Snorkelling, scootering and general idling in a Raro idyll
Two waving red torchbeams appear out of the gloom. A policewoman is illuminated in the headlights. I ease to a halt while winding down the rental van window.
‘‘Kia orana, sir. Have you consumed any alcohol tonight?’’ she beams, leaning in to smell my breath.
The Cook Islands’ zero-tolerance policy on drink-driving is eminently sensible. I’d put my hand up as driver for this sortie to the Muri night market of food trucks and crafts.
‘‘Not me,’’ I reply, ‘‘but feel free to test this lot,’’ indicating a vanload of family and friends giggling on a high of Baileys-and-banana crepes to follow delicious pulled pork kebabs.
‘‘That’s OK,’’ she says. ‘‘I should warn you, though, that your shirt is registering below the minimum lux level on my ‘aloha loudness’ meter, and we have a zero-tolerance policy towards pastel checks.’’
I nod in contrition, already shamed by the explosion of colourful attire worn by market patrons. ‘‘We haven’t had time to hit the shops yet,’’ I plead.
‘‘Yes, I sensed your PMT – papa’a muscle tension. If you’ve got your passport handy, I’ll stamp it ‘FOP’ – fresh off the plane – and that gives you 48 hours’ grace to buy something wildly floral.’’ She winks. ‘‘Frangipani would suit your complexion.’’
I can’t remember driving away from a police checkpoint back home with such a wide smile, but that’s island style.
Yes, I made up the part about the shirt – no such law is necessary for the mass migration of Kiwi families who descend on Raro during school holidays seeking a post-winter tonic of warmth, colour therapy, sultry lagoons, and drinks with umbrellas in them.
If you don’t bump into someone you know, book an eyesight test – though the more vulgar tourist trappings at Muri and the big resorts can feel like Butlins with coconut palms. (Crab racing is very popular, I’m told.)
We were here as part of another thriving Raro industry, weddings. My younger daughter chose her venue wisely, tapping into a skilled team of planner, celebrant, makeup artist and photographer for a relaxed ceremony on a gorgeous beach. (Almost as gorgeous as the bride, I add hastily.)
The best man was barefoot. I would have been, too, but sand and blisters don’t mix, and I was sporting monstrous bulges after an ill-judged trek to Avarua from our hired cottage – in the best Kiwi tradition, owned by a cousin back home who is married to an Islander. Chickens wandered the yard, tethered cows munched on the next-door section, and the lagoon was just across the road, once you negotiated the scooters and cars pootling by at the 50kmh limit.
On our first day in, humpback whales breached just outside the reef, advertising sensory heaven. I haven’t been this thrilled since my takahe sighting at Tawharanui a year ago.
Granted, those damnable island dogs bark at all hours, and the damnable roosters think dawn breaks at 3am. We were soon loose enough to forgive such niggles.
Caffeine caused the blisters. Midtrek, I nipped into a ‘‘Puppie’’ (Polynesian yuppie) cafe, and while waiting as local hipsters dashed in to pick up their texted orders, my elder daughter drove by in the van on prenuptial errands, failing to spot me. Hence, I was doomed to complete the ruinous walk to town.
It did result, however, in discovering a floor to worship. Not a boast you make often, but the beachthemed mosaic tiles at the T-Shirt Factory are funky genius.
The shop also furnished a shirt with palms and tevaevae patterns that casts a soft mango hue in the wedding pictures, should your attention wander from the stylish bride, groom and attendants framed in a hibiscus archway, the azure water, waves crashing on the reef under a pleasuredome sky, and my scenestealing wee grandson, dapper in braces and bow tie, playing in the sand, his ring-bearing duties over.
The reception was at a nearby beach restaurant, with sand underfoot as the sun went down and a local ukulele maestro played his set – basically the Nelson Plinkers songbook, so I sang along in sober reverie.
A wedding in Raro means the guests receive the biggest present – an excuse for a Pacific island holiday.
The following day, the happy couple flew off to honeymoon in the Cooks’ show-stopper, Aitutaki (which deserves a separate tribute). Before the guests’ departure, we were forced to endure more tropical fruit smoothies, snorkelling with psychedelic fish, giddy scootering, or tasting top-down convertible motoring – relieved of common sense and repair bills.
Counterpointing its enlightened drink-driving law, Raro has motorbike helmet rules that are totally bonkers. You have to wear one if a tourist or, for locals, if aged between 15 and 26.
The rule is widely ignored, aggravating frustrated road safety campaigners. Universal compulsion would undoubtedly ignite a revolt from Islanders who love gamboling on their little step-throughs. They think nothing of jumping aboard while cradling a baby or a dozen beer, or carting beefy passengers.
Beefy they certainly are. Walking is almost extinct, save for daft tourists. With little exercise and unfriendly Western cuisine, Cook Islanders share the Pacific-wide curse of obesity. A staggering 90 per cent are overweight, and almost two-thirds qualify as obese.
They live in a balmy idyll, yet average life expectancy is five years less than uptight papa’a stressing in New Zealand. Paradise is unhealthy.
Next time: Tear up your bucket list.
Counterpointing its enlightened drink-driving law, Raro has motorbike helmet rules that are totally bonkers.