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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.!)
We’ve been delighted to find that live music often fills the air here. Whether it’s a young girl’s recorder warbling “Greensleaves” at the Saturday morning market, or the Plastic Paddies leading the crowd through “Cockles & Mussels” at Molly Malone’s, you can stumble upon harmonious scenes most anywhere.
This is a welcome change from Italy, our trip’s other primary placement. There, we’re told, live musicians must pre-register, pay a tax, and answer to a copyright official who patrols performances. It’s doubly sad because Italy is one place where people commonly carry guitars—and can sing along to opera on the radio. Here, making a joyful noise is still legal. Alleluia!
A month ago, we met James the Gardener. Today, we introduce you to another Waiheke resident, a local artist who creates and sells his works at a main street studio/shop called Jade Jade Jade. The shop is always busy. And his pieces are so distinctive that wearing one turns out to be a great way to meet people on the island.
Interview: Bob the Artist
Q: Every time I come into your shop, there are new pieces. How many do you make?
A: I make about six big pieces—that can each take up to a month—each year. Then I make about five smaller items each week, plus an occasional quite small and cheap—for the marketplace.
Q: Most of the smaller pieces are pendants that people wear; do you think of them as jewelry?
A: No, they’re little sculptures. They’re ideas that hang. I’m not really interested in decoration, and don’t really understand the world of jewelry.
Q: I’ve noticed that a lot of people in New Zealand wear jade. Why?
A: Mostly because of the Maoris, our native people, and their traditional use of it. To them, jade is the most valuable treasure. It’s the touchstone for their ancestors, and embodies the manna of their people.
Q: Is that true elsewhere? Or with any other stone?
A: It’s more true with jade than any other stone. And it happens in China, Europe, and Central America.
Q: What do you think makes jade so extraordinary?
A: It’s so durable they made axes with it in Neolithic times. And time has made it special. Jade is metamorphic, and goes through transformations you can see. There’s a story and history in each rock; it’s slow, fast, pure, and corrupt.
Q: How do you create your pieces?
A: Sometimes I start with an idea and sometimes the idea finds me. Each rock determines it, really. I have to find the story. It’s always a challenge. And the finished product is never as good as the primary idea.
Q: Is there a particular type of person who buys or wears jade?
A: Not at all. Even businessmen in Auckland wear them under their suits. It has nothing to do with their culture, wealth, or age.
Q: What do you think it means to people?
A: People wear it as a talisman. It’s a token of one’s connection with the earth, and of a migratory, nomadic people.
Q: What do you mean?
A: New Zealand was last place on earth to be colonized—the end of the line. When you live here, that imbues your sensibility. Jade is a way of finding commonality with our people back to the first Polynesians.
Q: How does that affect the forms you make?
A: Jade carving is the quintessential art of expressing that. I seek dynamic forms—curvilinear, infinite, open, and not tied down.
Q: Do you think your customers understand that?
A: I think so. I insist that the buyer knows what I was intending. That sounds egocentric, and I don’t mean it that way. Most people respond to the pieces and can’t even articulate why. But something touches them and they open up.
Q: Is that one of the perks of your job?
A: Very much so. I get to see what rhythms move people. It’s not immediate; it’s a spiritual thing—in the hearts of the people.
Q: Which gets back to jade helping people find a connection with the earth?
A: Yes. On the surface, it’s part of an environmental movement here. But I think it runs deeper. It’s part of our essence, and it’s coming back after fading for a while due to pressure from the American culture.
Q: What do you think might be the essence of American culture?
A: America is full of hope, always has been. But unfortunately, the way that’s presented now is materialistic hope.
Q: How do you stay inspired to do this every day?
A: If I’m going to spend a day or two on one piece, I need an idea—a good one. This is my way of reverence, of praying. What I do is quite monkish, really. So my body looks after itself, and I almost never lose interest or get tired.
Q: Have you always lived on Waiheke?
A: No, I was brought on across the way on the mainland. On the beach, really. Waiheke was on the horizon—where the moon came up.
Q: So how’d you end up here?
A: I’d been living and working in the city. The jobs weren’t working out, including one at the City Art Gallery. I couldn’t subject my children to the corruption and pretension of that world. So we came here.
Q: The art world was not for you?
A: Not at all. After I left, I didn’t visit a gallery or pick up an art book for 25 years. I do now. But I still have a distaste for the arty-farty world.
Q: Is this a better place to raise children?
A: Oh, yes. There is an enormous wonder throughout your life when your childhood is close to nature. I can’t imagine the emotional loss for children brought up in an apartment.
Q: And how’d you end up doing jade?
A: I had studied some sculpture, years ago. But when someone gave me some jade, I didn’t have to learn. I was making pieces within six weeks. I think I’d been waiting a long time.
Q: And I’ve kept you from your work for a long time. Thanks for sharing.
A: My pleasure. Enjoy your jade.
1 kid, 5 islands, 69 days
Here's my son’s blog from an '08/09 BreakAway in the Caribbean.
1 planet, countless cultures, 120 days
In 00/01, when the internet was a pup, I went RTW and posted these words and pics en route.
