odysseyone

I’ve mentioned in previous blogs that there are few street names here and no house numbers, so explaining where you live can be a bit of a nightmare. We dubbed our house the Palace but apparently some of the neighbours call it the Muslim house because it looks like it should be in the Middle East, not in the tropics.

I quickly noticed that people here seem to take great pride in understanding your directions and working out where you live, not because they will ever visit, just because they need to know. I get the idea that introducing street names and numbers would ruin locals’ fun trying to figure out exactly which house is yours.

My most frustrating experience so far was when I went to get my local driver’s license. I was already very unimpressed to have to get a local license, which all tourists are required to do if they drive here. It is nothing but a ploy to nab a few extra tourist dollars and I was pretty uncooperative to put it mildly. I thought living here would make it much easier and it would be a simple process of showing them my Australian license and NZD20 and getting a Cook Islands license in return. Wrong. To protest against the lack of street names, I simply wrote my village name Titikaveka on the form and left out our street name (one of the few streets that actually has a name). I felt like I was being interrogated while the woman who processed the licenses held up the line, refusing to process my license until she knew exactly which house I lived in. Being vague didn’t work so I found myself giving directions to my house… ‘second road on the left anti-clockwise past Fruits of Raro, inland side, 3rd house on the right past the watermelon farm, weird concrete house, no it’s not on the back road, no it’s not on the main road either, half way between the two roads, no I don’t know who owns it and sorry, the house doesn’t have a name.’ She was getting increasingly frustrated. Having Justin’s work phone number on the form appeased her just slightly as she recognized the number- most people on the island know it. I think her pride was slightly wounded because she wasn’t able to visualize my house but in the end I got my license. My name was spelled incorrectly so they had to reprint my license. They then spelled the name of my village incorrectly on my second license but I figured if they can’t spell correctly the name of one of their own villages, I couldn’t be bothered telling them. I think my photo aptly shows how frustrating the experience was.

There are plenty of infamous characters on the island that are known to everyone and I’ll introduce you to some of our favourites in future blogs. I wanted to tell you this time about the she-men, known here as ‘Queenies’. Apparently in Sa’moan culture, the youngest son is raised as a girl if there are no daughters. It must be a Polynesian-wide thing as Cook Islands has its fair share of Queenies. You get used to seeing them and being served by them in stores and restaurants, but initially it is a surprising thing to see in such a conservative society, men getting around with well groomed hair, nails and sometimes makeup and at times dressed in women’s clothing. When I first saw a Queenie I felt like it must have been Queenie’s day out as I spotted two in an hour. The first guy had short orange hair (bleaching gone wrong) and a beautiful pink frangipani in his hair. The second spotting was slightly more disturbing. I saw another Queenie sporting a frangipani, walking like he is camp and hiding behind the Easter egg display in the supermarket, watching a little girl go through the checkout.

Another character worth mentioning is the entrepreneur from down the road, who I’m fairly sure, just clears out his fridge and sells his goods to thirsty tourists walking along the beach. We came across him on a beach walk with an old plastic table set up on the beach, sitting back and having a flask of coffee with a friend with a sign that read ‘ice creams, pizzas, cold drinks, smoothies for sale’. Sleeping underneath a tree on an old mattress was the sarong-clad wife of the friend (we’ve noticed this seems to be a Sunday activity for locals, to swim in their sarongs and rest under the shade of a beach tree). There is no shop nearby, just his house and no sign of his merchandise, but he insists he was well stocked. Justin took a photo of the guys and their sign and then had to email them a copy.

Ice cream in the cooks: Our local soft serve

The other local characters worth mentioning are the local weather presenters. We were initially excited to have found a nightly weather forecast on the one channel we have, but the only trouble we have is we can’t understand a word they are saying. They do the weather in English and then it’s repeated in Maori and both languages are incomprehensible. The TV channel has not learned how to equalize their sound levels and use microphones properly, so one story can be deafening and the next almost silent. The weather presenters speak very quietly and mumble and are always pulling a face like someone has died. The news here is pretty terrible in general. It doesn’t run for an exact period of time eg 30 minutes, it runs until they have finished broadcasting their content, which could be 20 minutes, 40 minutes or longer. No one seems to know how to edit visual so if they interview a talker (one of their frequent interviewees is a very chatty guy that Justin works with), you will have to listen to everything they say, rather than just the important edited bits.

After some asking around, we finally worked out exactly where the best snorkeling spot on the island is, which is right near our place. Swimming towards the outer reef, there is lots of variety of brightly coloured fish. We certainly can’t complain about living so close to such a beautiful swimming and snorkeling spot. We steer clear of Muri lagoon, which has a lot of the tourist accommodation and restaurants but unfortunately has a sewage problem. We often go walking along the beach there and depending on the way the wind is blowing, you get a nice waft of sewage- I’m surprised tourists don’t recognize the smell. The water is murkier than other swimming spots around the island and the sand isn’t as white. I’ve been told if it was a beach in a first world country, it would have been shut down. The problem is household septic tanks, which aren’t designed to get full but many households don’t have it emptied. As a result, it can seep downstream into Muri lagoon. On still days when it hasn’t rained for days, it can be rather murky and smelly. I’ve spoken to a number of people who blame the lagoon water for septic infections, boils and other nasties, so we stick to our nice, clean beach and other spots that haven’t become a toilet.

There are things in Australia like street names and rubbish collection that I won’t take for granted again. Putting out the wheelie bin at home seems so simple and civilized compared to the system here. We have to separate our recycling and bag our rubbish and drive it down to the main road for collection. Rubbish isn’t collected from individual homes. We can’t put out our rubbish the night before because dogs and chickens are likely to tear through it. We can tell when a tourist is staying nearby because they sometimes put their rubbish out the evening before and the next day it is strewn across the road. The worst was when we walked down the road one morning to find dirty nappies littering our street. A few times we have even had the fun task of returning later in the day to pick up our rubbish from the beach path as the collectors have torn open the bags and not picked all of it up. The hygiene and safety standards of the rubbish collectors leaves a lot to be desired and the guys who sit on the back of the rubbish truck are often shirtless in just shorts and jandals, wearing earphones and listening to music and sometimes you even see them sitting among the glass and tin in the recycling crate as they ride along.

Another thing that will be a luxury when I return home is being able to buy what I want from the supermarket, when I want it. I know there are times when Woolworths doesn’t stock that rare, exotic fruit you just must have, but trust me, when you can’t get basics like rice and flour, it’s a real pain. I needed flour Easter weekend and drove around the island to multiple stores, but to no avail. Apparently there was an outbreak of weevils in the flour on the boat, so all stocks had to be thrown out. When I asked one store owner when he was next getting in flour, he gave me the vague answer you will get from any shop… “ when the next boat comes in.” I take this to mean maybe next week, more likely in a fortnight or even a month. No one really knows. When I ran out of rice I did the same scout around with no success and have finally figured out that if the main supermarket only the island is out of something, it’s a waste of time trying to buy it from any of the other smaller stores. To quote Forrest Gump, grocery shopping here is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to be able to get.

I had heard about the infamous health inspectors and we weren’t here too long and I met them in person. Apparently they do regular spot checks (although we’ve never had another one), checking for water sources like coconuts where mosquitoes can breed, dishing out fines to those who don’t keep their property water-free. It took me awhile to realize it was the health inspectors who had arrived as two men pulled up on scooters and didn’t bother telling me who they were, instead questioning me about who lives here, who owns the house, what do I do, what does my husband do, who does my mowing etc. I got annoyed with all the questions and asked them who they were. I then got a big long lecture about how we can’t complain about the mosquitoes because this is God’s land, humans moved to the island, God isn’t to blame for the mosquitoes and we have to do all we can to look after the land. My yard got a clean bill of health on the inspection report, which read ‘neat and clean’.

Easter on the island was a pleasant surprise because it’s actually about Jesus’ death on the cross here and not chocolate bunnies. There were a few chocolates for sale but it’s by no means a commercialized holiday, which was a nice change. There was a real buzz in Wigmore’s (the west side mini supermarket run by the Filipinos) on Good Friday and it was pumping out tunes that sounded like the Christian version of Hi-5. I couldn’t believe I was hearing Christian music in a supermarket and I looked around to see if anyone else found it strange or offensive, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. We’ve since discovered that they play Christian music in Wigmore’s every Sunday.

The Easter news broadcast was also something you would never see on Australian television. I’ve already mentioned the news team here has no ability to edit footage, so on the news that night we watched the entire stations of the cross acted out at the local Catholic church, complete with Christian background music and a Polynesian Jesus in loin cloth being raised on a cross (which looked very uncomfortable), with women in their traditional white church outfits and hats ‘mourning’ him.

Easter was also Justin’s first opportunity to surf. It is reef break here and there are very few opportunities to surf- it is either too small, too windy, too big or the wrong tide. We met a Polynesian guy from Coolum here on holiday that weekend and he offered to take Justin out and show him his favourite surf spot. There are only about half a dozen surfers on the island and most Kukis surf boogie boards. When Justin asked a Kuki why very few of them surf, he explained it’s because they never get the opportunity because surf boards are very expensive and difficult to come by.

Justin was still in settling-in mode in April and came home daily with funny stories. He had one of the delivery guys come asking for help because he didn’t know how to move files on his USB. Justin showed him how to do this but the guy didn’t then leave the office, instead he sat down at an empty machine and proceeded to watch movies at full volume while Justin was trying to work. He also had his first ‘stuck at the office’ moment just a few weeks after he got here. I won’t bore you with the details except to say he had a major IT breakdown and didn’t get home until after midnight. Thank goodness this hasn’t repeated itself.

It’s very common for people to bring back fast food from Auckland when they return to Raro. Friends have told me it’s fine as long as it is kept refrigerated but it’s never sounded particularly appetizing to me. A colleague of Justin’s brought back a KFC bucket from Auckland and not wanting to cause offense, Justin tested out the theory that 4 day old room temperature KFC won’t kill you. He managed not to end up on the toilet after this experience. He’s been subjected to many a company morning tea and said the KFC wasn’t any riskier. Morning tea isn’t just tea, scones and cakes, that’s for wimps. These guys have a feast with room temperature roast chicken and rice and salad that has been tossed by hand. And this is just morning tea. After eating a plate full, his colleagues have no trouble having a full lunch a couple of hours later.

Driving here is an experience in itself and most times we venture out we see something strange. The road oddities for April were a barefoot toddler asleep on the back of a motorbike, with the rider driving one-handed and holding onto the toddler with one hand. Then there was the old guys riding in a ute tray with their drums (just holding their drums, not playing them), doing a lap of the island with young people walking alongside the road, collecting money for a fundraiser. The problem with putting money in the first bucket is you have to drive past all the other people, explaining that you’ve already donated. Also amusing – and frightening – is the ingenious way Kukis handle riding in the rain. They don’t seem to bother with raincoats and I’ve seen some riding along with a jacket against their face to protect against the rain, others starring at the ground to avoid getting a wet face (although I don’t know how they see oncoming traffic!) and holding a DVD case over your eyes is another popular way of sheltering from rain. Some locals confuse rain with cold weather and you often see them decked out in dark clothing and heavy jackets in the rain, making them hard to see in overcast weather. I’ve even seen a few young women wearing bomber jackets with fleece hoods just because it’s raining.