The Coconut Chronicles: Travel

Methinks the Lady doth Protest too Much

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 19:51:57 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

I’m giving this week’s Scootie Award to myself. I can’t say I’ve done anything to deserve it but I accidentally burned my leg on the tail pipe a few days ago and, in lieu of sympathy, (everyone here has burns on their legs from their tail pipes), I figured a nice trophy would make me feel better. Ah yes, I’m basking in the fame.

Speaking of fame, our little patch of sand made the news! But not just the news, no, we made CNN, the grand daddy of spin and propaganda!! Remember the Sunday flights controversy? Well, the drama continues as each Sunday, for the past three weeks, locals have flocked to the airport to protest. Why this gathering warranted three entire minutes on the Censored News Network is a mystery to me, however.

Prez and I attended the first protest, as spectators. At least three quarters of the island’s population turned out but the atmosphere was more of a Sunday picnic than a protest. Security consisted of about six police officers who spent most of the time either chatting with the crowd or taking photos. There were some signs with baffling slogans and a bit of singing, as expected, but otherwise the protest consisted of a big bunch of people casually observing the six folks who arrived on the hotly contested flight.

Oh, there was one exciting moment when a camouflage-sporting grandma crossed the rope barrier and struck a kung fu pose. The guard, who was laughing as hard as the rest of us, gently escorted her back behind the rope.

For the past three weeks, the protests have continued in much the same vein. I imagine, as time goes on, and the Sunday airplane continues to land, the protests will eventually wane. Or, it could morph into a weekly gathering with BBQ’s and kite flying. The Lonely Planet excerpt will read, “Don’t miss the Sunday airport celebration, where Aitutakians gather in the field next to the landing strip to welcome visitors!”

Side note: The World Wildlife Fund recently did a thorough survey of the lagoon and reef here. Their report was dismal, to say the least. Page after page of destruction, with notes such as: “should have been addressed at least 20 years ago”, forecasted the inevitable collapse of this wonderful ecosystem. And where were the angry crowds, singing and waving illegible banners? Where was CNN? Nowhere, that’s where. I have to wonder how any god would feel seeing his/her people wasting their time and energy on something as trivial as an airplane while they butcher his/her creations with wanton abandon?

In happier news, I think, I celebrated year number thirty-nine yesterday. We had a couple of hut turn-overs and lots of work to do, so celebrations were muted. I did, however, receive many wonderful emails and Facebook messages full of warm wishes – thank you everyone! One of the guests, having heard about my wheat intolerance and the difficulty of avoiding the evil little grain on this island, wrapped up a package of rice noodles and a couple of wheat/gluten free snack bars and gave it to me as a present. Prez cooked me the Aitutaki version of Eggs Benedict – coconut buns as a substitute for English muffins, and packaged Hollandaise sauce– and that was a nice, tasty treat!

Eggs Aitutaki

Then all of the guests sang a chorus of happy birthday to me as I exited one of the huts, arms full of dirty linen and cleaning supplies. Yep, just your average birthday.

The cats, however, did a little celebrating on their own...

Tonight, Prez is taking me to “Romance Night” at Ultra Fancy Resort Inc. There will be half-naked men dancing with burning sticks but, more importantly, there will be really, really yummy food! (I’ve also booked myself in for a massage this afternoon, at the spa – you’re allowed to give presents to yourself aren’t you??)

To be fair, Prez did try to give me a super-cool gift but nature did not cooperate. It is whale season here. The humpbacks have arrived to give birth to their young and can now be seen breaching and spouting outside the reef. When the new manager of Ultra Fancy Resort Inc, (who I will refer to as Mr. Buff – yes, ladies, he’s a cutie-pie…and single), dropped by yesterday, excitedly reporting that the whales were right out front, Prez instructed me to drop everything. We were taking an hour off for some birthday whale watching! Our ultimate goal is to snorkel with these majestic giants but one step at a time. We picked up Mr. Buff and another couple, en route, and then headed out the channel. This would turn out to be, not a whale watching tour, but a wave watching tour. Somewhere out on the Pacific, there must have been some wild weather, because we found ourselves in the middle of some of the most massive swells I’ve ever seen here. They were so big, they were breaking in the deep water, long before the reef. Yikes! Obviously my whale karma was bad that day so we gave up and headed back in – luckily the swells were running parallel to the island or the ride back up the channel would have been one of roller coaster proportions.

That was it for birthday excitement.

Oh, I almost forgot about the pervert-in-my-shower experience!

My whale karma may have been off but not so with my powers of gecko attraction. (Actually, they are known as mokos in Maori). There are a few mokos who hang out in our bathroom and when I stepped into the shower I found one clinging to the shower curtain. Ordinarily, these critters are very shy and run away the moment a human gets within five feet of them but this little guy seemed quite content where he was, even when I moved the curtain and turned the water on. “Close your eyes, you cheeky lizard!” I scolded him, but he continued staring, tongue occasionally darting from his mouth. Really, so rude!

He stayed there for the entire soapy spectacle and when I exited, he actually climbed up over the bar and re-settled on the outside of the curtain. Well, I flung a towel across my naked flesh, blushing with shame.

Very bad moko!

The Airplane Protest Committee will be hearing about this very devilish moko. I expect hordes of people, singing and waving signs such as “Shame on you moko!” or “Shower power!” or something, at my next cleaning. Keep your TV’s tuned to CNN…you never know!

QUESTION: Was there a point to this Chronicle?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

p.s. I know I promised to tell you the name of my…chickens. There are three that have been with us here since they were babies. I call them “The Beak-street Boys”. Of course, they are girls but I don’t care and they haven’t complained. (They’re just happy Prez hasn’t shot them…yet).

p.p.s here is a photo of us with a group of BC guests, the Madills, who we had tons of fun with. (Joe is a Kiwi, actually, but we won't tease him about that...or his fear of crabs). Greg is a very talented musician; the band he performs with is called "The

Ecclestons" check them out!

(L to R) Prez, Princess, Greg, Lorena, Willow, Joe...the Crab-fearing Kiwi

How to be Canadian

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 18:29:51 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

I am reluctantly giving this week’s Scootie award to the chicken-leg-chopping owner of the Para-Trooper Motel. How could I not? After all, it’s not every day you see someone with two hands of bananas, (weighing about 40lbs each), hanging off each side of their scooter and an adult cat (with all four legs intact, I should add), perched on the handlebars. Congratulations, you freaky little man!

Once again, the name of my…will remain a mystery because this is a special Canada Day Edition of the Coconut Chronicles! On July 1^st, Canada turns one hundred and forty-one years old, which makes me feel, at 38.92 years old, positively juvenile. And it’s not just Canada’s birthday, the Ripster flips the page on another year of life on July one. About this, Prez and I are more than slightly melancholy. You see, this year’s party, back in Nelson, promises to be the social event of the century as the Ripster’s friends and family gather, en mass, to celebrate both his birthday and his successful Everest summit. Oh, we received an invite – three houses, four BBQ’s, tons o’fun – but Air NZ has yet to establish a cheap commuter flight from Aitutaki to Nelson, so we’ll have to send best wishes from afar. Sigh.

And how does it feel to be a Canuck who spends so little time in Canuckland? Well, it was once suggested to me, by a friend, that nationalities tend to be at their most stereotypical when abroad and I think I must agree. I feel most Canadian when I am not in Canada. Whether this is a subconscious desire to hold onto my “roots” or if I’m merely more cognizant of my behaviour when compared to other cultures, is impossible to say. But let’s just say that, last week, when I went for an underarm wax, and the cap of the super-heated roll-on waxing device came off, and my poor pit was burned by molten lava wax, and after the “waxident” I still tipped the esthetician, and said thankyouverymuch, and smiled politely, I felt more Canadian than I ever have in my life.

CBC Radio, last spring, asked listeners what, for them, was most striking about living in Canada. Interestingly, the answer from fifty years ago when 80% of Canadians lived in rural areas and 20% urban, was exactly the same as today’s answer, when those statistics are now reversed: The overwhelming vastness of the land. But there’s much about being Canadian that nestles into our hearts and minds. For me, I love our sense of humour and humility…although I acknowledge it is a sort of backhanded humility as we all secretly harbour superiority complexes. But I feel my friend Sue, aka “Mompoet”, captured the essence of Canuckism in her poem, Hey Canada. She has been kind enough to let me reprint it here, though I must let you know that this poem was commissioned by CBC Radio for its 2007 Vancouver Poetry Face Off.

There are many uniquely Canadian references in here, so feel free to ask if you’d like anything explained! Now, without further ado…

Hey Canada

1967.

I’m lying on a cot in the nurse’s office

At David Oppenheimer Elementary

in Vancouver

where my parents enrolled me in Grade 1

when we came to Canada.

I’m bleeding maple leaf patterns

into a mound of tissue, clutched to my nose.

Up on a wall, the Queen is watching me

otherwise I’m alone

missing another assembly.

It happens every time

we file into the gym, stand to sing the song

racing pulse, sweaty palms, and WOOOOOSHHH!

O CANADA!

I pinch my nose, raise my hand

and Mrs. Forbes takes me to the nurse’s office.

I don’t know how many NFB films and recitations of

“The Cremation of Sam McGee” I’ve missed this year,

but I never miss your song, Canada,

even if it is just the Queen and me

singing it to each other.

At school and at home, I learn to be Canadian:

to celebrate Thanksgiving in October,

to call my french fries “chips”

and to eat them with gravy.

my “sneakers” are “runners”

my “mom” is “mum”.

I learn that zed is a letter and gorp is a food.

I dump Captain Kangaroo for Mr. Dressup

and learn the words of Dennis Lee,

“Alligator pie, alligator pie. If I don’t get some

I think I’m gonna die…”

I grow up proud to be a member of this

hockey-loving, CBC listening

Toyota-driving, draft-dodger-harbouring

wilderness haven of Hinterland Who’s Who.

We’ve got Emily Carr, The Group of Seven

Margaret Atwood,

the NDP, MSP,

Participaction and the Canada Council for the Arts,

Miles for Millions, the Marathon of Hope

both Expos

and those awkward aluminum teapots

at Bino’s restaurant that spill tea on your plate

so nobody will ever steal them.

By the time I finish school, I know you

in more complicated ways, Canada.

Most of the time you’re red and white and green all over

but you’re also shades of grey.

I wonder, Canada, how I’ll explain to my children

that it’s taken a dozen forevers and still

we can’t outgrow

scraped naked landscapes of clear-cut logging

highways that grow wider

as ice floes slip into the sea

how we never managed to truly

open our hearts and share the richness of this land

with each other and the rest of the world.

And I’m hoping I love you enough

that I can help us change our ways

even if I’m not sure how to do that, most days.

But some things are simple and always true

like the way we eat our cake and watermelon on July first

your birthday, Canada.

This year, I’m giving you

a pony, a hockey stick, a Canada flag

a model of the CN tower

a puppy, a medal, socks

a recipe for carbon reduction

a toque, a new Prime Minister, a CD of the Vinyl Café

and a giant croquet set

so everyone in the country can play.

After the croquet game, I’ll take you on a date

just you and me, Canada.

We’ll write a poem in the Bay of Fundy, then

watch the tide sweep it away forever.

We’ll dump a whole bottle of bubble bath

into Niagra Falls

just to see what happens.

We’ll kayak up the coast and marvel

At the mystic beauty that is Haida Gwai.

We’ll walk down to Starbucks

pay 5 bucks for a coffee

and complain about the Americans.

After that we’ll go far from the city, where darkness is

all around. Cradled in your arms, I will breathe in the

grey, green and brown of your mineral soil, and breathe

out blue, purple and gold into a crackling Northern

sky. This I will do for you, Canada, to say thank you for

making me want to learn more about you, for making

me want to stay.

As we gaze at colours and stars all around

you will whisper in my ear,

You are Canadian. You will always be a part of me, and I

will always take care of you, even when you are very old.

O CANADA!

Thanks so much to Sue for letting me use her wonderful words! Happy Canada Day to the folks back home, Happy 4^th of July to our American amigos, and lots of love to everyone else, wherever you call home.

QUESTION: What does being Canadian mean to you?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Man oh Man!

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 18:37:14 GMT

Hello, at last, from the Big Blue!

This week’s Scootie award was going to the two young men proudly driving down the road, each with a rooster tucked under one arm, until I learned the Cock-a-doodlers were going to be used in a cock fight. Shame on you fellows! Instead, it goes to the nice young man carrying a behemoth of a cooler under one arm, after returning from a day of fishing – I would give him bonus points if I knew the cooler had a tuna in it.

My running regime is progressing nicely. I can now call it running as opposed to shuffling, and I’m up to 12k now plus I’ve also been doing some hills (we have only two hills on the island, so when I say I’m doing hills I mean all of them). Of course, I have Rod to keep me company, he’s a big help. And not only in the exercise department, Rod also helps with hut cleanings and other chores. He even assisted me during a particularly grueling day of accounting. I haven’t yet taken Rod to bed with me but it’s not out of the question. I love Rod. What? Oh, don’t worry about Prez, he’s been known to use Rod from time to time, while raking the grounds or some other monotonous chore. I suspect Prez is almost as fond of Rod as I am.

Rod is my iPod. Rod the pod. I name everything, it’s a silly habit. Isn’t that right, Lappy? (She pets her laptop affectionately).

Anyway, I had this very long explanation for you about my naming fetish, and names in general, but then there was the rooster scooter incident, followed by an interesting discussion between Prez and me that changed my mind. So you will have to wait until next week to find out what I call my…

In the kitchen a few nights ago, Prez said to me, “You know I’m ashamed of the men in this world.” He went on to explain how it seemed, to him, the majority of men are either murdering bastards or spineless wussies. In other words, where have all the good men gone? (Yeah, I know, we women have been asking this one for years). While I know lots of good men, I can see his point. But what does it mean to be a man?

In prehistoric times, a man’s purpose was clearly defined – kill things with a pointy stick, bring them home for dinner, then create more humans. If Caveman A could not produce dinner or babies, he didn’t last long and Caveman B would step in. Brutal but simple.

In this more civilized age, a man’s role is an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of expectations. When does a man cross the line between Strong & Self-assured and Egoistic Macho Pig? I suspect that depends very much on the environment he finds himself in. The Cook Islands are still a very male dominated culture. My friend Moana was told at an Island Council meeting she attended – she being the only female present – to move to the back of the room. I’ve not experienced that degree of chauvinism but even when the more enlightened in the business community get together it is hard for the piggy among them to hide their true nature. Standing next to Prez, I’m all but invisible and my words meaningless -not to all men here, but enough to make it noticeable.

At the other end of the spectrum you have the men who John Wayne would slap silly if he were here, and alive. We had a guest a few months back who certainly wanted the world to see him as a He-man. Any time of the day, you could see him strutting about, shirtless, gold chains swinging in the breeze. (It is considered very rude to venture outside a resort here without a shirt on). In the basket of laundry he asked me to do, was a large beach towel decorated with all the signs of the zodiac…in various sexual positions. Ick, ick, ick! So, imagine my surprise when the bare-chested wonder steps into the office, pale faced and clearly distressed, to ask me if I would please kill the spider in the bathroom for him. Yes, some people are afraid of spiders, but even my friend Martha, who can barely tolerate a photo of one, has been known to tackle the odd arachnid if she needs to. Men, would you not be even slightly ashamed to have a woman march past you with a whisk broom to sweep away an insect?

F is an interesting case study in manliness. He is a kind of guybrid. He is, hands down, one of the most macho men I’ve ever met. To get him to the doctor for an injury, I almost have to force him at gunpoint.

Prez: “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

Princess: “Your hand has been cut off.”

Prez: “I’ll put a bandage on it.”

And yet, of the two of us, he will be the first to admit that he is the most romantic, the most cuddly, the most lovey-dovey. He’ll spend hours at a time giving me “neck rubbies” or “head scratchies”. Softy?

When I made the observation that our VHF radio reception on the property is spotty, at best, and should anything go wrong with the boat or the motor while he’s out fishing he may not be able to contact me, his response was: “Well, you know where I am and what time I should be back so wait an hour then get help. Hopefully someone will figure out which direction I’m drifting in.” If it were me, on the ocean alone, in a small boat, I’d have a GPS locator and several flares strapped to my body…and a life raft…scratch that, I wouldn’t be out there alone.

Yes, he is a macho macho man…who loves cooking and claims Phenomenon is one of his favorite movies because it’s such a great love story and tells his wife (on an almost daily basis) that she is beautiful and he’s so lucky to have her.

For all his softer qualities, perhaps because of them, I consider Prez a “real man”.

But fellows, tell me, where do you draw the distinction between a real man and a real jerk?

For me, I believe it comes down to respect: for one’s self, for others, for the world at large. While empathy is a quality more prominent in women, respect serves much the same function in men. Men who respect women would never consider telling them to move to the back of a room at a public meeting. Men who respect themselves would put on a shirt when visiting a culture sensitive to nakedness. Men who respect the world at large wouldn’t make roosters fight each other for sport. I don’t care how tough you are, if you lack respect you will never be a man.

Or maybe Rudyard Kipling had a better understanding of this subject than me?

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

QUESTION: Are you a real man?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Less is More...Darn it!

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 05:04:47 GMT

Throw out your diet books, I have solved your weight loss problems! My groundbreaking solution? Eat less.

Stop laughing.

You Nutters have been reading my Cook Islands culinary complaints for months now so what I’m about to confess may come as a shock. No doubt, the food here is abysmal. Taro? Delicious if you like food that has the texture and flavour of slightly thickened Elmer’s White Glue. The mangoes are world class, when they’re in season, same with pineapples and starfruit, but woman cannot live by fruit alone. I used to wait for the supply ship with a hope bordering on obsessive, “Maybe this month there’ll be something new!”, but no more. I’ve come to face the reality that white bread, coke, tinned corned beef, and meat pies are the staples of the Cook Islander’s diet.

For months, I dreamt of the day I’d return to Canada and gorge myself on Thai food, fresh broccoli, Panago Tropical Hawaiian pizza, Martha’s Greek cooking, Kozy’s everything, Indian, Italian, Mexican, you name it. (I even had fantasies of a McDonald’s Big Mac and fries – tell no one about this). My trip to civilization would be a return to the world of flavour. I pictured myself walking around for two weeks with some delicacy always being stuffed in my mouth. But something odd has happened.

Oh, this is hard to talk about. Give me a moment.

OK, due to the pitiful grocery selection here, a sort of “food malaise” settled over me. I’d go to the shelf, hungry, look at the meager selection, sigh, and walk away. Combined with heat that tends to sap one’s appetite, not to mention work days that often find me so busy I don’t remember to eat lunch until it’s already dinner time, my caloric intake shriveled to almost nothing.

Poor Helmi, when she came to visit, I forgot that normal people actually eat lunch and more than a few times she had to gently remind me that she was hungry and was it alright if she made a sandwich? Sorry for that Helmi!

But while my stomach shrank my energy level began to soar. I’ve begun waking up…friends, brace yourselves…early. I’m talking “before sunrise” early. Yes, me, the girl who used to joke that she didn’t know there were two six o’clocks in the day. I wake up – BING – and I’m ready to go. Prez is still sawing logs and I’m already drinking tea and typing away. I know what you’re thinking but I haven’t cracked, I haven’t gone bush, I just have more energy. Way, way more energy. It’s very wrong but I’m getting addicted to it.

And though I’m not overweight, even when I am stuffing my gullet and sleeping until noon, unnecessary pounds have vanished from my frame. Scales have never held much attraction for me – muscle weighs more than fat, remember that ladies – so I have a pair of pants, made of a completely non-stretch material, I use as my yardstick to tell if I need to take a break from the potato chips I pack away once a month (ladies, you know what I’m talking about). These pants are now very, very loose. This is no small event given that I have a derrière rivaling James Brown’s. Yep, baby got back.

Here’s an average day’s menu:

Breakfast – Bengal tea and two slices of multi grain toast

Lunch – sometimes none but often just a few pieces of fruit

Dinner – very small portion of whatever Prez cooks. (2 pieces of tuna, rice, and salad, for example)

Snacks – minimal, maybe a piece of cheese or a few crackers.

Desserts – occasionally a small bowl of ice cream or some licorice.

So here I am, lean and mean, and I love it. To quote Mr. Brown, “I feel good!” No surprise, I’ve known for years that eating less is one of the keys to health. In fact, an excerpt from Science Daily says, “For nearly 70 years scientists have known that caloric restriction prolongs life. In everything from yeast to primates, a significant decrease in calories can extend lifespan by as much as one-third.” One third? That’s a heck of a lot more life! But when there’s lots of yummy, scrummy, tasty treats at one’s fingertips what’s a girl to do?

The question is: now that I’m feeling the effects of minimal consumption, what will I do when I head north for my visit in October? Hmmmm. Honestly, the thought of feeling full and tired and bloated, no matter how delicious the fare, leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Spring rolls or spring out of bed in the morning? Full tummy or full of life? Super size or just plain super?

Well, dear Nutters, I have come to the conclusion that while I will still partake of BC’s fine food offerings, the portions will remain small, tiny in fact. Of course, I will still be free to satisfy my darker needs…and by “darker” I refer to chocolate – nectar of the gods.

Oh, and martini’s. Lots and lots of martinis.

Instead of binging, I will focus my new energy on connecting with what I really miss most, namely friends and family. And shopping. (Don’t tell Prez about the shopping part though, he’s already in a cold sweat picturing me and my Visa alone in the big city).

So there’s my guilty secret, laid bare for all the world – well, a small segment of the world – to see. Go on then, laugh.

QUESTION: Is less more?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

Meeting of the Minds?

Fri, 30 May 2008 20:00:34 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

If you imagine life on a small, sleepy island is all about drinking coconut water and wiggling ones toes in the sand, think again. Yesterday was the Big Meeting about the controversial Sunday flights. Action! Adventure! Romance!

Well, there really wasn’t any romance…that I know of. But I have a rich imagination.

Events on Aitutaki, unless they occur on a regular, say weekly or daily, basis tend to be slapped together with all the precision of a Russian automobile. Sometimes you will receive an email but more typically it is Nga, in the grocery store, asking, “Are you going to the really, really important tourism meeting this afternoon?” that alerts you to a function you should be attending.

Once you know when you are supposed to be there, the next challenge is where. Ask five different people where the really, really important meeting is and you will, inevitably, receive five different locations. Prez and I have developed a strategy to deal with this, we drive around town until we see someone who looks as if they’re dressed for a really, really important meeting and then we follow them. You’d be surprised how well this works.

So now you have the when and the where. (Forget the what, it is always a mystery.) You arrive at the correct place, take a seat, and then wait for the next forty-five minutes for everyone else to show up. You are on island time, get used to it.

All functions on Aitutaki begin with a brief introduction, usually in Maori and English, followed quickly by a prayer to bless the function. This is the part of the program I like to call “Spot the Atheists”. I scan the room and take note of all those who are not bowing their heads with a look of divine contemplation. These are the people I want to know better.

Next, someone in a fancy shirt, with a flower ei, stands up and says, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…blah. Blah, blah, blah-blah.” Everyone claps politely. Another fancy shirt person stands up and does the same. This is repeated a few times. Then the closing prayer – time I use to contemplate whichever short story is lingering in my brain, or what I might have for dinner.

The really, really important meeting breaks up and you mosey over to the snack table to chat with the people you know. “Well, that was a load of bs,” you say as you munch on your cookie. “Yes, yes, quite,” everyone else agrees. Then you leave.

At least, that’s how most meetings go here but yesterday’s was an exception. I have already spoken of god’s hatred of airplanes but, boy oh boy, I didn’t realize just how many locals were channeling his anger until yesterday. We arrived at the hall about fifteen minutes after the scheduled start time, took our seats, and forty-five minutes later the meeting started. The Mayor introduced the Deputy Prime Minister of the Cook Islands, whose name is Mr. Something-or-Other, and that gentleman, with all the charm of a used teabag, proceeded to tell the audience of locals how stupid they were, (well, he didn’t use those exact words but that was the gist).

For a moment, it seemed as if we were about to get yet another version of the “Blah, Blah, Blah” meeting but then a man in the back of the room shouted something in Maori. “What did he say?” I whispered to Prez, who whispered to our friend Moana.

“He said, ‘Speak in Maori!’”, Fred whispered to me, after Moana whispered to him.

Deputy Prime Minister Something-or-Other proceeded to flip back and forth between Maori and English, detailing the cruddy state of Aitutaki’s economy and how the Sunday flights are a necessary evil. Aside from the pasty white speaker representing the banks of the Cooks, that would be the last English we heard. Occasionally, we prodded Moana for translations but it wasn’t hard, from the body language of the speakers, or from the jeers and cheers of the crowd, to understand what was being said.

When the Fancy Shirt people opened the floor for discussion, the fun began. Queen Manarangi was first to speak, (yes, we have one queen and three kings here). Her speech had the most eloquent finger pointing, and she also had the nicest hat, so I liked her best.

Next up was Freaky Pig Farmer who owns the Para-Trooper Motel. How freaky is this guy? Well, he cuts one leg off all his chickens so they can’t run away from his property…because chickens are so hard to find here. The slogan on his sign, painted in a Kindergarten-student font, is “Cut out the middleman!” Sometimes I wonder if he actually meant “Cut up the middleman”. In any case, his speech had a fair amount of arm lifting and torso bending. Prez and I reckoned his idea to save the economy of the island was to cut one leg off every tourist so they can’t run away.

Epileptic Preacher stole the show. He’d raise his fist and then SLAP it down into his open palm, shout in Maori, raise his finger high in the air and proclaim, “God is number one!!”, followed by a James Brown-esque round of body tremors. This he did repeatedly. He was the crowd favorite, hands down. Even Prez started shouting, “Amen!” at the end of each punch. I only wished I had one of those big foam fingers so I could help him punctuate his “God is number one!” cries.

How do you top an act like that? Well, it wasn’t easy. One fellow proclaimed that Aitutaki is the most blessed of all the Cook Islands, which caused more than a few heads to turn, but failed to elicit any “Amen’s”. Still, the crowd was frothing, worked up into a plane-hating frenzy. There would be blood!

Or singing.

Sadly, Prez and I had an airport pick up so we had to leave right as the entire hall broke out into a rousing chorus of, “God hates airplanes, this I know, for the bible tells me so”, in Maori, of course.

What fun! I wish all the meetings were like that.

Oh, and the Sunday flights are going through whether god likes it or not. It was a done deal, apparently, even before the Big Meeting. It’s kind of a shame, really, I love having our Sunday’s free to drink coconut juice and wiggle my toes in the sand. But, in the words of our wise mayor, “You can’t stop progress. People need new motorbikes, new televisions, and new stuff.”

Can you argue with logic like that?

QUESTION: Do you miss having the world shut down on Sunday?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy and lovin’ life!

The Princess

Five, Six, Seven, Eight...

Fri, 23 May 2008 20:04:56 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

(Today’s Coconut Chronicle is a musical. This is what happens when you buy an iPod and listen to the Chicago soundtrack while you clean huts, for six months.)

He had it comin’, he had it comin’, he had it comin’ all along. If you’d have been there, if you’d have seen it, how could you tell me that I was wrong?

On May 21, our dear friend Tim “Ripster” Rippel stood on top of the world! He now adds a much deserved Mt. Everest summit to a long list of peaks and other mountaineering achievements. Along with the Ripster, six of his clients, and seven of his Sherpas also reached the summit. Not without it’s drama (I spent most of the 21^st on MSN Messenger, talking with Beckster and biting my nails down to the nub), including a high altitude rescue attempt, this climb has demonstrated to me, (as if I had doubts), what a first class human being the Ripster really is. CONGRATULATIONS TIM!!!

Andrew Brash (left) and Tim Rippel (photo taken from Andrew's website)

Got a little motto, always sees me through, ‘when you’re good to Momma, Momma’s good to you’.

We have been very spoiled lately. First Helmi arrived with loads of goodies. Next Big Sis’s wayward package finally arrived. Holy cow, the things a person can do with a vacuum sealer! We now have a spice for every occasion, Prez is rolling in licorice, our poor USB port has been saved by an add on, I have maps for novel research, the Tiger Sauce supply is topped up, I have new music to listen to, and much, much more. Then Mom’s package arrived a few days later with more dark chocolate, more licorice, and lots of other treats – even a fridge magnet of BOB, (Nelson’s Big Orange Bridge). Thank you, thank you, thank you! We are grateful and humble. Not sure what we will bring home in return…hmm, how do you feel about coconuts?

How you feeling?

Very frightened.

Are you sorry?

Are you kidding?

How could I forget to tell you all about our diving adventure a few Sundays ago? It was a textbook day – sunny, dry, light breeze – so Prez and I threw diving and fishing gear into the boat and headed off for some alone time on our favorite playground, the ocean. Our first dive was not only fun but also practical…we had to retrieve the anchor Prez lost a few weeks back, (oops). Anyway, we found the anchor in record time and then continued on exploring the depths. Beautiful.

We spent our surface interval eating, lounging, and fishing. As usual, the seabirds were up to their old tricks, trying to fool us into thinking there were tuna around, but all we hooked was one skipjack.

The second dive was in an amazing section of coral canyons Prez has named “The Five Fingers”. The underwater topography of this spot is breathtaking, and the two giant Humphead Wrasse (about 5ft long) we saw just before heading to the surface were worth the extra effort of donning all the gear, weights, etc. Satisfied with a good dive, we made our way up the anchor chain, pausing fifteen feet below the surface for our safety stop (this is where your body rids itself of excess nitrogen). Then we let go and started a slow swim to the boat. That’s when I saw the shark.

About three feet below me, a long, dark shape, (maybe ten feet from head to tail), slowly circled. I looked over at Prez and put a knife-edge hand to my forehead – a bit of diver’s sign language meaning “Big thing with pointy teeth directly below”. I’d like to tell you I was Triple C (Calm, Cool, Collected), and I really thought I was until I realized, in the excitement, I’d gone to the side of the boat without a ladder and now I was trying to climb aboard with forty pounds of gear on me. Oops.

Now you all know I am pro-shark. And let’s be honest, if Mr. Fin was anything more than curious, I would be in bitty pieces right now. But there’s something surreal about having one of the big bruisers sniffing you out while you bob on the surface like a wounded seal. My Spock brain was saying, “Oh look, isn’t that fascinating! I wonder what species it is? Well, no markings, so not a Tiger. Not a white or black tip either. The nose is quite rounded. Hmmm.” My Lizard brain was screaming, “Oh my god!!! Get in the boat!!! Big thing with pointy teeth!!! It’s going to eat us!!!” While my amygdala was in the middle, trying to restore order, “OK, Spock, I appreciate your observations but we really should get on the boat. Lizard, calm down, the shark does not want to eat you, stop crying.”

Back on the boat, Prez and I watched Mr. Fin do a few more lazy circles then swim off. Though my heart was jack-hammering the inside of my chest, I felt really privileged to have seen him. And the martini that evening tasted, really, really good!

...that funny, sunny, honey, hubby of mine.

We went for a nice long stroll along our local scavenger’s beach the other day. You know, if you ever mysteriously lose a shoe, and you look everywhere but still have no idea where it could have gone, well, I think I know where it is…

Why are there so many shoes in the ocean? Shoes, plastic bottles, rope, bits of metal of uncertain origin, plastic crates, you name it, you can find it on a beach. Prez is in the process of turning one of our FAD’s (Fish Attracting Devices) into an underwater metropolis by tying all sorts of odds and ends to it. Scavenger’s beach was a gold mine for such detritus (trash) and he also wins this week’s Scootie Award!

All I care about is doin' the guy in who's pickin on you, twistin' the wrist that's turnin' the screw. All I care about is love!

Our walk on Scavenger’s beach did not start on a good note, however. We found a poor little Tern that some… (watch your language, Princess)…idiot had tied to a rock. We freed him and I think he’ll be OK but I’d love to find the…idiot who did that, tie him to a rock, and leave him on a beach to die. Ditto for the…idiot who comes around our property at night to steal our hermit crabs for fish bait. Urgh!

And speaking of the environment…

Give 'em the old three ring circus, stun and stagger 'em. When you're in trouble, go into your dance. Though you are stiffer than a girder, they'll let you get away with murder.

Yesterday we went to yet another, “lots of talk, no action” tourism meetings. This one was a big hoo ha, with the Mayor that… (Princess, watch your language)…beacon of society, and other big wigs in attendance. The first fellow to speak actually blew my mind because the first thing he said is that the Aitutaki environment is the number one problem that needs to be addressed and the entire lagoon should be made into a protected area. HUH?! Is someone in power actually paying attention??

Nope.

We realized, pretty quickly, that the environment was just smokescreen, a breadcrumb to appease us, so they could move onto their real issue: Should they allow flights on Sunday? Believe it or not, this is a hot topic here. Never mind that there are shops, restaurants, and resorts that are already open for business on Sunday, never mind that many of the so-called good Christian folks spend half their Sunday pie-eyed in the bush, or that Sunday flights ran for eight years with no problems, the fact of the matter is God hates airplanes. Duh. The argument of the pro-Sunday-flights camp centers on Aitutaki’s sagging tourism/economy. They fail to see that one more plane load, per week, is hardly going to remedy the situation, particularly when those tourists are going to go home and tell everyone about the dead coral and lack of fish.

But, being a papa’a, (foreigner), I was a very good Princess and kept my mouth tightly sealed…for now.

I run so fast a shotgun blast can hurt me not one bit. I’m on my toes, ‘cause heaven knows, a moving target’s hard to hit!

After six long, sweaty months, when even thinking hard was tiring, the weather has cooled and I have started to run again! Well, “run” may be pushing it. Jog? Fast walk? Ok, ok, slow shuffle. But it sure feels good to be active again!

Well, that’s plenty for this week. Hope you enjoyed the ramble…and all that jazz.

No, I'm no one's wife
But, Oh, I love my life
And all that Jazz!

(Yeah, yeah, I am someone’s wife but the lyrics are copyrighted, so what can I do?)

Ooo, one more thing, (shameless plug), I have recently had a short story published in Storyteller Magazine. Well, that issue is now on the shelves! It's a Canadian mag so may be hard to find south of the border but back home you might be able to track it down at Chapters. Anyway, buy it, read it, write copious letters to the editor proclaiming my literary genius! (Well, I'd just be happy if you read it.) You can read a little blurb about the story and my bio on their website.

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy, and lovin’ life!

The Princess

Life at the Top

Fri, 09 May 2008 22:32:49 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue!

Big news this week, the Heineken store brought in a shipment of celery! If you didn’t see the report on CNN, I’m here to tell you it was quite an event. Speaking of news, (nice transition, don’t you think?) you may have heard that the Chinese summited Mt. Everest with the Olympic torch. What you probably didn’t hear about was the circus of paranoia and oppression leading up to the summit. I’m often saddened, though not shocked, at the lengths to which people will go to hide their own failings. I’ll return to China later (well, not literally, seeing as I’ve never been there) but first I’ll share some local drama with you.

Before we came to Perfect Beach Resort, we knew one our jobs would be to run lagoon tours for the guests. The Aitutaki lagoon – which, by the way, should be a Unesco World Heritage site – is the attraction of this island. If you come to Aitutaki, and don’t do a lagoon tour, you’ve missed the point.

The boat Mr.Boss was using for his tours worked well for him but for Prez, well, let’s just say it was a little on the primitive side. In his typical, gung-ho, entrepreneurial fashion, Prez instantly saw the potential of the lagoon and the reef that rings in. He convinced our employer to invest in a better quality, more sea-worthy craft and quickly set about exploring the waters surrounding us. What he found was a stretch of magnificent coral canyons populated by numerous schools of reef fish as well as large pelagics such as Humphead Wrasse and graceful Eagle Rays. Better still, this was a playground he could have to himself as no other tour operators ventured outside the reef.

In just a few months, Prez perfected his itinerary. First stop, weather permitting, would be at least one or more of the canyons outside the reef, usually with a visit to Eagle Ray Alley where the rays like to feed and play. Next he’d come back inside for lunch, on one of the idyllic motus, and more snorkeling in spots such as The Aquarium, The Coral Gardens, and The Pinnacles, and, the highlight, the Giant Clam Reserve. The tour takes a full day and guests spend most of it in the water snorkeling, which they love.

Word of mouth has made Prez’s “Adventure Snorkel Tour” the must-do tour on the island. Oh, we get the odd guest who gets seasick outside the reef, or who feels much too far out of their comfort zone, but overall the excursions get rave reviews. The guests are happy, we’re happy, Mr.Boss is happy, everybody is happy, right?

Nope.

We’re new, we’re foreigners, we’re popular, and that makes us a target for every disgruntled tour operator on the island looking for someone to blame when their business is not as robust as it could be.

There’s no shortage of lagoon tours on Aitutaki and every tour offers something slightly different. Large boats cater to the crowd more interested in looking at the water than being in it. They have ukulele players, games, and cook up king-sized lunches. The medium boats can go to places the big boats can’t, so they can offer more snorkeling but still provide amenities such as sun-cover and BBQ lunches. In the small boat category, of which we are one of only a few members, tours can be more personalized but that does mean foregoing many of the creature comforts of the larger tours. We cater to adventure travelers who want action, action, action, and don’t mind a little rain on their head, or peeing in the ocean instead of a toilet. But there’s a tour for every taste.

Like everywhere else we’ve been, though, you’re always going to find the folks who, for whatever reason, have a business that’s not doing well and want to pin their failure on the ones who are. Months ago we got the wink that some of these scapegoat-seekers were starting a petition against us. And a few weeks ago, the Mayor lodged a formal complaint against us, in Rarotonga. Mr. Boss was questioned regarding our work permits and an email dialogue ensued between us about how to handle this situation.

And this takes me back to China, (again, not literally).

For those who know nothing about Everest, there are two sides from which you can attempt a summit. One side is in Nepal – the side the Ripster and crew are on this very minute – and one side is in Tibet, that hotly disputed Chinese territory. Concerned about protests, the Chinese closed the Tibet side of Everest to all climbers – supposedly until after their summit but now it appears the closure will remain for the season. As much as I disagree with their action, for a multitude of reasons, I suppose I can see their point.

Then they closed the Nepalese side as well, until May 10th. Huh? (Long story). Well now, we wouldn’t want some climber on the summit displaying a “Free Tibet” banner next to the guy holding the torch aloft for Chinese propaganda…er…I mean news. What the Chinese don’t give a rat’s ass about is the fact that Nepal’s economy relies heavily on Everest and the expedition companies who bring in the climbers and trekkers.

Talk about your Grade A clusterf**k. Rules, supposedly set in stone, regarding where climbers could and could not go, what kind of communication systems they could or could not use, and just when they would actually be allowed to climb, changed daily, sometimes hourly, and sometimes no one really knew what was going on at all. Expedition operators had to sign confidentiality agreements (gag orders) or risk being tossed out of the country. And all this on the opposite side of a very large mountain from the Chinese.

Here’s what makes me scratch my head. If the Chinese had just gone ahead and climbed the mountain, without the fufooraw, and even if some climber had whipped out a photo of the Dalai Lama and danced a jig in the background, (unlikely, there’s very little jig dancing done at 29,0000 feet), what’s the worst that would have happened? China’s oppression of Tibet is hardly a well kept secret, not to mention that the world has already, very vocally, voiced their disapproval. There’d be a few blurbs on CNN, a few fists raised in anger, and then we’d all go back to monitoring Brangelina’s latest adoption or Paris Hilton’s latest…well, whatever the heck she’s doing these days (I’m out of touch, thank goodness).

All they’ve succeeded in doing, as far as I’m concerned, is cementing, in the minds of many, their reputation as anti-democratic tyrants hell bent on stuffing a sock in the mouths of free thinkers and duct-taping them closed. And, hey, aren’t the Olympic games about peace?

Until Tibet is free, China will remain a failure as a super power, and no amount of censorship can hide that.

And that brings me back to Aitutaki, (literally)…

What to do about the anti-Prez & Princess campaign? I know my hubby had his feelings bruised, particularly since he’s been working his butt off, on his own time, building a website to help boost tourism to the island. Mr. Boss wrote a three page plea for tolerance and understanding, which we, thankfully, talked him out of sending. Me? I just laughed. I urged Prez to ignore it, keep on doing what he’s doing, and focus on the positive and all the truly good people we’ve met here. For once, he listened to his wife, (oh, come on, I’m just kidding!)

Time judges all. Hard work, a positive attitude, and solid ethics will win out every time over pettiness and greed. And men of peace and goodwill, who value freedom and free speech, will always, however long it takes, prevail over tyrants.

FREE TIBET!

QUESTION: What would you do?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life,

The Princess

p.s. For more info, have a look at the daily Everest dispatches on www.peakfreaks.com and to see Prez's happy clients just watch the slide show from the pervious post!

I'm Such a Tease...

Thu, 01 May 2008 19:41:14 GMT

Speaking of Language

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 22:28:46 GMT

Hello again from the Big Blue,

She came, she saw, she photographed…and photographed…and photographed. My twelve days with Helmi the Wonder Editor flew by far too quickly. Luckily, we have plenty of pictorial evidence of her stay, not to mention a new nickname to add to the list: “Photo-Op Helmi”.

Much happened in only twelve days. New friends were made, new sights were seen, new adventures were had. You will recall from the last Chronicle, Helmi’s introduction to the wonderful world of snorkeling? Well, I’m proud to say, on her last full day, she actually snorkeled in the wide open ocean! This is no small feat. Even folks who are comfortable in the water get intimidated by the Big Blue – home of creatures with large pointy teeth and tentacles. OK, I’ve never seen any big teeth or tentacles out there but this is what people imagine lingers beneath their tender, exposed limbs as they swim. What a sight, then, to see my friend floating along, swaying with the surge, in a state of perfect relaxation. Ten bonus points for that!

Of course, later she would discover the joy of snorkeling against a strong current, inside the lagoon – we can’t have her getting too complacent, can we?

One of my great joys, these past twelve days, was having a fellow language lover to talk with. A professional snorkeller, Helmi may never be, but when it comes to language she is aces. Born in Germany, she first discovered her passion for language in elementary school. Her teacher wrote the word “father” on the board and then went on to write it in several different languages, pointing out the connections between them. She was amazed. At university, she majored in English and minored in Spanish, with the goal of becoming a translator. Language would prove to be her ticket out of her homeland and off into the world she longed to explore. While she has traveled extensively, and lived in a few different countries, Helmi has put down roots in Canada and has adopted English as her primary language. I might add, she speaks and writes English better than most people who were born in Canada. When I asked how her native tongue was faring after so many years, she said her family tells her, on visits home, that she speaks in “Broken German”.

Language also happens to be one of the qualities I most admire about the Cook Islanders. Though all islanders speak English, Maori is the official language, (it is a different dialect than the New Zealand variety). The Maori language was developed when there was a shortage of consonants in the world. Consequently, native speakers sound a bit like they are talking while a dentist works on a back molar. Here is a Maori sentence: E iva anani i runga i te paata. Please don’t ask me what it means, I merely pulled it from a textbook, but it has nine consonants and fourteen vowels. Impressive. Equally impressive is the fact that, despite the heavy-handed influence of the “civilized” world, including a whole whack of missionaries bent on reforming the heathens, islanders have managed to hang onto their language.

Good for them.

In the shops and restaurants, you will hear the locals slip back and forth from English to Maori as naturally as breathing. I’m sure I’ve been talked about more than once in Maori. I’m beginning to suspect, “Aa ke tupua i moana ke teina” means “Oh god, here comes that skinny, white girl checking to see if there are any packages, again. Can’t she get a life?” But nowhere is the Maori language more beautiful than in church.

Yeah, you heard that correctly, church.

Last Sunday, Helmi and I got dudded up and went downtown to sample a little religiosity. We’re neither of us godly but the traditional Maori choir at the Christian church here is mentioned in every guide book as a must-do activity. The guide books, I can now swear on a stack of bibles, are not lying. To traditional (read: boring) church hymns, the Cook Islanders bring a savage beauty. Even the most joyful black gospel choir would be hard pressed to match the power of these crooners. The hymns are sung in Maori and sung loud enough to make even god say, “OK, OK, I get it now can you keep it down, it’s Sunday and I’m trying to rest!” The men and women call back and forth to each other in song much the same way they do in their own music, which made all of my hairs stand on end. I loved this, it strikes me as an almost imperceptible act of defiance, as if they are saying, “You can make us wear clothes and give up our traditions…but not all of them.”

The service was given in both languages but I would have preferred to hear it all in Maori. Foreign languages are also a kind of music to me.

We are now six months into our stint here at Perfect Beach Resort. Our guests come from all over the world and we have learned the art of communication with speakers of many tongues. Most world travelers have at least a rudimentary grasp of English and some are proficient in three or more popular languages. All this leaves me more than a little embarrassed at my mono-linguism. Take the Swiss girl who lamented to me that she spoke seven languages fluently, several more with some degree of fluency, but her Navajo, damn it, was pretty poor. My ability to count to five in Japanese did not score any points with her.

I love the way Swiss and German people pronounce the word “smoothie”, by the way. Smoovie.

Many of my conversations with Helmi, however, focused on the English language, specifically as it relates to literature. I call her the Wonder Editor for good reason; she is the police officer who patrols my stories, kicking out mixed up tenses and bad punctuation. She is the yin to my yang. I have no shortage of imagination, what I lack is the discipline to keep my creativity under control and within the parameters of good grammar. One of the reasons I love writing these Chronicles is that i kan write bad englush and it don’t matter none. (As she reads this, Helmi is squirming!)

But all too soon the snorkeling and language discussions were over. Helmi of Many Nicknames was loaded back onto Air Rarotonga, and now I have to do my own dishes again. (I told you I was being spoiled, Helmi!) I will miss her terribly. (Not just because of the dishes).

We now enter the busy season so don’t be surprised if the odd Coconut Chronicle is tardy. Already, my personal emails for the past two weeks have stacked up and wait, unanswered and accusing. (Martha and Patty-Cakes, thanks so much for the Tiger Sauce and Licorice, I’ll write soon, promise!) Thankfully, this is also the start of our winter. Ah, winter! Nights get so cold now we actually have to put a sheet on…brrrrrrrrr!

I will leave you with my favorite photo of Helmi; I hope it makes you smile as much as it does me.

QUESTION: What language have you always wanted to learn?

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess

p.s. – New photo album coming soon!

Kick Helmi, kick!

Out of her Element...and Into Mine.

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 06:37:26 GMT

A Late Hello from the Big Blue!

I suppose a spanking is in order for my tardiness. That’s OK, I’m a big girl, can take it. I have excuses, as always, but I will spare you the verbiage and cut to the chase.

Helmi the Wonder Editor is here! Her journey was not without its share of adventure, however. Anyone who has invited a guest from afar to visit will understand how much I wished for the weather to be perfect and for Aitutaki to make a memorable first impression on her. Memorable? Yes. Not quite in the way I’d hoped, though. First, her flight from Los Angeles arrived in Rarotonga only to find the airport shrouded in clouds and darkness. Wisely, the Air New Zealand pilot decided not to attempt a landing in such bad conditions and opted, instead to land in Tahiti – an hour away – where they could refuel and wait for the weather to clear a little. And don’t think this meant Helmi got to enjoy some down time in French Polynesia. Nope. All the passengers had to remain onboard while the plane was refueled. Onboard with, I might add, their seat belts unfastened, (because if the plane explodes in 2.3 seconds you may be able to escape if your seatbelt is not secured).

Meanwhile, back on Aitutaki…

I had my morning all planned out, leaving plenty of time for grooming and such. Then the phone rang and “Hi Princess, it’s William at the airport, do you have a room for a single traveler? I have a young woman here who needs a place for two nights.” Did we have a room? Yes. Was it clean? Hold on, I have to stop laughing before I answer that. Not only was the room not clean but also the gentleman who’d checked out left it in a state similar to what the room might look like after a troupe of howler monkeys had stayed in it for the weekend. Frantic cleaning ensued. Mere minutes before we were scheduled to leave for the airport, red-faced and cranky, I took a military shower and jumped into a clean set of duds. Nevertheless, I was still bouncing up and down, excited to see my friend.

We waited at the gate. Watched the plane land. Scanned the passengers walking across the tarmac. Watched all the passengers leave. No Helmi. Well, I thought, that’s strange.

My attempts to find out where in the world my friend was, including numerous phone calls and frustrating website searching, were futile. But, eventually, the phone rang and Helmi told us the scoop.

The next flight arrived and there she was…in the middle of one of the worst rainstorms we’ve had in months. Welcome to our tropical paradise! Sigh. She was thrilled to be here, not least of all because of the death defying, bumpy plane ride from Raro – apparently the worst she’s ever been on and this is someone who’s traveled extensively in South America.

At last we are together. What a treat! One suitcase was dedicated entirely to goodies for us. Some were expected: DVD cleaner, hair elastics, Tiger Sauce. Some were a pleasant surprise: Bengal tea, a couple terrific books, licorice, chocolate from around the globe, and much more. So many luxuries all at once; it felt like Xmas!

Xmas comes early...

We have been doing some touristy things but the weather has been less than stellar and I do still have to work, so it is not completely a vacation. Helmi has been offering her help at every turn, which is appreciated, but I also have to be firm at times and make her go relax and enjoy. Darn German blood of hers!

There are many aspects of this visit which I am enjoying, not the least of which is a familiar face and a set of ears willing to listen to me ramble and babble about this and that. But it is especially nice to see Aitutaki through a fresh set of eyes. We humans are so adaptable; the same scenery that once took our breath away quickly fades into the tapestry of everyday life. Helmi’s many exclamations of awe at her surroundings serve as a much-needed reminder that I am indeed living in a pretty spectacular place.

And here I need to make an important point. Helmi is not a water person. Oh she likes water and I know she is loving this lagoon, but I’m sure she’d be the first to tell you that water is not a comfortable environment for her. But one cannot come to Aitutaki and miss the wonders of its underwater world. So, we have had “snorkel training”. There is much laughter and the occasional snout full of salt water but Helmi gets gold stars for bravery and persistence.

What is your element? Where is it that you feel that “aaaaahhhh” sensation? For me it has always been the water. I love the desert, I’m enchanted by mountains, forests humble me, but water is where I feel confident and free. Prez, even more so - I like my water a lot more sedate than he does.

But why are some people drawn to certain environments while others are not. Even people who are born and raised in roughly the same area are often compelled to seek out vastly different landscapes. Cities and crowds make my palms sweat. My girlfriend, Deb Mac, once had to talk me down on the streets of Santa Monica. For those who haven’t been, downtown Santa Monica, California is a kaleidoscope of people, and shops, and sounds, and smells. While Deb breezed effortlessly in and out of stores, weaving through throngs of people like a pro, I felt as if the world were closing in around me, suffocating me. Conversely, I’m sure she would feel just as out of place if I strapped a bunch of dive gear on her back and dropped her eighty feet down in the ocean.

Another time, Prez and I took a couple out on our Mako for a short cruise and the woman confessed to me that although she admired the beauty of water she would never be comfortable around it. She had grown up in Kansas or one of those landlocked states and whenever she traveled to a coastal city she said she felt as if she might fall off the edge of the world at any moment. I laughed at this because, for me, traveling away from the coast brings on an overwhelming bout of claustrophobia. I feel hemmed in.

As wonderful as it is to recognize the element in which you are most at home, I believe it is valuable to occasionally cross into other realms. I hope one day to trek in the mountains with our dear Peak Freaks. A trip to New York City is also on my “to do” list, if you can believe it. I know these are places outside of my comfort zone but one of the joys of life is challenge, isn’t it?

Helmi’s willingness to immerse herself, quite literally, in an unfamiliar element, earns her an extra helping of respect in my books. Yesterday, Prez took a bunch of us to One Foot Island for the day and Helmi came along when we ventured off for a quickie snorkel adventure out in the lagoon, far from the safety of shore. Her mask leaked and I know she had a bit of struggle but I also know, from the expression she had on her face, that it was worth it. You don’t have to be Jacques Cousteau to be dazzled by the site of a giant Moray Eel being groomed by a tiny cleaner Wrasse, or by a gang of brilliant red Soldier Fish hiding under a coral ledge, or by any of the many bright and colourful fish in this lagoon.

I know Helmi feels a little inadequate, sometimes embarrassed, and that my efforts to help her explore this new environment are somehow a chore or a burden to me but she couldn’t be more wrong. I’m so proud of her!

Helmi Cousteau at the bow of the boat...

Wait until I tell her about the shark dive I have planned for us next week!

Wonder Editor & Princess hanging on the motu...

QUESTION: What is your element?

Until next week, (yes, I promise to be more punctual), I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life!

The Princess