I shall return (Rarotonga)

I will certainly miss this view

And we're home again and almost back into routine. I awoke at 5am, contemplated going for a ride and decided against it and got up at 6 to do the banking and read the paper prior to going to the markets. The mundane can be beautiful. The final day in Rarotonga? It went something like this ...

The elusive eggs Benedict remained just that, elusive, quiche was on the menu. The weather had returned to the normal January pattern with showers interspersed by sudden heavy downpours that surprised us like the random rants of a passing drunk. Part of breakfast was spent in Trump-like behaviour attempting to keep the Indian Mynahs out of the dining area. As with Trump's wall I was unsuccessful and the feral bastard made off with a slice of cheese.

It was a major disappointment to see Indian Mynahs here, in fact, they were the bird that appeared to dominate the avian population. I'm certain they would have decimated native bird numbers as they invaded the island. Who would have thought it was a good idea to introduce such an invasive species? A man named Sidney Davis introduced 20 pairs in 1906 to combat insects on his farm. Hindsight is a marvellous thing, as is understanding diversity and ecology and not being a dick. Curiously, we saw no seagulls.

The sign says it all

One of the more unnerving aspects of life on an island such as Rarotonga is cyclone season and tsunamis. Our visit coincided with cyclone season and fortunately we survived unscathed. Evidence of protection against cyclones is evident everywhere, if you look closely. The tiles on the roof of the resort are actually screwed down to prevent wind lifting them off. There are a number of metal brackets adjacent to the sliding glass doors on our balcony to fit the shutters when the cyclone warning is in place. The stories the locals tell of cyclonic destruction and survival in such adverse weather are amazing. Removing all furniture from the ground floor of houses, placing up the shutters and then opening and closing the external doors to allow the wave surge to pass through the house.

Rarotonga has a main road that circles the island like a belt. From this smaller roads and tracks creep up the mountain side, some of which appears to be virgin jungle. On the road side are signs that indicate a tsunami escape route. It's not that complex - head for the mountains, but it provides a level of uncertainty and introspection when you pass such a sign.

Reading your smart phone screen Rarotonga style

10am was check out time and our transfer to the airport wasn't until 12:30pm. Time for a deep tissue massage. Relaxing? Well, not really, but the masochist in me loves them and I always feel better afterwards. Well, a few days afterwards. I'm still feeling it, as the current Toyota ad suggests, mainly in my shoulders.  Worth every grimace.

The airport check-in area was as chaotic as immigration. It was island time, chill, join the queue and be patient. About 30 minutes later we had our tickets and walked up to the departure terminal and went through security screening. By the time we made the plane our passports had been checked three times. Is this super security or just covering up in case some one is a little too relaxed - you make that call.

The plane was the same one we flew over on, an old 777 borrowed from Singapore Airlines because their brand new 787 Dreamliner had some "unscheduled" maintenance. It was more crowded on the return trip and the cabin resembled a pre-school. There were children everywhere, including the seat directly behind me. He made his unhappiness known by kicking the back of my seat on an irregular basis for the first hour or so. I'm not sure if he became bored with pissing off the entire row of people sitting in front of him; or if Jayne's ice-cold stare had the desired effect; or if it was the paralysis curse I placed on his arms and legs; or the smack across the back of his head that was eventually delivered by his mother made him rethink his annoying behaviour. In fact, I don't care, but I was very relieved when he stopped.

In news that will surprise all who know my recent flight track record, we departed early and conditions were so favourable that we were scheduled to land about an hour ahead of time. It wasn't quite an hour but we were home at about the time we should have been taxiing toward a gate. What a time to land in Sydney. It was so uncrowded at immigration we breezed through and straight to the taxi rank where again, there was no queue. If a holiday has to come to an end, and they all must, then this was the way to finish.

As promised, below are the videos from the Polynesian Night. There is a video featuring the girls, one of the boys and the final one is one of the little boy - he was a legend. And, no, the video of me has been permanently sent into the ether. I thought of auctioning it, but decided I needed to maintain my dignity. This has been a long and protracted process to publish these videos, the usual methods were unsuccessful. The solution was to publish on Youtube and provide hyperlinks. Enjoy.

The little dude

The warriors

The women

The title? Of course dear reader. I cheated and googled a song with that name. It's by a band called Gov't Mule. Nope, never heard of them either, but it suited a purpose.

And that my dear reader is it, for the time being. Douglas Macarthur-like I shall return in April for our first trip to Hamilton Island.

Until then

PS Couldn't recommend Flight Centre (Surry Hills) highly enough if you're looking for travel advice. The wonderful Claire who has looked after me for the last few years is moving on, but I'm sure Luvena will be able to assist with any enquiries.

Long Tall Gasses (I can dance) (Rarotonga)

Pretty flowers - nope, no idea.

And just like that, my voracious reader, the penultimate day of our relaxing holiday arrived. The weather, tired of being co-operative and near perfect, decided to behave like a capricious child. It began with wind and light rain squalls, settled down to cloud and then Jayne spoke to it sternly and it returned to perfect behaviour in the afternoon. By this stage we were settled on the balcony, wine glass in hand.

The title today is courtesy of Jayne, it is sarcastic as you will discover. Leo Sayer around 1975 I think.

The story of the day is much like the others. The egg dish for breakfast was an unimaginative omelette. Really? They did omelette a few days ago. Where are the eggs Benedict I ask? Not that I'd eat it anyway. The rain continued intermittently after breakfast. It would stop long enough to lull you into a false sense of security to the point where you began to make plans and then you'd look up and it was raining again.

Peter Morgan's wife, Catherine, offered us some fresh local mangoes this morning. They have been given over a dozen of them and as she rightly notes, you can only eat so many mangoes. Yum.

Mid-morning housekeeping arrived and we decamped to the lounge downstairs and discussed holiday plans for 2020. It is a big year - someone is turning a nice round number and we will be celebrating 40 years of marriage (and they said it would never last). Yes, my numerically inclined reader, Jayne was 10 when we married, I was 11. Tahiti was discussed and I'd be happy to hear from anyone who has visited there. Or from anyone who has other holiday suggestions. Just a warning, cruises of the open sea kind are out. We are cruising from Darwin to Broome later this year as an experiment to see if I can cope being locked in a small space where I have to interact with people. I'm not fond of people.

Herman resting on the chair

It's a long way down

While we were relaxing and discussing holidays the beautiful Rowena brought the lunch menu over and suggested a cocktail. Why not? thought we. Who wants to guess what Jayne had? Hands down. Absolutely no prize for guessing, her 5th consecutive Piña Colada. I had the cocktail of the day, the name of which escapes me; it was an islandy thing with rum and fruit and stuff. We let more time drift past watching Herman attempting to get down from the seat of a chair. I would have marvelled to see him scale the leg. After a few attempts, I helped him down. Couldn't risk him getting a concussion.

There is another wedding tonight, that of Sylvia and Esau (they are Cook Island locals) and the wedding party are joining the guests for dinner at the Polynesian Night. The aisle-mapping coconuts have gone out, the bower is in place and table with photographs placed nearby. The wind has not subsided and the photos keep getting blown off the table. On the plus side, the weather has improved dramatically, the rain has gone and there are sunny breaks - and that is enough to keep my sunburnt legs covered and on the balcony.

The top of the bower

Inspecting the ancestor table

Sylvia walking down the aisle

One of the dancers

The evening's Polynesian feast was very diverse, occupying two buffet serveries and we were encouraged to go back as many times as we wanted - once was more than enough though due to the number and variety of hot and cold dishes - all local cuisine.  After the first course, there was an array of desserts to work through before the cultural performance commenced.

Prior to dinner, we were seated right at the front, adjacent to the dance floor and we decided to commence the night's festivities with the recommended cocktail - a Coconut Rocket, served in a coconut with coconut juice and rum among other ingredients.  Before we could place the order, Rowena inquired what I would be having along with Jayne's Piña Colada.  Jayne feigned being highly insulted that her order would be so predictable and this brought gales of laughter from Rowena as she went to procure the two rockets.  The verdict? Jayne will be returning to the Piña Coladas at the next opportunity.

The Polynesian Night was not dissimilar to the previous cultural night we attended. based on dance and drums. As mentioned, we were a lot closer this time as the pictures and video demonstrate and the noise from the drums was deafening. I felt like I'd been to a rock concert afterwards. They also had a couple of fire-twirlers; one was very good, one was slightly singed.

The drummers

Even the kids can do it

The difference between the performance of the Akirati troupe and that of the Highland Paradise was purely their focus. The latter focussed on the history of the Cook Islands, the former highlighted cultural differences across the islands, there are 15 of them, through dance and costume. There is some excellent video of the evening but I am unable to load it over here. It will be included in my final post.

There was of course ritual humiliation of guests who were forced on to the dance floor. We were warned prior to the performance that 'no' was not an acceptable answer. Unhappily I was selected, my bemused reader. I discovered what I'd always known, white boys have no rhythm. However, in that lack of rhythm there are degrees of non-syncopated movement. I was pleased to discover that I was by no means at the bottom of the rhythm gene pool. And there is video evidence, taken by my now former wife who was vastly amused behind the camera from the safety of the dinner table. And no, my eager reader, that video is not included in this post and will never see the light of day.

The next post will be from Sydney over the weekend, probably Sunday, as I try to retain the warm glow of this most relaxing sojourn. Internet access over here is fine, but you have to pay for it and our access is tied to our room at the resort. While we have ample time at the airport, the tale of the final breakfast, the elusive eggs Benedict, my farewell massage, abject boredom at the airport and the flight home will have to wait a couple of days.

Until Sunday