A veritable little slice of tropical Heaven. The moment you step off the plane at the airport, with it’s misty mountain backdrop you know you are somewhere a bit more than a bit special.

Given the last minute change in our travel plans, Air New Zealand, kind folk that they are, put us up at the Edgewater resort for a night before we made way to our accommodation proper. Lucky for me, we got there early enough for breakfast on the first day, where I made acquaintance with amongst other things, toast, marmalade, toast, vegemite, marmite (Kiwi variety, much different and much lower grade than the UK variant) some more toast, cereals, yogurt, coffee, a bit more toast and the piece de resistance, Paw Paw fruit. I liked it so much that I had it in both juice and whole form. Paw Paw, for the uninitiated, is a bit like a cross between a passion fruit and a mango and is simply put fantastic.

The Edgewater is as pleasant as one would expect without going super fancy. They have an events guy there who had a ridiculously long Cook Island Maori name, so he suggested we called him Mr Amazing. A name he did not fail to live up to as he taught us the skills of coconut husking. In Rarotonga, this is done with a specific implement, with a very specific name in Maori, which I can’t remember, but it is, I’m told translated as a sharp stick. He also demonstrated how to climb a tree to pick coconuts with the aid of a dishcloth. He leapt up there like a cat. Made it look easy, but the way down looked far more scary. The way, if you are wondering, to shell a coconut with a sharp stick, is thus:

1: Shove sharp stick in ground with sharp bit pointing up.

2: Take soft end of coconut fruit and ram it down on pointy end of sharp stick.

3: Twist coconut to separate skin from nut.

4: Repeat as necessary.

5: To open once skinned, take a large rock and smack, hard on the appropriate seem (the coconut at one end has what looks like two eyes and a mouth marked on it, the appropriate seem to hit when opening is the one right between the eyes, but at about halfway down the coconut)

Mr Amazing did all this whilst simultaneously teaching us about the Tree of Life as the Raro people call the coconut tree, and making it look damn easy. As he did when he made coconut cream for the ladies to rub on their skin and made a basket out of the leaves. Mr Amazing is pretty appropriately monikered, I’m pretty sure that Conny even had the hots for him a bit.

The afternoon saw a spot of reading and a little snorkel in the lagoon, courtesy once more of Mr Amazing and the equipment he lent us.

A meal at the local Italian(odd I know, but not shabby) later and it was bedtime before round 2 at the breakfast buffet.

We boarded the bus, but sadly going in the wrong direction, the bonus is, the island only has one bus route that goes two ways, clockwise and anticlockwise, the maximum full loop takes 55 minutes, so really, we just took a scenic route.

Our home for the next week could not have been more perfect. A little hut with direct access to the beach, nothing looking over us, no bustle, even relatively speaking for Rarotonga. We could, and did while away the days between the beach, our veranda and the open hut, with dips in the lagoon from time to time to cool off from the tropical heat. These dips did lead to some turmoil, however, but more about that later, first things first, I must convey the majesty of the place appropriately!

Rarotonga is nothing short of a marvel, a true paradise island. The pointy green peaks of the middle highlands, shrouded in cloud and mist, swooping down to the crisp white shoreline, all encircled by a calm, warm, safe lagoon in which we snorkelled and swam through the coral gardens, chilling with the fish and the sea stars. Conny befriended a local boy harvesting the sea cucumbers (more particularly their gonads! This apparently comes in two varieties, one that must be cooked and the other that can be eaten raw) who didn’t actually know what it was. He was sure it definitely was not an animal, but wasn’t in fact sure what it was (wikipedia says its an animal, so no gonads for David). We managed to hang around with some of the local kids, drawn to us by the lilo upon which we floated, which in turn got us a slap up lunch provided by the local Sunday school lady who was providing them a picnic on the beach (while scaling the beautiful angel fish that the boys had speared on the reef). The people there are fantastic, a little quiet to talk to at times, they come across occasionally as submissive, but ask them about their heritage and they come alive. Island life is very important to them.

The sky at night was like nothing I have ever seen before, there were almost more stars than there was night. Millions of brilliant shiny wonders, uninterrupted by man’s foggy light. It was breathtaking. We tried to take pictures but nothing came close to capturing its magnificence. The big skies in America pailed in to insignificance.

One evening we went up to what they call an Islander night. The Highland Paradise is a tourist attraction that takes you to one of the ancient gathering/prayer sites of the old Maori tribe that used to own that hill. In fact all land on the Cook Islands is still owned by the descendants of those Maori tribes that farmed, lived and battled over the various parts of the islands. In order to get land, you must first call a meeting of elders and justify your lineage. To be honest, the evening got off to a shaky start. The ticket is for a traditional buffet style meal, some of which is prepared in an earth oven called an Umu, with a tour of an ancient settlement, the sacred meeting place and some traditional music and dance, all hosted by the hilariously charming Danny. Think a cross between Mr Miyagi and John Candy with a kiwi accent and a bit of a tan, then you are somewhere there. In our case though, the transport to the event had forgotten to pick us up at the bus stop. We were lucky that the bus stop was located at a local hotel resort called the Rarotongan. Thankfully for us the guys at the reception there are decidedly Rarotongan (ie nice) and that even though we weren’t their guests and they were in no way obliged to, called the Highland Paradise up. They scrambled some guys in a pick up truck to our rescue and all we missed was a little of the talk. The ride up there however was well worth it. The boys, about 18 years old I reckon, were already in traditional garb, they just told us to jump on the back of the pick up and hold on. Conny was slightly disappointed not to be squeezed in with the handsome Maori boys in nought but grass skirts, but hey, we can’t win them all eh. It was a spectacular ride, more spectacular the owners face when she saw how we had been picked up. Her jaw hit the floor I think when she realised that they hadn’t seen fit to vacate the cab for us and them ride in the back, which was later confirmed by Danny over dinner as we chatted. He nearly gave one of the lads a clip round the ear as he heard but I feel the fact we enjoyed it more and the fact that the lad so nonchalantly just said “Yeah, we threw’em in the back eh, sweet as” to Danny’s enquiry saved him, because one must applaud such a laissez faire attitude.

The food was as you could probably guess, fantastic. Simple salads, some local vegetable like tapioca and taro plus meat cooked in the oven that Conny says was to die for. The highlight however was the taro plant leaves, wilted, and cooked with onions and coconut. It was similar to some Asian spinach dishes and entirely phenomenal. Danny insists that it is full of iron and as such is the men’s favourite as it will put lead in your pencil, but only for the taken man, as no one should have such lead in their pencil with no one to write to.

The evening was rounded off by a trip through various dances by descendants of the ancient clan that inhabited the hill. The boys were full of vim and vigour, leading to whoops and cheers from Conny’s side of the table. This might be as much to do with their talent as it was the fact that they were tall, chiselled, handsome Maori boys, full of stamina and athletic prowess topped by their glistening in sweat…that could also have been the case.

The girls up next, beautiful girls in coconut bikinis doing their thing. What can I say? Their thing is talented. I never knew the shaking of a grass skirt (in what can only be a precursor to twerking) could be so remarkable. By God those girls could get some speed up, stirring parts in me that I didn’t know were stirrable, let alone had been stirred before! The music was full of tribal drum and rhythm with fantastic singing, and although I make the show sound steamy, it’s not. It is done with the utmost respect and reverence to their history. All in all a proper win.

Now. To my horror.

The strange thing is, my horror was simply a bit of sunburn. The day Conny and I got to the hut we set out to buy some reef shoes and snorkels. We did, but in her haste to get in to the sea Conny’s response to my meekly raised question “Sun tan lotion?” was “FUCK SUN TAN LOTION!” as she strode on to the beach dropping layers as she went. At this point I should say, I knew better. I am a grown 35 year old man. I should have either insisted or at the very least, not followed, but no.

An hour or two spent dordling around the placid lagoon seemed no bother. The next day, a bit pink but no worries, the same on day 2. I remember saying to Conny when she mentioned our pinkness that it’s no bother. Been burnt before, probably will again, but it wont stop me.

I rue the day that I ever spake those words.

Day 3 past sunburn saw me wake at 3 am. Unable to sleep as an itch started growing. I left the bed several million different positions later and went outside with a cup of coffee and a book, all the while, uncomfortable at the ever building itch across my back. By 5.30 the coffee and book were abandoned as I ran to the shower. When Conny awoke at 8 this thing was in full force (even now as I write, a couple of weeks later, I am becoming aware of flashbacks and phantom itches)

I was jumping in and out of the shower, trying to make it fade. But no. This itch was the worst thing ever. Worse than AIDS I reckon. Conny had tried every aloe vera or tea tree thing we had by 10 am and the thing was only getting worse. At this point I was really hoping that the woman I love would show me exactly why I do love such a kind and caring lady. What I got was fits of laughter to the point of tears and no more breath. She did not get it, which is understandable, for I do not have the words to emote the sensation on my back. The following is my attempt to do so:

I shall name it the Hell Itch. For this falls not a millimetre short of what I imagine Hell to be. The skin on my back was warm, but not sore like those sun burns we all get, but it was something else. Not searing pain, but entirely unpleasant. However the horror is that it felt like a million Hell Fire Maggots had been spawned into my back and under the skin. The Broad sheet of my admittedly too fat back was alive with these fuckers. The sensation the worst thing I can remember. All the while moving, changing not a moment of respite. As it swept in unforeseeable waves across my back I felt various areas spasm due to the unexpected distress. All I was left to do was squat, naked in the shower with my back to the water bringing little to no relief, but with every time I tried to exit and take it like a man the intensity grew so fucking much I was back in in moments. It was at this point the pressure in me boiled over, Conny’s red faced cackle was the last straw. I unwittingly channelled my inner Regan MacNiel (Linda Blair in the exorcist) and the voice that came was frighteningly guttural and foreign. Even to me, this was visceral hatred in that moment for I was left with nothing else “Don’t you fucking laugh at me” boomed the voice. So shocking to Conny that even the penny dropped with her. She went online and the first thing she found was an account from a former US marine who had befallen the same fate. When she read that he had put it way beyond any of the physical difficulties he had endured as an active marine and that it’s relentless horror was far worse than any torture for which he had been prepared, she started to take me seriously. All I had at this point was the voice of Beezlebub shouting profanity from the pit of my belly through the top of my lungs emanating from the ever running shower. Bless her heart, this is when Conny showed what she is made of. She called the pharmacy and prepared to head out on the scooter we had hired (for which she is not licenced to ride). I had no fight in me and honestly didn’t think I’d make it with the spasms, so acquiesced to her going. Sadly, Conny is no expert, so mere moments later she is quizzing me on how to get it started. I explain, “Nothing” I hear from outside the bathroom window. At this point, full of fire, grunts and the purest evil, I decide enough is enough. I throw on a helmet, a t shirt and shorts, in that order. Stride out to Conny.

“Keys.”

“But will you make it?” She enquires worriedly.

“Have to.”

 

She gets on the pillion position as I pull out of our lot. At this point my mind has gone back to the days of Kung Fu, ages spent in horse riding stance burning my thighs, or the chuckle as we are in splits and Brian the instructor kicks your foot that little bit further*. My breathing becomes focused and meditative and for the first 5 minutes I’m still struggling. But then a breakthrough. It’s still horrible, but I can cope. The distraction of riding, the breeze on my back and the focus seem to align to make it seem survivable. This place becomes my Zen. If the itch becomes too much (which it does frequently over the next few days) I take to the bike. I did it at all hours of the day or night, even through torrential downpours. Zero fucks given. This thing was not winning. I would enjoy this week no matter what. Even the fact that the cream we got (Vitamin A is the healer apparently) didn’t stop me. You see, the thing is, I had basically fried all the nerve endings, of which there are many in ones back and that fiery tickle is each of them trying to repair, but by their nature, these things are receptive to sensation. Anyway the lady in the pharmacy neglected to mention that the vitamin A cream she sold us was “augmented” with cod liver oil. Holy fuck. Not only did I now itch like a bastard but I stank of fish. Not even a pleasant fishy smell, if there is such a thing, but noooooooo, that horrible smell you get when you walk by the damn of a reservoir and see that stinky upturned fish with half of it’s belly refashioned into a stinky cavern. That stink.

The cream was only applied once. Fuck that shit. Man up. I nearly died of pneumonia once. I once slipped a disc in my back into the spinal nerves. Both of these were preferable to this, but fuck it. Nope. This wouldn’t ruin me.

Somehow, in all honesty, it didn’t. There was only really one full 24 hours of nightmare horror. The rest it was there but I had it licked in my mind. But I shit you not I would not wish that upon my worse enemy. Well there are a few names that spring to mid, but they shall remain behind pursed lips.

Back to Rarotonga and it’s awesomeness. From the people on the island, to the Paw Paws and the chickens in the yard. A place could not be more perfect. Yes the weather was at times a little too sweaty and stifling, but that just made the breeze that followed that teensy bit more magical. Even the fact that wifi isn’t freely available there helps you appreciate the place more. We even stumbled across a Pirates of the Carribean themed porno movie on the hosts movie drive that he provided!

I really couldn’t have asked for more apart from a better girlfriend, with a love of sun tan lotion, and a better brain and set of balls combo from myself.

Next, on to New Zealand, a short hop, with apparently no vegetarian meal ordered, damn that guy on the phone! The lady did scramble together some fruit from the other meals and crackers and cheese from first class, which I thought was sterling work and deserved a mention.

*Brian Nelson is a fine instructor of Kung Fu, I dare say the best. I would not wish that anyone think I thought otherwise for I would say I was privileged to have him teach me throughout the years growing up.