While the postcard scenery is reason enough to visit, Rarotonga is more than just a pretty face. The largest and most developed island of the Cook Islands, Rarotonga offers an array of activities and rich cultural experiences, some of which are happily entwined with its natural beauty.

For instance, when the missionaries arrived in Rarotonga in 1823, it took only five years for them to convert the island to Christianity. Rarotongans abandoned their villages in the mountains to start a new way of life on the coast. The oral tradition that had preserved Rarotongan culture for centuries was replaced with Christian ritual, and the ever-encroaching forest quickly enveloped their old homes and sacred spaces.

The forest that engulfed these abandoned villages, however, also preserved some of Rarotongan culture. Because while the missionaries drastically changed how people lived, they didn’t drastically change what grew on the mountainside. The indigenous flora continued to grow much as it had done for centuries, and the mere existence of familiar trees, plants, and roots reminded Rarotongans of, well, their roots.

Take, for example, Pa’s Trek, a vigorous climb across Rarotonga’s uninhabited centre. Fifty-nine-year-old Pa, a world-renowned guide, medicine man, and endurance athlete, leads guests through the unmolested, dense forest up to the highest point on the island, a large cropping called “the needle.”

Pa is intimately familiar with Rarotonga and its forests. At the age of four, he began collecting herbs for his grandmother’s natural medicines, and soon graduated to pounding barks and leaves into potions. After retiring from endurance racing, he decided to share his knowledge and the beauty of the forest with visitors to Rarotonga. He has been leading his trek three times a week for more than twenty years.

At the start of the trek, Pa, barefoot and dressed in an aloha shirt printed with flowers and pinup girls, hands out his homemade mosquito repellant. The repellent is fermented nono fruit, a brown paste with a pungent odor. The smell is more than a bit unpleasant but the repellent is highly effective.

The walk begins on a gently sloped road that meanders through fields of nono trees and taro root. Along the way, Pa grabs handfuls of leaves, or digs up a root, and explains the medicinal purposes of each one: Mile-a-minute for Diabetes, Bella Donna for Denge Fever, Viatra for broken bones, wild mint for sore throats. Pa also instructs hikers about the traditional uses of each plant, such as the Polynesian chestnut, which was one of the only sources of protein on Rarotonga before the missionaries arrived.

The path becomes steeper as it approaches the needle, turning into more of a natural ladder made of tree roots. Although the trek is challenging, people of all ages and levels of fitness are welcome to participate—the oldest person to complete the walk was ninety-two. Pa encourages people to climb at their own pace and is always present to lend a helping hand.

The trip to the top is worth the effort. The views of the rolling mountains and lagoon below are outstanding. Pa encourages people to soak in the scenery as he explains the significance of the needle. Long considered the focal point of male energy, the ancient Rarotongans carved profiles of four gods sometime around 910 BCE. Nearly 3,000 years later, the Dalai Lama re-consecrated the needle when he named it one of the eight energy points in the world. Pa led the Dalai Lama and twenty-two of his followers to the base of the needle and helped them bury an urn containing the 900-year-old remains of an ancient master. Today, as hikers admire the view and catch their breath, Pa casually points out the fern tree under which the old lama is buried.

Although the walk is difficult, it doesn’t take an endurance athlete or spiritual leader to reach the top. Along the way, it becomes clear—as clear as the water in the lagoon—that the beauty of Rarotonga is more than skin deep. In fact, the deeper one delves into the picture-perfect natural setting that draws so many visitors to island of Rarotonga, the deeper one comes to know the real Rarotongan culture and history.

(Tours operate Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 8:00 am – 12:00 pm; Phone/Fax: (682) 21079; e-mail: jillian@pasbungalows.co.ck. Be sure to wear sturdy hiking boots or runners and bring a camera, sunscreen, mosquito repellant, and plenty of water.)

Local Colour for Rarotonga:

The Ethnic Mix

The Cook Islands Cultural Village Tour takes visitors on a trip back in time. The friendly hosts, dressed in traditional costumes, lead visitors from hut to hut to experience a piece of the Cook Island’s past. Guests can see demonstrations of weaving, costume making, dancing, and carving. This three and a half hour tour ends with a delicious feast of local delicacies and a show featuring traditional dance and music. (Rates from: NZ $56.00; Tour operates: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; Phone: (682) 21314 or 55714; Fax: (682) 25557; E-mail: viltours@oyster.net.ck; Website: http://www.cookislandsculturalvillage.com.)

Raro Mountain Safari Tours is the perfect way to see the rugged interior of Rarotonga without breaking a sweat. Guests are ferried in a 4 x 4 vehicle along Are Metua, an ancient road built with volcanic slabs of rock. The trip includes a stunning view of the lagoon and visits to historical sites such as the sacred alter and ancient meeting place Te Arai-Te-Tonga Marae. (Tours operate: Seven days a week at 9:00 am and 1:30 pm. Saturdays and Sundays are available for private charters; Phone: (682) 23629; E-mail: sambo@rarosafaritours.co.ck; Website: http://www.rarosafaritours.co.ck)

Highland Paradise offers tours of the restored site of the Timomana tribe’s village. Set high on a mountainside, Highland Paradise offers a two-hour tour of 10 acres of manicured gardens filled with native plants. The tour also includes a trip further up the mountain to ancient tribal sites such as the Timomana Marae, Turtle rock, the Chief’s Throne, and Face stone. (Phone: (682) 28924; E-mail: highland@oyster.net.ck; Website: http://www.highlandparadise.co.ck)

Punanga Nui Marketplace is a great place to shop for black pearls and arts and crafts. Held every Saturday morning in downtown Avarua, the market is packed with brightly coloured vending booths hawking their wares. Be sure to sample the boiled taro root or, for the really adventurous, the rather unpleasant, yet reputedly healthy, nono juice.

Lodging
With 244 rooms, the Edgewater Resort is the largest resort on Rarotonga. Although it has been open for 20 years, the facilities are modern and recently renovated—the resort just built 36 new rooms. The Edgewater Resort was hit hard by the cyclones in February, but it recovered quickly; there is almost no trace of damage. There are five categories of accommodation, including VIP Deluxe Suites, Beachfront Deluxe Suites, Beachfront Rooms, Garden Superior Rooms, and Garden View Rooms. The Beachfront Deluxe Suites are the best value. These spacious rooms offer stunning lagoon views and feature a giant Jacuzzi tub. Tuesday and Saturday nights, the Brasserie Restaurant hosts one of the biggest and best “Island Nights,” a show featuring traditional Rarotongan dancing and music. The Edgewater has no shortage of facilities or friendly staff; however, the resort does lack the charm and intimate ambience found at the smaller hotels and resorts.

(Rates from: NZ $240.00; Phone: (682) 25435; Fax: (682) 25475; E-mail: stay@edgewater.co.ck; website: http://www.edgewater.co.ck; Facilities include: Mal’s Bar; the Brasserie Restaurant which is open for breakfast, lunch, and themed a la carte dinners and buffets; complimentary breakfast; Edgewater Health Spa; the Spaghetti House Restaurant; Budget Rent-A-Car; fitness centre; souvenir gift shops; black pearl boutique; tennis courts; daily culture, leisure, and sporting activities. Commission: 10%)

Located on one of the nicest beaches on Rarotonga, Muri Beachcomber has 22 beachfront and garden units set amongst well-tended grounds. The best rooms are units one, ten, and fourteen—they are closest to the beach and offer the best lagoon views. All rooms are quaintly decorated and filled with fresh hibiscus flowers. Muri Beachcomber wants guests to feel like they are at a tropical home away from home. Although comfortable, the units do not offer a great deal of privacy. Many of the verandas are shared with the room next door. According to Debbie Moore, the friendly and helpful manager of the property, there are renovation plans for the near future, including refinishing the courtesy lounge and updating the bathrooms. There is no restaurant on the property, but Sails restaurant is located next door.

(Rates from: NZ $255.00; Phone: (682) 21022; Fax: (682) 21323; E-mail: muri@beachcomber.co.ck; Website: http://www.beachcomber.co.ck; Facilities include: complimentary breakfast, snorkeling equipment; kayaks; courtesy lounge; scooter hire. Commission: 10%)

The Rarotongan Beach Resort and Spa has something for everyone. One of the largest hotels on the island, this resort offers a variety of different levels of accommodation. The best value is the Jr. Suite Beach Front, a spacious and thoughtfully decorated room. It’s the details—such as the window that looks onto the beach in place of a bathroom mirror—that make this resort such a luxurious stay. The Rarotongan is also a great destination for families. The Moko’s Kid’s Club offers a playroom and activities program guaranteed to ensure young ones are happy and entertained.

(Rates from: NZ $380.00; Phone: (682) 25800; (682) 25799; E-mail: info@rarotongan.co.ck; website: http://www.therarotongan.com; Facilities include: Te Vaka Restaurant; Captain Andy’s Beach Bar and Grill; Gourmet Ice Cream Parlour; SpaPolynesia spa therapy; Salon Vivo; black pearl boutique; Moko Kid’s Club; Budget Rent-A-Car; 24-hour Internet booths; Island Night with island’s only authentic uma (earthoven) feast; a variety of complimentary activities including snorkeling, fish feeding, kayaks, dance lessons, tennis, ukulele and log drum lessons, flower garland making, and novice scuba lessons.)

Getting Around
To hire a care in Rarotonga, it is necessary to purchase a Cook Islands drivers’ license from the Rarotonga Police Station, located in Avarua. To obtain a license you will need to show your current American driver license and pay a fee of NZ $10.00. For scooter licenses, you will either have to show proof of a motorcycle license or take a quick (and easy) road test. Remember that in the Cook Islands, traffic drives on the left side of the road.

Cars can be rented at AVIS Rent-A-Car (Rates from: NZ $55.00; Phone: 22833; Fax: 21702; E-mail: rentacar@avis.co.ck).

Scooters are available at Ace Motorcycles. (Rates from: $20.00; Phone: (682) 22833; Fax: (682) 21702).

For the young at heart, two passenger electric vehicles can be rented from Fun Rentals. (Rates from: NZ $65.00; Phone: (682) 22426; Fax: (682) 22436, E-mail: funcars@funrentals.co.ck)

Bicycles are another popular mode of transportation and are available at most major hotels and resorts. The prices start around NZ $12.00 a day.

Travelers today are not repeating Bligh’s mistake and are making the trip to the Cook Island’s definition of paradise: Aitutaki. Located off the beaten path, this holiday destination filled with exotic culture and unspoiled (and uncrowded) beaches, is only a 50-minute flight from the main island of Rarotonga.

The unsurpassed beauty of this small island is apparent even before setting foot on the ground. The view offered from Air Rarotonga’s 340 Saab as it begins its descent over the island reveal the lagoon’s turquoise waters washing onto blindingly white sand beaches. The waters are so clear that, even from the airplane, the outlines of coral heads are discernable.

Offering a wide array of accommodation, this island has a hotel to suit every traveler’s need, from exclusive high-end resorts to reasonably priced self-contained bungalows. There are only 250 beds on the island so early bookings are essential.

The Are Tamanu Beach Village combines the luxury of a resort with the intimacy of self-contained bungalows. Originally two separate hotels, Are Tamanu and Manea Beach Hotel, they recently merged to form one larger resort offering five levels of accommodation: Tamanu Garden Bungalows, Tamanu Lagoon Bungalows, Tamanu Beachfront Bungalows, Manea Lagoon Suites, and Manea Beachfront Suites.

The bungalows on the Tamanu side of the resort have a no children under 12 policy and are geared towards couples and honeymooners. The bungalows are a bit crowded together and the balconies don’t offer a tremendous amount of privacy. The Manea suites can accommodate up to four people and are perfect for families. With great ocean views, the best values are the Tamanu Lagoon Bungalows and the Manea Lagoon Suites. The resort also has an onsite restaurant located at Manea: the Te Vaka Bar and Grill. Guests can either dine in the restaurant or in the privacy of their room.

Although small, Aitutaki has no shortage of things to do. Besides the obvious allure of relaxing by the hotel pool, lying on one of the many white sand beaches, or snorkeling in the crystal clear lagoon, there are a number of other enjoyable activities.

For a taste of Aitutaki culture, “Island Nights” —a buffet followed by a floorshow of music and dance—are a great opportunity to see traditional Cook Island dancing. Samade on the Beach Hotel hosts an excellent “Island Night” in their restaurant located only a few feet from the lagoon. The night starts with a delicious buffet of fresh fish, meat, taro root, and salads. Shortly after dinner, the show begins. Dressed in grass cuffs and loin cloths, the men fiercely stomp their feet and swing their knees. The women, sporting sarongs and coconut bras, gyrate their hips with seemingly implausible fluidity. Shy travelers be warned, after the performance is over there is a round of audience participation. Guests are pulled onto stage to try and shake their stuff. (Phone (682) 31526; E mail: samade@aitutaki.net.ck; Website: http://www.samadebeach.com.)

The highlight of Aitutaki is the Coral Route and One Foot Island lagoon cruise. Set sail with Bishop’s Lagoon Cruises and meet the spirited captain of the Lagoon Lova, Captain Wonderful—whose self-declared moniker is displayed on his bright blue ball cap—guides you through the lagoon’s interesting history with ceaseless enthusiasm.

The first stop is Akaiami, a small, uninhabited islet that served as a Coral Route refueling station for TEAL (Tasman Empire Airway’s 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.

After visiting Akaiami Island, Captain Wonderful sets anchor in the lagoon for an hour of snorkeling. The Lagoon Lova then sets course for One Foot Island, where a delicious lunch is served. While the lunch is complimentary, beverages are not. Water is sold for NZ $3.00 so it is advisable to bring your own. Be sure to bring your passport and have it stamped at the world’s only uninhabited post office. (There is also a small fee for the stamp.) After a few hours of relaxing one One Foot, it’s time to return to Aitutaki. As the Lagoon Lova glides through the brilliant blue waters, the passengers, sedate from their relaxing afternoon, are happy that they didn’t make Bligh’s mistake of sailing past paradise.

(Bishop’s Lagoon Cruises: Phone: (682) 31109; Fax: (682) 31493; E-mail: bischopcruze@aitutaki.net.ck)

Sidebar for Aitutaki:

For travelers on a tight schedule, Air Rarotonga offers a day trip service to Aitutaki. The tour operates daily Monday–Saturday and includes transfer to and from the airport, a “circle island” tour, lunch, and a lagoon cruise aboard a 69-foot catamaran. While the nine and half hour tour doesn’t allow guests to experience the true relaxing nature of the island, it does provide a great taste of all that Aitutaki has to offer. To ensure an enjoyable experience, guests are given the option of re-booking or canceling without penalty in the case of wet weather. (Rates: NZ $ 399.00; Phone: (682) 22888; E-mail: sales@airraro.co.ck; Website: http://www.airraro.com)

Ethnic Mix

Travelers looking for authentic Aitutakian crafts need to stop in at the Women’s Craft Center, located in the Orongo Center. Mrs. Henry, a shy Maori New Zealand ex-pat with a warm smile, operates the center, which buys crafts from local women and then sells them for almost no profit. Mrs. Henry is eager to explain the cultural significance of each artifact and the process involved in making them. It’s an excellent place to buy Tivaevae, traditional quilts; rito hats, hats woven from uncurled coconut palm fibre; pareus, brightly coloured sarongs; coconut oil; fans; and nono juice, a foul tasting juice made from the nono fruit said to have exceptional health benefits.

An Aitutaki Discovery Safari is an excellent way to get your bearings and learn about the cultural landmarks on the island. This three-hour tour teaches participants about local custom and visits such interesting sites as Te Poaki o Rae Marae, a well preserved sacred alter. Set amidst the tropical forest, this arrangement of large upright stones was once the site of tribal meetings and cannibalism ceremonies. The Discovery Safari tours fill up quickly so it is important to make reservations well in advance. (Rates: NZ $ 50.00 (adults), NZ $10.00 (children under 10); Phone/Fax: (682) 31757; E-mail: enquiries@aitutaki-walkabout.com; Website: http://www.aitutaki-walkabout.com)

It was another clear day back in 1968 when Buckland first discovered this unusual parcel of land and its inhabitants. Buckland, a Vancouver investment analyst, often accompanied prospector Bus Hanson on treks to secluded parts of Vancouver Island. On that particular trek, Hanson suggested they drop by Boat Basin to visit Cougar Annie. Buckland had no idea the visit would change the course of his life.

Fifty years before Buckland’s first visit, Cougar Annie, more formally known as Ada-Annie Rae-Arthur, arrived on the beach of Boat Basin in hopes of starting anew. Her husband was a drunk and an opium addict and they moved to the wilderness to escape the temptations of the city.
On this isolated plot, Cougar Annie hewed out a life amidst unyielding rains and dense old growth forest. She raised eight children, outlived four husbands (three of whom were mail-order grooms), cultivated five acres of land and fiercely fought off any cougar that dared set foot near her garden.
Life was hard for the pioneer family. Supplies were acquired by rowing 6 miles across the harbor to meet a coastal steamer. Consequently, the Rae-Arthurs grew much of their own food. They kept a constant watch on their garden and livestock to protect them from predators: stellar jays, bears, and of course, cougars. They also operated a mail-order nursery, sending bulbs to customers as far away as Ontario. And most ingeniously, they started and ran the Boat Basin Post Office, collecting money from the government despite having little postal business in that sparsely populated corner of Vancouver Island.
Time moved at a different pace for the Rae-Arthurs. While less-secluded parts of the island had been exposed to new technologies such as central heating and washing machines, the Rae-Arthurs lived by candlelight and collected drinking water from rain barrels on the roof.
The isolation and pioneer spirit of the small blue-eyed Cougar Annie immediately impressed Buckland. “It was like going back in time. There was no visible sign of contact with the outside world. They didn’t seem to follow newspapers or radios. It was like going into something out of the Ozarks,” says Buckland. “To see a family having eked out in the middle of nowhere and still going at it as if they were living in the ‘20s was pretty amazing.”
Buckland returned to Boat Basin once a month for 20 years. Cougar Annie grew old and her house and garden started to deteriorate. Her children were grown and all but one had left. Buckland helped out when he could—bringing supplies and helping run the post office. Cougar Annie recognized Buckland as a potential successor to her land and encouraged him to buy her out. In 1981, he bought the property and gave the old woman a life estate.
In the autumn of 1983, Cougar Annie, at the age of 95, left her life’s work. She died two years later.
Cougar Annie devoted nearly 70 years to her garden, rarely leaving the site. Nestled in the old growth forest, she created a palette of color, planting whatever she could lay her hands on: dahlias, daffodils, irises.
Yet when Buckland arrived in 1968, Cougar Annie, nearly blind, was unable to contain the ever-encroaching wilderness. The indigenous species—the salmonberry, salal and conifers, in particular—crept in and engulfed the area, smothering the once nurtured plants. No one thought the garden would recover from its years of neglect. But it did.
“It’s been liberated. It has found light and air. It was Peter. It was entirely Peter. He worked in that garden five hours a day for years in a bull-like fashion,” says Margaret Horsfield, author of Cougar Annie’s Garden.
In 1987, Buckland left Vancouver accompanied only by his cat, “The Mouser”, and moved to Boat Basin full time. After building a house for himself, he began to restore the garden.
In the late eighties, the garden was, according to Buckland, a “sleeping beauty jungle” because Cougar Annie’s plants lay seemingly dead, beneath the overgrowth. “There was so much more variety here than anyone ever anticipated. I would come into an area, rough clear it and two or three years later, up comes say these hostas, totally unexpected having been dormant for 50-60 years.”
Instead of clearing out the garden immediately, Buckland patiently calculated the best design for each part of the garden. Once he discovered a planting—a shiny green leaf of rhododendron for instance—he would restore the garden around it, making the resurrected plant a focal point. He cut back the weeds with his patented method of “chainsaw gardening” and shaped them into hedges, rather than eliminating them entirely.
The result of Buckland’s labour is more than 1.5 miles of moss-covered trails running through restored garden set against a backdrop of rainforest and mountains. The trails wind, often through tunnels of young conifers or rhododendron, from one cleared vista of the garden to the next. They lead to Buckland’s enchanting additions such as the Japanese Garden (complete with a 25-foot yellow cedar sushi table). Buckland’s contributions are impressive because they don’t impose on the natural surrounding. Instead, the designs, like the cedar-shake woodshed shaped like a giant raven, appear to have emerged from the earth itself.
“Nature has the best form and teaches the best design…Nature gives you the views and balances things better than anything,” says Buckland.

As Buckland moves through the garden on this October morning it’s apparent how his monumental endeavours came to life. He’s constantly at work—clearing weeds from a bed of lilies, measuring the space for a new outhouse with his well-worn walking stick. He’s in tune with his land and is as much a part of the property’s history as Cougar Annie. Buckland’s so familiar with Boat Basin that when an airplane flies overhead, he can identify the aircraft without leaving his kitchen table.
“Peter knows that piece of coast probably better than anyone. He knows what type of rocks are on the beach, where to dig for butter clams. He knows when the last time the herring visited the harbour. He’s very much in sync with the physical world around him,” says Horsfield.
“He’s a larger than life character,” says Stuart Wilson, a longtime friend of Buckland’s. “He’s a sort of modern day version of Cougar Annie.”
Buckland, now in his early sixties, knows that he won’t last forever. He also knows finding a successor for the garden is unlikely. Hence, the plan for the Field Study Center was born.
“I knew that if I restored the garden it would take 10 years, and well, it took 15. I knew I had to have an exit strategy because I would be out of energy and the whole thing would just revert and be overcome by the forest again. So that’s when the idea of the foundation and center first arose,” says Buckland.
The Boat Basin Foundation and Field Study Centre consist of six cedar bunkhouses and a main hall perched on the ridge overlooking the garden. It’s the perfect location for students and scientists to study the area’s rich natural diversity.
It is, however, expensive to maintain the center and the garden, and money is limited. In addition to the financial strain, development pressures are threatening the garden. A road from a nearby village is being punched through the forest to allow the Hesquiat Natives access to their traditional land. This means more traffic in an area that has long remained isolated. (Boat Basin is still accessible only by boat or floatplane.)
“I hope it remains alive,” says Horsfield. “The work the foundation envisions could be hugely important in bringing a lot of polarized interests together.”
Many years ago, when Cougar Annie walked her traplines with a rifle, a light held to its barrel to catch the reflection of a cougar’s eyes, she probably never envisioned her subsistence garden as a kind of ivory tower in the bush. Ironically, it may be cougars, or the wilderness of Clayoquot Sound in general, that assures the preservation of her beloved garden. Today, thanks to Peter Buckland, students may walk the same lines, flashlights aimed into the night, hoping to spot a cougar.

The “27 Conditions for Owning a House in Costa Careyes” were written by Gian Franco Brignone—the founder and creator of Costa Careyes. Gian Franco—an artist and entrepreneur from Torino, Italy—dreamed of creating an ideal community and resort. In 1957, Gian Franco lost vision in his right eye. There was no accident or illness; his vision just disappeared. He claims that his right eye’s sight was replaced with an inner sense or feeling that guided him to create Costa Careyes.

In 1968, while flying over a stretch of undeveloped Pacific Coastline just south of Puerto Vallarta, he discovered the perfect location for his dream—a location he called “heaven on earth.” He purchased the land, named it Costa Careyes—which means “turtle coast”—after the giant sea turtles that nested on the beach, and set out to build a utopic retreat that married the best of Mediterranean and Mexican culture with the area’s pristine natural environment. Instead of erecting the architectural blemish of an oversized resort, Gian Franco brought in famous architects, such as Marco Aldaco, Diego Villaseñor, and Jean Claude Galibert, to build innovative castles and villas that combined modern design with traditional thatched palapa roofs.

Gian Franco’s story intrigued me. He sounded more like a visionary than a resort developer. But I was skeptical. It sounded almost too good to be true. I felt like the dramatic origins and “27 Conditions” were a little too staged and I was concerned that Costa Careyes would turn out to be just another tacky tourist resort.

Costa Careyes is an hour’s drive from Manzanillo, Mexico. As my traveling companions and I approached our accommodation we passed by two of Costa Careyes’ castles: Sol de Occidente and Sol de Oriente. From this first glimpse of Costa Careyes, I knew I would not be disappointed; this was not just any resort town. The buildings were stunning, and unlike anything I had ever seen before. The castles are matching designs except for their colour—Sol de Oriente is bright yellow and Sol de Occidente is olive green. These six-bedroom castles each feature a 10,000-square foot infinity pool that encircles the house. Perched atop facing cliffs, these architectural marvels sit like sentries overlooking the turquoise blue bay below.

The levels, or styles, of accommodation in Costa Careyes are not exactly straightforward. In fact, it’s downright confusing. Costa Careyes isn’t just a resort; it’s a multi-faceted community with castles, villas, casitas, and two hotels. And to make it more confusing, the properties are no longer owned exclusively by the Brignones. There are both commercial and private owners. Trying to understand the relationships in Costa Careyes made me feel like I was trying to sort out the specifics of a complicated family tree just before the family reunion.

The first member of this family I was introduced to was my hotel: the El Careyes Beach Resort. Although built by Gian Franco, the El Careyes Beach Resort is one of the commercially owned properties. It’s part of Starwood Hotel’s Luxury Collection. But Starwood hasn’t betrayed Gian Franco’s vision. It’s clear that Starwood meets all of his “27 Conditions”.

Framed by mango trees and little bushes of horn-shaped yellow flowers, the hotel is as beautiful and colorful as its natural surroundings. The unimposing horseshoe-shaped building, painted in a vibrant blend of orange, yellows, purples, and blues, overlooks the lagoon. And a blue tiled pool winds its way through the hotel courtyard like a lazy meandering river.

I indulged in everything El Careyes had to offer. I spent time lounging on the beach with a margarita. I had a rejuvenating facial at the El Careyes Spa. And I gave horseback riding a try—a big feat given I am terrified of horses. But at El Careyes they do everything right. My guide Ramone gave me a sure-footed gentle horse named Vaquero, who was more than enough cowboy for both of us. Vaquero led me along the jungle path, past thick clumps of Lantana vines, clusters of floating yellow butterflies, and gangs of purplish-red land crabs that all simultaneously threw their claws up in a “don’t shoot” manner when we got too close.

The next day I visited El Careyes’ sister property, El Tamarindo Golf Resort. Located within a nature preserve, El Tamarindo has carefully built the resort to exist harmoniously with its natural surroundings. And it does. Wildlife is everywhere, and not the least bit put off that it shares its sub-tropical rain forest with vacationers. Wild boar, raccoons, and white-lipped coati wander the grounds at their leisure. In each of the resort’s thoughtfully designed intimate bungalows—complete with a private sink pool—are hand-drawn pamphlets and nature kits that explain the nearby ecosystems.

The highlight of El Tamarindo is the golf course. I am not much of a golfer. In fact, I often find golf courses to be blemishes on what would otherwise be a lovely forest or field. I became a convert with the El Tamarindo course. For the first time ever, I appreciated a golf course as a work of art. The 18 holes blend perfectly with the stunning natural environment and Pacific views.

El Tamarindo’s other unique feature is the Temazcal—a pre Hispanic spiritual tradition also called a sweat lodge. The Temazcal is a clay dome that is heated by hot rocks—similar to a sauna. Coming from Canada, I never imagined I would take a sauna in 90-degree weather. It seemed ridiculous. Saunas are for cool evenings or winter. But then I remembered Gian Franco’s condition #13: “Live in the present every minute of the day, and be aware of the magic of life. Life changes every minute.” If I wasn’t willing to try something out of the ordinary, then I wasn’t willing to fully experience Careyes. So I did it. Led by a gregarious Mexican named Rodulfo Salomon, I explored the connections of the spirit and the earth through singing, conversation, and, of course, intense heat. I’m not much into the new age sort of healing, but afterwards, I felt admittedly refreshed.

The following day, I met the remaining members of the Costa Careyes family. I had visited the two hotels, now it was time to see the castles, villas, and casitas. I was taken on a tour by Tayde, a warm-faced woman who manages the Brignone family’s properties. The coastline is dotted with these houses—called castles, villas, or casitas depending on the size—that are for rent and sale. Each house is unique in design, has a palapa roof, and is painted a vibrant color: blue, green, pink, yellow and navy striped. And the colors change often so the bouquet of hues on the coastline is constantly renewed. There are no white houses allowed. Even after a house is sold, the new owners aren’t allowed to paint it white.

I was brought to spend the afternoon in a bright blue villa called Casa Nido de Amor, or the Love Nest. After a quick nap on a bougainvillea-covered bed and a dip in the infinity pool, it was time to meet Giorgio Brignone—Gian Franco’s son, and the director of Costa Careyes—for lunch.

He arrived late. Dressed in a short-sleeved white linen shirt, he exuded confidence and a likeable arrogance. As he pointed out the different details of the house’s design: the mosaic tiling on the edge of the floors, the palapa roof, the furniture built into the walls fashioned from polished concrete, he explained “You have to put in bricks what people dream.”

Just after lunch, an old man in his seventies, holding a polished three-pronged walking stick entered the room. This was unheard of. Gian Franco rarely met with journalists. He brought into the room with him an excited twitter, as though a celebrity had just sat down at the table. And for me, one kind of had. I had spent my time in Costa Careyes, trying to experience and understand Gian Franco’s vision. And now the creator of this paradise sat before me.

He refused to speak English unless a woman asked him the question. And even then, he only took three or four English questions. Condition # 4: “Be a polyglot, or at least one member of the family be fluent in two languages.” Struggling to remember my high school French, I translated my traveling companions’ questions. (Fortunately, he seemed not to notice when I asked him “Comment est-ce que vous perdez ton oiseau”, which means how did you lose your bird? I meant to say oeil, which means eye.)

When I asked him why he chose this location to build Costa Careyes. His ever-present smile momentarily disappeared and he said, “It was God’s program.” His smile returned and with a flourish of his hands declared, “I’m allergic to tourists. Je veux les grandes voyageurs.” (I only want the great travelers.)

He was with us for less than ten minutes. He said his goodbyes shaking each of our hands, and then was gone. But the air of excitement he brought with him lingered. After lunch, I noticed a framed copy of his 27 Conditions next to a framed photo of him wearing a long white robe. He clutched a book with one hand, his other hand in the air and his mouth open, as though he were about to make a proclamation.

I looked out at the bright colored houses dotting the coast and realized Gian Franco had achieved the impossible. He had taken a naturally beautiful coast and actually made it more beautiful with human development. He had built something extraordinary that he wanted to share with people who would understand the true value of his creation. I believed, however, even if visitors came to Costa Careyes as “tourists”, after a few days in this unique community, regardless of which family member they stayed with, Costa Careyes had the ability to turn them into “les grande voyageurs.”

Sitting on the airplane on my way back to Vancouver, I had another look at Gian Franco’s 27 Conditions. After only five days in Costa Careyes, I had learned to appreciate the area so much, that I felt when I one day had the money, I was ready for condition # 27 “Kneel before mother Earth and ask for permission to own a house.”

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.

For some reason, these nightmarish tales with which my loved ones bombarded me only seemed to happen to people traveling alone. Never to couples or groups. “Just be careful,” my loved ones said. “We’re telling you this for your own good,” they assured me. What they succeeded in doing, however, was to replace the usual thrill and excitement I felt about traveling with anxiety and uncertainty.

Traveling alone was not a new experience for me, but taking a holiday entirely by myself was. Never before had I planned a vacation that didn’t involve meeting up with someone I knew, or dropping in on a friend. This trip, however, was completely on my own. And after hearing the horror stories of the mishaps that single tourists seemed to encounter in Thailand, I was more than a bit nervous.

After studying the “potential dangers” section of my guidebook, I felt I was savvy (and paranoid) enough to avoid any possible threats. I knew to take only registered taxis, not buy jewels from men on the street, and avoid private bus tours that offered deals too good to be true.

I arrived in Bangkok at 1:30 a.m. and took a cab—a registered cab of course—to my hotel. After a good night’s sleep, I set off for the Grand Palace. Although I had witnessed some extraordinary architecture on past travels, I wasn’t prepared for the vibrant color and intricate detail of this palace. I was stunned. I wandered the grounds, soaking in the mosaic-covered buildings and temples. The sensations of fear that my family and friends had instilled in me were starting to wash away in the presence of such beauty.

Although traveling alone can apparently make you more vulnerable to potential mishaps, it also offers the luxury of doing whatever you please, whenever you please. The next morning, on a whim, I hopped a train to the historic city of Ayutthaya. This city, once the capital of Thailand, is home to several temple ruins. I spent the afternoon visiting massive Buddha sculptures and majestic brick wats. After a long day of sightseeing, I stopped at a food stall near my hotel and quickly wolfed down some green curry and rice. While eating my delicious dinner, I realized my anxieties about the “potential dangers” of the country had all but disappeared.

The next day I decided to continue my adventure further north and set off for Chiang Mai. My trusty guidebook recommended taking a trek outside of the city to see the lush jungle. Upon arriving in town, I was overwhelmed by the number of treks offered. There were countless tour operators that led walks into the jungle, and every traveler I spoke to swore the trek they’d taken was the best in Chiang Mai. I ended up choosing an operator named Panda Tours simply because it was closest to my hotel and offered reasonably priced day trips.

My guide, Gong, picked me up the next morning in a small, red truck. As we pulled away from my hotel, he informed me that since I was the only person booked on the trek he had invited a friend of his to join us. The anxieties of traveling alone that I had so recently managed to suppress suddenly welled up again. I was about to go into the jungle with two complete strangers. Who knew what sort of doom lay before me—I could be robbed or left to rot in the jungle. None of my family or friends knew where I was. It would be at least another two weeks before anyone realized I was missing. I had let my guard down and been lulled into a false sense of security. “If only I had listened to my friends,” I said to myself. I sat in the truck wondering if I should try to jump out at the next red light.

I eyed Gong’s friend suspiciously as he climbed into the truck. He didn’t seem dangerous, but one could never tell. My panic subsided after a few minutes of idle small talk. Andy, a meteorologist from Wales, was entirely non-threatening and all-around good company. As we moved out of the city, I silently chastised myself for succumbing to my irrational fears.

As we drove further into the mountains, the landscape changed from cultivated rice paddies and groves of banana palms to a wild, lush jungle. Our first stop on the trek was an elephant bush camp. Gong pulled off the dirt road and parked in a small clearing. He led us down a path to a platform standing in the forest. Next to the wooden scaffolding was a large, hairy elephant with a bench strapped to its back. The only way to reach the bench was by climbing from the platform onto the elephant’s head. I hesitated, fearing I would hurt him. The elephant backed away impatiently, only to be urged into position by a harsh beating from the elephant guide. Deciding that my body weight had to be far less painful than the hard stick beating his hindquarters, I planted my foot firmly in the middle of the elephant’s leathery, gray head and jumped aboard.

I expected the elephant ride to be similar to the horseback-riding tours I had been on back home—a slow meander along a flat surface. Instead our guide led us up a steep hillside into the jungle. At first, I thought we were taking a short-cut or a detour to the road, but our guide continued to lead us deeper into the forest. The terrain was rough, and with each step the elephant took, our bench lurched side to side. It was by no means the gentle ride I had envisioned. I wasn’t sure what to be more worried about: our bench sliding off the side of the elephant or the elephant stumbling on the treacherous path. I gripped the arm of the bench praying, with each step, that I wouldn’t feel the weigh of the elephant come crashing down on top of me. Once again, my fears were unwarranted. The elephant, probably more sure-footed in the forest than myself, successfully navigated the trek and brought us safely back to the wooden platform.

Our next stop was Anka, a Hill Tribe village situated in the jungle. The village consisted of bamboo huts with thatched roofs scattered about a dry, dusty hillside. Women and children dressed in traditional tribal costumes sat on blankets selling arts and crafts. On one young girl’s blanket were thin wooden tubes decorated with intricate carvings. I stopped to inspect the little tubes and asked the young girl what they were. Before she could answer, an elderly woman dressed in a small black cap and a brightly decorated tunic came running across the road. She started shouting at me excitedly and yanked the tube from my hand. I stepped back wondering what was wrong. Had I broken it? Was it poisonous or dangerous? Was she distracting me while someone picked my pockets? The old woman put the thin piece of wood into her mouth and began to make a gentle twanging sound. It was a musical instrument. The old woman had simply wanted to show me how to play it.

She offered me the instrument to try but I was able to produce only a quiet wheeze. The old woman, her well-tanned face covered in deep wrinkles, couldn’t stop laughing at my failed attempt. I also started to laugh, at both my musical ineptitude and for constantly letting my fears get the better of me. As I looked at the smiling face of the giggling Anka tribeswoman, I realized how foolish I had been. Of course, all travelers—whether alone or not—need to be cautious, but my constant fretting about the unknown was ruining my holiday. The only place I seemed to encounter the dangers my friends and family warned me about were in my imagination. I blew again on the instrument—this time producing a tiny twang. The woman clapped her hands excitedly. I smiled, realizing my music teacher’s friendly enthusiasm had taught me more than just how to play an Ankan mouth harp.

The flash of a camera jolted me back to the present. I stood—camera poised—at the corner of the narrow street with my travel companion, Ben, and a handful of other tourists. But she slipped behind the gate before I could act—my enchantment with her beauty had caused me to miss my opportunity. The five other tourists, all Japanese, murmured amongst themselves and compared images on the display screens of their cameras. Happy with their pictures, they set off down the labyrinth-like roads of Gion, cameras ready for the next maiko or geisha spotting.

Ben and I were in Kyoto for only two days on a quick weekend getaway from our jobs as English teachers in Tokyo. I had been living in a suburb of Tokyo for nearly a year but was still constantly in awe of, and still constantly surprised by, the complexity and mystery of Japanese culture. Regardless of how much I tried to immerse myself into a Japanese style of life, I was still an outsider, never truly penetrating the real Japan. Even though I studied the language and learned the proper etiquette I always felt there was a secret code that was known only to Japanese—a language inaccessible to outsiders. In Kyoto, a living museum of ancient history where even Japanese tourists traveled to experience a sense of uncorrupted traditional culture, I hoped to uncover these secrets and gain more of an understanding of the essence of Japan.

Our first stop in Kyoto was Gion. It was ancient Japan as I had always imagined it—beautiful wooden temples, teahouses, restaurants, and crowds of tourists
and locals in both modern and traditional dress. Ben and I spent two hours wandering about in hopes of encountering a geisha. The maiko in the green kimono was our first. Disappointed that we missed the photo opportunity, but excited that we had seen a fully dressed maiko in the flesh, we decided to call it quits and find some dinner.

Gion’s busy streets are lined with touristy restaurants, but Ben and I were uninterested in throwing our lot in with the crowds—we wanted real Japanese fare. We wandered deeper into Gion, knowing we were hopelessly lost but enjoying the sense of adventure. The streets became narrower with fewer pedestrians, and the omiyagi shops, or souvenir shops, which were every second storefront on the busier streets, became less frequent. At the end of one dark, seemingly unpopulated, alleyway we noticed the trademark flag and lantern of an Izakaiya, or Japanese pub, hanging over the doorway. Between the two of us, Ben and I could speak some Japanese, but the restaurant name was written in Kanji, the most
complicated of the three alphabets used in Japan and the one that was still totally incomprehensible to us. Still, the dishes looked appetizing and its anonymity was more than appealing.

The pub was dimly lit, narrow and crowded. It consisted of a long bar and only three low tables on tatami mats, which were occupied. We found two stools at the bar, and before we were perched on our seats two cups of hot green tea and two bowls of gomae, or spinach with sesame, were placed before us.

We were the only foreigners in the pub, and the proprietor excitedly introduced himself as Yuki. With our broken Japanese, Ben and I introduced ourselves and explained we were English teachers visiting from Tokyo. While Yuki expressed delight at our shoddy but valiant attempt at Japanese, I noticed a large poster of Marilyn Monroe tacked to the wall behind him. Above it was a framed picture of the New York Yankees. In fact, every wall was covered in campy photos, posters and newspaper clippings of American celebrities and sports heroes. It wasn’t exactly the décor I had envisioned for my authentic Kyoto dining experience. Behind the bar were Polaroid snapshots of Yuki and various other foreigners who had stumbled upon his little pub. With hand gestures he made it clear he wanted us to pose with him as well. We willingly obliged and soon our photo was tacked on the wall—part of a bizarre album of both nameless and famous foreigners.

We set off early the next morning for Ryoanji, a temple famous for its Zen rock garden. The garden contains fifteen large rocks scattered in five clusters amidst a groomed rectangular surface of raked white pebbles. Alongside the garden runs a viewing platform designed for meditation. Although the garden contains 15 rocks, it is constructed so, regardless of where you stand or sit on the platform, you can see only 14
rocks at a time. It is said only after attaining spiritual enlightenment as a result of Zen meditation can the 15th rock be viewed. I sat down on the platform, which was crowded with other tourists both Japanese and foreign, and began to count. I counted five times, each time moving further down the platform to a new vantage point, and each time counted 14 rocks.

Resigned that I would not reach spiritual enlightenment that morning, I studied the other visitors on the platform: an ancient, wrinkled monk immersed in deep meditation; a foreigner snapping countless pictures; a teenage girl dressed in slouch socks texting on her cell phone. I wondered if any of them could see the 15th rock and hedged my bets on the monk.

From Ryoanji we traveled onto Kinkakuji, the temple of the Golden Pavilion. Although Kinkakuji is a popular destination for tourists, it is only 50 years old. (An obsessed monk burned the original temple to the ground in 1950. The pavilion, as it stands now, was rebuilt in 1955.) Kinkakuji may not be a remnant of ancient times but it is no less impressive with its gilt gold façade. I was amazed that a structure built so recently could evoke the ancient spirit of the city. Two young girls dressed in kimonos walked by and I was, again, struck by a sense of timelessness.

After soaking in the stunning sight of Kinkakuji and emptying our wallets in the temple’s omiyagi shop, we decided to head over to the Imperial Palace. On our way out of Kinkakuji’s grounds, I noticed a crowd gathered just outside the entrance—they were watching a maiko. Dressed in a pale turquoise kimono covered in gold cranes with mountain peaks adorning the hem, the maiko held an ornate paper umbrella to shade herself from the morning sun. Flanked by two stern-faced chaperones, she glided toward the entrance of the temple—her eyes averted from the crowd of tourists staring at her every movement. The crowd filled in behind her. I looked down at the camera hanging limply from my hand and realized I had again failed to snap a picture.

A short bus ride later, Ben and I stood across the street from an imposing entrance to the Imperial Palace’s garden. The palace itself can only be viewed by appointment but we wanted to take a walk through the extensive gardens. As we were about to cross the street, a luxury tour bus pulled up beside us. The flash of a camera caught my attention and I peered into the tinted windows of the coach. I could see a crowd of Japanese tourists pressed up against the window, cameras in hand. I looked behind me, expecting a geisha or a maiko to be walking past. There was nothing but an omiyagi shop. I squinted to see if there was something of interest in the store. Nothing. I wondered frantically what it was that they saw. What did they know that I didn’t? I turned back to the bus and realized the something of interest was us. Ben and I, foreigners to the country, were the object of the photo shoot. The tourists were as curious about me as I was about Japan. And we were all curious about geishas. I smiled up at the bus and waved, savoring my few minutes of feeling exotic. Afterward, I gave up trying to photograph geishas. I’ll simply remember them as the white-faced wonders of Kyoto—just like me.

My victim, a billy goat about to be emasculated by my hand, was one of six hundred Boer goats farmed for meat on Lochenbar Station, a ten thousand acre cattle station in central Queensland, Australia. The ranch is operated by the Sandilands, an Australian family said to be descendants of the early pioneers of the area. Lochenbar also runs an ecotourism destination called Kroombit Park that allows travellers to experience life at an authentic cattle station. I happened upon a brochure for the place while travelling up the coast of Queensland with two friends, Melissa and Levi. Keen to get away from the somewhat tedious backpacker scene of dorm rooms, expat piss-ups, and barbeques, we decided to give Kroombit a try for a few days. We piled into Levi’s bright yellow 1980 Ford Falcon Station wagon (nicknamed the oh-so-original Millennium Falcon) and set off for the outback.

We headed inland about 150 kilometres from the coast toward Biloela (pronounced bee-o-EE-la), a small town where the grand attraction is a twenty-eight metre tall silo. Here we turned off the paved highway onto a bumpy dirt road where it was another thirty kilometers to Lochenbar.

Upon arriving at the station, we were welcomed by the Sandilands and their staff, then shown to our accommodation- – a dorm with rows of stalls that made it seem like nothing except a stable. The top half of the wide wooden door of our room even opened independently from the bottom half. The ranch, although peaceful in its vast natural surroundings, was abuzz with activity as the “jackeroos” (the Australian farmhands) rushed about to muster cattle, tend the flocks, and set small bush fires to keep the grass short and appetizing for the livestock.

We took a walk around the farm grounds to inspect the ostriches, chickens (or “chooks” as the Aussies say), and horses. The animals lazed about their pens in the hot sun, hardly moving except to shake off the occasional fly. In the distance I could see the jackeroos zipping about the property on their four-wheel-drive quads. They were all dressed in what seemed to be the Lochenbar uniform: dusty worn jeans; torn flannel shirts; beaten scuffed Blundstone boots; and leather Akubras to block the hot sun. I eyed them enviously as they raced about, and wondered if our authentic farm experience was going to consist of nothing more than our thematic dorm and the glorified zoo in front of me.

My concerns quickly abated when a battered truck (or “ute” as the Aussies fondly call them) pulled up beside us. Andrew, one of the jackeroos, leaned out of the window and, with a mischievous grin on his face, asked us if we would like to help round up some young billy goats for ringing. Beside him in the truck sat his dog Trig, a blue heeler. Uncertain what he meant by ringing, but excited at the prospect of seeing a herding dog in action, we climbed into the back.

We drove out to the paddock where a herd of goats milled about, grazing on the short grass. Andrew let Trig out of the truck and started calling out sharp commands, to which the dog responded instantly. He chased the goats, running back and forth behind them, keeping them together, occasionally nipping at their heels to hurry them up. Under Andrew’s direction, Trig urged the goats into a large pen.

Once the goats were closed inside, Andrew leaned against the fence and, with the same mischievous grin, explained the task of ringing. In order to keep the population from getting too large, it is necessary to limit the number of billies in the herd. This is done by “ringing” the billies when they are about three months old. When a goat is ringed, a thick elastic is fit on the skin between its body and its testes. The elastic cuts off circulation to the testes, causing no pain, but after a few weeks the testes dry up and fall off. Andrew pulled a small silver instrument called an elastrator out of his pocket. It had a two-tiered handle and four thin prongs at the top. He pulled a plastic bag of thick green elastics, or “elastrator rings,” out of his shirt pocket. He fit the elastic over the prongs and squeezed the handle. The four prongs widened, stretching the elastic into a golf-ball sized loop, just wide enough for a goat’s testicles.

“So which one of you wants to do the deed then?” asked Andrew with a laugh. Suddenly the idea of a beach barbeque with drunken expats seemed extremely appealing.

Melissa and Levi turned and looked at me. Levi shuffled nervously from foot to foot and cleared his throat as he stared down at the ground. Melissa suddenly became entranced with a barely visible scratch on the back of her hand and rubbed at it with her thumb. I made the mistake of making eye contact with Andrew. He gave me a slightly smug grin and handed me the elastrator.

“Right then, Helen you ring ‘em. Levi you snatch ‘em up. And Melissa you let ‘em back into the paddock once they’re done,” Andrew ordered.

We moved to a smaller pen connected to the main pen by a gate. Andrew explained he would herd a few goats into the small pen, and then point out which ones were the billies. He opened the gate and seven or eight goats rushed toward us.

“That little white one there, Levi,” Andrew called out. “That’s a billy. Snatch him up.”
Levi tried to grab the little goat but it lowered its head and ran full speed toward the corner of the pen. Levi hunched over and chased after it with his arms thrust forward. All the goats in the pen crowded into the corner and began to climb on top of one another to avoid capture.

Andrew hopped over the fence into our pen and drove the goats out of the corner.

“You gotta catch ‘em fast,” he said. “Otherwise they can smother one another trying to get away from you by piling up on top of each other. You want to try and separate one from the group.”

He stepped in front of a white and brown kid and forced it toward the fence. In one swift motion, he scooped up the animal and flipped it onto its back. It began crying immediately.

“Oops,” Andrew said. “Looks like I got me a girl. Levi, go after that white one again.”

Levi managed to block the small goat’s efforts to join the others and ran it up against the fence. He grabbed it awkwardly around its torso and flipped it onto its back.

Andrew now explained that when ringing the billy it was important to be sure you had both testes secured with the elastic. Sometimes a testicle would retract up into the body and it was necessary to squeeze them back into the ball sac. I cringed at the idea of having to massage a goat’s balls, but Andrew warned if the testicle escaped ringing, it wouldn’t shrivel up like its partner, allowing the little goat to keep its virility.

I looked again at the terrified goat in Levi’s arms. It was struggling less frantically now, although it occasionally twisted its torso in a meek attempt to escape. Worse, its screams continued to fill the air.

“Go on then,” Andrew said.

I looked up at Levi. His face was pale and his eyes were wide. He thrust the goat toward me again, anxious to let it go.

Was this the adventure I had been wanting? I squeezed the elastrator, still amazed that I was actually going to do this. As I cupped the billy’s small furry testes into my hand, the screaming stopped. I clumsily fit the big green elastic around its balls, making sure both testes were present, and then pulled it off the elastrator, leaving the elastic secured.

Levi placed him onto the ground, and the young billy looked up at him as if nothing had happened. Melissa opened the gate and the little guy ran out into the paddock to begin his life as a eunuch.

“That’s not so bad is it?” Andrew asked as he pointed at another small billy for Levi to grab.

This time I didn’t hesitate. As soon as Levi flipped it over, I grabbed the billy’s balls and shoved them into the elastrator ring. Again, the goat stopped screaming as soon as I touched his testes. I was beginning to wonder if these goats were actually getting a bit of a thrill from this.

The next goat Levi flipped over was so well endowed I couldn’t fit his testicles into the ring – they were as big as a tennis ball. Andrew showed me how to slip the goat’s balls into the elastic one teste at a time. They slid about in my hand like Jell-O wrapped in plastic wrap.

I was starting to get a little bit disgusted with what I was doing. But I was too stubborn to give up. I became more efficient with practice, and after my sixth or seventh goat I was a pro. I could slip the testicles into the elastrator ring and pull off the instrument in one fluid motion.

When we were finally done, the goats all released back into the paddock, I wondered if what we had done was really for the good of the goats, as Andrew claimed. They seemed none the wiser as they grazed, occasionally butting heads playfully.

Back at the dorm, one of the farmhands laughed, saying that when guests came back from ringing, the men were always pale and the women were always smiling. I couldn’t say I was smiling from my actions – in fact, I was still mildly disgusted with myself. But I was pleased I had the courage to do it. I felt like I could now handle, literally, anything the farm sent my way.

I had the opportunity to actually visit Vegas this past spring. I packed into a Volkswagon Golf with four friends and no air conditioning, and it was a long, hot trip that resulted in both the engine and tempers heating up. But when the Vegas skyline came into view, we knew it was worth it.

As we drove down The Strip, my fatigue from the four-hour drive evaporated into excitement. My mental picture of Vegas had always combined all of the casinos into one giant mega-casino: as I sat at my table with the man in the oversized cowboy hat, women swung from trapezes overhead, gangsters and actors mingled about the crowds and large renditions of international landmarks decorated the background. Now driving down this famous road, I was able to see these casinos as individual units. My head hanging out the window, I stared in awe at the blazing letters of the Tropicana, the shiny gold façade of Mandalay Bay and the giant Sphinx sitting in front of the Luxor. Vegas does indeed have it all, it’s just not all under one roof.

My own hotel was The Flamingo. With its neon pink façade, The Flamingo is the perfect cross between old Vegas kitsch and new Vegas amenities. It seemed a good choice to live out my Vegas fantasies—and after the long, hot drive it seemed a good spot for a cool drink beside the pool. We dropped off our car in the guest parking lot (a long walk from the lobby, but secure and easy to find a spot) and hauled our luggage to the front desk. We were confronted with a line-up reminiscent of airport immigration, but in less then 10 minutes we had our key cards in hand.

Our room had a great view of the lush gardens and pool below. There is an additional $20.00 charge for rooms facing The Strip, but the view of the gardens was beautiful and quiet. If you’re not interested in overlooking the bustling life of The Strip, then the less expensive option is the better choice.

I headed straight for the pool—or at least tried to. The signs in the lobby that claimed to point in the direction of the pool led me to the casino. I saw a few other guests in swimsuits, ignored the misleading signs and followed them to the pool. I chose a chaise lounge next to one of the four pools, and almost immediately was offered a drink by the poolside waitress. After a few margaritas and a swim through the waterfall, the four-hour ride with no AC was a distant memory.

Refreshed and mildly tipsy, I was ready to hit the town. It was time for me to live out my Vegas fantasy. But it was here that I realized a few flaws in my grand plan. First, I didn’t own a cocktail dress, or a feather boa. Second, I don’t smoke. And third, I had a restrictive budget, so an evening with the high rollers was not realistically in my future. Not willing to let reality discourage me, I gussied myself up, ready for a night of fun.

My first stop was the Bellagio, where I marveled at the colorful glass sculpture suspended from the ceiling. My friends and I strolled along the polished patterned floors past the many designer boutiques, and into the casino. I was amazed by the diversity of the crowd in this sophisticated casino—some patrons wore suits, others wore shorts and flip-flops. Dress code aside, the casino exuded elegance.

Having been in Vegas now for 4 hours, it was high time to start gambling. I started with a bank of classic-looking slot machines. They had such great names: Lucky Seven, Double Diamond, Wild Cherry. We gambled and enjoyed a few drinks, and then decided to brave the Manhattan Express—a roller coaster built on top of New York New York.

Situated on the roof of the hotel, the Manhattan Express reaches speeds of up to 67 MPH and heights of 203 feet. The entire ride is a thrill, from the slow crawl up the first hill, which offers a stupendous view of the city, to the heart-pumping dives and twists, which had me screaming involuntarily. Flush with adrenaline, I was tempted to go for a second ride, but decided there was more of the city waiting for me.

I browsed through casino after casino: Aladdin, Paris, Bally’s, The Barbary Coast. I played a few slots and soaked in the wild, vivid décor of each. The lights and sounds were as intoxicating as the free drinks. I noticed, however, the minimum betting value for the tables always seemed to be $10. This was distressing. I had a limited budget but didn’t want to give up on my Vegas fantasy. I decided to hit the old part of the Strip in an attempt to find some cheaper tables.

I started at the Sahara and then moved to Circus Circus, Slots-o-Fun and The Stardust. I found a few affordable tables, but unfortunately had arrived at prime time. The crowds were impenetrable. I decided instead to enjoy the kitschy décor that I had seen so often in the movies–the flashy bulb signs, the sequin-clad showgirls and the blue-haired tourists glued to their chosen slot machines. It was in the old part of the Strip that I started to notice my fatigue. The air was not as fresh, the smoke a bit thicker and the service a bit slower. Fearing my tiredness would get the better of me, I headed back to The Flamingo for a bit more gambling.

The Flamingo’s tables were still far out of my price range, so I made myself comfortable at an American Bandstand Nickel Slot. Although my dollar lasted much longer on these games, I noticed that the frequency of drink service was not nearly as high. To solve this problem, I devised a pathetic (yet effective) scheme. I pretended to play the dollar slots, where waitresses visited often, and upon receiving my beer, snuck back to the nickel slots. It was a far cry from the high-rolling situation I had dreamed for myself, but it kept the liquor and the gambling flowing (which, to be fair, was also part of my dream).

The next morning, hung over and hungry, I set out in search of the legendary Las Vegas buffet. The line-ups for the many restaurants in The Flamingo were huge, far too long for my impatient stomach. I tried next door at The Imperial Palace, only to be confronted with an even longer line. It was the same at Harrah’s, the Casino Royale, the Venetian and Treasure Island. Frustrated and starving, I broke down and bought a scone and a latte at Starbucks. I brought my disappointing breakfast back to the Venetian, and watched the gondolas ferry newlyweds along the canal.

After a few more rounds of nickel slots at The Flamingo, it was time to hit the road again. As my friends and I pulled out of the city, I looked back at the shrinking skyline and felt slight remorse that my limited budget prevented me from living my Vegas fantasy to the fullest. But while my first trip to real-life Vegas lacked the high-rolling retro elegance of my dream, it had given me enough memories—of poolside cocktails, pink neon, and classic slot machines—to know that when I get rich (only a matter of time) my dream is not impossible. I watched the sun reflect off the shiny façade of the Mandalay Bay, and I knew that I would return one day with a larger bankbook and find myself sitting next to a man in an oversized cowboy hat.

Sidebar
The Flamingo Hotel: A Vegas Original

The Flamingo hotel’s best feature is its location on the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Road, close to both the old and new parts of The Strip. The pink neon façade sits between The Barbary Coast and the Imperial Palace, and faces Caesar’s Palace and the Bellagio. This historical hotel, built in 1946, is a descendant of the Bugsy Seigel hotel that helped spur the first Vegas boom. It undergoes regular renovations to ensure its 3626 rooms remain comfortable. Rooms start as low as $55.00 mid-week and $95.00 for weekends.

The hotel features a 15-acre resort-style tropical garden. Tucked between the towers of the hotel it is hard to believe busy Vegas is just on the other side of this serene setting. Complete with four pools, two hot tubs, waterfalls and a series of waterslides, this aquatic playland has something for everyone. The pool decks are lined with lounge chairs, but the chairs cannot be reserved and locations in the sun fill up quickly. The garden also hosts a wildlife habitat that has a collection of more than 300 birds, including Chilean Flamingos and African Penguins.

There are a variety of different restaurants and bars to choose from, including Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, home of a 3-story volcano that erupts margarita mix. The restaurants offer a range of cuisines and prices, from the quick and simple, to elegant fine dining.

Long a home for show-business legends, there is no shortage of entertainment at The Flamingo. Home of Gladys Knight, Second City and George Wallace, shows are offered nightly, and prices start at $65 for Gladys Knight, $45 for George Wallace, and $30 for Second City.

The hotel casino offers 77,000 square feet of gambling fun, complete with more than 2,000 slot machines, 70 gaming tables and a Race and Sports book broadcasting.

The Flamingo’s spa is the perfect way to recover after a night on the town. The spa offers a co-ed fitness center with weights, resistance machines and treadmills, as well as a relaxation center complete with whirlpools, saunas, eucalyptus steam rooms, massage services and tanning booths.

I have lived abroad for most of the last three years. I spend the final stage of my foreign sojourn in Barcelona, Spain. Though it was January, I strolled the café-lined streets wearing sunglasses and sandals. I tanned my face over sangria in the sunshine on trendy terraces. And of course, I shopped. I spent ridiculous amounts of money accumulating fabulous and fashionable articles that in Canada were only found in magazines.

While in Barcelona, I had the fortunate chance to browse through Douglas Coupland’s Souvenir of Canada. What a delightful book. My fellow Canadian ex-pat friends and I flipped through its pages doing the “Oh my god do you remember this?” game with such products as Beehive Corn Syrup and that funny plastic hockey game reminiscent of foosball.

We also enjoyed watching our Spanish friends peruse the pages and ask such naively un-Canadian questions as “Have you ever been to Baffin Island?”. This wonderful book put me in good spirits about my imminent mid-February homecoming. My time to return to the motherland was drawing near and I believed that maybe it really was time to go home. What a fool I was.

My misgivings began somewhere over Labrador. I slid open the oval airplane window shutter and gazed out onto a huge, frigid, barren landscape. It looked entirely uninhabitable—and I was going to live there. (Well, not Labrador but Ontario didn’t look much better to my sun-seeking eyes.)

The thing is, as a traveler I always find myself talking about the unbearably cold climate in Canada. People immediately ask about it as soon as they find out where I am from: it is the one thing everyone in the world seems to know about Canada. I have regaled many a fellow traveler with horrifying tales of 2m high snow banks, eyelashes covered in frost, and having to plug in your car overnight to ensure it starts in the morning. But the longer I lived abroad, the more the physical memories of such stores receded to my subconscious. Eventually it seemed as if I was talking about some faraway place I had never been (or certainly wished to go). As if I had never actually shivered through minus 52 with the wind chill, I just knew someone else who had.

Once the plane landed and the cabin filled with the chorus of releasing seat belt clicks and the snaps of the overhead bins, I noticed everyone in the plane putting on enormous, puffy, down-filled jackets. I couldn’t understand where these coats came from. No one in Barcelona was wearing them when we embarked. I looked frantically into my own overhead bin in a delirious hope that this outerwear was provided by the airline for some weird anti-terrorist security measure. My level of dread rose as I found only an itchy blue airplane blanket. Then, the airline lost my luggage, eliminating my hastily assembled plan to simply wear every article of clothing I owned.

Instead, I had to confront the elements as I was, severely ill equipped in leather shoes, black cords and a thin cotton jacket. I admit I looked good, a whole lot smarter than the geeks in their sleeping bag-cum-coats. But a hell of a lot of good looking great was going to do me in minus 20-degree weather. So maybe looking smart was the wrong choice of adjective there.

Defiant and anxious, I stepped outside Pearson International Airport and into February. I expected something more dramatic, an orchestral soundtrack bursting into a chilling symphony or something. Instead I felt only pain: the burn in my nostrils and the back of my throat as the tight, icy air moved down my lungs, the watering of my eyes. I felt as though my flesh was going flash freeze before I made it across the street.

My luggage arrived the next morning. I opened my closet, grimacing at the few articles hanging on the near empty rod: these were the castaways, the rejects that didn’t make it across the ocean with me. I pushed them aside to make room for my new things. As I shoved them into the deep recesses of the closet, I caught a glimpse of beige. I had forgotten that I owned it, but there it hung, my own personal Canadian uniform.

I jerked it off the hanger and held the ankle-length, down-filled parka in front of me. The dirty beige was a strange contrast to my sun-darkened skin: the parka was the colour of a faded tan. I slipped it on, a sensation similar to crawling beneath the covers. I turned to the mirror and asked myself: Is this all I have to look forward to? My skin turning a sickening shade of parka-beige while my Spanish clothes go out of style before anyone sees them because they’ll be hidden beneath this beastly but necessary outerwear? I needed some sangria, and there wasn’t a sidewalk café within 5000 kilometers.