2/22/01: Rarotonga, Cook Islands

We’ve gotten used to saying “Excuse me?” now. Although English is spoken most anywhere, the permutations are endless. Humor is particularly hard to render, as I found one evening in Malaysia, when Miss Esther (a kind and omnipresent hotel employee) was advising me on what to wear before heading out for the evening.

I was in shorts, and sensing that she might think that inappropriate (never mind the oppressive heat and humidity), I asked her if she thought shorts were all right. “Well, if you’ll be in a restaurant, long pants might be better, Mr. Horsted.” Sorry I’d asked, I responded, “Well, okay, I’ll change. But I have found that even when I’m in shorts, people will still take my money.” Apparently, she understood that only literally. She looked shocked, then sadly demure, and then turned away. I put on pants—and attempted no more humor. Or humour, for that matter.

Here in the Cook Islands, the natives definitely run the place—but most can speak an English similar to their sister nation, New Zealand. There are still variations and, of course, and some Maori words for which there are no substitutes. So you even learn a few Maori words over time. Not to mention, they speak mostly Maori to each other. (When I asked a bartender to call me a cab, he grabbed a friend to translate, called me a cab, and then had the friend tell me, “Five minutes.”) We’ll spare you a Maori lesson. But here are a few more examples of English in action.

• Stuffed up (Finished, ruined)
• Talkback radio (Talk radio)
• Upmarket (Upscale)
• Anti-clockwise (Counter-clockwise)
• Pushbike (Bike)
• Motorbike (Motorcycle)
• Canoe (Kayak)
• Ginchies (Underwear)
• Mozzies (Mosquitoes)
• Maths (Math)
• Lolly (Candy)
• Return (Roundtrip)
• Migrants (Immigrants)
• “Hey?” (“Huh?”)
• Brolly (Umbrella)
• Hoover (Vacuum cleaner)
• Floor (Ground)
• Hardly (Hard)
• Bum (Butt)
• Hooligan (Bum)
• Takeaway (Takeout)

2/20/01: Rarotonga, Cook Islands

The last thing one wants to endure in the tropics is a hurricane, but we got a taste nonetheless. For about three days, rain and wind made life in paradise appear pretty unpleasant after all. Then, after a day of hut-shaking, ear-breaking gales, the news came down: Hurricane Oma was only 180 miles southwest of our island, and we were caught in its tail—and a cyclone was wagging within it.

Thatch blew off the roofs, which leaked from every angle and soaked every towel. Palm trees went sideways, and threw coconuts around like so many popcorn kernels. Then the seas grew great waves that began washing over roads throughout the island. Next, naturally, came downed trees, electricity outages, closed roads, wrecked boats, and the loss of one of two radio stations that provided warnings and updates. Somewhere in the middle of all that, the “adventure” part wore thin. Even the most intrepid tourists who ventured out on motorscooters during breaks in the rain would return moments later with far less sense of humor.

Luckily, the gales began mellowing that evening. And this hopping, little island encountered its quietest night of the tourist season, if not the year. As for us, we weathered it like everyone else: The first few days, we griped and groaned and swam and snorkeled anyway. But when the “H” word, the “C” word, and evacuation instructions became the banter of the day, we opted to lay low. Boil pasta; play Scrabble; and remind yourself that these things usually pass.

It did. The next day, Rarotongans young and old picked up the pieces with amazing speed and aplomb—and then set all the debris on fire, adding a layer of surreal smoke to the post-storm scene. Squalls continued, humidity soared, and the merciless sun returned. But we never complained about the weather here again.

2/19/01: Rarotonga, Cook Islands

Tropical islands rarely go for the earth tones that permeate the palette in Minnesota and much of the rest of the world. In fact, anything that’s on display needs to compete with flowers, lagoons, and the bright colors people wear.

That’s just the literal definition of color, or course. But the more metaphorical is equally flamboyant, as evidenced here.

2/18/01: Rarotonga, Cook Islands

As we traveled NZ, people who heard we were coming to Rarotonga would say, “Go to church.” They say it here, too. So we did—never mind that services are in Maori. It was breathtaking. Our church of choice was 150 years old, yet wore white paint as new as the day. All youth were also in all white; all ladies wore large hats; and the men took turns preaching.

But the real attraction was the singing—rafter-raising stuff that the Maoris have been doing since long before the islands went Christian (and boy, did they!) in the 19th century. Hymnals were not to be found. Harmonies knew no bounds. And for two hours and twenty minutes, not one person in that packed church looked bored or out of place.

Island Night

2/17/01: Rarotonga, Cook Islands

On Rarotonga, every night is island night. There are many traditional dancing troupes, plus fire dancers, drum groups, and musical bands. At first blush, one assumes that, on an island of only 11,000 people, most of these performances must be small, phony, or both. Wrong. This island may depend on tourism for income, but they depend on dancing for camaraderie and release.

The guidebooks state that THIS is the island to see Polynesian dancing; they take it seriously here, yet nothing else brings them as much joy. That was clear in their faces—from the one-year-old that kept wandering on stage to shake her nappies to the grandpa who pounded the drum all evening. We saw a few shows—including one that highlighted the children’s troupes. We, too, were left shimmying our hips and knocking our knees.

Saturday Morning Market

2/17/01: Rarotonga, Cook Islands

When you can’t find lettuce on the island, everyone says, “Go to the Saturday market.” When you want fresh tuna steaks, same. If you’re after crafts and good photos, dittos. So we got up early and wandered along with other locals and tourists.

An occasional squall did little to dampen the spirits of shoppers and curiousity seekers. And we came home with armloads of the fruits of the tropics.

Arriving at Rarotonga

02/15/01: Rarotonga, Cook Islands

After relinquishing our campervan in Christchurch, NZ, we spent another day airborne and flew off to Rarotonga, a volcanic reef-rimmed atoll in the South Pacific. En route, we crossed the international date line and instantly gained 24 hours—just when we had begun to get the go-homes and count down the days.

We’ve had to search the globe and go through 20 time zones, but it appears we’ve finally found the middle of nowhere. That’s an exaggeration, of course, since there are 11,000 residents and at least as many tourists here—plus cel phones, ATMs, and internet service. But there are also omnipresent wild chickens, miles of untouched reef, and a few tribes that still run things and haven’t agreed (or allowed intermarriage) for, well, hundreds of years. “It’s like Hawaii was 30 years ago,” say the experienced tropical travelers. By that, we assume, they mean it’s hot. It’s the peak of summer in the southern tropics, after all, so the island is like one big greenhouse, and we’re mere snow cones melting inside it. We’ll share some more sights soon after we cool off and explore. But here’s a first impression.

Studio Tour

1/20/01: Waiheke Island, New Zealand

For weeks, we’d been admiring the work at the community art gallery. So when we found out that many local artists welcomed visitors to their studios, we were keen to go (as they’d say here).

On this fine summer day we traversed the island, visiting studios tucked in the village, perched over vineyards, overlooking the sea, and nestled in the bush. It was fascinating to enter the work spaces (all so different!), meet the artists (equally eclectic), and see all the creativity that this place has directly or tangentially inspired. Here are a few of the people we met.

1/17/01: Waiheke Island, New Zealand

Many people ask us how we’re able to work and be productive in the midst of a big vacation. Well, the secret is this: by creating a dedicated work space that is organized, ergonomic and physically removed from all hedonistic temptations.

Here, for the first time, is a photo of the place where all 2H activity has taken place during the months of December and January. (Note: We’re still waiting for the Aeron chairs to arrive.)

1/15/01: Waiheke Island, New Zealand

NZ dairy is a big international enterprise, and ice cream is the national prize. In fact, Kiwis are the world’s #2 per-capita-consumers of the sweet stuff.

They empty the freezers of the corner food shops (called dairies), whose exteriors are emblazoned with colorful ice-cream logos. They argue about the best brand and flavor. (Our son favors a concoction called Hokey Pokey.) And they come running when they hear the happy sound (Ta ra rah Boom-dee-yay!) of the ice cream truck that plies Waiheke’s streets and beaches daily. (P.S. The #1 per-capita ice-cream consumption nation? U.S.A.! U.S. A.! U.S.A.!)