I Can See Clearly Now - Fiji, Malolo Island, Musket Cove

Let me commence today’s post with an observation, my dear reader. Moustaches. To echo the pathetic attempt to curb social drug taking by the Howard government of the ‘90s, “just say no”. To moustaches. You can make up your own mind on drugs. I’m not your dad, I can’t tell you what to do. To see a young man shuffling in for breakfast, squinting eyes and wearing the exertions of last evening’s festivities across his brow, is confronting enough. When that young man is also wearing a moustache that appears once to have sported waxed ends … no, no, no. It’s enough to put one off the bad coffee one is drinking. This is 2022, not 1922. It may be in fashion but fashion is not always in good taste.

Life has settled into some sort of pattern. Not completely regular and regimented but there is a pattern. Once again, I rose before Jayne to swim laps in the pool. Exercise always allows one to feel righteous. It also excuses any excess at the breakfast table. Today was a carbon copy of the last few mornings - cloudless, with a slight breeze. The pool was empty and the restaurant only slightly more populated by the early breakfast fraternity.

Laps achieved, it was time to shower, dress and return with Jayne for the breakfast dilemma. To omelette or not to omelette, that is the question? No omelette today, but a promise was made to the staff that she would have one tomorrow. There will be no omelette passing these lips. Or any other egg concoction, if I can help it.

We lingered over breakfast, allowing the tide to rise a little higher, in preparation for another assault on snorkelling. Today we opted to walk to the Island Bar, which has become a haven for yachties and other assorted ne’er-do-wells. Think Jane Austen gypsies, but more annoying and not so scary. Our reasoning revolved around the very limited areas of clear water in which to snorkel. If the visibility is low, there is little point being out there, particularly as Jayne is snorkelling without lenses, the contacts being safe and sound in Sydney (along with the Aeroguard). While the goggles have a magnification effect, it is not enough if there is no water clarity.

The breakfast bulbul planning his next attack.

The water closer to the island is a little clearer and we floated our way towards where the vision was best yesterday. Then we turned our attention to the coral that borders the deep-water channel that provides boat access to the marina. It was the clearest we’ve seen. Not brilliant, but very good. There were plenty of different coral varieties and colours. Orange, yellow, iridescent blue, purple and other less vibrant colours and more fish than we’ve seen all week. It was certainly worth the effort today and our 45 minute (self-imposed) time limit in the sun was soon reached.

The water clarity spawned today's title. Yes, dear reader, I know the Hothouse Flowers version is a remake, but it is one of the best versions. Have a listen.

We followed a slow drift back towards the beach in case there was anything else worth seeing. There wasn’t. The sun was high in sky and letting us know it was time to re-occupy the chairs on the verandah to read and relax until lunch/cocktail time.

Our allegiance for cocktails has switched from the Island Bar to the restaurant. There is no particular reason for this except that I am interested in the lunch options to minimise my dinner intake. I think it’s an age thing. For the last two days I have had lunch, coinciding with swimming laps of a morning. The cocktail today was unchanged from yesterday, a Blue Malolo. Jayne opted for the safety of a Pina Colada and I went for the experimental Island Itch. The passion fruit seduced me. Like many a seduction, it didn’t live up to expectations. Or so I’ve been told.

It has been firmly established on this trip, dear reader, that the less one does, the more exhausted one feels. In the mid-afternoon on our last full day, I am struggling to raise myself from the deck chair to walk the 20 metres to the lagoon to cool down. I am uncertain if this is just island malaise or the impact of the cocktail at lunch. It is an effort, but one must succeed.

Post-lagoon exercise, we are back lounging on the verandah. There is a new yacht in at the marina this afternoon and as the day winds down, they are winding up. Why is it people with appalling taste in music feel the need to share that fact with everyone? The music, if it can be called that, is, unlike the water, crystal clear and can be heard quite a distance away. Hoping they shove off soon. (See what I did there?)

A Vanikoro Flycatcher

One of the nice touches of the resort is the hibiscus flowers that are used to decorate the buré. They are placed upon the bed, the bar, the side table on the verandah, the bathroom – just about anywhere there is flat surface. Soaking up the scenery the other afternoon I looked at the grass in front of the verandah area. Hibiscus stamens in various states of decay littered the ground like the cigarette butts of a previous generation. I’ve seen very few people here smoke. We have a coconut ashtray on the verandah that I place the flowers in every day.

Pre-dinner, I summoned the strength to chase tiny little birds. The Fijian Parrot Finch was back in the area and I finally managed to get a couple of reasonable close-ups – I hope. I won’t really know until we’re back home and I’ve loaded the photos onto the computer.

Nailed it.

Our last dinner. Tonight was curry night. As mentioned previously they are obviously following a set program. I don’t get why this can’t be published to the guests. Regardless, dinner was lovely and the sunset stunning. We thought we would celebrate our last night with a relaxing bottle of red after dinner and listen to the local musicians. Well, that was the plan, but nobody came near us all evening. So, no red wine. 

We walked back to the buré where sometime later Jayne suggested someone was at the door. I thought it was the clicking frog until it spoke. Our final bill, minus tonight’s wine, had been delivered. Which also delivered a surprise. We had been moved from the 3:45pm Cat back to Nandi to the 12:15pm trip. That’s a whole lot of wait time at the airport that we hadn’t factored in.

Too tired to discuss this tonight, we opted to leave it for the morning.

Until next time.

Slice of Heaven (Wellington, New Zealand)

It's January. So clearly it's time to be anywhere but Sydney. That's correct my dedicated reader, it's the first vacay of the year. Vacay? Yes, my boomer friend, vacay, it's millennial talk for vacation. Aren't they clever? They saved one whole syllable. So thrifty, the younger generation. Unless it comes to money.

This beautiful flowering tree was everywhere

This morning saw drizzle in Sydney. Exciting, but a tease for the rain that is really needed across the whole state. No, make that country. The holiday blog is usually not too political as you would know my astute reader. However, writing from the seventh state of Australia, aka, New Zealand, in a time of environmental crisis and a leadership void, remaining Jane Austen, bat-shit-boring, might present as a challenge. I will try ... actually, no chance. Therefore, if you qualify as a RWFW*, probably best to leave now. I'll give you a minute ... still here? Ok then.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the Sydney weather. The smoke was supposed to have cleared today. I saw no evidence of that. It was cloudy and there was light drizzle but the smoke seemed to be there. This was later confirmed as we sat in the lounge at the airport and again as we took to the air. I have lived in Sydney, or thereabouts, for almost 60 years and I can never recall such putrid air quality or such devastation as a result of bushfires. Generally, we get smoke haze in autumn, for a couple of days, when the RFS and National Parks' people are conducting hazard reduction or back-burning operations. Oh, wait. That's not possible. Because apparently the current fires are because we don't back-burn, according to the RWFWs. However, we haven't really seen the sun or blue sky in Sydney for over a month.

Sorry, sorry, I'll get back to the vacay. But, imagine if NZ was the seventh state and Jacinda was our PM. AWESOME!

I like this guy's attitude. And the blue sky.

We landed in windy Wellington after a very pleasant and uneventful flight. Lunch was lovely as was the accompanying champagne and wine. Service was professional and friendly, cheers Qantas. The only thing missing when we landed was the wind. There was a breeze, but not wind, and it was quite pleasant, around 18°. We picked up the car - a Corolla, with GPS. Wait, I ordered a GPS - oh ... yeah ... best to take the portable GPS too, in case the one in the car doesn't work. Nice. For them. The GPS worked. Why wouldn't it in a brand new car? Hertz, we need to talk.

A reasonably benign drive to the Sofitel despite the GPS trying to take me around the block. That's twice in two weeks now and in different countries. They might have a nice, polite, British voice, but they can't be trusted.

Bags dropped. Car valeted (is that a word?). Room surveyed. Time to hit the capital of NZ. Wow, that didn't take long. We were back at the hotel in 15 minutes. Come on, I'm joking. Five minutes walk placed us at the waterfront, where all the action takes place in Wellington. Maybe. Maybe not. I'm not judging. 

Sea urchins. I get it.

What I did see were far too many people jogging with backpacks. Surely they weren't running home? And far too many people on scooters. Not children. Adults, on electric scooters. Well, some of them were old, but they clearly weren't adults.

The foreshore area is quite pleasant. It was sunny, a little breezy, cool, blue sky. Anyone from fire-ravaged parts of Australia would be rapt. A tourist and/or afterwork mecca for a meal and a drink. There were plenty of bars and eateries. And people jogging and scootering, but I think I mentioned that. Aside from the distracting people there are sculptures dotted around the area, some obvious in intent, others not so much, but they add to the general vibe. 

The fall of Rome?

Fashions were interesting. Either there are a lot of Canadians here on holiday (sorry, eh) or the locals all wear shorts and t-shirts. They tended to contrast with the puffy jackets and sou'westers, scarves and beanies.

The wander around town revealed the usual global businesses, so there is no need to name them. But, if you wanted to have really shit American coffee made by a mermaid you could do that. Equally, you could shop at Australia's number one department store, because there is no other store like ... You get the picture.

After the initial reconnoitre of the waterfront, we returned to choose a place for dinner. There were plenty of options, but given the food we had in the lounge in Sydney and then on the plane and the time difference, we weren't really that hungry. Although we knew we'd have to eat something.  The choice was the Crab Shed. Be adult, don't think that. Anyway, if you're a Kiwi, it's pronounced Creb Shid. However, there was a 30 minute wait for the table. So, no crabs for us. Tonight at least. 

The view from the hotel window. It's hilly.

Eventually we sought shelter from the breeze at Portofino, an Italian place that offered a wide menu, an interesting wine list and a very loud waitress. Tonight, though, it was to be three entrées to keep body and soul together. With a robust rosé from Gisborne. Nice.

Then back into the breeze and the growing dusk to walk up the hill back to the hotel to plan tomorrow's activities. Well, that part is Jayne's responsibility. My work is done, almost, I still have to vet the photos.  And I did manage to get us here. Oh, yeah, and then there is the blog, which I am concluding now as I drink a nice cup of tea. True story.

Oh! I almost forgot to reference the song title for this post. Is there any other way to commence a vacay in heaven? Slice of Heaven, the 1986 eminently hummable hit song by NZ legend Dave Dobbyn. If you haven't heard it click here. Sorry about the ads.

At this infant stage of the holiday, I make the bold statement that ALL titles will be songs from Australian bands/musicians from the seventh state. Let's face, the choices are almost endless: Crowded House, Split Enz, Mi Sex, Dragon, Shihad, Flight of the Conchords, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts, Wilde and Reckless ... what? You haven't heard of the last two bands. Talk to Dr Google.

Until tomorrow.

* rightwing fuckwit

Fire or I'm on Fire (Rarotonga)

A yellow poinciana, stunning

Today dawned, apparently, my understanding reader, I was still asleep, so I didn't see it. It must have been the excitement of the cultural show last evening, or the pending cocktail party this evening, or the sunburn on the back of my legs. Ever careful with sunscreen in climes such as these, I forgot the back of my legs before yesterday's snorkelling adventure. Not to worry, pink is such a beautiful colour.

While we are on the topic of sunscreen, I would like to call out the claims on the packaging. Both varieties we have are 50+, both claim 4 hours water resistance and both claim they are non-greasy. Well, the last point might be personal opinion, but I call bullshit on the other two. At the cricket, we applied sunscreen at every break, every two and a half hours and didn't get burned. Bonus. A pity we lost the game and the series. In the water yesterday for less than an hour and a half and I got burned. Not even close to their 4 hour advertising limit.

I am feeling a bit Jane Austen today, I'm sure you'll understand why, my Austen-loving reader. I don't mean in the sense that I'm sitting in damp stone room waiting for the rain outside to stop or the fire inside to warm-up while I do tatting, thinking carefully about prospective partners that may keep me in the manner to which I would like to be accustomed. No. In that Austen sense that nothing remarkable is likely to happen today but I shall write about it in minute detail anyway. Hopefully my blog won't be discovered years hence and used to torture school children and undergraduates in the same manner Austen's bat-shit boring scribblings were.

Sorry, I digress. I know you must be wondering how they cooked the breakfast eggs today. Sunny side up with a chorizo sausage; I wonder if Ms Austen ate them like that. It's back to the fruit and yoghurt for your correspondent.

One of the ancient gods - that is all.

An exhibit - I have no idea

Post breakfast we walked down to the Te Ara Museum which is situated about a ten minute walk from where we are staying. It is not the Museum of London and I'm sure they hold more original artefacts from the island than the Islanders themselves, particularly given the arrival of the London Missionary Society. The use of the term 'museum' is a bit of a stretch. Rather it was a short history of the habitation of the Cook Islands. There were a couple of exhibits, a series of aquariums showing different types and stages of reef development and a video of a recalcitrant girl who was attempting, (spoiler alert) unsuccessfully, to deny her tribal heritage. While it was interesting, they could have done so much more with a few artefacts from the past, carvings, small statues, models of the vaka (canoes) and explanations of their purpose. There were plenty of these available at the Saturday market.

The sunburnt skin was creating new shades of pink on our legs by the time we walked back to the resort. The only option to reduce the heat was heading back into the lagoon, after we had applied more sunscreen to our bodies than Nathan Lyon puts on his head. The water seemed warmer today and the cooler currents were sparse and we floated up and down the stretch of beach beside the resort. Unlike the locals we managed about 30 minutes in the water before wrinkling skin forced us back onto land. We have watched the locals in the lagoon from our balcony and some have spent just about all day in the water, seriously, only returning to shore to make their way home.

One of the more curious customs appears to be that each family has their own private burial area. Generally these appear to be on family land, close to the house, but not always. There are some that are on their own with no dwelling nearby. I have wanted to photograph one, but it seemed disrespectful in a way. Most of the burial sites are adorned with flowers, some have a roof over the area, some are just fenced off from the rest of the yard. I guess this care and concern for the dead aligns with the importance of their ancestry. Some of the islanders we have met are able to trace their lineage back to the 1300s and the king at the time. The headstones are interesting too, they contain the story of the person and their involvement or position in the community.

One of less showy burial areas - this was in a front yard

While waiting for the bus yesterday we discovered the filling station. These are spread around the island because although the water is filtered, it is not really of drinking quality. I have been drinking about 3 litres a day at $5.50 from the local store or $12 at the resort. Mid-afternoon I grabbed my empty bottle and walked down to the filling station and re-filled my bottle. A couple more days and I will have paid for one of Jayne's Piña Coladas.

By then it was cocktail time. Jayne confirmed her lack of adventure by having yet another Piña Colada and I had the cocktail of the day. I have no idea what it was called or what was in it, but it was delightfully refreshing and paired nicely with our lunchtime snack, or bar food, as it would be called in Sydney. Then of course it was time to rest and read. After my diatribe about the English and the destructive nature of christianity yesterday I was much amused by the opening pages of my next book, Three Cheers for the Paraclete, by Thomas Keneally. The early pages have a priest delivering a sermon about how christianity killed eros. Synchronicity, I'll bet Jane Austen couldn't top that.

The cocktail party wasn't well named. There wasn't a cocktail in sight. There was plenty of wine, beer and food and maybe 6 or so couples. We were given a talk about the resort and the island and had the opportunity to chat to other guests, where we learned about another great snorkelling site. That is on tomorrow's agenda, weather permitting, but the forecast is not promising.

After several Wolf Blass sparkling white wines accompanied by arancini and spring rolls, we wandered off in the direction of the Night Markets. These are purely markets at which you buy food to eat there and then. Anything I'd read about the markets talked of crowds, lack of parking, getting in early in case the food is gone, coming back another night because you saw something else that looked delicious. Nuh. Maybe it's the off-season, it is January and July is the peak season. There were more food options at the Saturday market in town. Parking was an issue, there were cars everywhere, but that was a reflection of the narrow road and lack of available places to park; not that we were concerned, we walked. The crowd was non-existent and there were no queues. There was nothing that particularly attracted us so we went to the shop next door and bought a bottle of wine to share on the balcony.

And finally my patient reader to today's title. Both songs were written by Bruce Springsteen, although The Pointer Sisters made Fire a hit. It is a suitable title, but given the attempts by the amateur fire-twirlers I thought I'm on Fire more apt. It was a close run thing at one point.

The balcony proved a wise decision because, as we were whiling away the hours enjoying the breeze and cooler night air, a group departed the island in the lagoon. Their canoes had lights underneath them, I assume to watch the nightlife beneath the surface. They landed very close to us and the fire-twirler we watched from afar the other evening was now putting on a show for us. A few of his guests made an attempt at twirling the fire and not incinerating themselves with varying degrees of success. Feelings moved from amazement to amusement to significant concern depending on who was holding the blazing stick.

Not great quality, but you get an idea of fire-twirling

Until tomorrow

We may never pass this way again (Cinque Terre)

And so today Jayne went, what, in Australia, we would call bushwalking. More on that later, but I'm still laughing, in a supportive way. It certainly gave us today's title, a nifty little number by Seals and Croft from 1973. They are not a patch on Australia's only true, legendary R&B band, Stylus, ahhh, much love from the '70s.

They say, whoever 'they' are, that New York is the city that never sleeps. Well, perhaps 'they' are not so well travelled, because Riomaggiore definitely does not sleep. We pulled stumps around 11:30pm and they were still kicking on and I heard them into the morning. Mind you, they sleep a little later, but only a little. The bottle bins were being emptied at first light. It was like the recycling truck out the front of our house in the old days when they only did recycling once a month. Lots of crashing, breaking glass.

Eventually I prised myself from the bed and turned my thoughts to breakfast. No fresh OJ today but the coffee was awesome and the focaccia was, well, more than enough. Then it was through the tunnel to the train station and crowds. They are lemming-like, the crowds. Get to the platform and stop and stand there blocking access for everyone else. If only there was a cliff I could direct them toward ... hmmm. Now that's a thought.

The train arrived and half of Asia alighted, eyes glazed, focused on a tour flag. DO NOT stand between them and the tour flag dear reader, that is a death-defying act. One could easily be trampled. It is almost as terrifying as a Jane Austen character encountering a gypsy (or an erection). At least gypsies existed in Austen's time, the latter just caused one to feel flushed.

I digress. The train is quite unremarkable from a vista perspective because most of the journey between the 'five lands' is in tunnel. An engineer might view this very differently, however, for me it is just darkness and being trapped with people with whom I would choose not to die. One could grow mushrooms there.

Monterosso beach

Monterosso from part way up the mountain

We travelled the length of 'Cinque Terre' to Monterosso Al Mare through the other towns (yes Maz, I said hello to Manarola for you). Monterosso was certainly larger than Riomaggiore despite what the Lonely Planet guide says - I'm not sure what they use as their yard stick for 'largest'. The town features private beaches of black sand and multi-coloured umbrellas - no stones in sight. It seems very uncrowded - that is, until you hit the "historic town centre" and that's when you know you are in Cinque Terre.  Monterosso is not the photoshoot destination of the five lands - in fact the other lands tried to kick it out of the club in the 1940's. But it is picturesque and affords one of the two still available stretches of the original "goat track" hiking experience - the Sentiere, that originally was the only way to get from village to village, pre-TrenItalia. You used to be able to walk from Riomaggiore to Monterosso but landslides took out significant portions of the track and now you can only walk between Monterosso, Vernazza and Corniglia.  The rest you either have to train it or ferry it (today however, the ferry was suspended due to swell... they should try the Rottnest Island run to see what real swell is!)

Same again

Anyway, Jayne suggested we do the walk from Vernazza to Corniglio.  I suggested that doing the first stretch from Monterosso to Vernazza might be better because Corniglio, unlike the other four towns of the Terre is set up on the cliff away from the water. Even arriving by train you need to climb 377 steps to the town from the station. In Jayne's terms, that's more than the climb to the top of the L'Arc de Triomphe in Paris - and that is her benchmark.

Alora, we set out for Venazza. OMG. OK, I'm happy, I'm walking, the scenery is to die for, but the path is steep, like seriously steep and the steps aren't that solid or secure. I'm worried for Jayne - think 2012 dear reader and if you are new to my blog, the posts from Paris of that year. We left Monterosso and up and up and up we went. We met another couple of Aussies on the climb. One lady who was a part of a tour group and eschewing lunch with the crowd and a single young guy who was enquiring about the cost of the walk and where you pay.

I was trying to remember Jayne's description of the walk from yesterday; this climb didn't seem to be in keeping with what we had discussed. It was well-trodden and well-sign posted, but the markers were all red, I recalled Jayne talking about a blue track. Up and up we went. At one point we paused for breath and water and the view. I looked across at Jayne whose face now bore a striking resemblance to the track markers and said, "This was your idea and I still can't believe you suggested it." In all my years bushwalking, Jayne has accompanied me once and that was before Cait was born!

I told you it was steep - yep, that's Jayne.

The track continued to wind up the mountain side and we continued to play leap frog with other walkers. I was most annoyed with the lack of walker etiquette. Several times I stepped aside when I saw people walking towards to me because the track was too narrow in parts to allow anyone to pass safely. Only to have people from behind me just walk past and cause the oncoming walkers to stop for them.

Despite Jayne's glowing visage and huffing and puffing, she did extremely well and we either kept pace with or passed people who were younger than us. Although at one drink stop, Jayne did remark, "And I had to pay to do this". Despite the heat, humidity and significant level of exertion required to complete the track, we remained Australian and did not succumb to the European need to remove your shirt. This is clearly an unisex affliction as we saw a number of young ladies walking in their bras, carrying their shirts and many, many more shirtless men. Many of them should have taken into account other walkers and left their shirts on.

Vernazza.

We saw some interesting sights. People with inappropriate foot wear for the length of the walk and the grade of the track. People who were obviously ill-equipped to do such a walk in the heat of the day and weren't carrying water, although one man did carry one of his shoes. Significantly overweight people who should have been sitting in the shade somewhere. A girl on crutches - seriously.

Along the track, we came across two separate entrepreneurs: the first had set up a drinks and and other refreshments station, catering to walkers who were about to expire. He was squeezing oranges. Not sure what the mark-up was but the monopoly ensured significant recompense for any exertion in getting the wares up the track in the first place.

The second industrious marketeer was selling... jewellery of all things - not sure what business he was doing since earrings do not, in my book, fall in the category of essentials on a taxing walk but he had carted the stuff up there, table and all, so presumably he thought he had a market.

The estimated time for the walk was two hours - we did it in an hour and 40 minutes. Just as we were walking into Vernazzo, a medical officer was heading up the track to save some ill-prepared person.

Vernazza harbour

Finally we were in Venazza and went in search of a bar and two large beers. While there were plenty of bars, they were all packed and I had no intention of squeezing into a seat in the sun. Our search took us back to the train station so we caught the next train back to Riomaggiore and two large cold draught beers, in the shade away from the crowds.

Once we had returned home, Jayne reread the walk descriptions to discover to her disgust that we had, in fact, walked the red track, not the blue track - the one 90% of walkers tackle. The red track we had completed was designated for experienced walkers and therefore only attracted 10% of the foot traffic.

Our hosts had recommended a particular restaurant but suggested that we would need to book. The earliest sitting we could get for dinner was 9:30pm and that is usually past my bedtime. We declined the offer and found another place at 7pm. A group of young Aussies arrived just after us and Jayne was sure she knew one of the boys in the group. If he recognised her he didn't let on, so we continue our journey not officially having seen anyone from home (that we hadn't organised to see).

Arty shot of a flower.

Warning: the following scenes may offend some readers. The night proved to be even noisier than the previous one. You would know dear reader that I don't often identify groups of people by country of origin. I prefer you to apply your own racial profiling, but I am about to make an exception. If I had any idea where those ridiculously bloody loud Americans that woke us up at 2:30am were staying, I would have dropped in early this morning to say hello. And then hold pillows over their faces until they turned blue and stopped struggling. Inconsiderate morons.