Monday was Queens Birthday holiday. Everyone was out in force catching up on gardening. Just like Fiji there are garden fires everywhere. Unlike Fiji, we have seen only one machete in action. The suburbs whir with the noise and dust of petrol weedeaters. And warriors whiz past on motor scooters clutching weedeaters like a spear.
Here we are in Rarotonga once again, tied up stern-to on the wall at Avatiu Harbour. We have an easterly wind joggling us around. Getting ashore is an increasingly severe challenge. Timing is everything.
Muri Lagoon is our only other option. Monday morning we took the hired electric bikes around to check out the drunken advice of a fisherman that we could squeak through the pass and anchor in Muri Lagoon. We looked closely at the pass from the shore. We did not need to snorkel to agree that you would need to have had drunk as much as our fisherman friend to attempt the pass.
So here we are lurching around the boat waving at gorking tourists. It’s pleasant enough ashore and it’s nostalgic to be back here after 40 odd years. Then there was one other cruising boat here to. Last time it was a Spray replica sailed by a crusty old Englishman who used a school atlas for navigation. He hadn’t meant to come to Rarotonga but, somehow, here he was.
This time our neighbour, Wild Berry, is an impressive 74 foot catamaran with three crew. The guests arrived yesterday. We knew that because the underwater blue lights were switched on. And she now flies an American and a Brazilian flag. All very flash.
Ashore Raro is the same but different.
• The Banana Court Bar is very tame. Gone are the days when Charlie sat next to a woman at the bar. Someone warned him she bit people. Seconds later, unprovoked, she took a chunk out of his ear. He returned to the wharf, bloodied and indignant.
• Many people ride motor scooters and many people still die on them. Driving while drunk has twice the NZ penalty but it is well imbedded.
• Many more tourists, mostly from NZ and USA.
• Many more places to eat good food
• Good supermarkets. Mostly goodies from NZ
• The boys still swim off the wharf. Shining, grinning faces. They swim like delighted fish but are too scared to swim under our bridge deck. I told them I was an old lady and I swam under there all the time. But I do understand because I never swam under John Neale’s trimaran, Manuia, because it was too dark and threatening. I have either got braver or sillier.
• Chooks are everywhere. Roaming everywhere. Far more noisy roosters than a NZ neighbourhood would put up with.
• Dogs too. I saw a dog take a two day old chick while the mother flapped and flew at the dog. Now the remaining chick sticks so close to its mother, I’m not sure whether it gets any time to eat.
• Saturday is still the main market day. Mangos are not yet in season and the avocados are just starting. Metre-long snake beans and bok choy are my old favourites.
• Our other new friend, Bill Marsters from Palmerston, brought us a mystery fruit. Dark, smooth, edible skin, yellow meat which is slightly tart. Crunchy like an apple turning soft as it ripens. The tree is huge and prolific. He calls it vaikawakawa. Anyone know an English name?
Our new crew, Zoe, arrived by plane from Blenheim via Auckland at 1.40 Tuesday morning. We will head to Aitutaki in a couple of days.
Bruce’s Chicken Takeaway
From our berth in Avatiu Port we look out on the rear of the Palace Takeaways. A huge pile of egg trays show through the window. Their best seller is chicken burger. The crawl space under the building is home to a flock of wild chooks.
Well before dawn the roosters announce themselves. Later they expend more energy harassing the hens and scattering the chicks. Occasionally they engage in cock fights. They rise up and slash at each other with their talons. At times leaping clear over their rival. They are cocky handsome fellows and constantly strut their stuff. The feathers which lie on their neck like a shawl get lifted up and spread large like a lizard frill. Not that anyone pays much attention.
The hens keep their heads down looking for the droppings of the paying patrons. The strong probability of cannibalism doesn’t seem to bother them. Perhaps it’s part of their Polynesian heritage? They also do their best to mind their chicks but their efforts are more frantic than effective.
The chicks rush about like fluff balls on tooth picks. More often than not they are well behind.
Then there are the dogs. It’s never clear which are feral and which are pets. Few have collars and none are chained but every household seems to have at least one. They come sniffing around the back of the store and occasionally one will slyly snap up a chick while mother hen is distracted. The hens go nuts for a few seconds but soon return to scavenging. The dog gives a wolfy grin, licks its chops, and ambles off.
Of the chicks, there are many more fluff balls than half-growns. However enough must survive into adulthood to sustain the Palace Takeaways ecosystem.
