Puddle jumping in the Cooks October 2015 | On Atiu

It’s hard to find time to write and it’s even harder to get pics uploaded to the blog. I’m writing this on Saturday from Atiu (Achew). Over my right shoulder, a turquoise pool beckons, but I am happy here on the patio of our small cabana reading, watching the lizard who lives in the berry tree next to the deck, listening to the surf from afar, the chatter of birds, the cooing of a mother hen. It’s all very surreal. This is quiet writ large. More on Atiu later.

On Thursday last week we chartered a Hobie Cat with Aitutaki Sailing for an afternoon on the water. The Captain picked us up in the morning so we could spend part of the day on the east side beaches, and have lunch before going out. Finally found Kura café, where the coffee is great, and they have gf bread. We ordered swordfish tapas with mango papaya salsa, and a side of bread to sop up the extra herbed butter, all to go. We swam, then ate on the beach, butter dribbling off our chins, licking our fingers, right to the last greasy drop. It was a perfect afternoon for sailing and snorkeling. Ted took us out at about 130, and as we tacked our way to the reef for snorkeling, we learned a little more about motus (lava) and atolls (coral) and the history of the island and the Cooks overall. Snorkeling was fantastic: there was more variety in the coral, and more colour, and abundant and varied fish. Sailing back was lots of fun, with the afternoon winds picking up, and except for a bit of a bang on the head on a tack (I have a black eye today) we just cruised along. Thursday night was island night at the hotel, with a buffet of local cuisine, which is great to discover, and of course traditional dancing. Lots of fun, island drinks and wine, and an early get up to catch our plane to Atiu. 

Flying around from one island to another is pretty relaxed here.  Our hotel pick up was at 830 for a 910 flight! It’s true. You walk straight in and to the counter (no lineups), place your bags on a scale, take your boarding pass (it looks like a cash receipt from a gas bar), and within minutes you are walking across the tarmac to board a 14-seater. The captain closes the door, reminds you to buckle up, and climbs into his seat to take off. Done. There’s no security, no customs, no identification, nothing. There’s also no coffee, no water, no peanuts, no safety demonstration. In 45 minutes we were on Rarotonga; checked in for our Atiu flight, grabbed a coffee, boarded, and were here in another 45 minutes. Easy peesy. 

Off to the caves. Need to get dressed. No, I’m not dressed. Well I’m sort of dressed.

Puddle jumping in the Cooks October 2015 | A day on the water and a day on land

Yesterday was our pre-planned lagoon tour, a good way to start off, getting the lay of the land-or rather the water. This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been; I cannot imagine what could be more spectacular. The island is surrounded by motus, small coral reefs, sandbars, and tiny islands. It’s not technically an atoll, but that’s what it looks like. I doubt any photo could capture it, but it’s hard not to keep clicking away, if only to prove I was here. The lagoon, inside the reef, is various shades of turquoise, in ribbons and swirls like a Desigual print; the water outside an electric blue expanse stretching to the flat line of the horizon. Our boat took us to an area of the reef (our geographical precision here is weak!) for a relaxing hour of snorkeling among the coral, in warm shallow water.  There were lots of fish, but not a lot of variety, and nothing big. After dumping us off on a sandbar of sorts, we walked to One Foot Island, a local favourite, for lunch of grilled tuna and sausage, salads and fruit. More snorkeling here, and walking about the island, and wine and beer, and more sun. Life is good.

Today was a badly planned day, but somehow those days have their gems as well. We headed out on foot to go to town, then got distracted by a route up to a view point. 30 minutes later we were atop the island, not quite the highest point but close, with views in both directions, toward the lagoon on the east side, and out across the reef and beyond to the west. It was noon, so midday heat almost got the better of us and we straggled down the west side toward the main road, and what we hoped would be a bar for lunch. I was thirsty enough to consider a beer, and not a gf one either. (Quench me now, I’ll pay dearly for that indulgence later of course.)  Sorry, closed! the proprietor hollered to us from his perch under the car port. How could he be closed? No fish, he explained. No fish? How could there be no fish. Well apparently there is no fish for local fishermen (the government sold a license to a large Chinese fishing company), so none for the small shop owners either. We pleaded our cause—exhaustion, drenched in sweat, hungry, thirsty, on foot—and although it didn’t get us anything to eat or drink, it got us a sympathetic ride down the road toward our hotel. And a recommendation that we try Sonya’s. And Sonya is quite a find.

In the hidden garden of her café, Sonya served up icy coconut water to hydrate our sweat-drenched bodies, breadfruit lasagna (layers of breadfruit, with spinach, basil, tomatoes—who knows what else), candied plantain, curried mango, grilled eggplant, a variety of condiments and salsa including tzakiki and fruit chutney, a side salad and more. Sonya’s is from Calgary. She met her husband, an islander, on a day trip from Rorotonga and moved here 20 years ago. She filled us in on the local culture, and the politics of food in the Cooks. We picked up a few recommendations for our next island, Atiu, and she offered to pack up any leftover lasagna to take with me, given the dearth of gluten free options! Spent the rest of the day sleeping, and lounging around the pool, and reading.

Puddle jumping in the Cooks October 2015 | Near disaster

If you were at Gate 142 at LAX on Sunday night you witnessed every traveler’s worst nightmare. Gate 142 is in the bowels of the international terminal, a hike down deserted hallways and stairwells from the commercial zone. It’s a dreary space: row upon row of black molded plastic airport chairs, industrial carpet, washrooms.  Travelers clutching pillows slouched alongside their carry-on.

Our flight was already boarding when panic struck. A pink rolling duffel was wheeled back from the tarmac and a brown-faced ANZ ground hostess was on the floor rifling through its contents. Another ANZ hostess was tossing items from a backpack. Margaret and I were seated on the floor, emptying a purse and my small overnight sac onto the dingy carpet. Meanwhile curious passengers looked on as they passed through the gate and on to busses headed for our plane, mindful that something unpleasant was transpiring on the floor. At some point, my boarding pass was taken from my hand. An agent was dispatched to security. As I collapsed, in total disarray and dismay on the floor, a hostess unzipped the sleeve from my laptop and pulled out my computer, reaching in to be sure it was empty.  And then, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, she produced my passport.

My passport is always in the same place: the passport holder that hangs around my neck. But somehow in the chaos of security, I went through screening with my boarding pass in my hand, and my passport in one of those buckets. How it then ended up inside my laptop sleeve is a mystery. A mindless act on my part as I retrieved my belongings perhaps. But I am grateful for two Air New Zealand hostesses who were determined to get me on that flight!

Puddle Jumping in the Cooks October 2015 | On my way

I'm sitting at the gate in Seattle after a get-up in the wee hours of the morning to catch a 6:15 flight from Edmonton to here. Of course it didn't leave until almost 7, but that's not unusual. Shock and awe--they had to de-ice. Who knew? Well I know, we always de-ice in Edmonton, but there wasn't even frost on the windshields in my neighbourhood this morning.

I woke up at 3, as I often do, and since I had so much time to kill, I decided to repack. I'm feeling a little old, or perhaps a little cranky, about trying to squeeze everything into too-small bags. As an old friend used to say: "Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag." That pretty much says it all. I was picturing schlepping my bags down that long walk to US customs at YEG and thought, nyet, not going to happen. So I've relinquished my pride in being sparse on the packing and heroically hauling it around myself, and given myself room to grow into a bigger bag, checked of course.

I left a perfect gf breakfast at home in the fridge. Feel free to help yourself in you are in the neighbourhood. Freshly baked muffins, a ham and cheese sandwich, sliced carrots. Ok lunch too. My search for a decent breakfast here in Sea-Tac ended in failure. Fried potatoes that looked like they'd been coated in glue-paste before meeting their final demise in the gritty brown deep fryer fat ( I did not taste them), bacon so underdone I could not cut it with the (plastic) fork, and (I think-I probably shouldn't assume) scrambled eggs. No green tea; only black. Too late, I found Seattle's Best down by the D gates.They have fruit cups and oatmeal. Sea-Tac seems overly obsessed with beer and wine. Bold signs direct you to "more beer this way" and long lists of the local brews. I wonder if there's a connection between that and raging passengers.

So, the Cook Islands. The Cooks. We arrive there at 7 am tomorrow so 24 hrs after waking up this morning. They're on this side of the dateline, so only 4 hrs difference, so  tele-commuting might be a real option! A home office in the Cook Islands. They're on roughly the same latitude as Hawaii but in the southern hemisphere, and yes, they' re islands. 15 of them. We'll be in the south archipelago, on four islands. The itinerary is posted if you are interested in our whereabouts. This should help to position in the south pacific.



Flight is boarding. Off to the LA County Museum this afternoon then dinner with Margaret and Craig Fields, and a big sleep as we travel across the Pacific to Rarotonga.