Puddle jumping in the Cook Islands | November snowfall and Atiu photos

I'm home of course, and yesterday we had our first major snowfall of the season The only good thing about that is that I'm not paying $200 in snow removal services for nothing. Phuong has his crew working in my back yard now. Here they are, bundled up against the weather. It's not cold, but it's been snowing since yesterday afternoon.

I suppose now that the walks are done, I should get dressed and go out. Maybe not. It's a good day for hanging around the house in polar fleece. And reminding myself that two weeks ago I was in Atiu, a lovely little island in the Cooks.

Atiu was great. The weather is warm, and the people even warmer. Jackie and Roger at Atiu Villas hosted us royally, starting with a 'tour' of the main features along the (one) central road that runs the length of the island, including the one 'traffic circle'. We started at the port where a cargo ship was unloading.

Margaret and Jackie getting acquainted at the loading dock

The port with cargo ship (squint, you'll see it) off shore

An evening at the community hall with Roger and the school kids. You can read about this concert at Leaving Atiu
Still no ability to upload the video. Too bad. Maybe I'll figure it out.

Roger our host, and Margaret wait for the show to start

Everyone comes to encourage the dancers and donate to the school

All the kids, from both schools, dance. The nervous novices..

and the aspiring professional!

 

When the whole audience got up to dance including two little kids, I just had to make a video, that so far you are not going to see.
Click on the link to read about our trip to the Anatakitaki Bird Caves and our visit to the bush beer school known as the Tumanu.

James our guide in the cave

Tossing back the bush beer at the Tumanu

A welcoming crowd at the Tumanu

And a day of walking on the island and an excursion to the bush in search of birds.

Tropical plants and flowers are ubiquitous, especially hibiscus

Attentive students, Margaret, Carol and Caroline

History lesson on the back of the truck

Birdman George serves up dinner at the beach, on homemade plates

An old-style selfie, at the beach, in the wind on Atiu

Saying goodbye to the kids at the airport; off to Rarotonga

Puddle jumping in the Cook Islands | Home

First sunset on Aitutaki at the beach in front of our hotel

I am home, perched in my usual spot at the counter by the south window. My mouth is watering from the smell of thickly sliced bacon sizzling on the stove. There are ripe tomatoes on the counter, fresh lettuce in the fridge, and GF bread in the toaster. I've been starving for this BLT for several days now, and finally I'm about to bite into it. Will there be mayo? Definitely mayo...

 I will post photos over the next several days so if you've been reading along and patiently (or otherwise) waiting for photos, here they come. You can click on a photo to enlarge it.

A very private island in the lagoon with just a few small beachfront villas

Remnants of the old landing strip

Island Night at our resort

Lagoon Cruise with Bishop's

Atolls, islands and motus in Aitutaki Lagoon

Team colours

Coconuts are destroying the land, robbing it of its nutrients, but they also provide food for the pigs, and a cool drink on a hot day

Gardenias, growing wild, are made in to the welcoming EIs and bouquets

More Hobie cat sailing and snorkeling on the Lagoon with Captain Ted

A walk up and over with views to both sides of the lagoon

Night time entertainment, island style

Thanks to all who have followed me on this lazy crazy journey. It was definitely restful and so beautifully warm, all the time, everywhere. How nice, never to be cold. And now for home, and the threat of snow, as winter settles in.

Puddle jumping in the Cooks October 2015 | It's only an hour. How hard can it be?

We’ve just come from dinner at the Kahue Hut just a couple of doors down the beach, where we feasted on Thai beef salad, a yellow curry dish with mahi mahi, and orange almond coconut cake. I needed the walk home to be longer; I’m stuffed. But vertical still—at 8:15—on the next to last evening we have here in Rarotonga.

Yesterday was a shopping day, and we were fortunate to find some local artists to introduce us to the traditional art of the area but also new interpretations of old themes. There are block cut designs, and lots of screen printing using natural materials to create interesting fabric. And applique, or Tivaevae. 

After an afternoon snooze for Margaret, snorkel for me (followed by a snooze), we headed for the night market at Muri, where we met up with our birder friends. We seem to be on the same flight path with Caroline and Craig, who are from just outside Melbourne. We first met on Atiu and bumped into them again at the Modern Maori Quartet concert on Tuesday. And then we were joined by Paul and Lee from Sydney, who are here at the resort. And we bumped into Tuhe again, the guide we met up on The Needle. We knew from Caroline he would have a booth, serving up wholesome, fresh food, made the local way. So the six of us sat and shared stories, while Margaret and I downed an enormous plate of fish and seven vegetables, rice and lentils, quinoa, more veges—all very healthy and wholesome, and chicken skewers. We topped all that off with coconut lime ice cream!

Tuhe is quite a salesman. After feeding and flattering us, he convinced us that after the Cross-Island Track, we were ready for a morning adventure on the water in Muri. Seems if two old babes like us can make it across the island on that so-called track, well, we can do anything (yeh right). It’s half way round the island from our hotel to Muri, but there we were this morning in our snorkel suits, coffee cups chattering in the cup stand, dodging early morning joggers on the dark two-lane road around the island—back the way we’d come just hours before. We arrived just in time for sunrise. Since I'm always confused and disoriented here in the southern hemisphere (going the other way around the traffic circles) it was also a good time to get my bearings!

Tuhe arrived at about 6:15 in his somewhat distressed SUV and got to work preparing us for our early morning SUPYoga adventure.  SUP-what? SUP-Yoga.  Never heard of it? Where have you been? It’s the craziest. Start with STAND UP PADDLE BOARD. Then add yoga. On the board. In the water.

Tuhe hauled out the boards, while we collected rocks from a pile and put them in reusable fabric bags. These were to be our anchors. After a quick few paddling instructions from Tuhe it was time to get on our boards. First on our knees, and then u-u-u-p! Whew. That wasn’t so bad. As we cautiously paddled out into the lagoon Tuhe explained the yoga poses we would be doing: standing up, lying down, and sitting. I was teetering on the board just thinking about it. Well, I got through mountain pose, and then with the next movement, SPLASH…oooh, that was… ahhhh…warm. Very warm. And shallow. Like gently  falling into your bathtub. Now that’s the way to start a morning. A warm bath in Muri lagoon, with the sun just over the horizon, shining squarely in your eyes.

We stre-e-e-tched into dog, and tangled our legs into pidgeon pose. We  bent ourselves in halves and quarters. We balanced and planked. We blessed the day and our good fortune until finally it was time to head in. But not before we’d relaxed in mountain pose, centred our hearts, tossed all our cares in that great Pacific Ocean, counted our blessings, said our Namastes, and consumed the warmth of the now blazing sun. The beginning of a new day in paradise. All before eight o’clock.

But it wasn’t over! We paddled to shore and put away all the gear but one board, and grabbed our cameras for THE PHOTO SHOOT OF ALL TIME. You will not believe this. And a year from now, when we see this photo, we won’t believe it either. And then we will remember Tuhe, who assured us we could do it (on the mountain and on the board), and this beautiful morning on Rarotonga.

Puddle jumping in the Cook Islands | It's only four hours. How hard can it be?

It’s mid-afternoon on Monday. I am sitting up half-heartedly on my bed, legs stretched out full length, stripped down to my lacey next-to-nothings.  I’ve just woken from the inevitable post-lunch nap. Beside me in the next bed is the dead-weighted body of Margaret, the only sign of life the gentle rise and fall of her breathing under the arms that cross her chest.

Outside a blazing sun beats down. Gusts from the western coast of the island send a fluttering through the lush verdant gardens outside our louvered patio doors. An occasional splash into the pool interrupts the faint chatter of birds. Somewhere a blossom bursts forth under the heat, a seed bursts from the ground, a green papa shows its first sign of yellow ripening. Like every day, it is hot. Here in our room a fan moves the moist warm air around, falsely suggesting a cooler temperature.

Since we arrived back here on Rarotonga on Friday, we have been planning today’s adventure. Indeed, we started researching the Cross-Island track back in September when Margaret was in Edmonton. Last night we went over the printed sheets about the track, packing a light lunch, filling water bottles, organizing an early breakfast. Ever the cautious one, I was leery.

“It’s only four hours. How hard can it be?”  That’s when I suggested to Margaret that she wasn’t always the best judge of distance, and that we had a tendency to underestimate the difficulty of some of our adventures. I thought I was being generous in accepting half the responsibility. “It’s because we start too late, that’s our problem, not that it’s too difficult”, she said. Agreeing to disagree, we planned our getaway in the morning so that we could catch the 7:40 am bus and beat the afternoon heat.

The Cross-Island track is not a track, or a trail. It’s not a hike, or a walk. It’s 90% scramble, 10% swinging from tree branches, hanging from strategically-placed ropes, and fording the creek on rocks. Your handholds are roots of shampoo (that’s not a typo) and chestnut trees; each step is carefully placed in the tiny spaces between, half on the ground, half on the gangly roots. Ankles scream with each twist and turn.  Like most challenges, it takes 90% of your effort, both mental and physical, to go the last 10%. On the way up. And on the way down.

But we finished, which of course is the point. I think. The pinnacle of the hike is The Needle or Ta Rua Manga. This tall rock formation is what you notice most when you fly into Rarotonga. Climbing The Needle itself is a technical climb so we skipped that most adventuresome of adventures, thank you very much. But like every story this one has its gifts. Just as I was feeling most sorry for myself, and ready to hang up my hiking shoes forever, a face appeared over the ledge behind us, and it was Caroline, whom we had met birding on Atiu. She had climbed the distance on her own, and yes, she was going on to the very top, which is the base of The Needle. With her encouragement, we did too.  We’ll see Caroline and Craig again before the week is out. And it was at the base of The Needle as we watched a young woman make her way down, step by ever-so-carefully-planted step with the help of her local guide. , that we met our companions for the trip down. Two young women, Trina and Jenna, and their local guide became our newest friends.

The trip down is at least as hard as the trip up. But with Trina and Jenna up front and Tuhe Piho at our backs, watching our every trip, slip and stumble, I felt much more secure. I suppose it depends on what you fear the most: your lungs caving in from the steep climb or your knees buckling with the strain of the downward slope. There are guide ropes to keep you on the ledges and help you down (and up) the slippery bits. You cross the stream 8 times, each crossing relatively easy, if you can find it. With the help of our new-found guide, the occasional hand-up (or down) from one of the women, and lots of encouragement we arrived at the dry pool that is (was) Wigmore’s Waterfall. A ride n Tuhe’s SUV got us to the main road, and to coffee, groceries, and the bus. Adventure over.

We are safe at home, fed and rested. The only casualty is Margaret’s white hiking shirt which she has thrown in the garbage, rather than try to scrub out the red grunge and sweat. Mine will wait. In the meantime, we are planning tomorrow’s (much lazier) day of shopping around the island.

Puddle jumping in the Cooks October 2015 | Carol takes to bird watching

We’ve just finished dinner in the dining room at Babe’s Place, one of only two accommodations available here on Mangaia. At least we think there are two. We haven’t actually seen any other tourists. There is a group of health care professionals from Rarotonga here delivering a trauma education program to nurses (5) and first responders. I doubt the trainee group is very large; there are less than 500 people on the island. One of the trainers told me tonight that it’s just very hard to know if it “sticks”. But without a doctor on the island, it’s vital training.

For dinner Una offered us fried fish, boiled and sliced arrowroot (a bit like eating potatoes without the butter and sour cream), chopped/ pureed taro leaves in coconut cream or paka (absolutely delicious) and fresh greens and vegetables to make a salad. No alcohol and no dessert. Simple but good.

We are nestled into our room now and Margaret has just pulled the mosquito net over her, and stripped down to nothing against the heat. The  oscillating fan is sending coolish air my way every 15 seconds, as I sit here cross-legged on my bed. I’ve turned off the only light, a single, uncovered compact florescent in the ceiling. Sitting here in the dark with only my computer screen and headlamp for light, I do wonder what we are doing here.

Well, bird watching for one. Just as Una was greeting us at the airport this morning, I was approached by a paunchy middle-aged American in a t-shirt and hiking shorts. “I hear you’re birders,” he said. Really, I thought. The island telegraph has slipped up. Must be someone else. “So,” I asked, “did you hear about our adventures on Atiu?” “Nope, but if you go down to the …. and follow the ….you’ll find the …..” Huh? Birdwatchers we are not, but the local birder also had the word, as did Una, who arranged for Henry (I can’t actually remember his name but Henry will do) to take us in the car we rented around the island in search of the Mangaia kingfisher (tanga’eo), an endemic species for which the island is well-known.  So with cameras, binocs and water in hand, and smelling of sunscreen and bug spray, we piled into the jeep and off we went.

Like many Cook Islanders, Henry returned to Mangaia where he was born to a Cook Islander mother and English father. Though not a trained naturalist, he was pretty committed to showing us the pride of Mangaia. We headed up into the “second layer”, the forested growth between the makatea (fossilized coral) and the high forested region. The little bird, blue with a yellow band around its neck, burrows into old dead trees to nest, and Henry claims a fair bit of success in locating them. Until today. With Henry at the wheel, we headed up from the government building through a canyon of a road, blasted out to make it possible to get “upstairs”. Una tells us she lives “upstairs”. After a long slow climb at perhaps 15 km an hour over red earthen roads, Henry pulls off the road onto a grass track, and stops. Traipsing through the trees, I felt like the real thing, my neck aching from the sagging weight of camera and field glasses. Henry’s pretty sure we will see them here, but after 15 minutes or so, he gives up, and offers to take us to Tamarua, a village on the other side of the island. So it’s back in the jeep, and up and over, and around and down some more on a bumpy red-earth track. We pass the look out over the lake, and admire the houses in Tamarua.  When I comment on how beautiful one in particular looks, he tells me it is abandoned. No one lives in it. This, we are told, is true of many houses. So while some people live with less than ideal housing conditions, others abandon homes, and leave the country.

Henry suggests a couple more stops to search for the tanga’eo. I’m getting serious about this by now. Where is he? Finally we return to our original wooded area in search of the elusive bird. Persistence pays off. After much waiting and searching we spot the little devil, and he is beautiful. Almost worth the effort. In the meantime, we’ve had a great tour of the island, clued in to the local history and economy (none), and made mental note of some stops for our “self-guided” tour tomorrow.  Lights out.

Just in case there's an aspiring birder out there, you can check him out here:

Tanga'eo