Primitive tales in the Cook Islands
Compelling Maori legends burnish the beauty of Rarotonga’s natural world
RAROTONGA, COOK ISLANDS— As the plane starts its descent to Rarotonga, the main island of the Cook archipelago, the range of blues around the scattered atolls shimmers before me.
I grew up on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Water has always appealed to me; as do the stories that surround it. No wonder I respond to the call of the Cook Islands, a land of tales.
Below, the white crest of the furious waves breaks on the coral reef. Indifferent to the agitation, the lagoon stretches lazily around the white shores. What stories have remained out in the open water? Which have made their way through into the lagoon?
Having lunch near Aroa Beach at a private property, one of the most beautiful places of I have ever seen, I listen to Tua, a Maori sailor.
He tells me about his many journeys on the vaka. With 16 fellow men, he would sail out there in the traditional wooden canoe, from one island to the next. Once, to China.
“Spending weeks or months at sea gives you a lot of time to think and many opportunities to tell stories.”
The legend of Paikea endures. A fearless fisherman who would call fish to the surface from the depths, Paikea was carried away by a violent storm one day. Everybody thought him dead, swallowed by the angry ocean. But he survived the tempest and courageously paddled his way to Rarotonga Island where he became a legend.
Because he miraculously survived the violent storm on the ocean, Paikea was said to be the offspring of the great ocean god, Tangaroa. People of the sea, The Maori consider themselves descendents of Paikea. Today, the art of sailing and paddling is taught at school as a part of Maori heritage and parents take pride in seeing their children paddling at large on the ocean. Tua gazes at the sea lapses into silence. During my visit to the Cook Islands, I choose to spend a lot of time in the warm and transparent waters of the lagoon. Rarotonga, Aitutaki, Honeymoon Island, One Foot Island. They all invite an exploration of the underwater world.
Floating above coral formations, sliding between rocks and close to the sandy floor of the shallow lagoon, I marvel at the colours and the variety of fish. For each, I am given a story.
My encounter with a moray eel reminds me of the story of a beautiful Maori girl who came by the sea to kill her sadness and boredom listening to the enchanting song of an eel.
The eel was ugly, but its voice was magnificent and seduced the beautiful girl. The eel fell in love with her. It hid in the depth of the ocean, as it knew a beauty would never love a beast. As the eel wasn’t singing anymore, the beautiful girl fell ill with sadness and boredom. She would lie in her bed and would not come out anymore.
In the ocean, the eel heard about the beautiful girl dying in her hut. It came out of the water and assumed the appearance of a terrifying monster. It made its way to the hut of the dying beauty and sang a song for her.
The melody of its voice cured the girl, who ran from her village and dived into the ocean with the creature to live in a world of music and beauty.
Although I like the story, I do not entertain a quest for friendship with the moray. Lazily, I follow a shy octopus until I come across a school of threadfin butterfly fish.
While staying on Aitutaki, I let the captain take me from one island to another. It’s like adding beads to a necklace of indigo and white, an endless pleasure for a Robinson-Crusoe type.
There are so many tiny atolls around the island, I lose count. I remember some for their unparalleled beauty and vast stretches of powdery sand in shallow waters, some for their hospitality to nesting birds, and some for the legends they are home to.
One Foot Island carries a tragic story from which nothing remains, but the natural beauty of a small land lapped with clear water and shaded by tall coconut trees.
Legend says a father and a son went fishing in forbidden waters. Fishermen to whom these waters belonged found the trespassers and went after them on their canoe. The father, knowing death was awaiting, paddled as fast as he could until they reached a tiny island.
The father pushed his son in front of him to find cover in the bush. All the while, he made sure to walk in his son’s footprints. Once his son was perfectly hidden, he went back to the beach to face his destiny.
Surely enough, the angry fishermen arrived and killed him. They thought they saw two men in the canoe, but could only find one set of footprints, so they left the island. The child survived.
Today, One Foot Island welcomes visitors looking for a relaxing afternoon away from Aitutaki and romance-seekers looking for a unique setting for their wedding celebration.
I am shown some Cook Island black pearls. As I gaze at the shiny black spheres in my hand, I picture the tears of Rongo, who created Heaven and Earth, who cried tears of sadness when night came and hid the beauty of Earth. To bring happiness back to Rongo, the moonlight struck his tear-drops as they fell into the sea and made them shine, so Rongo could see the Earth again. The black pearls are said to be these tears, a gift from the sky to the sea.
The Maori people also tell their stories through tattoos on their bodies. Opi, my guide to an incredible quad adventure to the top of Aru, the luscious mountain on Rarotonga, tells me each design has a personal meaning. It often relates to the family and the beliefs of the person, the natural elements and a private episode in his or her life. For some, it is a heritage they want to pass on to their children.
“Tell me, Opi, do you read stories on rocks, trees and land?” He smiles. Stories are everywhere: about the fish you eat, on the fruit you pick up from the tree, about the flower-arrangements on the restaurant tables. “What does this sudden tropical rain that beats down now us tell us?” A smile. It is time to jump in the cascade and swim in the spring, he says.
Behind the window of the plane that takes me home, I say goodbye to the Cook Islands. Soon, the turquoise lagoon and the deep blue sea behind the coral reef vanish. I close my eyes. That morning, a tiny breeze rippled the surface of the water. It sang among the palm trees. Was it telling me a story about the legends of the Maoris, people of the ocean, people of tales?