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COOK ISLANDS
(Daily
Mail – 1999)
Not as friendly as they say they are |
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If anywhere is the South Pacific paradise of fantasy, it's surely
the Cook islands. Here are the palm trees, the pristine white
sand beaches, the blue lagoon, the beautiful brown girls in
grass skirts, swivelling their hips to the island beat. If you
holed up in one of the resorts, lay back in the sun on your
lounger, and sipped the strong (if somewhat sickly) local cocktails,
it would be quite easy to imagine you had stepped into one of
those dream-posters that ad agencies use to titillate deskbound
office workers in rainier climes.
Indeed, at the resort I started off at, on the main island of
Rarotonga, there were plenty of people doing just that. Most
were Kiwis of a certain age, giving their parchment skins a
break from the New Zealand winter. There were also Americans,
Italians, Germans, and a sprinkling of Aussies, including one
pair of newlyweds who had brought a gaggle of their mates with
them on honeymoon. His mates, I should say, since there was
not one woman among the beer-swilling loudmouths who provided
chorus for the grey-haired, pillow-bellied bridegroom and his
lovely (if rather gormless-looking) young bride.
Stepping outside the cocktail-compound is not as alarming as
it can be in some paradise idylls. The Sacred Road that circumnavigates
Rarotonga is potholed, but not disastrously so. The island dogs,
who with their comically short legs have the appearance of being
the descendants of one particularly rampant Victorian corgi,
are charmingly unaggressive. The jungle that covers the steep
mountains that form the island's spectacular, cloud-kissed core,
is dense and green, but entirely free from snakes. The locals
are not unfriendly.
This last is a precise description, because they're not unduly
friendly either. The brochures put out by the tourist office
bang on endlessly about how welcoming the Cook Islanders are,
and there are plenty of shining examples of individuals who
are warm and upbeat with visitors. But quite a number of the
people you deal with on a day-to-day basis, in shops and in
the resorts, give the impression that they'd be quite happy
if they never saw another tourist in their lives. 'The last
lot were delicious,' says the ubiquitous T-shirt that features
a bunch of tourists being tossed into a large cooking pot, 'please
send more.' Sometimes I got the feeling that this was more wish-fantasy
than joke.
But who can blame them? Rarotonga is ten kilometres long and
six wide. It takes thirty minutes to drive round completely
(and that's at the top island speed of 40 mph.) Up on the slopes
of the mountains you may be able to get away from the international
fluorescent horde, but even on the single quieter Back Road
there are adventurous characters like myself buzzing noisily
along on their rented 50cc hairdryer at odd times of day and
night. And however much the Rarotongans exhort us to slow down
to 'Cook Islands time', we visitors of a week or two still want
the islanders to dance their traditional dances and behave like
our new best friends, while simultaneously giving us five-star
Western service and not mislaying our incoming faxes.
The problem is compounded because we are of course their main
source of income. When you want TVs and computers and cars and
mopeds and all those twentieth century things you can't just
go on growing taro and pineapples, trawling the lovely lagoon
and reef for parrotfish and crabs. Tourism is a necessity, and
you like it or lump it or leave the island.
Paradoxically, it's surely this very obvious ambivalence towards
outsiders that has kept the Cook Islands as relatively unspoilt
as they are. If you want to buy land on the Cooks you can forget
it; the only way in is to marry a local (not an unappealing
proposition once you've seen one of the Island Nites.) If you
want to start a business a Cook Islander has to be a 60% shareholder.
The rather spooky half-finished buildings of the Sheraton-that-never-was
on the island's west side are a testament to the attitude that
has left the Sacred Road intact and windowless shacks with gorgeous
beach frontages just a stone's throw from pricey resorts.
Hearing that a true, old-fashioned Cook Islands welcome was
to be found on one of the outer islands, I flew the hour's hop
north to Aitutaki, by all accounts the most visually stunning.
I wasn't disappointed. The main island sits, green and forested,
at one side of a huge turquoise lagoon enclosed by the usual
gorgeous necklace of surfswept reef. Other, smaller islands
dot the perimeter. On one is a luxury resort, but I avoided
that, taking the empty bus into the centre of the main village
of Arutanga.
The contrast with Rarotonga was complete. My apartment on the
beach had a rattling fan above the wobbling bed, a giant winged
cockroach by the sink, and a mild smell of drains under the
wooden balcony with the perfect lagoon view. It was self-catering,
which meant a walk to a local shop where paw-paws cost 15p and
white wine £10. And when I mounted my new hairdryer and
headed off on the dirt road round the island I found not just
children but older folk waving and smiling at me.
For all the relative lack of creature comforts, Cook Island
friendliness was clearly intact here. As were other bits of
old-worldliness. The Island Nite on the Saturday was more hilarious
local knees-up than well-rehearsed tourist-fest. Church on Sunday
was preceded by a procession of drums and Union Jacks that wouldn't
have been out of place in Portadown. Then everyone inside stood
at attention in their straw hats while 'God Save the Queen'
was played.
Down on Ootu Beach afterwards Sam and Adrienne of the shacklike
Samade Bar were cooking up a barbecue for locals and visitors
alike. Under the palm trees, ladies with flower-garlands in
their hair were drinking and singing traditional songs - as
well as the odd burst of Whitney Houston. And when I went down
to the lagoon's edge to snap the kids hooting around in the
shallows, a cry of 'James Bond' went up. Obviously some Western
influences had reached this remote place, but not, I thought,
looking down at the belly that 007 would never have allowed
himself, that many.
(ends)
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