed at my control, and incredibly proud of myself to have completed the course - which really was something that a few years ago, I don't think I ever would have even thought about attempting.
My seasickness was that severe, that I was very serious in considering whether I should scrap my trip to Pitcairn Island, which I knew was a three day boat journey. I'd already paid a deposit, planned my entire trip around it, and heard it call me for four years... I hate the sea.
Aitutaki
Air travel is wonderfully relaxed in this part of the world. Although I'm up early in order to pack up my floordrobe, I'm directed to the fireman at the airport - who lets me leave my big rucksack with him whilst I take some time out from my travels for a relaxing holiday. Rarotonga International airport's resident chicken struts his stuff as the breeze drifts through the open sides of the building, and I make the short walk across the runway to the the 34-seater Saab 340 jet. The flight is spectacular, the view of Rarotonga - which, being volcanic, is far from the sandy, palm-fringed paradise you would imagine - over and down into the Aitutaki lagoon. Get a window seat on the left hand side of the plane.
Mango. Coconut. Guava. Quite a welcome to my night's accommodation. Huge lizards strut the walls, and I go for a walk. The place is wonderful. Relaxed. Beautiful. The main road, lined with hibiscus and scented jasmine, led me past the oldest church in the Cook Islands. Past giant crabs dashing for cover. Into a shop for some sort of cup-a-soup, which I later cook for myself in a large silver bowl. I chuckle to myself at my rather Dickensian supper.
The next day I am the first to arrive on the boat for the lagoon cruise. The captain, a man of style, talent, and... well, his name was Leo too. I was made honorary second-in-command for the day, and considered the captain's daily routine compared to mine... almost horizontal in his chair, guiding the wheel gently with his feet, whilst strumming a small ukulele. The lagoon is paradise. Warm water lapping gently as we make our stops for snorkelling... wandering around one of the small islets... and taking a delicious lunch of pan-seared tuna, breadfruit salad and chips, and fresh mangoes.
A beautiful, beautiful place. Sublime.
Please check out more of my photos on Flickr/Ovi/more to follow:
No comments:
Post a Comment