Paradise Refound

My friend and her daughter did move out, unpredictably, after the two weeks were up. It had been a month in total and we had discussed her staying on longer if I could have persuaded my landlady, because things did get better, but in F's typical fashion I got half a day's notice then she rushed off the next morning without so much as a goodbye. At least she cleaned up her stuff.

So the house is once again a clean, tidy, crap free little haven. Back to quiet, sunny mornings playing with the cat at breakfast and feeding the chicks, nice friends dropping round for tea and walks on the beach without the feeling we have to stay away from the house for a certain time.




But I couldn't live here: for one, I am still sodding ill, spending the afternoon in Out Patients at the gorgeous hospital in the hills on the advice of locals who thought I could have 'something serious'. Ha, the hospital was straight out of the 1940s - wooden everything, even telephones. In terms of how friendly and relaxed it was however, it made the NHS look shocking in comparison; great for someone like me who had nothing more than a fever and therefore actually 'nothing serious'; utter nightmare for someone requiring surgery or anything requiring an exert of energy or urgency, I'd imagine.


It's sort of the same with the nightlife: a gloriously unpretentious mixed bag of locals, tourists, young and old, you can talk all night, dance all night and meet a fascinating variety of people.... but the music sucks balls and after several nights it will murder your will to live with every thump and grind. Saying that, some of the local music is amazing. I finally found the one music shop on the whole island and tried to sing the few local songs I wanted to buy, to the owner. Yeah, still not completely sure about those Maori lyrics.

We have under 2 weeks left in Raro before we split for another Cook Island and then further west. I'm nervous about leaving. It took a very long time for me to shake off the past 4 years; sitting still for 2-3 months was absolutely what I needed, and who wouldn't sort out their shit with little else to worry about but mosquitos? I was stressed for the first time in months the day my friend left, and the recent excessive drinking also serves to remind me what a sad miserable life I led back in London: letting other people get to me so much and obliterating the pain with alcohol, for one.

My mobile is still out of order, I am inclined not to fix it. My ticket is open for a year, I'm inclined to keep travelling.

If only my old friends could come out too, life would be so perfect.

Ill

The house vibe and co-existence got a lot better after we agreed to disagree and half the rent is now being paid. Largely we keep the two little people apart, who have got more used to having each other around and, relatively speaking, peace has been restored.

And I really appreciate being able to go out late, but I have totally overdone it...

Nights in boozing and partying, sandwiched between nights out boozing and partying, have caught up with me; I am really not used to excesses any more. Hitching home on scooters in the chilly mornings and late night moonlit beach drinking can't have helped me resisting the cold that both Harry, F and her daughter, and other friends, were thrown with a few weeks ago. I managed to avoid it for ages, but now am sick as hell with a fever, which is just weird in a hot place where inside, despite the rain for the past few days, it has measured 35 degrees, but I am dressed in three long sleeved tops and am back to sleeping in my jeans, which means I may feel freezing but am sweating like mad. I was so cold and miserable last night I went to bed at 8pm, hugging my Mac power supply as it was the only thing I could find to keep me warm. I never get ill; I am so weak I can hardly pick Harry up and it's all I can do to keep him entertained in the daytime as the need for sleep overwhelms me. Apparently most people get this fever/cold thing about once a year, but I am just not used to it.

Grumble grumble.

Charity

... started at home and ended up on an ex-Russian Naval ship.

My landlady asked about my house guests, so I told her they were staying a few days. It had been 2 weeks of crazy and I was starting to wonder why I was putting up with it: I was paying the rent, had moved into the small room with H, was babysitting, which is a busy and difficult night compared to just being present in case Harry wakes up, and most of the time I was cooking and cleaning the house after them. Christ, a real marriage.

When the little girl didn't sleep there was no peace, even for a few minutes, even during the day and now I was lying to my landlady. Friend (F) is actually fine, I like her, and she babysits for me too which I really appreciate, but her daughter's aggression is unacceptable: Harry has had scratches on his face and arms and bruises on his head and, if it was once a week or so, I might let it go, but it's numerous times throughout the day and, now, when I scoop H up out of her way, I am told I should give the daughter the chance to be nice to him (I did! For two weeks!). I was told that H had to put up with it and get used to it (not bloody yet he doesn't), that her daughter needed the chance to feel secure again after the chaos she had come from and hence why they were staying with me in the first place (I tried to help, sound a bit grateful, won't you?).

So fuck that: what had started as a friendly favour to another single mummy who was in a bit of a fix was turning into something of a sentence.

Attempting to start a conversation about how I felt we were over compromised, a fairly interesting debate ensued wherein I ended up having to defend the right to protect Harry from what she called "the real world" and not have to tell him how to fight or to defend himself until he was a few years older. He's 11 months old (for fuck's sake) even her daughter is only 2.5. It made me utterly depressed and damn miserable listening to her reasonings. I want Harry to stay a happy little sweet grinning kid - he's still really a baby not even a kid yet - for as long as possible, I don't want him growing up in a few minutes so he's some precocious smart ass 2 or 3 or 4 year old. Where does innocence end and real-life begin, in terms of what you teach and tell your child, and when? I remembered reading about a teacher in London telling kids of a young age that Santa didn't actually exist, evoking a bitter wrath in their parents. I felt nervous of my then impending motherhood, I could see the teacher's side and the parents' side - which would I have chosen? And that's just Santa !

I know he will have to learn to cope with other kids soon, but in childcare there are supervisors, and they're grouped with other kids of the same age, and I have chosen not to put H in childcare for a year or so anyhow.

F and I differ on many more things: for example, Harry and I will sit on the stairs on the deck and watch the family of chicks cheep about our garden: Harry grins and stares utterly spellbound. They will hop right into the house and we feed them bread, but F encourages her daughter to run at them, shooing them away from the house. She's even starting spitting at them, which F just tells her to do outside.

Unbidden but extremely welcome, my landlady came to my rescue. She told me my friend could stay as long as she paid half the rent. She put the rent up a bit first too. She then said it wasn't fair on Harry to put up with a 2.5 year old, and that she had heard the daughter screaming all day and every day. It's not fair on you Sarah, let alone Harry who is too little to understand. She said they could only stay 2 more weeks.

Thank the fuck for that.

That said, I do actually like F, it's just that we differ - a lot - on parenting. And so is our right.

I met another mummy too, who made me feel a whole lot better. She is a successful self-employed artist with a beautiful young family who was scouting the island for a new place to live for a few months. She said, no you actually can bring your kids up without TV, my eldest is 8. She said wanted to bring her family here to pull back a bit on the hectic madness of the world and let them run free as children unbridled by the crap, her words, of everything. She was beautiful and I'm a bit in love with her, or more, her life. She gave me chutney and her email and actual address in NZ and said, keep those chicks in Harry's life the fluffy kind for as long as you can. (I feel an episode of Sorry! coming on.)

Other happier news: I have been out and about a lot lot more than usual. A night out a week was just enough for a while and most other nights in with friends and copious boozing satisfied all needs to socialise and imbibe. But with only a few weeks left to go in Rarotonga, I feel the sitting about on a beach in the day is still wonderful, but that I should really go out more and meet more people, so I did, and I have .. and, bars don't change much, boys don't change much and only the beer gets better. I found a microbrewery! 9NZD for a 2 litre bottle of "Cook Island Darkies". If I go back for a refill, it's 8NZD.

My only comment about the local men is that there are a lot of unhappy Cook Island women who hate the visiting white females with an understandable passion because they are stuck at home with their children and grandchildren - at the very old age of about 30 - while the boys go out boozing trying to pick up tourists. Their romantic culture is as unattractively stuck in a past age as much as the island is, attractively, stuck in another era entirely: uncommercialised and still beautiful, which is to say, very.

Ok another comment: the dudes that are seemingly the most popular ladykillers are a bunch of ageing alcoholic musicians who play Elvis covers, sort of, in between killing themselves slowly with bottles of rum. I thought I might gratecrash their gigs and jam a bit when I realised most of them stayed strumming a D through every song despite what they were singing, because even I can play one chord all night long. Sadly, their attitude towards women, tourist or local, is of a similar singular approach and nature. I can't say anymore, I'm on their island.

The tourists I've met, mostly fantastic Australian and Kiwis, have entertained a lot by way of compensation, as have a smattering of 20-40something English travellers and the odd random Irish or American dude rocking up for a few months, lucky enough to have been relocated here through work.

My heart, though, is with the Greenpeace guys. The Esperanza has been moored here for a few weeks and we boarded it for a snoop and a chat the other day whereupon again I realised my hedonistic life might actually, these days, be full of meaning, but I'm still so self-serving I am a nearly as bad as one of my ex-work colleagues in my hypocritical desire to be of any value to anyone or anything (that is to say, a bourgeois charity quoting, do-not-a-lot-twat) other than myself. I saw the actual African Queen! I am now once again in love with yet another idealistic dream, which is, travelling the world doing charity work.

You know, after I've perfected the tan.

Nothing Lasts Forever

The babysitting friend plus daughter have kind of unofficially moved in and I am in dire need of earplugs and a higher level of tolerance and patience than I ever thought would be needed in any situation, save having to negotiate with a gun-toting terrorist. It is a tiring and noisy hell living with a two and a half year old: she cries loudly at flipping everything, won't go to bed until she practically falls asleep on her feet around midnight, eats everything you are eating but nothing you offer her, snatches away anything Harry is playing with, hits us all for seemingly no reason and wees all over the bathroom. The simple peaceful life I had created is over and the apartment is just a tad on the busy side with one flatmate, one daughter, one son, one kitten, two dogs, four roosters, four hens, 14 baby chicks, 6 geckos and a dozen arsebiting mosquitos.

Knew it wouldn't last.

Of course there's an upside: shared costs of food and living, babysitting, which is a bit expensive at NZD10 per hour (around 5 quid an hour, would be cheap in London), a collection of cool DVDs and more toys for Harry, should he ever get the chance to get his sticky hands on them and away from the daughter.

Wasting no time in making use of this upside, and needing to get the hell out of the hothouse, a few days ago I left H with said friend and armed with 80% DEET anti-mosquito gel (let the fuckers get through that) went hiking across the island with another friend. Fantastic! And practically the only exercise I've had in about 18 months, if you don't count walking up and down the hills of San Francisco, which actually I do.

The first hour was the hardest: clutching at roots on a nearly vertical ascent while trying not to look down or at my right foot which was poking out of my 20 year old trainers til it completely broke free and I nearly keeled over backwards into the palm trees below us. (I remembered I was afraid of heights when it was way too high and too late to turn back, just as I did when I suddenly found myself in a helicopter flying over the Grand Canyon back in Vegas.)

We climbed for about an hour til we were at the Needle, the highest point of the island. It was so peaceful, way above the rest of the world nearly in the clouds. We sat in silence listening to the breeze and taking in the gorgeous views, just sitting there in the sun, higher than the birds.



After who knows how long, we started down the other side which was dark and jungley: thick trees and foliage hid the sun. We crossed rivers and massive rocks, pulled away huge fallen branches and attempted to follow the hardly marked route to the other side. Eventually we slid down a skinny muddy slope, pushed through the overgrown paths and arrived at the waterfall at the south of the island and leapt straight in.




We hitched home, something I haven't done in ages, something not at all possible to do with Harry, something I would only advise on a small island where everyone knows everyone else, even if I don't. Marvellous!

Had another mental night out again this week, again ending up dancing and again forgetting the hell it is to look after a baby with a hangover the next day. Met some cool new people and got thoroughly wasted on about 5 beers. Forgot how much fun it is to be out and single but miss my old baby-free life like a hole in the head.

Harry is growing so fast it's crazy - he's really tall for his age and is attempting to feed himself which means the whole house is covered in baby food as he grabs the spoon, missing his mouth entirely and flings nearly the whole contents of it over his head. Couple that with a screaming two and a half year old and suddenly escaping to the beach every afternoon is a must rather than a luxury which is what I keep telling myself as I lie there watching Harry wiggle off, feeling a bit smug that he's so sweet and contented still.

Bet that won't last for too much longer either.

The Good Life

Quite surprised how much I love living such a simple life. I thought, as we've been here for over 8 weeks, I'd be restless and bored by now, but I'm not. Not a bit. In fact, I am starting to feel London isn't somewhere I could ever live again, but then I say that pretty much every time I go somewhere else.

Last week, so we could access money because the replacement cashcard won't turn up for a few weeks, we opened a bank account in town. What would have been a hassle and a pain and lots of paperwork, was a delight - an hour talking to the bank lady about travelling and Harry and about 10 minutes to open the account. I didn't have the required 100NZD on me to open it either but, no problem, they opened it with 45NZD and smiled.

Our days when it's hot and sunny are flying by - mornings on the sundeck with Harry playing inside, afternoons on the beach. Harry can't get enough of the sand or the sea and cries when we have to come home for his afternoon nap. He crawls like mad straight down to the water and hours pass with him sitting in the lap of the waves or crawling along the shore like a little lost crab.



Evenings, while he sleeps, are with friends on the sundeck, drinking and eating. I'm living on fresh fish and fruit, tomatoes on toast, tuna fish sandwiches and pasta and Harry eats mashed potatoes, mashed veg and fruit. What else do we need?



A few days ago, a friend offered to babysit... so for the first time in the 4 months we've been away, I ventured out without H. I thought I'd be anxious, running home around 9pm, but knew Harry was in good hands so didn't fret. We drank and danced by the sea all night with ukeleles and guitars playing in the background. How I managed to do this nearly every night before I had Harry, minus the stars and the ukeleles, I really don't know. I was fairly drunk after 2 or 3 drinks and am still under the deluded impression I can dance; thankfully no-one cared I can't and all photos have been deleted.

We got home on the back of scooters with a few locals. I have no idea what time it was, it was all I could do to hang on to the driver and not fall off, I couldn't see further than my own hand. Other friends stayed up way longer til it was almost light again while I woke up at 8am and wondered what the hell I'd been drinking all night.

It was painful and startling hot looking after Harry that next morning, think I'll leave it a while before I go out again.

Tonight I am returning the babysitting favour and am in looking after H and my friend's daughter, who is 2 and a half. This is pretty new for me; not only is looking after a 2 and a half year old a world of difference from looking after an 11 month old baby who is your own, but the daughter only speaks Swiss German and my limited regular German just might not stretch to translating The Very Hungry Caterpiller for her, although I can do the actions.

I do have something to complain about: mosquitos. Why do they exist? What function do they play in the food chain? Other beasts can live off something else, they should be destroyed. I get bitten at least 10 times a night. Harry has suffered at least 4 himself and even when you manage to swat one, they squish with your own blood covering your hands. They are shit and I hate them and in Thailand they carry malaria, as if they needed an official reason to hate them. Bastards, drop dead and leave us alone.

Hot and Wet but Chilled Out

The past few nights have been thunderously wet. Rain doesn't piddle down in miserable squirts here, it pounds on the wooden roof, hot and forceful, like an angry lover hell-bent on entering the house. Lightning flashes madly every few seconds, illuminating nearly the whole island and with no countable gap in between, the thunder booms and rattles the windows so hard and so loud I am starting to believe in Zeus, although I'm rather in the wrong continent. Then it stops. And starts again half an hour later. I am surprised Harry sleeps through it, I am always woken around 4am by just the rain.

Tonight is calm and I am sitting on the deck in the moonlight trying to work out what stars are winking above me. It was a grey day today and I was tired from a fantastic night with the few remaining friends that didn't have to go back to their cooler climates or press on to the next part of their fabulous trips. It is also a little windy; the geckos still rule the roost and peek out from behind a picture frame in the house or quack like high pitched ducks around the light and the bastard mosquitos outside; there are at least six of them who I have grown to love for eating the mosquitos. Moths the size of small rodents flap about and are eventually tongue-flashed, if not sucked whole, by the geckos and the breeze brings in sounds and smells from along the shore: persistent, vigorous drumming and something scrumptious being grilled; the roar of the ocean is even closer than before.



We had another Tsunami warning yesterday, a gloriously hot day, one of a few now, in between storms, where I've managed to burn (my BUM!) despite a high factor suncream and actual sun-exposure being less than 15 minutes at a time (my jeans shorts white mark is e-v-e-r-s-o-s-l-o-w-l-y disappearing but I haven't been able to sit down for the past few nights without wincing). Harry and I were on the beach - he is starting to enjoy the water and crawled right in up to his chin and splashed about with lots more joy and confidence than before. I heard police sirens and guessed they were the new official warnings, after the last fiasco that had everyone panicking for no risk or reason. Over a megaphone we were told we had 2 hours to run to the hills; we walked back to the house and packed a bag, arranging with the host of the apartments to be driven away, then it was all cancelled and I put H to bed for an afternoon kip and promptly joined him.



Last week our passports, tickets, travelling docs, around 100NZD cash and H's medical records got stolen: I was told I swore a bit for a few minutes then seemed not to worry about it but I was upset I had lost Harry's first passport. The magnetic strip on my only cashcard is faulty and there is some fraudulent activity on another, linked account; I think it might have driven me slightly insane if we had been back in London. Instead, we called the police, who showed up rather unpredictably swiftly and within 2 hours they had found the bag, with all our stuff in, minus the cash. Calling the UK bank started to be an experience I don't want to relay but then it got sorted out with the help of a local's phone and I went back to playing monsters with Harry and smiling at the little black kitten that has adopted us.

It seems not stressing out is the way forward, if only I could maintain this mentality when I eventually have to come back.

Ignorance is Bliss (and most other stuff is too)

No Tsunami waves hit here - we're on the south east of the island around a peaceful lagoon, slightly protected by a coral reef about a half mile out which, if the wave had come from the south east, might have broken its ferocity a little. There were a few larger waves on the shore the night before, not that we really noticed, the dogs barked a lot more than usual and the chirping chicks were nowhere to be seen... Around the northwest in the town, the water got sucked out, but nothing dangerous came back despite locals clearing the harbour, boarding up the shops and heading for the hills.

Lucky really, tourists at our place weren't told anything till it was all over, we could have been stranded! Perhaps that's because the officials knew it was no more than a small danger; the locals are being criticised for stirring up panic on the 'coconut radio' (word of mouth) but even then we didn't hear a thing til a few hours after it would have struck and had googled the BBC website to find out something reliable... We could have easily just laid there lapping up the sun, none the wiser and none the worse off but eventually we packed a bag, just in case, like the rest of the tourists, but it was way after the non-event, uselessly and thankfully.

Our new place by the beach rocks! Harry was a bit sick last week which I haven't been able to put down to anything in particular, although I suspect the bought baby food. Luckily a friend we'd made is a Dr and allayed fears it was anything more than a small stomach upset: no pain, no fever; H is now back eating happily and with his usual enthusiasm. The night he threw up I hadn't made anything for dinner myself so fed H a jar of bought babyfood, within date range and which I'd tasted first.. and now our place is now stocked with fresh fruit and veg and I am cooking every day because there is no way I am going near the bought stuff ever again just in case it was the cause, I already had my suspicions... Having to reduce what I then fed him for the following 24-36 hrs after he had thrown up so his tummy would settle down was against all natural nurturing instincts and took all my will power - I am sure the concept of being 'cruel to be kind' is not found anywhere else in nature but in the human world; it was horrible to have to see him sobbing for more food when I could only give him half of his usual feeds...

We've actually been doing just a few more things than hanging out in the sun with new friends, eating, drinking and swimming: we went to a gorgeously uplifting church service one Sunday, full of rousing songs, flowers and happiness. The church itself is situated opposite Avana Passage where Maoris first left for New Zealand; after the service the priest invited us for lunch with the locals and regailed us with more island history and stories.

We went rowing (kayacking?) - with H strapped to my front - to one of the Atols across the lagoon and this Friday we're going to the closing ceremony of the Mini Games - I think Tahiti and Fiji are at the top of the medal table at present - and have watched the rowing from our sun-deck, despite for the first few days a huge electric storm moving in and sitting in the warm rain to do so.

Otherwise, the sun has been beautifully hot and we're slathering on the Factor 50.

Staying !

The Mini Pacific Games started here this week, comprising of competitors from Fiji, Samoa, Tahiti, Micronesia and at least 20 other teeny, previously unheard of, Pacific Islands, some of which have a population of less than 100, a geographical land mass of approximately 35 sq km and a presence in the games of only 3 or 4 competitors. Thus, the lagoon we moved back around is now busy, but not that busy, with training rowers and adoring beach rooted island girl cheer leaders who adorn flowery headdresses and brightly coloured saris, and banners of Go For Gold and the like.

As the sun has been out, convincingly, for more than a few days now, so has the rest of the island, which I understand has a population of around 11,000. The few schools are closed to house the visiting teams and inland roads are mostly sealed off. But where are these 11,000 usually ? From what I've seen there are only 50 people who actually live here, with the majority quadrupling up as waiters, cleaners, taxi drivers and bar owners. I'm convinced "Bobby" from the petrol station ditches the pumps, runs round to the local supermarket, sprints back to the car rental place, wakes up in the morning as the coffee guy then tends the evening beach bar, just to give the impression the island has entirely more people on it than it actually has, like we're in some beautiful, limited budget sitcom.

I'm still really unsure about the baby food here and so ditched buying Harry any in favour of boiling up fruit and veg at home, til it's squishy enough for him not to make faces at. He might have just turned 10 months and crawls forward and understands so much more than he can articulate, but he isn't yet happily conversant with anything lumpy, or cold, or not served to him on a spoon; "finger food", which I am told to give him daily, ends up held in his mouth, undissolved, and certainly not "gummed", and secretly spat out in his travel cot about an hour later. But at least we have escaped the nappy rash and the explosive poos - god, they smelled like old bins.

The need for healthier living also means I have cut down spending and diminished my level of physical activity from the sod all it was, to pure, minimalistic perfection as a result; I have also re-examined my motivation for "travelling" entirely, because I like it far too much here to leave yet. I love and need this slow pace of life! For the past few days Harry has crawled about the beach, eating most of it in the process, and I have managed to lie down for all of about 2 minutes, but the sanity and peace I so craved has finally turned up.



Thus, the thought of facing NZ or Oz, or anywhere with roads that go more than 30 mph and anything vaguely commercial is making me anxious. Despite the excitement in newness itself, and the beauty that sings at you from the guide books and the lips of other people who have been there, I am not looking forward to giving my bank card more of a bashing and my mind another work out trying to find, decide on and then book hotels, locations, not-to-miss sights; all the logistics of travelling are sending me into a blind panic.

So... I've decided to stay for a while...

I've found, from the end of this month for perhaps 2-3 months, a fantastic self-contained place about as far away from the beach as I am now, that is, about 30 seconds, that costs less for a whole month than for two weeks where I currently am. It is very clean, has its own laundry facilities, a fully furnished kitchen, two bedrooms and a large living area so H can crawl on carpeted, soft floors; the lady letting it has a baby bath she said I can use as Harry hates me holding him under the shower every night... and right now that is everything we need.

Island Life

Harry is now crawling forwards! It started as a bunny hop/drag/fall on his face/give up crying kind of thing but once he got the knees under his body concept, he was off, furiously wiggling, his backside swinging like a 1950s moviestar. I'm not entirely happy with his baby food here, he frequently wakes himself up with loud explosive poos and has had terrible nappy rash. I read that this is usual for teething babies though; at his 9 month check up, the Pediatrician in LA said it would be about 4-6 weeks before he cut his first tooth, so I am hoping it's not related to the food at all and a tiny peg is on the way.

Island life continues at a slow, soul-restoring pace; last week H and I moved to the beach, living just above the lulling lap of the lagoon, with a background roar of waves above a coral reef, about a quarter of a mile out from the shore; it was simply beautiful. We ate coconuts straight from the trees, fish straight from the sea and bananas and alphalpha sprout sandwiches. We sank warm rum with new friends on our balcony overlooking the sea, the mountains and more lush gardens. We swung in hammocks over the beach til the light died and the winds picked up, or drank in quiet bars watching the storms come in and the geckos come out and grabbed the still only occasional sunlight in the daytime with the voracity that vampires would shy it.



Sometimes very little happens other than the passing of night and day and things have become dreamily vague and inexact; directions are 'that way' and a point. I never know what day it is apart from Sundays when the shops are shut, and errands I have been meaning to do tomorrow, I get around to about a week later. When the sun does shine, fish jump out of the sea, the locals hit the beaches to join the few tourists and the paradise island is again perfect. One day, as we sat on a deck having beers, a beautiful white horse waded past us through the waves, the shining white of his body gleaming in the turquoise water as if he might be mythologically part horse, part fish.

This week we moved to a bamboo shack on stilts in the hills and will return to the beach again next week. It is quieter here, the distant roar is of the wind in the trees. We drink more rum on the balcony with friends and gaze at the night sky full of stars. I've never done so little for so long! It is only the desperate need to save money - and thus not eat much - that has stopped me getting hideously fat and lazy, in fact I have lost the last of the baby weight without even trying.... and when I think about my life before I had Harry, with a job etc, with all this relaxing and soaking up scenery, I wonder, how did I ever have time to work?

An Imperfect Pacific Paradise...

The long awaited Pacific Island paradise... and it's raining !

Arriving at 5am after a perfect flight, with a whole row to ourselves and wonderfully attentive Air New Zealand hospitality, the pilot regretted to inform us they'd been having a spot of rain in the islands. It was warm and muggy and still dark as we collected our huge bags and trundled off to find the lady due to take us to the village cabins, described as 'surrounded by lush tropical gardens'...

And lush it is! And so mellow... The island is 31km round only and there are so few people or buildings or roads or anything but huge, beautifully unkempt palm trees and a dramatic range of mountains to jam it up. Pigs and dogs rule the dusty roads and chickens peck about ignoring the crowing roosters that cluck about them at our window. We have a large self-contained studio, a small pool and a few friendly neighbours to say hello to in the morning; it is a relaxed haven of hot happiness to be here, such a contrast in pace and vibe and attitude to where we've come from.

We have hired a cheap bone-rattling, small tin of a car that we bumble about in, bare foot and at no more than 30mph (you have to give way to the grinning pups and teeny yellow-beaked walking birds) and while the one road that circumnavigates the island initially hides the tracks that lead you to the glorious white sanded beaches, once you find them, past the odd bar, or hidden restaurant or low rise apartments, you are rewarded with idyllic perfection; sea the colour of bright turquoise like a child's crayon, the sand, pale and empty but for fallen coconuts and the bluest skies with occasional huge glowingly white properly fluffy fat clouds.



You have to get a Cook Island driving licence to hire a car which I found hilarious - a quick NZD 20 to the local copper and it's yours.

The host of our apartment for this first week has been very kind: helpful and informative and welcoming. The people in the few shops and bars behave as you might imagine people with the perfect life would: giving, generous, always smiling, nothing a problem, everything a yes, everything slow, everything good. We drink banana smoothies and eat paw-paw and melon and Harry gets adored and picked up by everyone he meets.

The weather's not been that great; bursts of sunlight for a few hours then hot rain, but it is always warm. At night for the past two nights it's been blowing a vicious sounding gale and I sit on the porch listening to coconuts thumping the ground like unexploded bombs and sleep in my clothes because the mosquitos have made several damn itchy meals out me. In the mornings it is warm again, but often cloudy with odd half hours of sunshine. I have calmed my jittery born-in-the-USA coffee addiction down to tea and Harry's off the breast and on bottles of soya milk before huge bowls of porridge for breakfast. By the afternoons, the sun has usually burnt off the clouds and scared away the rain, but today was dull and cloudy all day, so we did laundry and I read for a couple of uninterrupted hours as H giggled about on all fours, still not yet crawling forwards.



We have a 7 inch lizard sharing the apartment, along with his smaller baby lizard pals that only come out at night and scared the hell out of me when I first met them. Harry is protected from the mosquitos in the fantastic travel cot that zips up with nets and built-in anti-mosquito substances in the sides, but I am still trying to work out how I got bitten all over my right leg, right foot, right buttock and right arm when I was completely covered up all night. I need to get used to dealing with other creatures that creep and fly and buzz; the spiders in Oz are going to freak the living hell out of me.

We're in the north of the island currently, and next week move to the east where the best beaches are, around the lagoon. We're in the middle of the Pacific! Nothing around for aaaages! And there is very little, gloriously little, to do. I am so relaxed I haven't had a beer or a glass of wine since we got here, and very few smokes. Harry and I sleep 15 hours straight most nights and wake late and don't do anything much, because we don't have to. That said, I have finally bought a bikini and am trying to get rid of the jeans shorts white mark, although there hasn't been enough sunshine yet to do that. Ah, my only dilemma...