The Coconut Chronicles

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Exciting goings on here on our little patch of sand in the Pacific! There are two packages en route from our home across the sea. One from Mom Nancy, contents unknown, who quotes the arrival date as anywhere between 6 weeks and 3 months; and one from my Big Sis, contents somewhat known, who apparently re-mortgaged her home and sold one of her children to send it the speedy way. The post office lady – who I have dubbed “Moody Moana” – hates me. I pop in every day to check if any parcels have arrived and she has to, (are you ready for this?), turn her head and look at the small stack of boxes on the floor, (gasp!). The other day I bounced in the door, chipper as always in the face of such gloom, and before I could squeeze out two words, Moody Moana boomed out, “No!”

Well, no chocolate for her, then.

You can expect a very upbeat Coconut Chronicle with hardly any complaining the day those sweet little parcels arrive.

And speaking of arrivals…my friend Helmi the Wonder Editor is coming to visit…in person!!! I’m thinking of changing her nickname to “The Transporter”, as we have already inundated her with a list of stuff to bring, including a giant fishing cooler for Prez the Tuna Slayer.

Air New Zealand put out a wicked deal recently on airfare from Vancouver to Rarotonga, (passed along to us by Chocolate Fairy Carrie – thanks!) and immediately I alerted all within reasonable distance of the Vancouver airport. I’m always curious who, if anyone, will respond to these little temptations, and I am frequently surprised.

***SIDE STORY***

When we used to have our old Club Fred in Baja, we felt comfortable inviting everyone and their dog to visit, safe in the knowledge that only a miniscule percentage would actually follow through and show up. And then came the year that everyone, dogs included, showed up. Oops! True to form, Prez’s attitude was the more the merrier but, in retrospect, it probably would have been a lot more fun for everyone if we’d spaced out the visits. And ten guests, (plus the three hitch hikers we picked up on the way back from the airport), all at once is a might overwhelming. One day I went into the pantry to get a can of something and didn’t come out for ten minutes; it was so peaceful in there!

Back to Aitutaki…

There were a few maybes and a few false starts. I know a couple of people who really wanted to visit but had some serious obstacles that couldn’t be avoided. And then, out of the blue, comes an email from Helmi the Wonder Editor, very tentatively suggesting she might make the leap. Next thing you know, her flight is booked! According to her, a trip to the South Pacific has been a lifelong dream. I am all for fulfilling dreams. And I’m all for having a real friend, in the flesh, to share my floating moments with. I can hardly wait to show her this island and all the beautiful bits of Aitutaki that I so frequently neglect to rave about. Hooray!!

Now I have to go; I have a guest coming and just over a month to get all of my cleaning done! (Kidding, kidding).

In other news, Prez has been hard at it, building a new website for all of Aitutaki. If you were here, you would recognize the telltale signs of website building, primarily by the number of four letter words and phrases such as, “You’re f#*%ing kidding me?” The idea to build this website, and thereby subject himself to months of psychological torture, came from Prez’s very quick realization that this island is hurting for business.

Why is it hurting? Got me.

Hands down, this is one of the most jaw-droppingly beautiful, not to mention friendly, places in the world, (Moody Moana being the exception). There’s a look all new arrivals have at the airport – I think “Gob-smacked” sums it up. They’ve just flown over a lagoon that laughs in the face of poets, “Go on, try to describe my beauty with words!” They are in a state of mild shock because, let’s face it, nowhere can really look as good as the postcards and travel brochures, can it?

Wow, this place sure looks ugly! Why would anyone want to go there?

Aitutaki can, and does…times ten.

Yuck, fresh tropical fruit!                          Great, the beach is crowded again!

So why are we and our neighbours, Etu Moana, the only two resorts that are consistently full? Why isn’t Aitutaki like the “in” New York restaurant, with line ups down the block and waiting lists that stretch into the year 2013? The biggest part of the problem is marketing. For years the Cooks have fought for their share of the tourism pie, battling with Fiji, Hawaii, Tahiti, and Bora Bora for sun&sand seekers. Rarotonga has the international airport, and the money, so that’s the island everyone has focused on. Aitutaki has been promoted as a day trip destination, or a two to three day getaway. And, oh my, how sad it is to see the faces of our guests who’ve just spent ten days on Raro and arrive here for the final three days of their vacation, with a horrible and sudden awareness that they should have done it the other way around. We try to warn them but it happens all the time.

Not to put anyone off visiting Raro, it’s nice enough, I guess. There are more shops and restaurants and City Folk stuff but given the choice between here and there? Puh-lease, no contest.

Another problem with Aitutaki’s empty beds comes back to my old friend…the telecom company. Internet here is only slightly better than the phone service, which is garbage. With such an abysmally slow and expensive internet, people can’t use it properly, which means they don’t understand it, which leaves them wide open to scam artists and shysters who charge $7000 to build a tiny website, without any search engine optimization or any of the tools necessary for them to get seen. Getting seen is kind of the point, you would think. Some businesses have listed themselves on larger sites, with limited text and photos, only to be told to bugger off when they ask for a link to their own website. It’s a mess.

Mr. Boss may not be featured in Good Housekeeping any time soon but thankfully he knew enough to get a good internet presence early in the game.

But the finger of blame must also be pointed inward. People on Aitutaki are no different than people we see all over the world, expecting the government to take care of them. If tourism is sagging, the government should do something about it. I often wonder what we would all do if “the government” disappeared and we had to learn to take care of our own darn selves? At our first tourism meeting, shortly after we arrived, we heard no end of grumbling about the government this, and the government that, and Rarotonga gets everything and we get nothing, and blah, blah, blah. Everyone has looked to the Cook Islands Tourism Department to solve their problems for so long; they’ve lost the ability to think for themselves.

I wouldn’t let the Cook Islands Tourism Department market my cat’s business, never mind mine. Good god, they still think the best form of marketing is flying people all over the world to man booths and hand out brochures at travel shows. When is the last time you went to a travel show? Exactly. The tourism budget is small, so why not put it towards a kick ass website, buy eyeballs, and dominate the internet for South Pacific travel? Ah, but if they did that then Bill and Mary wouldn’t get to take all those nifty trips to Australia, and New Zealand, and America, etc, on the tax payer’s dime.

(Or should I say your dime? You have no idea how much foreign aid and loans the Cooks gets.)

Thus, very slowly and steadily, Prez began building a website to promote Aitutaki. The response from locals has been overwhelmingly positive and we have been the recipients of numerous gifts of fruit. The site will be unbiased an all-inclusive, and cheap like borscht. Folks on the island, the majority of whom understand virtually nothing about the internet, have told him he could charge a lot of money for the work he’s doing but he just smiles and says, “It’s not about the money.”

Times like that, I’m the proudest wife in the world. (But let’s keep that between you and me because I’m never going to get my soaker tub and automatic dishwasher back in Canada if he keeps doing everything for free.)

You can expect a Chronicle soon with a link to the new website and a request to pass it along to everyone on the planet. There’s a free basket of fresh mangoes for everyone who does this, (*must collect mangoes, in person, on Aitutaki).

And if you want a second opinion on how beautiful this place is, you can ask Helmi at the end of April. Her phone number and email address are…

QUESTION: You didn’t really think I was going to tell you, did you??

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Hello again from the Big Blue,

I’m hiding in the bedroom. At this very moment, there is a group of laughing, cheery, beautiful people eating Prez’s sushi, and having a wonderful time. And I am hiding from them. It’s nothing personal – they’re all lovely people – but I’m having one of those days.

First, I think you need to understand our living arrangements a little more clearly. OK, if you were a bird, looking down on the property, you would see two huts right down close to the water. One hut is tall, (as it is actually two huts – one upstairs, one downstairs), and one is small. Behind the tall hut is a green shipping container, which was used to transport supplies and equipment here to build this place but now functions as a very disorganized work shop. Across from the shipping container…er…workshop, and behind the small hut, is our compost/garbage depot/recycling center.

Yes, we do recycle on Aitutaki…sort of. That is to say, aluminum, plastic, and glass is collected, sorted, and separated into neat piles at the dump. And then, well, nothing happens. But at least the stuff that could, theoretically, be recycled, if facilities existed, is not mixed in with the normal garbage!

At the very back of the property is our house/office/common area. There is also a hut tacked onto the side of the house. It’s called the “Garden Hut”, which, savvy travelers will recognize instantly, is simply a nice name for “Hut that isn’t on the beach”. If you were walking into our house, you would first step up into the common area. This is a long, open space that was originally a deck for Mr. Boss and family. It is screened in but that’s new – the screening in might have something to do with the email I made Prez send, before we arrived, explaining that his Princess would jump ship, without a shred of guilt, if the house was not screened in from Mozzies.

Standing at the front, screened door (that doesn’t close properly and is forever being left open, making the screens kind of moot), you will see a couch, a chair, a table (the table is actually a piece of our luggage we’ve covered with a cloth), and a single bed, (which functions both as a couch and a nap platform). To your left, the BBQ, the aquatic center (an old dresser we keep the snorkel gear in), a map of the world with lots of pins stuck in it, another dresser for storage, and a bookshelf. Usually, there is also a stalk of bananas hanging from the ceiling with several hermit crabs on it.

This common area is our living room; it’s also a place where the guests can hang out and socialize – though you have to move a cat or two out of the way to use the furniture. We tell guests it’s open seven days a week from 8am to 8pm, unless we are having a BBQ or a potluck dinner and then they can stay later. Like tonight.

Up another small flight of stairs, is the main house. Again, another long, open, area, with our office area at one end and our kitchen at the other. Our bedroom is directly behind the kitchen, the guest/spare room is next to us, and the bathroom is next to that room. It’s a nice, functional design with only a few flaws.

Flaw #1 – There is no proper ceiling ventilation. During the day, our cinderblock home collects heat like a brick pizza oven. The heat rises to the ceiling where it…um…stays. It can be pleasantly warm and breezy outside and absolutely stifling inside. Long spells at the desk can only be endured with a fan blowing directly on you at high speed, (not helpful when you’re working with bits of paper), and I won’t even attempt to describe the machinations necessary for an evening of romance.

Flaw #2 – Doors. There is only one door that functions properly in the entire house and that is the one to the bathroom…thank goodness. The front door sticks. It makes a sound like it’s closed so you walk away feeling as if you closed it when, in fact, there are hordes of mozzies flying in like a squadron of Luftwaffe bombers.  The bedroom and spare room doors are homemade jobs. Oh, they close but getting them to stay that way is a problem. If I’m in the bedroom, I can keep the door closed with the little sliding lock mechanism but that means I have to get up and unlock it every time Prez wants in. To solve this problem, we have employed the use of a brick. When I’m retreating to my cave to write I simply call out to Prez, “Brick me in, honey!” and he slides the brick against the door. Of course, this means every time I come out to use the loo or fetch another portable air conditioner, (ice pack), he has to get up and brick me in again.

Flaw #3 – Privacy…or lack thereof. When Prez and me put together the brilliant plan of cleaning up the deck and using it as a common area for guests we failed to take privacy into consideration. Hey, we’re social folks, how bad could it be? Well, with a wide-open main entrance, two large windows, and a layout that puts guests’ heads right at crotch level when we are in the kitchen, the answer is: pretty bad. Some days, especially when it was rainy and guests fled to the common area in attempt to battle cabin fever, I felt like one of those New York weirdos that spend weeks living in a Plexiglas house as a form of Performance Art. (Maybe I should have been charging admission?). Worst of all, because the house is so poorly ventilated, we keep the bedroom door open at night, in the hopes of catching any stray breeze that might happen by, and I have, more than once, slept in late and woken up to find someone in the common area getting a eyeful of my half-clothed, not-so-gracefully sleeping body.

You will now find curtains on all viewing areas. When Prez remembers to close them, they work perfectly.

But there’s still the matter of the party evenings. Those of you who know me know I live with a man who thinks nothing of spur of the moment dinner parties for a dozen people. Ninety percent of the time, I’m cool with this. In fact, guests over the years have marveled at my ability to handle these impromptu mega-gatherings and the inevitable mess they spawn. (Yes, I’m pretty terrific, aren’t I?). But there’s a difference between a last minute fiesta with ten of your good buddies, where you are comfortable wearing your pajamas if you like, you can drink too much, few conversation topics are taboo, and you can comfortably use the word F**k as an adjective – and a party with ten complete strangers who are paying you to be there. Most days I can rise to the occasion but some days I can’t convince my inner hermit to put on her party dress. Like today.

Today I woke up late with a headache, a sore throat, and a bad case of Cranky Pants. Prez had been up at dark o’clock fishing with some guests and everyone was looking forward to the big tuna feast tonight. Everyone but me. I had a nap in the afternoon, hoping that would fix me, but all it did was remind me how nice and soft our bed is. And, as I scrubbed and cleaned and mopped the house and common area in preparation for the festivities, I grew more and more rankled by the fact that I had to scrub and clean and mop for a party I didn’t want to attend. My throat was still sore and the wave of fatigue passing over me seemed suspiciously like a virus trying to take hold. All I wanted was to slip into my PJ’s, grab a good book, and chill.

So that’s what I did. I am party pooper, hear me roar!

I know Prez feels bad when I hide out, and I feel bad that he feels bad. Mind you, I don’t think he’s suffering too terribly, making small talk with the hot Swiss chick that’s had his eyeballs firmly glued to the three bandaids she uses as a bikini all week. No need to send sympathy cards, trust me. Below is this week’s gang – Swiss Miss is on the far left (as if I had to tell you).

The good news is I got this Coconut Chronicle written ahead of schedule, hooray! The bad news is tomorrow I will face a stack of dishes from a feast I did not enjoy. Sigh. The best news is I think I’ve managed to thwart the virus, my husband has had his weekly social fix, and there’s a really, really nice breeze blowing tonight!

QUESTION: Hermit or social butterfly, which one are you?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess   (I just had to put in this picture of Monster with her Boo-Boo…aren’t they cute????)

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Gentlemen, hold your heads high. This week’s Scootie Award goes to two strapping young local boys, doubling home from the golf course, each with a golf bag, full of clubs, slung across their laps. Way to represent for the men!

We are now on the downward slope of summer. I am finally acclimatizing to the heat, though last night I gave up and crawled out to the screened-in common area to sleep on the couch. A fraction of a breeze is better than none. My portable air-conditioning system usually works on the really bad nights but last night was off the charts. (If you’re wondering what a portable air-conditioning system is, well, it’s simply an ice pack from the freezer wrapped in a small towel, which you hug to your body as you try to sleep. A fantastic invention except for the large pool of condensation you wake up in.)

I’ll warn you right now that this will probably be a very boring Coconut Chronicle. If there’s something good on TV, go ahead and watch it. Prez and I are enjoying some quiet time – calm before the storm, I’m guessing. We have only two people on the property, it’s Sunday, and the heat is slowly lulling me into a mild comatose state. Our resident cats look as if someone snuck in while we weren’t looking and stole their spines. Even the mozzies are too hot to bite. This afternoon I heard a faint buzzing and when I listened closely it was actually a mozzie saying, “Um, do you think you could come a bit closer? I don’t think I have the energy to fly over there and drill into you. Come on, be a sport. I promise I don’t have dengue. Honest.”

You may be wondering how the wedding went last week… or not, but I’ll tell you anyway. The day began with a tuna fishing trip. (Oh please, did you really expect us to host a wedding without fishing?) Prez took the groom out at dark o’clock in the morning to bag a yellowfin tuna. And, though there was much barfing from our young husband-to-be, he successfully landed a 30lb beauty. Janet, our local baker, dropped off a coconut lime cake – her specialty, and I scootered down the road to pick up flowers. Two white ei’s and a small bouquet of local flowers. At about 10:45, we loaded the happy couple into the car, hitched up the boat, and drove to the wharf, (with a quick stop at the petrol station).

I don’t think the bride-to-be was ready for photos yet!

Our minister was No’oh, a goliath of a man with a sunny and gentle disposition. We met him at the wharf, Prez and Groom launched the boat, we all climbed in, and off we motored to, aptly-named, Honeymoon Island. If you were to draw a line to represent a spectrum of beautiful places to get hitched, the worst end being, let’s say, a train station in Kazakhstan during the middle of winter, at the other end, representing the best and most beautiful, would be Honeymoon Island. This day, in particular, pushed the boundaries of beauty even further. Blue skies with just a few cotton ball clouds; water of no less than eighty-six shades of blue, and so clear you could read the fine print of an aspirin bottle from a hundred feet down. Of course, I took credit for it all, insisting I’d specially ordered the weather for the ceremony.

I was a little concerned about the ceremony, to be honest. The couple had asked for a JP in their email, as neither is religious, but there is no such thing here. And since I have never attended church on the island (or anywhere), I was relying on a recommendation from another Papa’a. There are almost more churches than people on Aitutaki and locals take the whole God business very seriously…on Sundays. I need not have worried, No’oh was totally chilled. Well, not totally, he was wearing long pants and a long sleeved shirt in the direct sun. We lined the couple up on the sand, with the water in the background (we were also the official wedding photographers), and No’oh read a lovely little piece about being able to accomplish more together than alone, and being each other’s best friends. Really sweet.

When the “I do’s” were done, Prez marched the couple up and down the beach, into the bushes, out of the bushes, and into the water, snapping photos like a seasoned paparazzi. “Oi!” said the groom, “My mum’s gonna love you!”

Back at Perfect Beach Resort, we met up with the Danish family staying in the Garden Hut and they lead us to the beach to show off the big heart their two kids had made, out of shells, in the sand. Ooo! More photos!!

New hubby popped some bubbly, we rounded up snacks, and the next thing you know we’re having a party. Prez and I declared an official day off and set to celebrating in earnest. (Believe it or not, there are days we actually don’t spend all of our time drinking cocktails with guests.) Happy Couple shared some New Zealand vodka with us. Potent stuff. Needless to say, we were all asleep by four o’clock, which was good because we had a BBQ planned for that evening.

Work, work, work, work, work. Sigh.

New Hubby is a stuntman back in New Zealand, so much of the conversation went like this, “You shoulda seen it, this one time___________________________” (fill in the blank with story regarding some crazy antic pulled either on or off set). He is still young and in that ‘This is the coolest job in the world!’ phase, (despite the fact that Kiwi stunt guys get paid pretty crappily and have no insurance), which made me feel as if we’d stepped into a time machine and transported back about six or seven years. Good fun.

And then there were none.

We had one night with not a single guest on the property. We were blissfully alone; free to run around naked if we chose, at liberty to enjoy a romantic evening with no danger of interruption…and hot… and exhausted. We ate dinner, watched a movie, and zonked. Welcome to paradise.

And now, I’m catching up on emails, drinking an ice cold Amstel, reading some trashy books, crossing my fingers that the supply ship arrives soon, and preparing myself for the busy week ahead.

That’s about it. Hmm.

Oh, I almost forgot! The Heineken store got a shipment of celery flown in yesterday!!

And you thought this Chronicle would be boring. Ha!

QUESTION: Isn’t celery exciting?!

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess 

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Is there anything more romantic than beef tenderloin? No. Valentines Day arrived and my sweetie pie pulled out all the stops with a surprise trip to Ultra Fancy Resort Inc’s Valentine dinner.

Sushi, prawns, lamb, oyster shooters, lime sorbet, beef tenderloin, salad, carrots, asparagus, berry compote, crème brule, chocolate cake, and a cosmopolitan (or two) to wash it all down. Hold on, I think I need a moment alone. Three cheers for Husband Extraordinaire who knew exactly how my flavour-deprived tummy wanted to celebrate Sweethearts Day!!!

We took along a Kiwi couple, Susan & David, who stayed with us for ten days, for their honeymoon. “Lovely” does not begin to describe the kind of folks these two are. And on top of being truly super people and guests, Susan is an artist. Prez and I have wanted to spruce up these little huts with some art work since we arrived but the question was how to attract and/or compensate artists? Along comes Susan, who tells Prez she is not only an artist but one who specializes in underwater scenes. Honestly, could fate be kinder? She’d brought a small selection of paints and volunteered to paint up a mural for us if we could find some more paint and brushes.

No problem!

Oh wait, we live on Aitutaki. Problem. It took some doing…quite a bit of doing, actually…but we managed to round up enough colours for what she needed. And here’s the final result…

Amazing, huh? We are nearly wetting ourselves with joy. Prez, inspired by our first donation of talent, is bursting with ideas for prettifying the other huts.

But back to our fancy dinner…

So there we were, the four of us, having a few drinks, sharing a few laughs, and slowly we began to notice our fellow diners. We began to notice we were the only ones laughing, the only ones without long, straight poles up our bums. And this got me to wondering about money and the way it changes people.

There are rich people, and there are people with money. Now, people with money may like having money but they also appreciate the non-monetary aspects of life as well. To a person with money, it doesn’t matter whether the meal costs ten dollars or ten thousand dollars, what matters is the flavour. Rich people, on the other hand, value their cash not only because of the material goods it can buy but also for the regard, esteem, and even envy they believe it inspires. A rich person will always choose the more expensive meal because they need to be seen eating the expensive meal.

More than once, we have had people with money, who are staying at one of the ultra-luxe resorts, choose to come out and hang with us at Perfect Beach Resort. They sprawl happily on our second (or third) hand couches, eat homemade meals off of mismatched plates, and laugh about the army of hermit crabs littering the grounds. I’m sure they sleep well enough in their air-conditioned rooms and king-sized beds, but they come here for a different kind of relaxation.

Though I’m sure I should aspire to be someone who can afford to stay at Ultra Fancy Resort Inc, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the rich people I saw there. Every bite I took of my meal was heaven on a fork, I laughed loud and often, I clapped for the musicians who played non-stop for nearly two hours, (we were the only table that clapped for them), and I was thankful for each second I was privileged to spend with two fun people and the love of my life. When I looked across the room at the stoic faces, sedately masticating a meal I’m sure they considered just average, in their designer resort wear and jewelry, I thought, you’re living better than ninety percent of the planet, would it kill you to smile??!

The entire resort, magnificent as it is, was otherworldly to me. Prez and I walked around the grounds, commenting how we felt as if we were no longer on Aitutaki. The pool was stunning but generic. The tiles and chrome of the washrooms could have been pulled from Las Vegas or Los Cabos or anywhere. This place, like so many others of its ilk, has a serious personality deficiency. None of their guests will ever go home with a story of how they painted a mural on the side of their hut, or how they caught a tuna then brought it back and helped clean and prepare it for dinner.

When we returned to our little hole-in-the-beach, a magical transformation had occurred. Our rustic little huts, infused with the goodwill and good times they have hosted all these years, had grown to ten times their size, they were covered in gold and jewels, and lines of servants waited to usher guests into extra-large beds and private swimming pools. A ragtime band played in our common area, which was now the size of an Olympic swimming pool, while acrobats and fire dancers jumped and spun and flipped around the room. Tables loaded with every delicacy concocted by every chef in existence were stacked up from one end to the other. And, best of all, Susan’s sea mural had come to life! Turtles swam through the air, butterfly fish nibbled at cream puffs, blue starfish replaced the usual stars in the sky. We danced and sang and ate and laughed until the sun came up.

Of course, not everyone can see the changes to our humble little huts. That gift is reserved for people who understand it takes more than money to be rich.

Well, time to wrap up; I have a wedding to prepare for! (The groom to be is a stuntman from New Zealand, how funny is that?) Yes, I can now add “Wedding Planner” to my resume. I just hope the butterfly fish don’t nibble the icing off the cake before it’s served!!

QUESTION: How rich are you?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Hello again from the Big Blue!

This week’s Best Scooter award, (I think I will call it the “Scootie”), goes to the two ladies doubling down the street towing…I love this…a lawnmower. Well done, girls! Coming in a close second is the family of three: baby up front, dad driving while holding baby with one hand, mom on the back, riding side-saddle, holding her hat on her head, and all on their way to church dressed in their Sunday finest.

We are, somewhat officially, half way through cyclone season. School holidays are nearly over for Cook Islander kids, and more Off-Island locals are going rather than coming nowadays. Few Cook Islanders stay on the islands. Most immigrate to New Zealand…the land of milk and honey and sheep. Can’t say I blame them, these little islands are not exactly booming with opportunity.

It’s a strange time, an in-between time, for people on small, out of the way, islands like the Cooks. I can imagine an era when life was fairly simple here. Lots of fish in the water, enough fruit and vegetables to get by, warm days and nights, the odd cyclone destroying all the vegetation and killing a handful of people. Simple. When things got dull, the island men would hop into their outrigger vakas and paddle a few hundred miles across the open Pacific to kill and eat the inhabitants of Aitu. I’m not sure why Aitu became the “lunch” island but I suppose it would be bad manners to eat people on your own island.

Wars between tribes were short and relatively painless. Groups of opposing, young, male, warriors would stand in a two lines taunting one another. Examples of taunts might be, “Hey, your village only has ten pigs, you’re a bunch of losers! Yeah, I’m talking to you ten-pig boy! Oink Oink!! Look at me, I’ve only got ten pigs, I’m a girly man, I’m going to go home and cry!” At some point, the taunts would get serious enough that someone would have to take action. A couple of spears would go flying, someone would get skewered, the tribe with the skewered guy would shrug their shoulders and walk away the losers. The winning tribe would collect the fallen warrior, take him back to their village, and eat him, naturally.

I can’t help thinking that if I were a young, male warrior, I would spend a lot of time practicing turning sideways and keeping myself slim to make a smaller target. You can imagine how excited they must have been the day someone invented the shield!

These days, Cook Island males are far more likely to die of heart disease or diabetes than by skewering. Per capita, the Cooks have the highest rate of obesity in the world. Yes, even higher than you, America. Their dietary staples include: Coke, chips, meat, taro, meat, tinned corn beef, meat pies, hamburgers, meat, fried stuff, meat, chocolate bars, and meat. I had a guest email me and ask how well she would fare as a vegetarian on the island and when I finished rolling on the floor in peels of laughter, I answered, “Be prepared to eat in a lot”.

The biggest influence on the Cooks, post Captain James, was the Missionaries. They ended cannibalism, which is good, and taught the locals about sin, which is…hmmm. So, after the missionaries, you didn’t have to worry about being someone’s dinner, but you couldn’t walk around half-naked either. Believe me, in this climate, naked is the only comfortable state.

I find it ironic that we foreigners are considered risqué if we wear short shorts or beach attire away from the resorts on an island where the locals used to frolic around, happily unclothed, all the ding dong day.

There are pluses and minuses to everything, and while I’m sure the good people of Mc Aitu were thrilled to be taken off the Value Menu, how well, really, are the islanders faring in these modern times?

For a start, most of them have left. More Cook Islanders live in New Zealand than on the islands, as they are considered New Zealand citizens and can freely live and work there. (The same, by the by, does not hold true for New Zealanders, many of whom, I’m sure, would love to live here). The ones left behind exist in a kind of semi-stagnant limbo. Processed food is easy and, relatively, cheap, scooters replace walking, corrupt government officials make sure citizens get just enough of the millions in foreign aid to keep them happy while making sure their own pockets are well-lined, gill nets make for easy fishing though the nets get bigger every year as the fish disappear.

But, hey, Survivor was filmed here!

Oh, don’t even get me started. Too late. Talk about your bad influences. Part of the deal, when Survivor was allowed to film here, was that they said they would “give something back” to the youth of the island. And what did they give back? A flat of Coke and a ball cap for every child. Wow, the gift that keeps on giving. Not only that, but because, during the filming, Survivor and its 280 crew used up every hotel room and form of transportation on the island, the islanders started seeing stars…or, I should say, dollar signs. Prices skyrocketed. Why not? The film company would pay, no matter what the price. Then Survivor packed up its multicoloured bandanas and left. No worries, now that Aitutaki was famous, tourists would come flooding in!

I said: tourists would come flooding in.

Um, where’s the flood?

No flood. But prices stayed in the stratosphere. I mean, once you’ve made $300 per night for your hotel room, why would you go back to $100 per night? You can’t stay empty forever. Can you? Surprise, you can.

I like Cook Islanders. Sure they probably say horrid things behind my back about how skinny and pale I am, and what a lousy appetizer I’d be, but, overall, they’re friendly. They are a people out of time. They do not possess the land or natural resources to progress but neither can they move backwards. I’d like to see them prosper but at the same time I worry that prosperity will only further weaken their ties to this beautiful island.

This Coconut Chronicle kind of got away from me – that happens sometimes. I was going to tell you all about our big fishing adventure and somehow got sidetracked into a convoluted history lesson.

Anyway…

So there we were. The seas were dark and angry. Well, not entirely true. It was dark, though. You have to be on the fishing grounds at first light to catch the elusive yellow fin tuna. I’m used to getting up early to fish, (I didn’t say I enjoyed it, merely that I was used to it), but I must say, heading out of the narrow channel in the pitch black, with only a tiny flashlight beam to guide us, was a bit unnerving.

On this adventure, we brought along a couple of honeymooning Kiwi’s, Aimee & Tim, who were eager to fish. Our ride out the channel was bumpy and once we made it through the rain began in earnest. Not a drop of wind blew but the swells were at least ten or fifteen feet high. Aimee and I huddled under a tarp, Tim was clad in rain gear, and Prez, well, he just toughed it out. What a guy!

Our target was the FAD, (Fish Attracting Device), off shore near Maina Island. Between the dark, the rain, and the swells, it was hard to tell if we were on course most of the trip. But, at last, we spotted a few other boats and the orange buoy of the FAD. Prez, as usual, has cozied up to the local fishing genius – this one’s name is Junior – and procured all the necessary technical data needed, such as lures, times, depth, etc. No sooner was the first line in the water than ZING, fish on! We let Tim play the first one, and he got a good half hour work out muscling the beast to the boat.

The FAD                                                    Fishing at dark o’clock

After that, as so often happens, the bite died. We trolled back and forth, up and down, here and there. Nothing. We were just about to call it a day when another ZING happened. This time, we gave Aimee the honours. Soon our cooler had more tail than the L.A. Lakers. It was time to get home and put these monsters to bed.   

When we arrived at the entrance to the channel we saw, with no small degree of dismay, the tide was ebbing in a big way. The fifteen foot high rollers were clashing with a river of outgoing water, and the whole thing looked like a giant washing machine at work. Yikes. I looked at Prez. This is how I determine the danger of a situation:

Prez smiling, laughing, chatting, looking around at the scenery        = Danger Level Low

Prez smiling slightly but focusing and thinking                                = Danger Level Medium

Prez frowning and deep in thought                                                = Danger Level High

Prez screaming and running around waving his arms                      = Run for your life!!!

From the look on his face, and the way he snapped, “Stop looking at me!”, I guessed we were at Danger Level Medium. He had to time our entrance just right or we would all be going for a very nasty swim. He circled the boat, waited for his opening, then hit the throttle. We made it! (Obviously, unless I am writing this while I drift to Fiji).

So, with those two beauties and the two Prez brought in last night, our freezer is jammed with yellow fin tuna I can’t eat. Sigh. It could be worse. Remember that old Aitu saying, “Better to miss dinner than be dinner.”

Sigh.

QUESTION: Can someone in Nelson stop at the Bite truck and mail me a David Suzuki Veggie Burger and a side of organic french fries with rosemary veggie gravy?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

p.s. Congrats to Patty-Cakes Roney who has finally ditched his Ebenezer Scrooge of a boss and starts a new job in February!!!! Hooray!!