It’s early Sunday morning, and there is only the distant
sound of the surf interrupted occasionally by the crowing of a few late rising
roosters some distance away. The sun rises in stillness through the trees off
our porch and wakes us each morning; now cool freshness replaces the stagnant
damp air of the night as the
morning’s breeze passes through our
room. A small white hen clucks and gurgles from time to time; we think she is
laying eggs. Margaret is settled in with
her morning coffee, reading the Dan Brown thriller she picked up in the office.
Her right foot is wrapped tightly with a rag, a bag of ice pressed in against a
painful twisted ankle.
We headed out to the Anatakitaki Kopeka Bird Caves yesterday
afternoon in our sturdiest shoes, bathing suits under hiking clothes; hat, camera
and headlamp are all stuffed into my nylon pack. James picked us up in his green
pick-up, and checked our footwear before handing us the waiver. We signed
off on the health conditions: no nagging injuries (my black eye doesn’t count),
no metal body parts, heart conditions, balance issues (huh), and on it went.
You’d think we were going sky-diving! So into the truck, and down a dusty road,
and then another, and another before he parked under a tree, closed up the
windows to keep the bugs out, and off we went on foot. A few hundred metres into
the rain forest, we picked up wooden walking sticks, smooth from use, and began
the arduous (and sometimes treacherous) walk through broken and aged fossilized
coral. It’s prickly stuff and makes for tricky walking. I’d hate to fall on or
in it! Ok—I’m understanding the balance bit. And the sturdy footwear. With my
ankles twisting into holes and cracks repeatedly, I thought for sure I would be
the one sitting on the porch this morning with the ice pack. It’s near
impossible to find a spot to put down the walking stick, and often as not I
would lurch forward, only to be pulled up straight when the stick stuck in a
hole. Like all guides, James was well-prepared with information about seeds and
nuts that fall to the ground, the vegetation, and the few birds that crossed
our paths. Finally, to the first cave, a magical surround of stalactites and
stalagmites and columns of many-textured and coloured limestone, in a shallow
arc that looked like it had been hollowed out by a giant surf. We’re still
standing upright at this point, but on to cave #2 and 3.
Cave #3 is where you meet the tiny swiftlet or Kopeka bird,
indigenous to Atiu, and only remotely related to any other known bird in the
South Pacific. They weigh in at 7gms, the eggs only 1 gm. Outside the cave,
they fly around catching bugs, storing them in tiny pouches inside their
mouths, and picking up bits to carry on their wings back to the nest. They
never land outside, only fly. It’s spring, and there are tiny straw-like nests the size
of an egg-cup everywhere on the walls, with one and sometimes two swiftlets sitting
or hovering nearby. They are easy to spot, and to follow, because of the
clicking sound they make as they fly. It’s believed to be an echo system of
sorts, but they are not bats. They sit on ledges of rocks, not hang, and they
are busy in the darkness of the cave, flying about, sitting the eggs, and going
out into the light for food. Their only predator here is the land crab, which
is fairly prevalent, and easy to spot. We were fortunate to spot a swiftlet nest
uncovered, with shiny little heads bobbing about. The chicks are about the size
of my baby fingernail, and it's thrilling to see them. The population appears to be
safe; this year’s count showed the numbers to be stable and not at risk. As we
make our way back out of the cave, James sits us down to tell us his family
version about how the caves were discovered.
“So do you want to go for a swim,” he asks, when he’s
finished the story. Well of course we do. “Where’s the swimming,” we ask in chorus. “It’s down
there,” he says, pointing into a black hole, “about 150 m”. So we parked
everything we didn’t need, and headed down through a near invisible passage,
searching for hand-holds, sitting on our butts and eventually sliding down onto
the landing, barely big enough to hold one of us. And there it is, dark and
clear, a grotto about 20 metres long filled with clear sweet water. James is in
first, holding his lighter to the candles as he goes, making way for Margaret
(splash), then finally, me. I’m hot and drenched in sweat as I set a toe, then
a foot, then two feet, into the icy water. Goosebumps cover my body as I make
the plunge. And then my body heat kicks in, and I relax into the cool
freshness. It’s dark, and wet, and with only the candles to see by, we relax,
and restore.
And then it’s up and out. Shirts and shorts go on over wet bathing suits, and we climb (much easier than going down) up through the
narrow passage, watching our heads and elbows as we go, and out of the cave,
and into the light. Back through the same route, cave by cave, and over the
coral trail (is there a trail?) and finally to the truck. Whew. Did
it. Another adventure.
But it’s not over. We scheduled the The Tama Nu for the trip
back.
Margaret is hobbling around. Breakfast time. Then off to see
what all the hullabaloo about church is. There’s five—at least.
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