When I told people I was traveling to Rarotonga and Aitutaki almost everyone responded with “Raro-where?” and “Aitu-what?”. Some geographically challenged friends even asked me if these were places in Africa. I would inform them—with more than a light air of condescension—that these islands were part of the Cook Islands. This yielded even more confusion. “Where are those?,” people asked.
Admittedly, this authority with which I educated my friends on the Cook Islands was more than partially feigned. I had first heard about the country a few years back when looking for a plane ticket to Australia. (It was one of the stopover options on the way to Sydney. I ended up flying via South East Asia so, regrettably, the Cook Islands didn’t make it onto that itinerary.) I knew that the islands were somewhere in the South Pacific, but other than that I knew very little. When the possibility of traveling to the Cook Islands arose again, I had to search my atlas to discern exactly where they were. A Google search determined they were a group of 15 islands located about 700 miles southwest of Tahiti and about 1800 miles northeast of New Zealand. Their remote location and their absence from most people’s geographical repertoire intrigued me. I entertained grand visions of an undiscovered Skull Island-type location. Although I didn’t encounter any overgrown, kidnapping-prone apes or distressed damsels, what I did discover didn’t disappoint me.
After the twelve-hour flight from Los Angeles to Rarotonga, I found myself wondering if I actually was on the set of King Kong, or some other giant Hollywood soundstage. The beach was so blindingly white I couldn’t believe it hadn’t been bleached and the turquoise lagoon was so shockingly clear it looked like it must be filtered. The perfectly arranged palms, their fronds swaying gently in the florid scented ocean breeze, leaned over the shoreline at such casual yet precarious angles looked like they must be the handiwork of a master gardener.
After a quick survey of my hotel, I decided to get myself a Cook Islands drivers’ license. (It’s necessary to purchase a drivers’ license from the police station in order to hire a car.) At the station, the officer on duty informed me that the computer systems were down and had been for a few days. I would have to come back later in the week to obtain my license. I asked her when the system would be operating again. With a smile she shrugged, indicating she didn’t know. I looked around the station. Everyone seemed calm and, well, down right jovial. Where was the panic? The pandemonium? Where was the mayhem that would ensue anywhere else in the world if the police computer system stopped operating even just for an hour? There was not one iota of frenzied concern. I realized the Cook Islands definitely moved at a pace that I could get used to.
Although I knew there was a poolside cocktail with my name on it, I did want to get my bearings and soak in some more of the scenery. I joined a circle island tour—a van tour that visits significant places around the island. We stopped at a number of cultural sites tucked in the tropical forest, including the Marae Arai-te-tonga, an ancient sacred alter fashioned from large, upright stones that was once used for tribal meetings and cannibalism ceremonies. My guide informed me that after the missionaries arrived in 1823, it took only five years for the islanders to convert to Christianity. The oral tradition that had preserved Rarotongan culture for centuries was replaced with Christian ritual, and many of the ancient traditions were lost. Today, what remains of this ancient culture is preserved to teach both visitors and Cook Islanders what life was once like. I was grateful to my guide for being so informed. I knew that if I had managed to stumble across the Marae on my own, I never would have realized its historical value.
After the tour, I partook in what I believe are mandatory holiday activities: lying poolside sipping a fruity beverage, lounging on the beach, and intermittent dips in the refreshing ocean. The picturesque post-card inspiring surroundings of Rarotonga provided the perfect setting to indulge in these holiday necessities.
The next morning, I set off on a 50-minute flight to the island of Aitutaki. My concerns about leaving Rarotonga disappeared as the tiny airplane began its descent over Aitutaki. The waters were so crystal clear that, even from hundreds of feet in the air, the outlines of the coral heads were discernable.
If I had thought Rarotonga moved at a pace I could appreciate, I quickly discovered that Aitutaki was even more relaxing. Only 1,700 people live in Aitutaki and there are just 250 hotel beds, so the island never seems crowded or busy. And the pristine beaches are the perfect tranquil backdrop for winding down. Stuart Henry, one of the co-owners of my hotel, the Are Tamanu Beach Village, informed me that Aitutakians consider Rarotonga to be the “big smoke”, a busy island with heavy traffic. As I headed towards my thatch-roofed bungalow, I wondered what Stuart would think of the gridlocked rush hour traffic that I endured back home.
Aitutaki may be small, but there is no shortage of things to do. Snorkeling, kayaking, canoeing, and cycling were just a few of the activities my hotel had to offer. The island is also rich with cultural events including an Island Night at Samade Hotel. Island Nights feature a traditional Cook Island feast and dance performance. I was excited about witnessing traditional dancing, but worried that it would be a tacky showing put on for the benefit of tourists. Set on the beach only a few feet from the ocean, the night started with a delicious buffet of fresh fish, meat, taro root, and salads. Shortly after dinner, the show began. My concerns about the dancing were alleviated with the first beat of the drum. Dressed in grass cuffs and loin cloths, the men fiercely stomped their feet and the women, sporting sarongs and coconut bras, seductively gyrated their hips with seemingly implausible fluidity. This was all performed in perfect time to the rhythmic pounding of the various shaped drums and lyrical voices of the band. It was by no means merely an exhibition for tourists—it was a genuine and thrilling display of talent and skill.
The following morning, I set sail on a lagoon cruise. I had read that the notorious Captain Bligh was the first European to lay eyes on the little island of Aitutaki and I was keen to sail the same waters as the foul-tempered seaman. (I had to wonder if maybe Bligh had treated the crewman of the HMS Bounty to a short holiday on Aitutaki he could have avoided the fateful mutiny.) I joined the crew of Bishop’s Lagoon Cruises aboard the Lagoon Lova. Although my cruise didn’t actually trace the course of the Bounty, it did visit Akaiami and One Foot Island, the remnants of the historic Coral Route. The spirited captain of the ship, Captain Wonderful (whose self-declared moniker was displayed on his bright blue ball cap) guided the Lova through the lagoon with ceaseless enthusiasm.
We visited Akaiami first: a small islet that served as a Coral Route refueling station for TEAL (Tasman Empire Airways Limited) flying boats from 1950–1962. Many celebrities, including Clark Gable, Carey Grant, and John Wayne, flew on this South Pacific tour and wandered the shores of Akaiami while waiting for the flying boats to be serviced. I wondered if the beautiful surroundings also made these famous actors feel like they were exploring a Hollywood soundstage from one of their movies.
One Foot Island, the next stop on the Lagoon Lova’s tour, was no less breathtaking than Akaiami. Captain Wonderful informed me that many of the flying boat passengers would often row over to One Foot to explore the tiny foot-shaped islet. Standing on the unspoiled beach with the soft sand pinched between my toes, I realized that, remarkably, it seemed little had changed in the 55 years since the first flying boat had landed in this area. In fact, the entire country appeared to have somehow escaped the over-development that plagued most of the other holiday destinations I had visited: there were no imposing resorts, crowds of noisy vacationers, or tacky tourist attractions. It dawned on me that this was probably why I continued to think that the islands were something off of the silver screen. I had a hard time believing that this serene haven—so rich in genuine culture and natural scenery—wasn’t a manmade depiction of paradise. But it wasn’t. The Cook Islands are simply that beautiful.
Although the idea of leaving the Cook Islands saddened me, I knew that when I returned home I was now much better equipped to answer the questions “Raro-where?” and “Aitu-what?” with something more than merely the geographical coordinates.
