TravelStream™ news feed for member escapetherace on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/escapetherace en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 18 Jul 2008 12:34:24 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1086103800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1086103800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1086103800/tpod.html Fri, 18 Jul 2008 12:34:24 -0400 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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Snowy Mountains, Barbados

14/4/04After a short taxi ride we arrived at Hertz Campervan rentals fully expecting to shoot straight off down the highway in a little Toyota Hiace built for two, but a rather strange, grumpy girl wearing a couple of magnifying glasses for spectacles told us the van wouldn't be ready for an hour as it was having a tyre change and was still being cleaned. It was a pain that we'd have to spend an hour over the road in a café waiting but it made a refreshing change to meet a sullen Aussie.After twenty questions from a holiday-bound mechanic on how to survive in Asia we finally hit the road for an 11 day journey south-west to Melbourne, beginning with a 100km drive south along the coast on the Princes Highway. We passed the funny sounding town of Wollongong, turned towards the coast and reached the slightly less funny suburb of Windang where we'd spend our first night.The site was snugly positioned, wedged between the sea and Lake Illawarra and was nice and quiet with not too many caravans, unlike the cabins which were full of holidaying hillbillies down for the weekend from their shanty towns in the mountains, well it looked the case anyway, and as we bedded down for the night with bellies full of burnt bangers and burgers a pair of duelling banjos rang out from a corner of the site and a pig squealed in the distance, er, I think it was a pig.15/4At 8am there we were, skipping along the beach like a real-life Special K commercial for our first morning run for six months and, surprisingly, after two months of curries and three months of fried noodles we didn't feel too bad at all, and after a quick sloosh down and a bowl of muesli we set off down the road feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. Whether we'd keep up this new regime would be a challenge and my quest to develop a 6-pack would be severely tested as I'd already developed a 6-pack habit of a different kind in the shape of bottles of Victoria Bitter.We travelled south along Australia's figure-hugging Princes Highway stopping off along the way at the odd town for a gander, and as we approached the town of Bateman's Bay some 250km on we pulled off of the highway to look at a campsite on our shortlist for the night. As we neared Pretty Beach we saw the sight that confirmed our existence in Australia, a field with a gaggle/pride/herd/pack of kangaroos. We screeched to a halt and readied our zoom lens for a digital assault of the marsupial kind. A mummy roo was stooped over eating grass and protruding out of her pouch was a baby Joey chomping away as well. I can almost hear you all 'aaaah-ing'.We dragged ourselves away from the scene complete with soppy looks on our faces and drove into the nearby campsite for a nose around where once again we were greeted by a kangaroo. This one was tattooed, seven foot tall, built like a brick out-house and was obviously a part-time boxer and it wasn't how we had remembered 'Skippy', so we gave it a wide berth and skedaddled out of there. On our way back we passed the field of the first 'Roo-Sighting' and although it had only been 10 minutes, the field and the road was awash with them, all enjoying a good old roo rave-up. A few kilometres along the road was Bateman's Bay, a fairly large town on the coast with its very own little harbour bridge that spans the Clyde River. We pulled into Easts Riverside Park and fell in love with a parking space overlooking the river and the town, so we booked a couple of nights, plugged in, got the deckchairs out and sat drinking beer and wine all evening watching the sun set. This is the life (273rd mention and counting).16/4For the second morning on the trot we set off for a half hour run around Bateman's Bay and just about made it back to the van without jumping into a taxi.It was a nice warm day, so leaving the van plugged in to rest its little wheels we walked over the bridge and into town to stock up on barbeque niceties and liquid lovelies. The town didn't have a lot to offer in the shop department, I mean no Prada or Gucci, what's a boy to do? So we headed straight for Woolworths and left laden down with peppered steaks, chicken, corn-cobs, wine and a 24 stubbie pack of Toohey's Red Bitter, which at 5 per cent proof and £10 a pack was ultra-cheap and worth a go. Does anyone have the phone number for Alcoholics Anonymous for when I get home?We dragged our bounty back over the bridge to the caravan park and spent the rest of the evening sampling, sorry guzzling the Nectar of the Gods (that's a bad sign when I start calling it that) and dining on barbequed cuisine under the light of a candle and a million stars.As we drunkenly gazed into each other's eyes an elderly couple strolled by hand in hand."Nowhere else you'd rather be is there?" piped up the gent.I agreed, holding back the urge to reply:"In the Honeymoon Suite at the Sandy Lane Hotel in Barbados with Milla Jovovich would be nice".17/4After our marathon 3 mile run the previous day we skipped our morning workout due to tight hamstrings and the previous night's bath tub full of wine and beer and said farewell to Bateman's Bay. Our drive took us south once more on the Princes Highway towards Bega, stopping off at Central Tilba en route, a cute little olde worlde town before hanging a sharp right west onto the Snowy Mountains Highway towards the town of Cooma and the edge of the Snowy Mountains themselves. As we neared Cooma we crossed the edge of the Great Dividing Range and the landscape became barren and windswept to the degree that our little hi-top van zigzagged along the road like a little white sail, exaggerating each gust of wind.We arrived in Cooma immediately heading for Woolies to replenish our newly dwindled supply of vino de plonk, our tans were now a distant memory as our skin began to change to a nice shade of George Best yellow.After a quick lunch in a layby we hit the Alpine Way for the remaining drive to Jindabyne, the gateway town for the ski resorts of New South Wales and arrived at the Snowline Caravan Park. For $27 per night it was a little expensive but the amenities were good with TV room, spa, sauna, games room and large barbeque area. It was a cold evening so we stayed indoors eating pot noodles and spent a cold night hibernating in our sleeping bags.18/4With frostbitten noses we woke to a clear, crisp sunny day and immediately set off on an undulating jog around Lake Jindabyne, with scenery to match any half hour run in the world . . . if we could have had the energy to hold our heads up to see it.Once all feeling had returned to our extremities we drove towards the village of Thredbo, home of Mount Kosciuszko, the highest mountain in Australia and a ski resort in winter but at this time of year a downhill vertical slalom for mountain bikers with a death-wish. On the way we paid $15 to enter the National Park and encountered our first emus hanging around by the side of the road looking menacingly psychotic with their patchy balding heads, unflinching stare and bodies covered with a duvet of feathers. Snaps were taken from a safe distance in case of any Rod Hull inspired lunges.Thredbo was a little quiet being out of ski-season, with the only busy establishments being cafes and mountain-bike shops, but with hundreds of chalets, restaurants and ski-wear shops you could see it would have taken on a whole new guise with a few inches of snow. We headed on along the Alpine Way as it became hair-pinned and we thanked our lucky stars it wasn't snowing as we negotiated ever narrowing roads with sheer drops. The yellow 'watch out for kangaroo' signs along the way had been doctored by clever little defacers who had black marker-penned skis and ski-poles onto the roos and when we'd gone far enough we stopped for a hearty lunch of pea and ham soup before heading back towards the swish sounding resort of Perisher Blue and my new favourite place name of all time, Smiggin Holes.Perisher Blue was shut and Smiggin Holes was devoid of people so with about a tablespoon full of petrol left in the tank we rolled home, most of the way in neutral, and just wheezed into the Shell station in Jindabyne on the last ounce of vapour. With a tank full of petrol we drove into town to stock up for the night's barbie, we were going to have one even if it snowed but the weather held as we tucked into peppered rissoles venturing back to the van for the evening for a look through two thousand photos on the laptop. Reminiscing already!19/4Once more it was a beautiful sunny day as we headed south on the Monaro Highway along endlessly straight roads through flat countryside towards the towns of Dalgety and Bombala, coming across a cowgirl and her son on horseback in the middle of the road herding cattle with the help of their dogs. This part of NSW had a real wild west feel to it and considering how close to the coast we were now, it was surprising how you didn't have to travel that far inland to be in the 'bush'.After a dusty, bumpy 28km on a dirt track, or unsealed road as the Aussies like to call it, we hit tarmac again and 60km later we were crossing the state border and entering Victoria. Almost immediately the road began to twist off in all directions and the scenery became greener as we headed further south to our overnight stop, and at the little town of Cann River we rejoined our old mate of a road, the Princes Highway, to drive the remaining 140km to Lakes Entrance.Lakes Entrance was a largish town with a river separating the main road from the beach. It was a typical Australian coastal town with non-descript little businesses, a war memorial and a branch of Woolies taking pride of place, and once more we visited its hallowed aisles for more goodies. At the moment it seems like we do a shop every day, that's probably because we do.On the edge of town was the Koonwarra Tourist Park where we secured a site for $20 before heading off on foot along the esplanade. The town is famed for its population of black swans who swan around the river looking regal, posing for pictures as we walked over the footbridge connecting the mainland to the beach. Over a strip of shrub land was the beach, and we had a wander in a force nine gale as young surfer dudes packed up their boards for the day.After a half hour walk back to the caravan park we were ready for a barbie of lamb burgers and big green banana prawns at one of the swankiest set-ups we'd come across on our travels. The barbeque areas in the parks had been strangely quiet and once again we cooked and ate alfresco in peaceful solitude as fellow tourists shunned barbequed meals once more.We were now halfway to Melbourne, second part to follow . . .George Best & Miss Worldxx
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098657480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098657480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098657480/tpod.html Mon, 20 Nov 2006 18:39:10 -0500 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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London, United Kingdom

Round-up to appear soon...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1068507300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1068507300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1068507300/tpod.html Mon, 20 Nov 2006 18:36:52 -0500 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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London, United Kingdom

The time is nigh...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098035580/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098035580/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098035580/tpod.html Mon, 20 Nov 2006 18:35:13 -0500 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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New York City, New York, United States

17/10New York, New York, big city of dreams, but everything in New York ain't always what it seems, you might get fooled if you come from outta town, but I'm down by law and I know my way around .We'd arrived in New Yoik and... I've always wanted to use those lyrics in some way and now it's my chance...thank you Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel.The receptionist at The Muse Hotel, just off Times Square, NYC, was just perfect.I'd wanted every NewYorkian to be straight out of a late-night Channel 4 serial and I wasn't disappointed. She'd won the lottery and lost her ticket. She was not a happy bunny.So? It was 6 in the AM...a chirpy good morning wouldn't have killed her. Come to think of it, a bullet through her angst-ridden, Avril Lavigne-affected heart wouldn't have neither...unless it was pure Silver. "You checkin' in?"We squeaked a reply."I need a credit card." Came the next scud missile from her potty-mouth.We handed over our newly-kidnapped flexible friend. Who'd a' thought it ... an hour in NYC and we'd already we'd been mugged.She looked us up and down with a withering 'are-you-sure-you-can-afford-this-hotel' glare, which made us scuttle away like two startled rats on a subway, our tails between our legs and our rucksacks over our shoulders.(Blooming Yankees ... even as I'm writing this on Steve Jobs' finest laptop my cute little 25-pixel square Union Jack in the top right corner of the screen has inexplicably metamorphosised into a star-spangled pixellated banner of stars and stripes ... subliminal programming).We crashed into our room, triple-locked the door behind us and stood with our backs wedged against the door with eyes welded shut. Slowly we eased our trembling eyelids apart and were met with a vision ... a vision not seen since Fabien Barthez somehow managed to smooth-talk his way into Linda Evangelista's ... steeeeeady.If reception was Hell, we'd found redemption in our room.The Muse is (semi) famous for it's large fluffy beds, and this beauty looked way too inviting as we whipped off our ... shoes and socks, and belly-flopped into it's feathery, well ... belly. Our bellies flopped, our legs flopped, and our heads flopped. You name it and it flopping well flopped.Dick Fosbury, you ain't seen nothing. The Cordery flop awaits Beijing 2008.As we lay there ... sorry, flopped ... we were engulfed by a TV with 593 channels, Internet, mini-bar, marble-encrusted bathroom and a view along 50-something Avenue. But these luxuries would have to wait as we drifted off into a deep sleep and dreamt of a Great Briton winning the high jump at the Olympics with a three-metre high Cordery Flop. Our dream turned into a nightmare as our jumper pulled a hammy on the first run-up. Typical.We woke at four on a bright Sunday afternoon and headed out into Manhattan's avenues and streets and found ourselves spinning 360 degrees on our heals as we hit Times Square to take in some neon.From the Square of Times we headed north along Broadway and into the Ronnie O'Sullivan theatre (or something like that) where some unknown chat show host called Dave the postman (again, or something like that) was giving away free tickets to his next recording. Seeing as The Muse was costing us $3** per night, a couple of freebies wasn't going to go amiss. We sat through a five minute interview to make sure we had a sense of humour and left our contact details before heading out and along to 5th Avenue where expensive shops line the 'sidewalk' with a menacing 'don't-you-dare-come-inside' aura. So we didn't and headed for Gap and H&M, so there.Back on 46th we headed for dinner at Rosie O'Gradys. Sounds very Irish-pubby but you couldn't be further from the truth. Atmospheric dining room, white linen tablecloths, excellent service, short but very-sweet menu and generous man-size portions. A Michelin star in London ... just another restaurant in New York ... the American culture was seeping into my black-pudding clogged British veins already ... the swines.Back at the Muse (wish they'd called it something different, not a great fan, prefer a hotel called the Snow Patrol ... end of long bracketed sentence ... and continue ...) we chilled then flopped.18/10Refreshed, we hit the not-so-mean streets of NYC and after a quick brekkie at Europa Café (think upmarket McDonalds) we ventured into the Tourist Information office on Times Square and bagged ourselves a couple of cut-price 48-hour bus passes, and before you knew it we were on an open-top bus on the Downtown loop via (that's pronounced vee-a) Macys, Madison Square Garden, Empire State Building, Greenwich Village, Soho, Ground Zero and back (as a loop usually means) (sorry) (too many brackets) (as usual)(.)After a loop-de-loop on a double-decker bus is was time for our piece de resistance ... a helicopter ride around New York. The backpacker budget was finally blown to smithereens in the final week. £30 per week budget ... RIP.$97 bought us a 10-minute trip around the Statue of Liberty and beyond with a view of Manhattan that made it worth every measly cent ... buddy. Our evening was spent at the local roxy watching the very English-humoured 'Shaun of the Dead' whilst also watching the very American-humoured locals walk out en-masse.Back at base we hit the play button on our swish answer-machine and was greeted with the dulcet tones of a native New Yorker telling us we'd been selected for the audience of the David Letterman show.19/10Another feather bed induced coma led us to an 11am resurrection with breakfast at Café Europa once more.It was beginning to rain so we hit the Sak, Saks 5th Avenue that is for a spot of retail therapy. It was fine, nothing more, and two pairs of shoes later we were entering the hallowed aisles of Gap and Mexx to stock up on office attire for my impending re-incarceration at an office block near you soon.After a lunchtime spent shopping we headed back to Broadway for some audience participation, only to stand in a mile-long queue at the venue to register before being sent away for some lunch and back again to the Roseland club to queue again in regimental file for a briefing from an over-exuberant redhead on the dos and don'ts of audience etiquette. DO clap and laugh like seals on speed.DON'T stare up at the monitors, showing off your nasal hair to 60 billion American couch potatoes, thus putting them off their bargain buckets of nuked chicken.By 5pm we were herded into our seats at the Sonia O'Sullivan theatre and soon we were obeying the 'APPLAUSE' signs like the well-behaved little hand-clappers that we are. Then the man himself appeared, laid-back to the extreme for his $1m per episode and began by introducing the evening's guests.Well, talk about luck of the Irish (well actually a few pints of Welsh blood), we were only going to see the hunky Ricky Gervais and the hilarious Jude Law. A veritable Brit Invasion. Not a Buffy co-star in sight.It was surreal, and once again the British humour may not have reached most of the audience's funny bones, but it sure hit ours. (Did you know Jude Law is only 5ft 3? I'm not bitter.)Dinner tonight was at the Muse's adjoining restaurant 'District'.Very good ambience, even better waiter (this city is full of good waiters). We began with starters of oysters, mains were salmon and scallops with sides orders of mushroom crepes and sautéed spinach, washed down the hatch with a sublime Zinfandel served in wine glasses the size of balloons, followed with coffee and Drambuies. No dessert, I'm watching my 16 stone waistline (damn you Australia with your Atkins-diet barbies, VB stubbies and Maclaren Vale reds).Back in the comatose-zone we call our room, we watched Letterman starring ourselves, ably supported by Gervais and Law, and, would you believe it, we saw ourselves staring up at the monitors. Boy, have we got some damn fine nostril follicles.20/10At 9am we wrenched ourselves away from our feathery oasis to board the early uptown loop bus which led us uptown-ranking past Central Park via Lennon's old love-pad and up to Harlem (duck) and back down the other side where we jumped off and into the striking Guggenheim for a dose of culture. The building I'm afraid was better than the Aztec exhibition it housed, so we made a speedy exit a la the more famous Mexican, Speedy Gonzalez.Back outside we sidled past the Met and kept on going, we'd had enough culture for one day thank you very much. A stroll though Central Park led us to The Natural History Museum and clearly we hadn't had enough culture (thank you very much) as we were sucked into its belly of facts and figures like lambs to the slaughter ... mmm lamb, is it lunch yet? Sorry.The museum was a big ol' place, far too much to take in ... every planet, every animal ... way too much for a couple of beauty school dropouts like ourselves.With brains hoemerou ... haemourag ... hurting, we plodded outside and downwards into the subway for a trip to the 42nd Street public library. What a building. That's all I can say really, my words will fall way short of the lyrical waxing this place deserves. It was the dog's b*ll%cks ... see, I told you.With a New York limping kind of swagger we lummaxed our way a block or two downtown to Grand Central Station, not to catch a train, but to check out its Oyster Bar.Whoa!!!!! ... and another exclamation mark for luck ... !Mosaic nirvana.Once we'd taken in the surroundings we asked another of NYC's finest waiters to choose a selection of his own favourites, as fifty different varieties of aphrodisiacal slurpiness was too much for our alcohol-addled brains. Ten minutes later we were served a cross-section of oystery loveliness that tested our testosterone to its testicular limits. The brunette performed ... her finest Meg Ryan impersonation while I suddenly became overwhelmed with 'La Spirit de David Ginola'. Our volcanicity soon subsided when the bill arrived.So ... Central Park, Harlem, Guggenheim, The Met (nearly), The Natural History, The Public Library and The Grand Central Station Oyster Bar. What more could we manage in a single day?I'll tell you ... only the chuffing Empire State Building, there's no stopping us I tell thee.Another saunter along a block or six and we were queuing with the best of them once more. After out-queuing all and sundry we found ourselves on an elevatory bullet to within six floors of the pinnacle where we had to disembark for a final money-spinning photoshoot in front of a cardboard cut-out of the building itself before hailing another lift which would take us to a summit meeting with the Manhattan skyline.We'd timed it to perfection as dusk was upon us and NYC was lighting up legitimately. Twinkliness surrounded us as our virtual Legoland started to glitter and 24 thousand feet below us 24-hour party people began their nightly pilgrimage to explore the underbelly that is Sin City.Back at ground level we shunned the latex and leather world of New York clubs and immersed ourselves in the marginally less tawdry scenario that is a takeaway and an early night. 21/10After our regular healthy fry-up in Café Europa, we headed down to Broadway once more to see if we could bag ourselves a couple of tickets at a show tonight, but suspiciously, only 42nd Street had spare seats ... mmmmm?We caught a subway going south to the tip of Manhattan where we boarded a busy ferry bound for The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We wandered around Mrs Liberty a few laps trying not to look up her skirt before boarding the ferry again to island-hop over to the Immigration Museum. An interesting hour or so was spent looking at letters and artefacts of the first 'foreigners' to set foot in the US.The ferry then took us back to the main island where we hopped on a tube, sorry Subway, to Prince Street in Soho and to a tourist attraction that has probably overtaken The Statue of Liberty in popularity ... the Apple Store ... and it was a Big Apple Store.It was very nearly the highlight of New York so far, well for me anyway, a candy store of gadgets, 10-15% cheaper than the UK, and we sadly spent more time here than at Madame Liberty's statue.After lunch in Ciao Soho, a Soprano-esque eatery, we took a long lazy stroll around Greenwich Village's atmospheric back alleys, before jumping into a battered yellow taxi (scruffy and dented not fried and served with chips) which hi-tailed its way back to Times Square dropping us off outside Virgin for a mooch around.Back at the hotel we, yep you guessed it, flopped.We had a date with a few hundred tap dancers tonight in the shape of 42nd Street, and after taking our front row of the balcony seats, a tap dancing frenzy ensued. A lot of tippety-tapping, a lot of corny dialogue and thankfully for the paying public not a lot more performances to endure as it was only another 80 shows before it hangs up its tap-dancing shoes. We were thankful we didn't go for the $100 seats. Give us The Producers any day.22/10The final day had arrived. After 50 weeks on the road, tonight we would be catching the red-eye back to Blighty, but not before making the most of our last day in NYC.Saying that, we slept in till 11, packed and left the room at 1pm. Well we had to make the most of the luxury!We strolled northwards to Central Park where our final touristy experience was awaiting us, a trip around the park in a horse-drawn carriage, eeeeuuuu. Hey, I defy you to come here and not do it.Hey, you gotta do these kind of things, it's another tickbox checked on your 'thousand-things-to-do-before-you-croak list'. It was magical ... the way a hefty $40 was procured from our pockets for a measly 15-minute trot. Now, that's magic.The lovely Debbie McGhee and I then unmounted ... careful ... and cantered up to a fantastic little zoo (and I say that most sincerely).It housed a miniature rainforest, monkies, penguins, polar bears and a super little seal show to finish, and all inside Central Park. It's been a few decades since I last went to London Zoo, but it'd have to be good to beat that.Walking south past Bloomingdales we stopped by our favourite restaurant on 52nd Street once more, Rosie O'Grady's for our final supper of seafood linguine, crab cakes and asparagus with a couple of pints of Sam Adams - the best.Back at the hotel we collected our bags and awaiting us outside was our own personal black Cadillac ready to whisk us to JFK, it even had our name in the window and a chauffeur that looked like a WWF extra (wrestling not wildlife). How very, very New York and it was a fine way to go.We chatted with the driver the whole trip, probably the friendliest person we'd met, then again he was originally from California! An hour passed and we were dropped off at departures with 2 hours to spare before our 9.25pm flight. Security was, as ever, thorough, just falling short of a strip search. Never mind boarding a plane, it feels like you've been arrested and are just about to do some bird on Alcatraz.New York was as expected. Desensitised, busy, noisy, abrupt, devoid of pleases and thank-yous, security everywhere, shoulder barging, bibbing, dollar-bills (pain - get coins) ... but there were some minus-points: world-beating sights in abundance, top-notch restaurants with service to match and a buzz that's rarely found in large cities.The locals did have an excuse for their grumpiness though, New York Yankees had just lost the Rounders World Series to Boston Red Sox 4-3 after leading 3-0. World Series? Since when were the West Wickham Whackers invited to the tournament, we'd soon see who rules the Rounders world then ...We took our seats, had a last commiserating drink, before drifting off to dream about our past year. At 9.45am on a Saturday morning our plane would touch down on Heathrow tarmac.The end. ... or is it?Mr & Miss WorldxxThe eagle-eyed amongst you in cyberspace may have noticed it's taken me nearly two years to get around to writing this! It's been a hectic 24 months ... a Travelpod featuring a round-up of events beckons...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098464580/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098464580/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098464580/tpod.html Fri, 22 Oct 2004 13:04:29 -0400 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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Aitutaki, Cook Islands

12/10This morning we were awoken by the sound of a reveille from the local bird population. The Common Myna (I just had to look it up on the Internet, sad I know) is, as you can tell by the name, the Cook Islands' commonest bird, but with the best bird call I've ever heard. God, what's happening to me, first plane-spotting, now bird-watching. It'll be golf lessons next.To the sounds of a malfunctioning R2D2 we woke to a hazy day in paradise, so we scootered into Aitutaki's bustling city of 58 people to get online. Unfortunately the island's only Internet café was running on a 2-tin can and string network so we gave up.We fought our way through the island's lunchtime traffic of two cats and pulled up at the local tourist information. Soph jumped off the back and headed inside, meanwhile I sensed a fellow mopeder pull up beside me:"You didn't stop at a stop sign back there", were his first words.There wasn't another scooter within the timezone and apparently I'd just cruised through the only 'stop' sign in 500,000 square kilometres of South Pacific. How unlucky can you get? Saying that, we DID crash into the only cow in 500,000 square kilometres of Australia not so long ago.From the look of him I figured he was a bored local wanting a bit of a chat, but in the back of my mind I knew he was the fuzz. I was caught by the fuzz."Are you a policeman?" I enquired."Yes, can I see your drivers' licence." He replied.Well obviously I was well chuffed. My Cook Islands Drivers Licence was going to see the light of day and I could flash the laminate, but I'd need to see his ID first as nothing about him said 'police', especially his rusting scooter and stained blue shirt.He had none. What he did do though was shift his belly with both hands to reveal a gold buckled belt with that looked like it had an American Eagle on it.Stifling a giggle I proudly showed him my ID, and soon he was on his way back to his imaginary station for a nap after completing his weekly fix of 'Stop a tourist for no real reason'.Back on the quiet side of the island we vegetated on a couple of sunloungers for the afternoon where Soph read a book about nothing in particular by Penny Vincenzi and I leafed through a book about everything since the beginning of time by Bill Bryson. Harsh but fair.Tonight's culinary nibbles were scheduled to take place at a little inland restaurant called Café Tupuna. This place had a reputation for serving the best nosh on the island and had been fully booked the previous night, but tonight we had reserved a table for two at seven. We were picked up by the local taxi service and dropped off outside a secluded little bistro and a cheeky bottle of Sauvignon Blanc was ordered tout suite.Our starters were a chili lime fish salad and an ocean trio of wahoo, smoked ono and tuna, with a side order of garlic bread. The food was right up our Gordon Ramsey Street both taste-wise and portion-wise.For mains, the brunette opted for the reef fish stuffed with shrimps, herbs and onions, wrapped in banana leaves with rice and vegetables, while the skinette went for the spicy fish curry served on paw-paw, with mango chutney, rice and salad.Best-meal-on-Aitutaki superlatives were soon ringing out in between mouthfuls, and the sheer weight of servings led us to share a dessert of banana and mango sorbet to calm our struggling stomachs.After coffee I added my signature to yet another 3-inch long MasterCard receipt, in fact I can actually sign my name blindfolded now, while Soph stroked the owner's black cat who was now sitting on her lap. The cat's name was Jonah Lomu because it was All Black. How we chuckled.After a dubious first night meal in Samades, the island's remaining handful of eateries were really fighting above their weight now.13/10We were getting a bit worried after all this glorious weather we were having but we new we weren't going to be let down, and by 8am this morning the rain had finally followed us from Rarotonga like an old long-lost mate.After a brief wet interlude the skies cleared and we were off again on our little yellow scooter for a tootle around to the other side of the lagoon where we stopped at a pile of rocks that signified an ancient religious Marae (don't ask me) and a look skywards at a very big tree arching over the road. Hey, it's a very small island and sights are hard to come by. Besides, the only sight you need on this island is that of the lagoon.On the way home we stopped off at Tauono's to buy some homemade cakes and organic fruit for lunch back at our bungalow, and being a cloudy day we lazed on the verandah all afternoon until Soph somehow found the energy to go for a jog. Unfortunately my energy was still depleted from the water-skiing debacle. At least that's what I'm blaming.That evening we ventured back to the millionaire's playground of Pacific Resort to see if we could afford the cheapest things on the menu. On the way we were hit by an isolated shower that soaked us (especially Soph who's turn it was to drive tonight), making us look even more like the poor imposters we are on entering their alfresco dining room.Somehow we tricked our way in by adding 'what' to the end of all our sentences and bagged a table overlooking their waterfall and swimming pool complex.We were expecting good things from this place as our little Lonely Planet guide had gushed 'try the seafood'. I began with a little wooden skewer of five calamari rings and Soph went for the pate, and although they cost a small fortune, they were no match for last night's starters.It seemed we'd been eating fish and chicken for as long as we could remember, so, going against the advice of our guide book, we went for a couple of rib-eye steaks with Parmesan mash and 'Island Fries'.We were soon wishing we'd followed their advice as we were began to tuck into lukewarm steak and cold vegetables. My island fries were hard crispy versions of all the South Pacific's plainest potato specimens and Soph's steak was so rare it winked at her.After an average meal (and that's putting it kindly) we decided to push our boat of excess out once more with very strong Drambuie coffees before forking out $140 for a meal worth $14. PS. Our meal at Café Tupuna the previous night edged this one at $160 but was easily worth double that.Soph scootered us home dodging large crabs in the road that had come on to dry land to savour the downpour no doubt.14/10Today we were to embark on another lagoon cruise with a different company. We scootered into town and arrived at the main wharf by 10 before jumping onto a little Kia Orana speedboat with ten other daytrippers of various foreignness including Spanish, Swedish, Samoan and Aussie.We set off towards Honeymoon Island (not to be mixed up with the Honeymoon Island we visited in Fiji) at a great rate of knots and soon our little boat was being flung around. It was a blustery day causing our usually calm lagoon to foam up, so much so that our skipper, the self-titled Captain Fantastic, had to slow to a crawl to avoid shipwreck.At Honeymoon Island we were due to get off for a spot of snorkelling while the rest of the group would steam on to One Foot Island, picking us up on the way back. But due to the conditions our captain announced that he wouldn't be able to make the crossing today and offered a $10 reduction in the bill for the rest of them. It didn't affect us as we'd already seen One Foot and got our passports stamped, so he offered to take everyone else's passports to give to another bigger boat that could make it so they could get the inky marque of recognition. Everyone declined due to the dubiousness of it all.Once on the island we walked a mile along a sandbar to a small hut surrounded by trees and found the nearest wind break in the shape of a cluster of bushes. Soon the sun came out to fry us this morning and as the snorkelling just offshore wasn't the best we stayed on terra firma.At noon we all gathered around for a lunch of cold veg, fruit, tuna sandwiches, donuts and chocolate cake. It was a funny old assortment which wasn't a match for Wet n' Wild's freshly cooked Parrotfish. We ate while our captain retold stories of Aitutakian myths before heading into the bushes for a spot of bird-watching.Apparently this island was a breeding ground for the Red-tailed Tropic bird and sure enough the bushes were full of them. Young black-beaked adults sitting in the shelter unable to walk let alone fly and red-beaked adults sat with their fluffy chicks. We set off for an offshore snorkelling spot by mid-afternoon and after weighing anchor we had plopped into crystal clear waters armed with bread and cake. Immediately our old mates, the Scissortail Sergeants were upon us in greater numbers than we'd ever seen. We were bombarded from all sides until we were clean out of grub which meant we could go off and explore. The visibility was better than ever as we made our way around huge clumps of coral, housing estates for the legions of fish that pecked at what fresh coral there was.After an hour we'd covered every patch of sea and began our trip home at a steady 3kmh. On the way a fellow Brit informed us all that she'd just had a back operation and rattled off her list of pills and potions including morphine. We really wanted to know that. Why hit the high seas with a dodgy back?Back in town we dined over the causeway once more at the Pearl Beach Resort which had got a whole lot busier since the Island Night we saw there. The food was superb, especially the seared tuna on fettuccine. Today's stiff breeze continued as a gale blew through the open-air restaurant causing guests to battle with tablecloths.Aitutaki had been THE most paradise island of our travels, with stunning views, good restaurants and a nice laidback atmosphere. Aitutaki ees rilly rilly bewdival. Our beach life was over and tomorrow we were to fly east for our last chapter in our travels and a splurge in the metropolitan mayhem of New York . . .Gazluca and Sophiaxx
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098464220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098464220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1098464220/tpod.html Fri, 22 Oct 2004 13:03:16 -0400 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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Aitutaki, Cook Islands

08/10/04We checked-in at Rarotonga airport at 2.30pm and waited in a creche loosely disguised as a waiting room for an hour before our flight was called.We made our way through the airport's only gate which was cut into some wire fencing and made our way across the tarmac to a little Air Rarotonga Saab 30-seater turbo-prop. The aircraft took off half full and before long we were tucking into our inflight meal cheese and crackers.It was a 40-minute trip north to the island group of Aitutaki, and soon we were leaving behind Rarotonga's cloudy airspace and heading into a wispy-clouded paradise. With barely time to finish gnawing on our lumps of cheese we were descending towards a heaven on earth, skimming low over a turquoise triangular lagoon dotted with islands and coral reefs before banking hard right to land on the hook of this hook-shaped island.We disembarked and headed for a tiny terminal building and under a tongue-in-cheek wooden sign welcoming us to 'Aitutaki International Airport'. Once bags were unloaded we jumped into a minivan heading for O'otu Beach at the very tip of the island where we met by Steve Schofield, the owner of Ranginui's Retreat, our base for the coming week.We were shown to our bungalow and were instantly struck by the views across the lagoon. Opposite was Akitua Motu (island) which had been completely consumed by the Aitutaki Pearl Beach Resort, but tastefully transformed with expensive thatched bungalows. We panned around for views of the palm-tree lined main body of the island across a glistening sheet of kaleidoscopic blue and a lovely blue sky framed the scene perfectly.Our lagoon-front bungalow was by no means Conran-designed but had everything we'd need including fridge freezer, electric hob, sink, sofa and shower. The toilet was of the bio-degradable pit-like sort without a flush but we could live with that and the bed was on unlockable wheels that would travel around the room at the slightest touch but, again, we could live with it, especially as we weren't going to be spending a lot of time in there after seeing what awaited us outside.Our $995 (£350) 7-day package also included a nice bright-yellow scooter, a lagoon cruise and free kayaks. At the moment it seemed the bargain of the century.Not wasting one sunny moment we hit the sand and wandered over a causeway connecting Akitua to the mainland. Pearl Beach Resort seemed very nice and was full of hand-carved wooden statues of the well-endowed Tangaroa, God of fertility. Our timing was uncanny as 5.30pm meant happy hour in the resort's bar so we toasted our good fortune with a glass of bubbly and bottle of Cook's lager, physically holding our mouths shut for fear of dribbling alcohol from surveying the jaw-dropping view.Back at Ranginuis we spruced ourselves up for dinner next door at the renowned Samade bar. We grabbed the last table going and dined on lukewarm overcooked pasta (a Cook Islands speciality it seems) and a seafood omelette which was fed to three doe-eyed cats. Unlike Rarotonga, Aitutaki has no dogs, and there are two stories doing the rounds that explain their fate, one being that a dog once mauled the child of a High Chief so he subsequently hunted them all down.9/10Jumping on our scooter we headed off towards the main town of Arutanga passing by the airport before slinging a left to journey south along the island's west coast. Resorts of varying plushness lined the road along with the odd shop or church and evidence of the island's supposed 1,800 population was nowhere to be seen. The Orongo Centre in the main town sounded interesting but only offered a solitary ghostly souvenir shop.Feeling peckish we headed inland for lunch towards a recommended eatery called Café Tupuna, only to learn our Lonely Planet guide was out of date once more as they were only open for dinner at 6pm.Back in town we stopped by the temptingly-sounding Heineken Store which turned out to be a grocers, but they did sell odds and ends that would satisfy our hunger, and back at base we cooked eggs galore.What wispy clouds there were soon burnt away so off we went to Samades, the only place around that had sun loungers, to read and get tanned up. Once shadows grew longer it was time to head over to the posh resort once more to celebrate the gift of nature that is Happy Hour.The Happy Hour tonight was soon to be followed by an 'Island Night', and having missed out on a Rarotongan Island Night we quickly put our names down for a ring-side table. A barbecue of mammoth proportions was accompanying the entertainment, so come 7pm we dived headlong into flame-grilled Nirvana.A massive steel barbie held every living creature edible to man and to its side were big bowls full of curry and rice. That was cruel, barbies and curries are my two favourite meals in the whole wide world yet they knew I only had one stomach. Fiendish.A whole plethora of salady healthiness was on offer as well but who needs lettuce when you've got legs of grilled meat and bathtubs full of curry to get through? What were they thinking?While Soph incredibly ate lots of salad, I gave the hot section a complete going over and was soon on first name terms with the chef, although he did constantly mispronounce my name to sound like 'glutton'.Ordinarily our innards would have waved a white flag by dessert, but with profiteroles on display we dug deep and somehow found an empty orifice somewhere behind our kidneys where we stored two chocolate creamy balls of delight (excuse me?).Suddenly out from the shadows came the dancing troupe of four boys and four girls, the boys wearing grass skirts and the girls half-coconut shells to preserve their modesty. Behind them were their extended families belting out a jungle beat on a peculiar assortment of percussion.The boys flailed around miraculously to a 300bpm beat, with only one of them looking as though he was a Generation Game contestant, and the girls snake-hipped their way through gentle almost-Hawaiian ukulele melodies with constant embarrassed looks.It was 45-minutes of good fun and as per usual the audience weren't going to get away without going home embarrassed as Soph was dragged to her feet by a young loin-clothed native looking for a Jane. I too was asked to dance by a dusky maiden . . . honestly, but feigned injury due to a lodged profiterole somewhere in my larynx.Soph began hippy hippy-shaking with her young admirer, not in the least bit looking embarrassed, just mortified. The brunette pirouetted her way through her five-minutes of fame and came back to the table looking flushed after wowing the sell-out crowd of twenty with moves not seen since the heady mid-Eighties at the Hairy Frog Disco in Bridlington.10/10It was another hot sunny day and not a moment could be wasted as we Germanically sprinted down to O'otu Beach to grab a couple of sun loungers. With sun cream marinated bodies, we reclined back to think of England momentarily before turning our thoughts back to Aitutaki to savour our last days in the sun.Once medium-rare, we ventured out into the warm shallow waters to saunter out onto some distant sandbars leading out to Akitua Island for some postcard-worthy photo opportunities.Our afternoon was spent kayaking into the lagoon with the hope of some top-class snorkelling, but were disappointed to find murky coral-less water, which meant no sign of fish. We settled for a choppy circumnavigation of Akitua that led us near the atoll's fringing coral reef and into the path of some stray waves that had soared over the island's natural barrier.That evening our little restaurant next door, Samades, was having a $25 a head barbecue night. We didn't give it a second thought and were soon sitting at a table for two supping beers and willing the barbie to grill quicker. On the barbie tonight was chicken, fish and bananas alongside a table full of the usual green-leafed table-fillers. Although nowhere as good as the Island Night slap-up from the previous night, we still sidled up to the spit on three occasions.Entertainment tonight was supplied by a local singer on an electric piano who belted out Elvis classics interwoven with a Polynesian twist, while Soph fed some stray cats once more.11/10Our bargain package at Ranginui's Retreat included a lagoon cruise, so with the weather holding its shape we set off early in a crowded speedboat driven by a butch-looking guy called Quentin, the owner of Wet 'N Wild. Besides the driver and us were a retired German couple who were our neighbours at Ranginuis, an Italian guy named Gianluca and two more crew members, making a grand total of seven.Soon Quentin had put his hand down, so to speak, and our cruise had quickly turned into a cross-lagoon sprint of Donald Campbell proportions. With room for only three sitting it was left to me and the German guy to sit on the edge of the boat and hold on to handrails until our knuckles turned red.The ridge of coral that surrounded the lagoon had one or two 'passages' where daring skippers could squeeze through in order to hit the open seas, and our Quentin was sniffing one out. After weaving through a minefield of rocks and coral we were soon battling a ten-foot swell that threatened to tip us all out at any moment, and as the ladies and our little Italian stallion hunkered down on the three-seater, it was left to me and Hans (didn't actually get his name but Hans is as good as anything) once more to leave hand-prints in the steel handrails as our knuckles went into purple-mode.Quentin scanned the situation for twenty minutes until he came across a patch of the raging sea he thought looked calm enough to snorkel in. We'd never snorkelled in a washing-machine before but we were sure going to this morning. Although rough, the water looked crystal clear and shapes on the ocean floor were visible even though we were informed it was 90-foot deep. One by one we plopped into the mix, followed by Quentin and his two helpers who were armed with a harpoon that was apparently going to catch our lunch today. We were indeed a long way up from the surface almost to the point that we were scared to look down because of the height, a kind of underwater vertigo if there's such a thing, but crystal clear it was and soon we were being coaxed along by a strong tide towards the reef. Things began to get more interesting as the reef built up and the water became shallower and a whole city of fish loomed into view. Just as we were being washed about on the surface, the fish were too as they were sucked in and out relentlessly by the current. Although looking bleached and dead, fish still flocked around the coral's nooks and crannies in search of what soft stuff there was to nibble on.Having drifted from the boat quite a distance and losing energy after every doggie-paddle, we headed back to the boat against a current that would take us two strokes forward and one stroke back. Every now and again we'd stop to look for the boat that was just about visible over the waves, before getting our head down once more to grind out the metres.Finally we hauled ourselves onto the boat to find the German lady (I'll call her Brigitte) still there and looking a touch green around the gills. We tried to make conversation but couldn't get a ja or a nein out of her and suddenly she'd moved to the front of the boat to try to be sick in private. Next into the boat came Hans and Gianluca who were also fighting for breath, and what followed was an agonising wait for the three fish-hunters to come back to the boat. We were being tossed around in an ocean that was now resembling the North Sea, and soon each and every one of us was succumbing to queasy feelings of various strengths. Gianluca was all gesticulations, patting his stomach and tapping his head, Brigitte's head was over the side of the boat, Hans was putting on a typically staunch Germanic brave face, Soph was concentrating on a land mass on the horizon and I was just plain green.Suddenly our three hosts returned from the front line and remarkably everyone had kept their insides intact. The first two climbed into the boat empty-handed clutching unused harpoons and it looked for a while that we could have been going hungry today, but suddenly the last of the crew swam up to the side of the boat and lobbed a quartet of flailing fish onto the floor that flapped around until their gills ran out of water. It was a sight to get our bellies churning again but once more we all held firm, and it was a sad sight as the fish were four of the most colourful examples you could find including Sunset Wrasses and Parrotfish, but my belly soon told my brain to shut up as they were to look a lot better gutted and grilled with a slice of lemon. Sometimes I worry about my cruel side.Finally we made for the calm waters of the lagoon once more and in an instant all European tummies were wunderbar. We now headed at top speed to the largish island of Akaiami where we were thankfully allowed onto sandy ground for a while to recuperate, while Quentin and the boys set about gutting our lunch. Akaiami had once been an important stop-off for the seaplanes who used to run, what was known as, the Coral Route, between Fiji and Tahiti. It was here that they'd refuel while passengers got off to enjoy a paddle and a ciggie.Our next destination was Moturakau, apparently the location for the UK reality-show called Shipwrecked, but I can't be sure as it's probably the only reality claptrap we haven't watched. We wandered inland to explore one of only two volcanic islands in the whole group (the others all being sand based) and hovering in the trees was the lovely sight of Red-tailed Tropic birds.Back in the boat and we were steaming across the lagoon to Tekopua, the setting for our lunch today, and while the fish-murderers barbecued their prey, the rest of us worked up our already big appetites with a stroll along the island's sandbars for photo-opportunities of a lifetime. After twenty minutes we were wolf-whistled back to a little glade where an island feast awaited us, including our poor defenceless but thoroughly tasty fish, heavenly curried sweet potatoes, coleslaw, boiled eggs, donuts and passion fruit. We all piled into the grub like the castaways that we were and soon our stomachs were well and truly settled.Just across a shallow causeway sat another little islet, and home to the biggest tourist trap in all of Aitutaki, it was the island of Tapuaetai, better known as 'One Foot Island'. A wooden building stands on the beach offering expensive T-shirts but it also doubles as a post office where you can hand over $2.50 for the privilege of getting your passport stamped with a One Foot Island inky print. This therefore gives you the chance to bore everyone rigid with a flick through your passport when you get home. Dinner conversation doesn't get much better.Quentin quickly quoozed over and dropped us off along with Hans and Brigitte, but minus Gianluca who went all deep on us and refused to be drawn into this wonderful tourist trap, preferring his passport was kept 'clean', as he put it. Whatsa matta you. Hey! Gotta no memento . . . er, I'll shuddupa my face.One Foot Island was awash with washed up pleasure cruisers carrying washed up tourists, but by 3pm the post office was shut and the other boats were steaming off back to Aitutaki, full of pleased daytrippers showing each other their passports.While Quentin sped off again to get Gianluca, we were left on our own to fight it out with the Germans as to who would lay claim to this newly emptied island, but before a summit could be arranged we were picked up again to head for an area renowned for its snorkelling. Once there, the crew handed out fishfood to us in the shape of bananas and after launching off the side of the boat in thankfully millpond-calm water, we were immediately surrounded by a thousand Scissortail Sergeants baying for banana and licking their lips with their imaginary tongues. As soon as fruit was peeled we were attacked from all sides as a stream of predators circled us taking turns to dab at our food. A pound of bananas was gobbled up in no time which gave us the chance to explore absolutely pristine waters, it was as if we were floating in space with our bubbles being the only sign we were underwater.Soon Gianluca was gesturing in that inimitable Italian style once more, and he had every right to as we flippered over and looked down to see a Giant Moray Eel snapping away at pesky fish and annoying snorkellers. His whole body was coiled beneath a rock but looked to be a metre long so we backed away and made our way over to another clump of coral where two Giant Clams sat, looking ominously like they could lop off a stray limb of a careless snorkeller, and instead of being your usual dull barnacle-encrusted clam, these were as sparkling and as colourful as a Dame Edna gown. We glided around searching for more crustaceans of the Giant kind but settled for another marvel at a multi-coloured multitude before climbing back into the boat babbling on to one another about our sightings.We thought our action-packed lagoon cruise was now at an end as we motored back to O'otu Beach, but Quentin's outfit wasn't called Wet n' Wild for nothing. Once in sight of home we came to a stop and were all offered the chance to try water-skiing or wake-boarding at which point Gianluca and the ladies declined, leaving Hans and I to show ourselves up. As it turned out it was left to me alone to show myself up as Hans' previous experience shone through as he raced around the lagoon with a nonchalant ease. My turn came and with a couple of weeks skiing experience under my belt I was sure to take to it like a duck to water, but it was soon clear even a duck would have had better luck than me as I began to struggle immediately in just getting the skis on while floating on my back. Even getting hold of the rope proved a tricky proposition as the speedboat circled around me, and once I was set to go it was over in a flash and a big splash. Once boat was engaged into full speed ahead the thrust tore the handle from my hands. Now I knew what to expect attempt number two lasted 0.3 seconds longer as my tensed body buckled into a blubbery mess. With energy levels depleted I braced myself for a third attempt and got half way into an ungainly crouch before being blinded by the wake and falling forwards with an audible sigh that reverberated around the lagoon. I crawled back into the boat a beaten quivering wreck of a man.You either need superhuman strength to water-ski or technical expertise. I guess it was the latter if our neighbour who was a lean retired granddad could do it.After being dropped home we headed to Samades for post-lagoon Malibu's with Gianluca who filled us in on everything Italian and gushed at how everything was really beautiful especially his homeland, Italy:"Umbria ees rilly bewdival.""Roma ees rilly bewdival.""David Mellor is rilly bewdival."and so on.Later Gianluca needed to be back at Tom's Beach Cottage where he was staying, to take some snaps of his last Aitutakian sunset, so I offered to give him a lift on the back of the scooter.[Warning: The following paragraph may not be suitable for minors.]Once we'd arrived Gianluca unwrapped his sinewy arms from around my warm plump body and we dismounted. This is the moment when we'd have to say goodbye. We gazed tearfully into each other's eyes and exchanged email addresses as a red sun began to drop over the horizon. Engulfed in a warm glow, Gianluca, who was now overcome with Latin passion, drew closer to me and grasped my shoulders with a firm but tender grip before planting moist double-cheeked kisses upon my face. He slowly turned away with a last lingering look and soon my Italian stallion was walking into the distance mouthing a final 'Ciao bella'. It was rilly bewdival.Ahem . . . see the Bears play the other night? Helluva game.Back home I picked up my dinner date for the night (Soph) and headed for the swishest digs on the island, the Pacific Resort. The place had a beautiful entrance, and so it should for over $600 a night. The beautiful receptionist in the beautiful entrance informed us that it was their Island Night tonight with a $60 barbecue and dance show, but having already seen one we declined the invite and headed along the road to a little organic eatery called Tauono's.Tauono's was run by a Fijian-Austro-Canadian husband and wife team and promised good things according to reports. We arrived to find just two tables, both taken, in the garden of their house as the rest were under construction. Soon a kindly looking lady came out of her kitchen wiping her hands on her apron and like a favourite gran she told us she had plenty of food on the go and beckoned us to sit down at a table already occupied by an old German chap. An uncomfortable situation was on the cards as the three of us sat at the table in desperate need of a cold beer and a translator.Neither was forthcoming as the restaurant wasn't licensed. Luckily the Cook Islands at this time of year was crawling with Hamburgers and Berliners and suddenly our dinner companion left us for the other table which was also under occupation from Jerrys.We were thankfully left alone to mull over the beverage menu, a verbal menu that was read to us by our kindly cook's husband Tauono, whose name stands over the entrance to the restaurant, well actually scribbled on a blackboard near the road. We had a choice of: homemade lemonade or tap water; we chose the former which turned out to be good stuff and before long our mystery starters were arriving in the shape of home-baked bread and a banana-ish salsa dip which kept us going til the main course.We had a choice between steak and wahoo fish with assorted sauces. We both went for the fish with cherry tomato and parsley dressings and as we waited for them to arrive another couple turned up, and with just two chairs remaining at our table we were soon joined by a pair of Aussies. Having dinner with complete strangers is pretty tough at the best of times, but when you're seemingly in someone's back garden without a drop of the hard stuff in sight it can be a whole lot trickier.Things turned out pretty well though as we tucked into our superb wahoo and talked 'holiday' with our uninvited guests. Tauono, our waiter and owner would drop by every now and again for a chat to lament on the demise of their once profitable business feeding homegrown filling food to anorexic backpackers, but Aitutaki had now distanced itself from being on the backpacker trail by inviting hotel chains to come along and build posy pads for a select few, and Tauono's was by no means targeting gap-yearers by charging £12 for main courses.The food was worth it though and a sticky situation with our dinner companions turned into a very nice evening, although we'd probably only return when they've knocked up a few more tables.Continues in part 2 . . .
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097964720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097964720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097964720/tpod.html Sat, 16 Oct 2004 21:18:56 -0400 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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Rarotonga, Cook Islands

02/10/04It was time to leave Fiji, but with a 5pm flight out of the country we had a few hours to spare, so outside our hotel we hailed a taxi being driven by the tiny but capable 'Deo' and headed for Nadi Town. We'd heard on the Cyber grapevine that Nadi wasn't a town to spend too much time in, so we heeded the advice of the numerous faceless web chatters and just did what was necessary, our mission was simple: Go in; Do Internet; Buy Souvenirs; then Get Out.Once in town we were surprised to find a regular busy Saturday morning high street, a high street that could have been anywhere in the world with its department stores, clothes shops and loitering kids.After what seemed a lifetime on our desert island we were eager to log on and see what was happening back home, but some things never change: Blair under fire; Chelsea winning; and Noel Edmonds still out of a job.Once our Internet fix had been satiated we headed across the road for little touristy trinkets at Nads souvenir shop, including a mini-Kava bowl, a mini-four pronged cannibal fork and a mini-lucky turtle. These will be utilised this Christmas as presents to disliked relatives (you'll have to let us know which one you want Brandon).Once we'd handed over wads of Fijian Dollars, the shop kindly rang our little taxi driver for us and in no time Deo had arrived. DEEEEEEOOOOO, Deo come and he take us back home.Back at Wests Motor Inn we killed time by the pool enjoying our first blue sky on Fiji's mainland, and at 2.30pm, Jone our driver from Sun Vacation magically turned up poolside in Mr Ben style.After a fifteen-minute trip to the airport we bid farewell to Jone and checked in at a nice empty counter for flight NZ44 to Rarotonga in the Cook Islands. At the airport's Italian restaurant we sliced through pizza slices in record time before negotiating our way through security checks. Once frisks were completed we ran a corridored gauntlet of duty-free shops all promising better prices than the next. We tested this promise by offering the last of our Fijian Dollars that amounted to $19 in exchange for two bottles of Jacobs Creek that were on offer at $24 and they accepted. Bartering at an airport duty-free!Our quarter-full flight left on time and as soon as we were airborne it was time for musical chairs as aisle-seated Japs made kamikaze dashes for the nearest window seats.The free seat in front of me was snapped up in no time and after dinner it was reclining-time for the land of the rising sun. With my laptop open and primed and a nice hot cup of coffee at my lips, the chair in front flipped back to horizontal mode without a word of sayonara or konichi-wa. Well, I could have eaten a plate of raw fish, I only just managed to stop the hot contents of my cup spilling onto expensive Apple circuitry. I've never had a man's face so near to my groin . . . honestly.I'm ashamed to say the air turned blue for a minute and karate chops at 32,000 feet beckoned but after getting the attention of a stewardess she suggested we take the row of seats behind us. Well we would have hated our Japanese friend to have been inconvenienced in any way so we retreated from enemy lines one row. Just remember Pearl Harbour friend (damn, they won that didn't they?).Later on the stewardess came over and asked what I'd like to drink. "White wine please" I answered."Still?" she questioned."Yep, still on the white wine, I just can't say no."[Ph-naar, ph-naar]Soon we were crossing the International Date Line, a topic I'd touched upon in an earlier dispatch, and in the blink of an eye, 8pm on the 2nd of October had turned into 10pm on the 1st. In the time it had taken us to travel back one row; we'd travelled back in time 22 hours. 22 hours more life, yay!We'd spent most of last year 11 hours ahead of the UK and now, in one foul swoop, we were 11 hours behind. If we thought about it too much our brains would have ached so we left it there.Soon we were within range of the Cook Islands, a country that gained its independency from New Zealand in 1965, but still remains closely linked with benefits such as NZ citizenship and financial aid. At 10pm we landed on the main island of Rarotonga, where we were met by the very school-mistressy (bordering on Gestapo), Akaiti Daniel, who one-handedly lassoed a couple of flowery necklaces over our heads and led us to a waiting pickup truck. For 45 minutes we sat in the back waiting for another flight to land which held another couple staying in the same bungalows, until finally we were on our way to Muri Beach and our home for the next week, Aroko Bungalows.Once there, we were shown to a lagoon facing self-contained bungalow. Everything seemed nice enough in the dark and our home had a cooker, fridge freezer, sink, safe and bathroom with a verandah overlooking Muri Lagoon and two of Rarotonga's four motu (islands). We then went for a quick moonlight stroll around the grounds where we came across our neighbours, a couple of Sydneysiders, although Paul was originally from Sarf London and Leisha was a Kiwi. Typical Sydney residents. After they'd filled us in on Rarotonga's finer points we withdrew to bed suffering from International Date Line Lag.02/10/04 AGAIN!We woke to our second 2nd October in 24 hours, and to the 7am sound of beating drums signalling the lead runner in this year's 30km Round Rarotonga Road Race. The island was beginning a week-long festival of running events including a relay and a cross-island jaunt.Also on the island's activity list today was the Saturday morning Punanga Nui market held in the main town of Avarua. While waiting for the bus that would take us there we bumped into the other couple who checked in with us last night, a German guy with lower lip hair to match mine and his English-born girlfriend who now lived in Stuttgart. Can't anyone live in their own countries nowadays?From what we could see from the bus, Rarotonga seemed a lovely island, well looked after by the locals with nice looking restaurants en route to the town. The main town of Avarua itself looked clean and tidy, with a little shopping mall, supermarket, cafes and was as civilized as anything we'd seen in New Zealand.We strolled around a market bustling with local produce but with an air of a village fete, and today it was doubling as the finish line for the round-island road race where we saw the last couple cross the finish line, covering the 30km ring road in a little over 5 hours. This was a happy market, full of smiling Polynesians who didn't seem all that desperate for your trade, and treated the morning more as a chance for a chinwag to catch up on each other's weeks.We then walked into town and headed straight for the police station to turn ourselves in. To get around the island you need a scooter, and to get a scooter you need a Cook Islands drivers licence, and to get a drivers licence you need to pass a short test, so after booking our tests with the local fuzz we headed next door to the Polynesian Bike Hire where we hired a 125cc Suzuki for the outrageous sum of $113 for six days (£40) before popping next door again to await our test.After a 40-minute wait a rotund policeman appeared and gathered the five of us who were waiting for a quick rundown of the route and what he would be looking for. Our route would take us half a mile round the block and he'd be looking for us to indicate at turnings and stop at junctions. Straightforward?As Soph and I were sharing a scooter I'd take my test first with three others and Soph would have to be subjected to a solo test. The four of us set off and after three minutes we'd all passed with flying colours. Enter Soph.Soph hadn't ridden a scooter for a good fourteen years and on the policeman's command she shot off out of control like a Hell's Angel on speed, finally coming to a standstill forty yards up the road whereupon the policeman signalled her to push the bike back. On our test form he scribbled: Mr Pass and Mrs Fail.For the first time in twenty years someone had failed the Cook Islands Scooter Test and Soph was distraught, even more so than when she failed her driving test. The PC offered his advice which was to get a more manageable lightweight 50cc scooter. I didn't mind chauffeuring Soph around the island, but Soph wanted her own bike, she wanted her independency. She was an Independent Lady.Back at the police station I had my photo taken and received a snazzy little laminated drivers licence. When Soph saw the licence she didn't care about being able to drive solo around the island, she just desired a Cook Islands Licence that she could flash like a Platinum credit card. The brunette was now on a mission to get that card and nothing was going to stop her.After a quick supermarket shop we cruised back to Muri Beach for lunch at Sails restaurant, a nice eatery overlooking a lagoon full of small boats, canoes and windsurfers. After a bit of an explore we changed for dinner and ventured down the road to 'That's Pasta' - they were Italian.Considering the owners were from Milan our meal couldn't have been less Italian if they'd tried. Our overcooked pasta was served without Parmesan, without bread, without a pepper grinder, without candles and without an espresso to finish. They did have a CD playing Pavarotti's greatest hits though, but that soon started jumping only to be replaced by country and western. Still, it filled a hole.3/10However much Rarotonga seemed better than Fiji's main island of Viti Levu, it still had the same characteristically cloudy and windy weather. Nevertheless off we went on a round-island tour on our scooter stopping first at Avana Harbour and a circle of seven stones commemorating the starting point for seven canoes that sailed all the way to New Zealand in the fourteenth century, carrying settlers that were the ancestors of today's Maoris.Next up was an old church in the town of Matavera, oddly built from limestone and slabs of hard coral, it's now looking a little weathered, and as we passed through Avarua once more a rusting boiler from the shipwreck of the SS Maitai could be seen offshore jutting out of the water. It had wrecked in 1916 with no loss of life but with total losses to its cargo of Model T Fords.Through the main town we passed the airport, parliament, a golf course and Black Rock from where spirits of the dead supposedly commence their journey to the afterworld. We then made our way south along the west coast, past a massive concrete jungle called the Edgewater Resort and soon stinging rain began to fall. Being a Sunday, the Cultural Village and the Highland Paradise, the star attractions on this side of the island, were both closed so on we sped through puddles down to the south-western corner of the island where we stopped briefly at the colourful resort of The Rarotongan to try and reserve a table for their weekly Island Night show but were informed that all 200 places had sold out.We continued east along the south coast and past the abandoned ghostly site of an ambitious government project to build a Sheraton Resort, but it went belly-up in the early 90s. Nowadays it's just as much a tourist attraction as if had been finished, but it's responsible for half of the country's national debt.After 30km we were arriving back on the east coast and Muri Beach, and in dire need of some lunch we burnt rubber in a mad dash through the rain in a vain attempt to catch lunchtime at Tamarind House, a nice restaurant near town, but arrived five minutes too late and had to settle for meat pies and pate from the local 7/11 store, the only shop seemingly open on a Sunday. We even got through a bottle of red wine, our first red in a while as it was that type of weather. It rained for the rest of the day forcing us to stay indoors and enjoy a protein-packed dinner of nuts and crisps.4/10The temperamental South Pacific weather had calmed down this morning, but heavy cloud still hung overhead. Nevertheless we scooted into town and straight to Rarotongan Rentals, a company that hired out little 50cc runarounds suitable for driving test flunkies like the brunette. Soph's ride resembled an Eastern Bloc bicycle but could reach a top speed of 50kmh with a tailwind, of which Rarotonga had an abundance. We then headed for the Cop Shop for Soph's re-test, where I popped off to an Internet café to avoid putting her off by pulling immature faces.An hour later I arrived back at the Nick where Soph sat clutching a piece of paper that had a four-letter word scribbled onto it. Pass? Fail?PASS!Soph had completed four left hand corners without a hitch and had gained her little laminated licence of success. We went off to the popular Mama's Café for a slap up brunch to celebrate then headed to the nearest dive shop to invest in masks and snorkels for our two weeks in the Cook Islands.Mrs Kneivel and I promptly shot straight back to Muri Beach where we pulled up in a cloud of dust opposite a little roadside joint called 'Fruits of Rarotonga' selling jams and chutneys. Apparently this section of sea offered the best snorkelling on the island so we adjusted our newly bought snorkel gear and headed into the deep. Being windy again, the waves were a bit choppy leading to inhalations of salt water every now and again, but in between coughing fits we spotted heaps of fish that we'd seen in Fiji including some really big tasty looking ones that would have gone down very well with some dill sauce. At times the water was a bit murky due to the conditions and nice coral was few and far between but we did spot Cornetfish, Goatfish, Butterflyfish, Trevally, Unicornfish and my favourite the Adidas fish due to it's similarity to a three-striped running shoe (it's since been identified as a Picasso Triggerfish). Our newly acquired fish 'ID' card was beginning to come in very handy. Sadly we never spotted a Michael Fish as apparently he's retired.Dinner that evening was spent just along the road at 'Flame Tree', which used to be the best on the island, saying that, if 'That's Pasta' is all it's up against, that claim to fame couldn't be hard to attain. We'd go as far as to say the food was 'nice' especially the seafood chowder, the staff were 'nice' and the décor was 'nice'. The Flame Tree was nice, but we were sure the island could offer more on the restaurant front.5/10On the way into town today we stopped by 'Tamarind House' to book a table for dinner before heading to Mama's Café where we . . . OK I, indulged in a colossal $12.95 'Power Breakfast' of fatty fried fare, while Soph had a wimpy breakfast of fruit and cereal.Suitably stuffed we set off along the road to the Philatelic Bureau to buy a set of two quirky Cook Islands $3 notes in mint condition for $6 (funnily enough). Another souvenir that's going to end up in the attic collecting dust, we just can't get enough of them.Our old foe, the weather, was behaving himself today and at times the sun would peak out from behind it's cloudy curtains, at which point we'd strip off and drop spread-eagled to the pavement to soak up gold-dust rays of sunshine.We set off once more to 'Fruits of Rarotonga' where we braved a strong current that had us doggy-paddling like mad just to remain still in the water, but after fifteen-minutes of thrashing around we retired to the beach to read, battling a gale that would flick our pages over relentlessly. Although this didn't bother Soph, whose reading prowess has reached Superman proportions due to the 4,384 books she's read on our travels, and a two-second scan per page is all she now needs.We drove back to Avarua for a swift beer before heading towards the airport to watch the beginning of the 'Round Rarotonga Relay Race', featuring unfit teams of five or ten runners from local companies, schools and families, and a team from the USA full of finely tuned athletes who were here to win even if it meant not having fun. U-S-A, U-S-A . . .While the relay race made its way clockwise around the island, we made our way anti-clockwise on our scooters to see of we could complete a loop without encountering rain, but sure enough the west coast delivered a passing rain cloud that followed us all the way home where we bypassed the relay going the other way.Our restaurant of choice tonight was 'Tamarind House', and it had a reputation as being the finest on the island. Once again, reputations count for nothing when a couple of gluttons like us are in town so off we went to claim our reserved table for two.First impressions were good as we took our table in a newly renovated open-sided plantation house. The staff were probably the smartest dressed waitresses you're likely to see, and our view was across an immaculate lawn and out to sea.We ordered glasses of bubbly and multi-national starters of Vietnamese fishcakes and a Tunisian salad. Everything was 'good slop' as we like to say in the restaurant-trade and we followed with mains of chicken curry and chicken Creole which were superb in taste and size of portions. The waitresses manners were as sharp as their tropical uniforms as well as every five-minutes one would come over for a lengthy chinwag to see if everything was OK, and they even seemed genuinely interested in where we'd been for the past year without even a hint of a yawn (take note everyone).We finished with ice-cream and liqueur coffees at which stage there wasn't a free table to be seen in all the restaurant. Word gets around quickly and this would have to be the finest restaurant in the Cook Islands, if not the South Pacific.We scootered home at a steady 30kmh along pitch-black roads, keeping an eye out for wandering dogs, of which this island has many.6/10Once again we headed into town for a poached egg breakfast-cum-lunch at Mama's Café followed by a leaf through the local bookshop.Having tested all the Internet cafes in town for speed and cost, we shot back down to Muri Beach Internet café which was proving by far the quickest and cheapest on the island. After a quick browse we headed to the south coast with a view to sampling another recommended snorkelling area opposite the Starfish Café, but once again Rarotonga was proving a bit too gusty for watery pursuits so we zipped back to Muri for a nose around some swish lodgings called the Pacific Resort before heading home under threateningly dark clouds.Back home I got stuck into the chunky tabloid that is the eight-page Cook Islands News which scraped the bottom of the information-barrel for interesting news but found nothing. The weather forecast did say 'isolated showers' though, so they were spot on, and at that precise moment a passing cloud let go of its isolated shower, duly isolating our bungalow.For fear of running into another downpour we dined that evening on home-cooked pesto spaghetti that would have shamed the little Italian restaurant down the road.7/10On our regular sortie into town this morning we gave Mama's Café a miss to try out another greasy-spoon imaginatively called 'The Café', a place our trusty Lonely Planet guide had raved about as it roasted its own coffee on the premises. Although their cooked breakfasts weren't as nice as Mama's, their bowls of latte were delectable, and a table packed with all the latest magazines allowed you to read 'Men's Fitness' while tucking into a greasy mound of streaky bacon. It was about as sunny as it was ever going to be today, so we made our way back to our bungalow to catch some rays on the lagoon-side decking in front of our verandah.While Soph read, I fired up the laptop for a quiet spot of laptopping. Suddenly a Kiwi lady, as mad as cut snakes, announced herself and invited us to hang around tonight as she and her husband were going to have a barbecue. Sadly we were both washing our hair this evening so we couldn't make it. While she hung around chatting, the Anglo-German couple who had arrived with us made an appearance with Gerhard wearing a multi-coloured posing pouch that left nothing to the imagination, but safe to say I won't be eating bratwurst in the near future. To complete the gang, Mr Kiwi-bloke then turned up fresh from the Ministry of Funny Walks, and if I had a Pound for everyone who said "I hope that's not work you're doing", I would have had £4 within five minutes.We left our four neighbours chin-wagging and crept away under cover of a predictably strong wind, and before long we were back down the road at the Fruits of Rarotonga snorkel site to brave a two-foot swell. As soon as we dived beneath we saw probably the biggest fish we'd ever seen, an 80cm long Bluefin Trevally that swam away as soon as we clocked him. It's funny but in the snorkelling world it's the bigger fish who are more nervous than the little tiddlers, unless of course it's a shark. Maybe they realise how delicious they are steamed in banana leaves and served with a timbale of rice and a soupcon of parsley sauce?We watched a fellow snorkeller hand-feeding droves of pecking fish with what looked like fish skins, until the food fell from his hands and was gobbled down in one by a seabed scavenger that crawled out from beneath a rock. Back on the beach we endured the relentless wind for as long as we could before heading back home to splash on cheap cologne for dinner.During a previous visit to the local Internet café we'd overheard the owner raving about another Italian restaurant in town, so we thought we'd give it a go tonight as the chances of two awful Italian bistros on the same island was a long shot. Being famished, as usual, we turned up on Portofino's doorstep bang on opening time and we're courteously met by a proprietor with a very Canadian Italian accent. We were shown to a table whereupon our hostess began a well-rehearsed robotic rundown of the menu, reciting more learnt lines than Vinnie Jones has ever had to deal with in his movie career.She began:"Hello, my name is Nancy McCartney and my husband Bruce and I would like to welcome you to our restaurant. We have gained a reputation for making the best pizzas and garlic bread on the island, among other things . . ."And on she went, flicking over our menu pages as she went.A quarter of an hour later and she'd left us to scan the menu ourselves. The guy in the Internet café had gushed about 'The Meat Lovers' pizza non-stop so my mind was made up immediately. 'It's superb but it's expensive', the guy had repeated five times to a customer. Soph went for the lasagne, a dish our Nancy had talked up to a pastafied fever pitch, and on the back of the menu was Nancy and Bruce's life story telling the love story of how they met in Montreal and got married four years ago on Rarotonga. Falling madly in love with the island as well as each other, they decided to relocate for good and bought the Portofino restaurant last year. Aaaaaah, you couldn't help but flood with fondness for our Bruce and Nancy.Our large starters of chicken liver pate and garlic bread served as a precursor for what was to come. My large pizza was the size of a wagon wheel, and I'm not talking about the chocolate variety, and was smothered in sliced meaty goodness with a thick base of Bolognese. Soph's lasagne was served in a casserole dish and had more thick layers than an Eskimo in winter.Fifteen minutes later and we were both beaten hands down even with the help of an ice cold bottle of white to wash it all down with, but it wasn't for wont of trying because both dishes were scrummy. These Canadians could sure show the Milanese down the road a thing or two.By the time we'd finished the restaurant was as full as our bellies, and Nancy would flit around all the newcomers' tables with her Budget length speech, and not a line would be bodged or forgotten.After crème brulees and coffee we endorsed the guestbook with a glowing tribute and signed a credit card stub for $115. Cheap at half the price, the high quality matched the big portions, and somehow our 125cc scooter creaked home with its cargo of fledgling Pavarottis.8/10This afternoon we were to leave Rarotonga to head for another Cook Island, or atoll to be more specific. Aitutaki was our next destination, a 40-minute flight north, so bags were to be packed once more.What our hosts failed to tell us though was that they only do international flight transfers, even though we'd already paid in advance for them. International flights to and from Rarotonga only come and go at night, and our domestic flight was at 5pm. We deduced from our hostess' attitude that a fifteen-minute drive to the airport would obviously have broken her daily routine of doing absolutely nothing. Nevertheless our hostess offered:"If you pack ze bags in ten minuten I vill drop zem at ze airport!"Akaiti Daniel, who'd picked us up from the airport and had nonchalantly slung a couple of flowery necklaces over our heads, definitely had had a bit of German in her . . . probably Goebbels in 1942.With the threat of a South Pacific firing squad looming over us, we packed our rucsacs in a new record for the year and dumped them in the back of her pick-up truck, and soon she was off down the road with her KraftWerk tape blaring.We scootered into town a little later with our hand luggage and stopped off at The Café for our last Rarotongan fry-up before wasting an hour in town checking we hadn't missed any attractions.One attraction was the National Museum, housed in a newish-looking cultural centre just outside town. We hovered at the doorway peering in to see if it looked worthy of a $5 entry fee, but decided against it. Besides, the T-Shirt factory outlet shop down the road looked a lot more inviting with its rows of tacky tops. We somehow resisted the urge to fork out $10 on a 'Rarotongan Ruff Ryderz' vest and headed further into town for my monthly trim-up. Hermie's Beauty Salon was at Cook's Corner and was run by a Phillipino duo. After I'd made the sharp-eyed observation that Rarotonga was a bit quieter than Manila, the hairdresser asked me if I'd been, as if my face looked familiar. I said no, resisting the urge to say 'Do I look like a forty-something saddo? After which I looked straight-ahead into the mirror and caught sight of a forty-something saddo staring straight back.With hair shorn we stopped by Cook's Corner Café for a cold one before dropping my scooter off at the rentals, leaving just Soph's 50cc bone-shaker to get us to the airport. We still had an hour and a half to eradicate so we headed for a local beach a stone's throw from the airport, and as luck would have it the sun was out and the sky was blue, then again it usually is when we're just about to leave.After 90-minutes bronzing we dropped Soph's not-very-mean machine off and walked across the road to the airport to catch our flight.Rarotonga had been a windswept, rain-lashed paradise island and funnily enough we liked it. It's hard to explain but there was just something about the place. It was just the right size, neat and orderly, had very good restaurants and cafes, quiet roads, happy people (except for our hostess) and plenty of things going on to keep everyone occupied. It was lucky the weather was ordinary or we may never have left, we just chose the wrong week of the year, still, we did get Cook Islands Drivers Licences, our favourite souvenirs so far. It was clear to see the island's handsome big brother, New Zealand, must have rubbed off on little Rarotonga.Week 49 of 50 was unbelievably nearly upon us in the shape of another slice of paradise, Aitutaki, so get your spikes on, we're on the home straight . . .Mr Pass & Mrs Failxx
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097964240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097964240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097964240/tpod.html Sat, 16 Oct 2004 21:11:48 -0400 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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Nanuya Lailai, Fiji

26/09/04Our solar-powered showers were cold this morning due to the last 18 sunless hours and our muffin-laden breakfast was served with a light smattering of rain from a passing cloud. Last night's thunderstorm though, may have done the trick of clearing the skies as we hit the beach under a relatively blue canopy with just the odd bubblings of nimbus on the horizon.By lunchtime, what wispy clouds there had been, were relentlessly burnt off by our first authentic Fijian sun, and boy was he a hot fella. After a chicken burger lunch and a game of travel scrabble under the shade we headed once more for the beach to do serious harm to our overly white flesh.The recipe was: lightly coat skin with a drizzle of Hawaiian Tropic Factor 0 and garnish with a sprinkle of sand, heat under a hot grill of a sky for five hours turning occasionally. Once tingling with first-degree burns flambé briskly with olive oil and serve under pure white clothing for best effect. Voila et Bon Agonie.While cooking we were met with the sight of a seaplane landing in the lagoon to offload guests at our resort. Now THAT was the way to arrive and after finding out it was just $100 each one way we were wishing we'd booked a flight. The seaplane would then take off before it would seemingly hurtle towards us on the beach and swing a sharp right to buzz low over the shoreline.By 4 we were crispy enough and ready for the shade of the bure and a nice solar shower that was now piping hot after the day's heat wave, and we were down in the restaurant by 6 for pre-dinner gin and tonics while watching the sunset across the Blue Lagoon.I think it's time for that phrase to make an appearance once more:'THIS IS THE LIFE'27/9Cordery's theory of travelivity:For every 'This is the life' uttered, there is an equal and annoyingly opposite reaction ready to bite you . . . and it's usually a mosquito.Last night we ran out of Mozzie Zappers and were inundated with humming fly pasts and mosquitoes trying their luck with a surprise fleshy touchdown. Our mossie nets that were tucked redundantly away under the bed had to be hauled back out and strung back up. For the remainder of the night squadrons of mossies performed figure-of-eight reconnaissance sorties around our two single nets and two even managed to find a way into Soph's confines, while three sat perched just above my head buzzing away all night with plans on how to get at my juicy roasted shoulders.After a restless night we had breakfast and borrowed the resort's two kayaks to go exploring. We may not have been allowed on the Blue Lagoon beach but they weren't going to stop us using their sea space. We paddled up to the restricted area, hung around and admired the scene in full view of the Blue Lagoon cruise ship before smugly heading back having infiltrated enemy lines.After dropping off the kayaks we grabbed a pair of snorkels to see what was going on down below, and after thinking the dark patches we saw just offshore were rocks, we were pleasantly surprised to find they were clumps of coral and home to hundreds of fish.There were beautiful clusters of anemones, blue and white antler coral and bulbous multi-coloured brains and the fish were as colourful and tropical as anything we'd seen on the Great Barrier Reef including little Nemos feistily guarding their anemone homes from other fish and especially snorkellers.The floor of the ocean was also a pleasant minefield of sea snakes, sea cucumbers and bright blue starfish, and although it wasn't that sunny today, the underwater visibility was still pretty good as we clicked away with our underwater camera. After lunch the skies clouded over once more which led us to retire back to the bure to relax and read with a new stock of Mozzie Zappers and Bryson's latest offering from the resort's book exchange.We went to dinner at 8 and found the whole American yachting fraternity had turned up as well. About seven boatloads of Yankees were doodling and dandling at the bar and all seemed to know each other, or at least was just introduced to one another in that inimitable North American style. All forty or so of them had nothing on their feet even though they probably owned successful shoe emporiums back in downtown Kissimmee, I mean, whatever happened to nice chunky-soled deckside shoes?We grabbed the only available table and ate a superb, although noisy, meal of pumpkin soup, garlic prawns, mahimahi fish and chicken spaghetti all washed down with a bottle of Burgundy. No sooner had we dabbed our mouths daintily with a napkin, we were being pleasantly but frantically ushered from our table by Clive to make room for the marauding 'Barefoot Brigade' who had finished draining the bar and were now looking to sweep through the kitchen like a plague of locusts.Meanwhile Lance and Terri were doing their best impressions of Basil and Sybil Fawlty (don't mention the Vietnam War) and were anxiously jumping around in a mad effort to find enough tables and chairs to house our demanding guests. In between courses, a panicky but pleased Lance would come over to us briefly to tell us that this was their busiest night since opening and you could almost see the Dollar bills ringing up in his eyes.We finally left them to it to return to the hills and hopefully out of range of any loud Californian accents, but the drone of raucous rowdiness could be heard til the early hours until it was time for them to lurch drunkenly into their waiting launches to somehow find their way back to their luxury yachts in the pitch black.The noise wasn't overly bad but we finally got to sleep safe in the knowledge that for every group of Americans in the world bugging Brits, there'd be another three groups of loud, belching, mooning Brits irritating our trans-Atlantic buddies somewhere on this Earth.28/9Breakfast was served by hung over staff this morning as drinks were constantly on the house last night, and the lagoon seemed eerily quiet as the regatta of richness had cruised away early to hunt for more unsuspecting resorts.Being a typical cloudy day we decided to hike across land this morning back over to Sunrise Resort for another creepy encounter with the 'Dorm of the Dead'. A track led inland from the beach and we climbed to a height that gave us a 180-degree view of the whole Blue Lagoon where we took five pictures all of different points ready to stick together once home for a lovely panoramic shot (What do you mean they never come out very good?).The inland route to the 'Other Side' took only 20-minutes through rolling hills and mangroves, and once over in ZombieLand we spun on our heals for the trip home, checking behind us as we went for any unwanted undead.We lunched on chicken burgers and a tandooriless uncooked tandoori chicken salad before noticing that there were no cruise liners moored in the Blue Lagoon which meant there would be no day trippers clogging up the beach thus giving us a chance of stepping onto the sanctified sand ourselves. We spoke to Lance about the possibility and he told us to go and speak to a man called Saulsy who evidently cleaned and protected the beach from any unwanted backpackers that would make the place look untidy. Lance issued our instructions, lent us some snorkel gear and gave us some stale bread from the kitchen to attract the fish. Once geared up we made our way 10-minutes along the coast to the 'Keep Out' sign and saucily ventured beyond the point of no return where we were met by a lump of man, covered in tattoos who stood in our way. This was turning into a modern day fairy tale and we were Hansel and Gretel attempting to cross the bridge to the 'Blue Lagoon' guarded by the terrible ogre."Are you Saulsy?" was our first rehearsed line. He nodded."Can we walk along your beach to feed the fishes, please?" was our second line.He asked us where we were from."Nanuya Island Resort."Now the crunch question of who sent us."Lance"His eyes narrowed before finally a smirking grimace splintered across his face. He shook our hands and let us by as he showed his true Shrek-like colours, and we lived happily ever after for the rest of the day.So here we were, swaggering across THE Blue Lagoon beach with not a soul around apart from the friendly ogre in the woods. We'd need to walk the whole length to get to the far end where apparently the coral was at its best and the fish were biting. We arrived at a small sandbar jutting out into the lagoon and got ourselves snorkelled up ready to enter the exact same sea where Brooke had swum freely with gay abandon and . . . don't get me started again.We walked into the calm water with handfuls of bread and could see straight away that some fish had already got the scent and were hovering near the shoreline ready to pounce. And pounce they did as a mob of zebra-patterned Scissortail Sergeants jumped us and began to bite chunks from our hands forcing us to hold the bread above our heads and out of the water. Every now and again we'd lower the bread and suddenly they'd be on us again, swimming up to our masks, brushing against our legs and at one point actually nipping us on the arms. These aggressive fish must have been relatives of the Piranha and they were after our dough, so to speak. We'd never seen so many fish in one place and a little further out were large clumps of coral, home to thousands more fish, and once our bread supply was exhausted we were stalked by schools of hungry fish. The Blue Lagoon certainly looked a picture from above the surface but we didn't expect the sub-surface view to be just as fabulous, and it was obvious the fish had been 'domesticated' to a certain level by the boatloads of day trippers who usually frequent the area.We spent an hour and a half exploring every avenue of coral, but not wanting to outstay our welcome, we made our way along a still deserted beach back to our resort to thank Lance again for pulling some strings for us.Later at an eerily yachtieless dinner we enjoyed mains of lobster and tuna and later we had a few tequilas with the Italian couple Ricci and Rosa who had arrived the same day as us. We had a long comical chat with them in pigeon-French as their English wasn't good and our Italian stretched to ciao, buena sera and bolognese. What we did understand was that they were on their honeymoon having spent a week in New Zealand previously and were going to the mainland tomorrow to spend a week on the mainland, God help them.29/9We woke to our first clear blue Fijian sky and booked a water taxi to take us to Honeymoon Island, a fifteen-minute speedboat ride away. Lance and Terri had recommended we go to this bona fide desert island as we were likely to be the only ones there.An enormous cool box was made up for us full of sandwiches, fruit, chocolate, nuts and water, and at 10.30 Joe's Water Taxi turned up and shot us over to the island dodging areas of coral as it went. We arrived to find another couple sat on the island's tiny beach but an hour later they were being picked up, leaving us in isolation.The island was quite rocky and about the size of a football pitch with just a quarter of its coastline being sandy. Our view was of the island of Tavewa with its green hilly contours, across a narrow turquoise strait with deep blue patches of water showing tell-tale signs of coral. We donned our masks and took to the sea and although it didn't match yesterday's action, it was still full of tiny neon blue fish and ever-present clownfish basking in their Nemo notoriety.At lunch we ate as much as we could from the cool box but five sandwiches were too much even for me and for the remainder of the afternoon we sunbathed and snorkelled in solitude with just the drone of passing water taxis to break the silence. We were thankfully picked up at 4pm as we envisaged ourselves being marooned like Tom Hanks in Castaway, which was funnily enough filmed on another island a mile or so further north and once back in semi-civilization we headed for the shade of our bungalow to cover ourselves with gallons of aftersun.At dinner the peaceful afternoon was well and truly broken by a family of yachties demanding to be the centre of attention and it was clear they hadn't made it far enough up the evolutionary scale for them to alter the loudness of their voices. After main courses, for once we actually had enough stomach capacity for dessert, especially this being a 'dessert island' and everything. Mud cake and banoffi pies were ordered along with five of the biggest slabs of chocolate cake they had which I asked George our waiter to insert in the mouths of the noisy yachties. A normally cheerless George cracked up.30/9Word got around this morning that the new couple in town were from Chechnya, although they seemed very nice and not in the least bit rebellious. Soph was at the breakfast buffet at one stage and she thought the guy may have pushed in to get at the fruit. I had to explain to Soph that he probably didn't mean to as he was just a rebel without a paw-paw.As it turned out Lance, being the Fijian Kiwi that he was, had got his European countries muddled and it turned out they were from the Czech Republic. Remember, this is the man who was busy rewiring his kitchen during an electrical storm.It was a sunny day again in the Yasawas and being typical Brits who were last week moaning at cloud cover, today we decided to winge about the heat and so seeked shelter on a hammock under the shade of a palm tree. After lunch the heat intensified so we ventured into the warmish waters again for our last snorkel in Fiji before chilling back in the bure until dinner.The chefs must have known it was our last night tonight as a new addition to the menu board read 'Chicken Curry'. Well I don't mind if I do. After a commendable Indian feast we hit the bar for an after-dinner JD and a Baileys, and bought all the staff beers while chatting to Lance for a while.01/10After breakfast we packed our bags and settled a wine-laden four-figure bill with Terri, and spent the remainder of the morning stretched out on the beach while taking mental pictures of the surrounding ideallic scene. A last lunch of beef burgers were had at Nanuya Island Resort before it was time to jump into the little launch that would take us out to the Yasawa Flyer boat. We said our good-byes to everyone and headed out into the lagoon to await our 1.45pm ferry back to the mainland, and along with two other boats from other resorts we bobbed lazily offshore for twenty minutes until the Flyer arrived, whereupon we clambered aboard and made our way upstairs to the upper deck to sit in a nice quiet air-conditioned compartment with the driver of the vessel himself.Once more the boat stopped off to pick up and drop off island-hoppers en-route and by 6pm we were pulling into Denarau Marina. Once on dry land we jumped on a free shuttle bus heading for Nadi and were dropped off at Wests Motor Inn, handily placed for the airport the following day.Our room at the Wests Motor Inn bought us crashing down to Earth and looked like a neglected dental surgery with flaking paint and flickering strip lighting, but it was just for the one night and the restaurant's food was pretty tasty and more importantly amply portioned. In a reserved area of the restaurant sat twenty young Neanderthals tucking into a buffet, and from their clothing and sheer bulkiness I figured they were the touring New Zealand Under 18s Rugby Union team who were playing their Fijian counterparts the following day.For the last week we'd been stranded on a desert island with no contact from the outside world, no newspapers, no Internet and no TV, and it had been everything we'd imagined it would be, paradise. The skies were blue (for some of the time), the locals were friendly, the snorkelling was out of this world, the food was delicious and after nearly six months of constant travelling in Australasia it was just what we needed. A word of advice though for anyone thinking of visiting Fiji: skip the main island of Viti Levu, and head straight for the Yasawas if you want to experience real Fijian paradise.Tomorrow we were to fly off over the confusing International Date Line for a three-hour flight to Rarotonga in the Cook Islands. How would the Cooks measure up to Fiji? Stick with us to find out . . .The Blonde Haired Boy No-One Knows The Name Of From The Blue Lagoon* & Brooke Shieldsxx*Except maybe MovieNerd Number 1 Brendan.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097962380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097962380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097962380/tpod.html Sat, 16 Oct 2004 21:04:19 -0400 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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Yasawa Islands, Fiji

23/09/04Our driver, Jone, was waiting for us in Hideaway's reception at the un-holiday time of 6.30am. He was to take us back to Nadi where we'd catch the Yasawa Flyer boat that would take us out to the Yasawa Islands.At 8am Nadi was enjoying its own little rush hour as we battled through the High Street and on to Denarau Marina just outside town. Once dropped off at the marina we headed for Cardo's Café for egg and bacon rolls while waiting for the check-in counter to open. After checking in at 9am we boarded the 'Big Yellow Boat' and took a couple of seats inside ready for the 9.15am departure. To begin with the boat's route would take us via the nearby Mamanuca Islands with stop-offs at the tiny one resort islands of Bounty, Beachcomber, Treasure and South Sea before heading north to the Yasawa Group via the islands of Kuata, Waya, Naviti, Tavewa and finally our little island of Nanuya Lailai some 4 and a half hours sailing time away.The boat left a typically cloudy Nadi on time and every seat was taken with families, couples and backpacking island-hoppers. At each island the boat would come to a standstill just offshore, whereupon the local resort would send out their speedboat to drop-off and pick up guests and supplies, leading to an unsteady mid-ocean rendezvous between the two vessels.As we made our way north slaloming through little islands the clouds thinned along with the tourists who were hopping off at the various resorts, and finally at 1.45pm we arrived at Nanuya Lailai island, scene of the 'Blue Lagoon' movie and we immediately saw why. Other islands we'd seen on the way had long stretches of palm-lined sandy beaches, beachfront thatched huts and deserted island feels to a certain extent, but Nanuya Lailai was the epitome of picture perfect paradise with its calm lagoon made up of a spectrum of blues, an outlook across to three other islands and small enough to warrant the title of desert island.A little boat was sent out to pick us up along with a honeymooning couple from Italy and after a one-minute transfer from the Yasawa Flyer we were setting foot on dry land ready to be castaways for eight days. Nanuya Island Resort was a new resort recommended by our Fiji travel guru, Lynne, back in Nadi, and before long we had met the brother/sister combo of Lance and Terri who looked after the place for their Kiwi-Fijian family. Having opened on 1st August, Lance was counting the days and told us the place was 53 days old which could spell teething problems. We shall see.The resort had eight bures in total, four large ones on the beachfront at a backpacker-alarming $300 (£105) per night, and four treehouse bures perched on the hill at a more manageable $175 per night of which one was ours.We were shown to bure number 8 at the far end of the resort via a steepish walkway while a handyman worked away on a much-needed handrail. Our cottage looked very smart from first impressions, painted in camouflage shades of green and brown with a nice rustic thatched roof. Inside was a very contemporary affair with big plain IKEA-ish bed draped in mossie nets taking up most of the floor space and a darkish little washbasin area that led into a semi-alfresco room with solar-powered shower and toilet. All windows were sans-glass, instead using mossie screens and big solid wooden blinds, and a double-door led out onto a verandah promising a sensational view of the blue lagoon which was sadly hindered by a dense jungle scene. What our lodgings lacked in storage space was more than made up for in comfort and style.We made our way down for a much-needed lunch and sat under the large 'taba' as they exotically call it, or 'main open-air building' as we ordinarily call it. Half the area was taken up by the restaurant with a bar area dividing the lounge area with a big L-shaped sofa set-up and small boutique selling jewellry, clothes and toiletries. After delicious chicken burgers and wraps were demolished we went off to explore the area. Large two-person string hammocks were dotted around the resort grounds and pairs of wooden slatted sun loungers were positioned at intervals along the beach looking out onto a lagoon speckled with yachts and catamarans that bobbed around adding to the area's air of paradise. The actual 'Blue Lagoon' section was a ten-minute walk along the beach and before setting off Terri explained to us that it was actually a private property owned by 'Blue Lagoon Cruises', and when a cruise ship was moored in the bay, we wouldn't be allowed on its hallowed sand. Blimming cheek!We walked up to the beach undeterred and were met by a sign saying 'No Entry Beyond This Point - Private Property'. The beach beyond the sign didn't look a whole lot different to our beach, but it still had an aura about it and a faint whiff of Brooke Shield's fair skin that once frolicked brazenly and unabashed along this shoreline . . .. . . time out to conjure up and fantasize over the image . . . and continue.We weren't really taken with the thought of being grappled to the ground by a large Fijian security guard to have sand kicked in our faces, so we opted for a quick waggle of our toe over the boundary before performing a U-turn.Our trip back took us by a number of well heeled families sunning themselves and taking up valuable sand-space were their little motorised launches ready and waiting to take them back to their floating villas. Scattered around the self-made millionaires were society-made backpackers sampling the good life. On the eastern windward side of the island were a number of budget resorts located on rocky tidal beaches facing a stiff breeze, whereas the Blue Lagoon faced west on the leeward side and was sheltered from any wind. We spent the rest of the afternoon trying to relax on hard wooden loungers, and with the resort still being in its infancy, the foam cushions were yet to be delivered, leaving our pale torsos with nice char-grilled imprints. That evening we were introduced to the two waiters that would be looking after us come dinnertime, and you couldn't have wished for a more perfect double act. George was the straight guy, a six-foot tall bear of a man with a lumbering demeanour, while Clive was the funny man and five and a half feet of happy-go-lucky gayness with a 'Bula' greeting that could shatter a wine glass.The menu was a communal blackboard affair perched next to your table that would have to be read under a single candle's light with the prices nigh on impossible to make out, which was no bad thing. In fact the lighting was atmospheric to the point of being dark with our witty repartee being exchanged between faceless silhouettes, which funnily enough, was again no bad thing. There was no wine list, instead George brought all available bottles to the table to create a 3-D menu, and each had the same $40 price tag independent of quality.We chose crab ravioli and pappadoms(?) to start and for mains I had a superb smoked chicken spaghetti dish while Soph went for the honey-glazed pork even though Patch the Pig was still a very vivid memory, and all was flushed down our throats with a crisp Kiwi Sauvignon Blanc with hints of melon and lime and an underlying underly of underlay.After we'd finished giggling at George and Clive's impromptu comedy act we retired to bed early to store away the mossie nets and switch on an ingenious gadget that sat in the corner of the room. Commonly known as a Mozzie Zapper, it's a little electric hotplate on which sits a tiny blue lozenge that burns away throughout the night letting off fumes of which only the mossie can smell, thus sending them buzzing for cover into the thatched roof for the night, leaving us to our nice firm bed and eleven hours sleep.24/9We woke at eight in our darkened bure and gaily tippy-toed over to the blinds. A quick flick of the release clip would send shards of golden sunshine filtering through our room like a Corn Flakes commercial, whereupon we'd both dress from top to toe in flowing white linen and skip hand-in-hand down to breakfast to greet our fellow guests with sickeningly happy 'Good Mornings'. We couldn't wait.CLOUD.Overnight the weather from the mainland had crept offshore, made its way along the islands to sit waiting for us this morning. Fijian weather was just about getting on our chuffing nerves. Still, we did go down to breakfast to greet everyone with dreary 'Mornin's'.Continental breakfast was included in the rates so we did our best to bloat ourselves with cereal (not Corn Flakes), muffins, toast and fruit, and once sufficiently inflated we wrapped a couple more muffins in napkins to save on lunch costs. Cunning. With the hope of a meteorological miracle we headed ten-foot to the beach where we chose to collapse on sand instead of the wooden barbecues that were the sun loungers, and by mid-morning the cloud had actually thinned a little and faint shadows were being cast. We'd settle for that at the moment.The morning was spent engaging in sandy horizontal activities (and we're not talking post drunken Club 18-30 pub crawls), reading, sleeping, bit more reading, another 40-winks and finally another little read.Every so often a launch would glide onto the beach to check out the new resort in town dropping off Medallion Men, Pearly Women and their newspaper-round ignorant kids for a spot of lunch. Their collective term was 'Yachties' and we'd be seeing, and more annoyingly, hearing a lot more from them. They'd then announce themselves to Lance or Terri letting them know which 90-foot cruiser bobbing in the lagoon was theirs, making sure everyone in a 200-metre radius could hear.We soon became Anti-Yachtie.Our two pilfered muffins from breakfast were never going to see us through til dinner so we lunched on spring rolls and samosas, and pushed our imaginary boat out and ordered another bottle of last night's Sauvignon Blanc.By 4pm we'd seen enough of the lagoon for the day so we went back to our bure to find a sheet of paper on the bed informing us that tonight at 6 the resort was holding a 'Lovo' and 'Meke' night. What's a Lovo and Meke night I hear you say? Or was that 'Oh no, not more useless facts that will neither add value to or help us in our day-to-day lives'. Either way I'm going to tell you, alternatively close your eyes . . . now.'Lovo', meaning earth oven, is a traditional Fijian banquet. A hole is dug in the ground and stones are put inside and heated by an open fire. Food is then wrapped in banana leaves and placed on the hot stones where they're buried for three hours to cook slowly. Whereas 'Meke' is a dance performance that enacts local stories and legends and is usually accompanied with music, handclapping and complementing whoops of approval from the audience.OK, you can open them now.Wearing a vest all day was a bad move on my behalf as what sun there was had reddened my neck and shoulders leaving me with a 'Brit Abroad' vest mark, which meant I couldn't wear an off-the-shoulder number for tonight's special meal. Still, at six on the dot we made our way down to the unearthing of the lovo along with other residents and a large party of amphibious yachties who had crawled onto shore. Three leather-palmed locals using their bare hands expertly performed the unearthing and Lance was on hand to add a running commentary to the proceedings. Once everything was excavated we waited an hour for the food to be prepared while slowly quaffing gin and tonics.Food was then laid out buffet-style and Clive led the famished onlookers on a guided tour of the strange looking fare, especially the vegetables that were not of this world or the western world at least. All the usual meaty and fishy suspects were on parade with thankfully no unusual creatures making a roasted appearance. The vegetables, however, were a peculiar assortment of shapes and colours with only the potato looking familiar. We were led through an array of chopped and mashed taro, cassava, rourou, lolo and other funny-sounding delicacies Bob Geldof might name his children after.We filled our plates with a bit of everything and ordered our third bottle of wine in 24 hours (actually, I think we may be slacking). The meats had been slow-cooked to perfection and the vegetables were also perfectly done, although we wouldn't have known any different, as each of the 14 types of root vegetable tasted the same. Nevertheless we gorged on two heaped platefuls each and it was 'lovo'ley.After finishing our wine we settled down for the 'Meke' and soon a 25-piece troupe from a local village made their way out into the spotlight to the slow beat of a drum, the women in two-piece flowery outfits and the men in one-piece grass skirts. A number of the women were holding flowery necklaces which they hung around the necks of all the ladies, and Clive.A thirty-minute performance of war dances acted out by spear-wielding men and fan dances delivered by the ladies followed, played out to a soundtrack of clacking bamboo and thumping drums.As is the way in all resorts, even the boutiquey type we were now residing in, the audience weren't going to be let off lightly and suddenly we were being pulled out of our seats to engage in a spot of Fijian disco. Obviously the brunette and I can cut a rug with the best of them, but what followed was the easiest dance known to mankind:Stand shoulder to shoulder with a partner or two and entwine arms around each other's backs.Now jog forward four steps.And jog backwards four steps.Repeat steps two and three until everyone gets fed up and/or is ready for another gin and tonic.Things really picked up though by the end of the night as the worldwide favourite that is 'The Conga' reared its snakelike head. This being our favourite dance of all time, we joined the jigging queue of people somehow finding myself at the front. The heady combination of wine and gin went to work on my dancing bones and soon I was leading everyone on a mutant Conga ride incorporating 'Ooops Upside Your Head' flailing arm moves. This wasn't what I was expecting on a desert island, I blame the vegetables.We all then Conga'd to bed.25/9Today's weather forecast? Cloud.After a continental breakfast the size of a small continent we decided to pay the other side of the island a visit. There were two ways to cross over to 'The Other Side' to peer at 'The Children of the Dorm', one was a 20-minute overland walk and the other was a 45-minute round-island route only possible at low tide.It was low tide so off we went clockwise around Nanuya Lailai, clambering over rocky outcrops and treading gingerly through swampy sand. We finally arrived at the backpacker hell of Sunrise Resort with its sidekick establishment Gold Coast next door, and were met by the sight of hung-over zombie-like island-urchins who sat hunched smoking roll-ups outside their 'Dorm of the Dead' accommodation. The wind howled through the thatched roofs and the stench of a $30 a day mealplan wafted through the rafters. It was horrible. Suddenly the sound of dragging feet was heard as they picked up the scent of our secreted breakfast muffins still warm in our pockets. That was the cue for us to leave and so ended scene one of the 'Barely Rich Project'.As we began to walk back round the skies grew grey, and soon it began to spit with rain until we reached the shelter of the Blue Lagoon where we spent the early afternoon stretched out on the sand scanning the cloud cover for any visible breaks, but with no luck. By 3.30pm the skies were bursting with black rain clouds that looked as though they could rupture at any moment, and that moment came a quarter of an hour later as an odd growling sound reverberated around the lagoon as if the thunder clouds were clearing their throats ready for the onslaught, followed by an instant tropical downpour and a mad dash back to the treehouse. Over the next two hours the deluge and the forked lightning built to a crescendo until the biggest crack of thunder we'd ever heard shook the island like an earthquake. It was by no means the longest crack but more like a gunshot from a fifty-foot long rifle. If someone had been hit by it they'd now be a small pile of smoking ashes lying in an empty pair of shorts.At 6 it was still sheeting down so we dug out our tiny umbrella and legged it down to dinner where we were met by Lance who was still in shock after the 5.15pm thunderbolt, especially as he'd been messing around with a couple of bare wires in the kitchen at the time. Electrical work during an electrical thunderstorm?By 7 the rain had finally eased and we ate a delicious White Snapper dinner while listening to a local band knocking out Fijian favourites on their bongos while sipping bowls of Kava.Coming soon . . . Return to the Return to the Blue LagoonThe Brits Abroadxx
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097182140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097182140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/escapetherace/corderysontour/1097182140/tpod.html Thu, 07 Oct 2004 21:58:06 -0400 One year abroad, escaping the rat race.

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Viti Levu, Fiji

17/09/04After a wholesomely unfulfilling breakfast of muffins and yoghurt we left the Bates Motel (otherwise known as the Oakwood Manor Hotel) to head for Auckland Airport.Our flight to Nadi on Fiji's main island of Viti Levu was due off at 11.20am which gave us an hour or so for some duty-free shopping, and after buying a couple of bottles of vin blanc to tide us over our first hour on Fiji, we chanced upon a record store offering $10 CD's from the likes of The Proclaimers and The Combined Marching Bands of the Highland Guards. But that's not all they had, because for the last seven months we'd been keeping a look out for a certain album we'd heard played in a restaurant on Koh Samui, and there it was in all its modern-romantic glory, Tears For Fears: The Collection. Our record collection is complete.We took off ten minutes late under our first clear blue Auckland sky and pinned our foreheads against the window to shed a 'tear for fear' that we may never visit New Zealand again.As we shot north over the South Pacific the clouds began to bubble up gradually, until we were in sight of Fiji and suddenly we were flying over a nice thick blanket of cumulus. We began a steep descent and after a flight-time of three hours we had landed in an overcast Nadi (pronounced Nandi).The temperature was still nudging 30-degrees as we waited 40-minutes in an immigration hall cooled by a couple of ceiling fans set to 'second-hand of a watch' speed. After collecting our bags we shuffled through to the arrivals hall complete with sweat patches in all the right places, where we were met by a representative from Sun Vacations Fiji who adorned our necks with necklaces made from little shells. Sun Vacations were a company we'd booked all our Fijian travel with as we were having no luck getting in contact with anyone else on the island.We were shown to their airport office where we met Lynne Carlos, a Canadian ex-pat who we'd been in constant email contact with whilst in New Zealand. After giving us our accommodation and travel vouchers, and answering our questions, we were introduced to her Fijian husband Jone, whose job it was to ferry us around Fiji in his van.Our first stop, which would take us an hour and a half to reach, would be the Coral Coast along the southern coastline. The main island covers a large area for a Pacific island with a circumference of 500km and is served by a northern coastal road called the King's Road and a southern route called the Queen's Road of which we were to use. We were met by the usual 'paradise' island towns which were, as usual, anything but paradise, and stray animals and children constantly skirted with painful expirations. As is their job, the stereotypical palm trees and lush green countryside did their best to conceal neglected buildings and the standard array of ugly telephone and electricity lines that were plonked around willy-nilly with no apparent thought.Still, most people come to Fiji's mainland to view its sights from within the ten-foot high walls of a nice big resort, and the Coral Coast had it's fair share with The Shangri-La, Outrigger, The Warwick, The Naviti and our pseudo-Pontins paradise of choice, Hideaway Resort.Yep, who needs to actually go out and experience the cultural diversity of the 'real' Fiji when it's all been vacuum-packed into its own little air-bubble of activities, handily diluted for the whole family to enjoy?After checking in, we browsed through Hideaway Resort's bumper catalogue of Fijian delights:7am: Aquarobics7.30am: Power-Walking8am: More Aquarobics10am: Power-AquarobicsNoon: Fun at poolside with your resident wacky Fijian, MC Zany1pm: Table Tennis competition2pm: Ping Pong competition3pm: Volleyball4pm: Aqua-Volley Power Ping PongIt was a full diary, I only hope we find the time for all this cultural diversity.After jotting down the days action we were shown to our accommodation to finally find out where our $300 a night was being spent. It was a bure (cottage) of the semi-detached kind set in a botanical garden of palm trees and tropical plants with a lovely verandah overlooking the sea. All mod-cons were present and correct with air-con, fridge, ensuite and safe, but no TV. Anyway, where were we going to find the time to watch American crime serial re-runs when we had Aqua Power Aerobic Poolside shenanigans at 4pm?Our bure windows were smartly dressed with expensive looking wooden blinds and walls were festooned with prints of Fijian villagers lacking clothes but affluent in appendages. We may have been stranded in this fun factory but whether we relaxed or joined in with watery pranks, we were sure to enjoy our lodgings at least.At 6pm the sun was setting and in the distance we could hear drums signifying the resort's very own sacred torch lighting ceremony, or as Soph preferred 'Happy Hour' at the bar. Suddenly a tiny Fijian man dressed in a grass skirt and war paint sprinted through the grounds carrying a torch whilst lighting little gas beacons dotted along the footpath, giving the whole place a nice atmospheric feel.At 7.30pm we grabbed a poolside table along with 150 other dinner guests and ate a creditable Fijian feast of kokoda (a fishy speciality), smoked salmon, chicken stir fry, chocolate mousse and a cheese board.At 9pm a menu of drunken activities was unleashed upon us with the crowd being whipped up into a frenzy with a family-breaking 'Men versus Women' competition followed at 10pm with the ubiquitous resort disco for over 40s and under 10s. At 8.59pm we left and we would have loved to have blamed jetlag but New Zealand and Fiji are in the same time-zone. Instead we blamed 'Bula Lag' bought on by the constant Fijian greetings of 'Bula' encountered throughout our day, usually pronounced 'Boooooooolah', with the added headache of 'Cloud Lag' as our first day in Fiji began cloudy and ended cloudy . . .18/9. . . and day two began cloudy as well bringing with it, what seemed, the tail of Hurricane Ivan.Still, at least a nice hot breakfast was being served in the restaurant. Soph was merrily tucking into her fresh fruit and muesli while I came to the table with a Jenga-like plateful of four poached eggs, three slices of egg bread, four mini-sausages and a mound of bubble and squeak all swimming in an orange lake of baked beans. Should see me through to dinner.We relaxed on our verandah during the morning looking out onto a sea fringed with a coral reef belt some 200 metres offshore, but any chance of us engaging in a spot of snorkelling were laid to rest as the wind whisked the waves into a foaming vortex of unbridled saltiness.Soph spent the early hours having her bikini line sculpted while I read the hilarious Fiji Times with the ground-breaking news of the man who fell asleep on a bus after a few stiff drinks and was fined $50. What is the world coming to? They should have locked that menace to society up and thrown away the key.Lunch was skipped due to excessive breakfasting and replaced with a half hour jog along the road whereupon every local came out to watch the strange phenomenon and shout 'Bula'. Back at the bure we replaced lost fluids with a nice cold bottle of wine before heading for an early dinner of calamari, crab and tuna followed by gin and tonics at the bar.Tonight's 9pm action on stage was a remake of 'Grease' performed by a local amateur dramatics troupe who mimed to a muffled original soundtrack of the movie. With a sound system fit for a small bedroom we settled for the visual spectacle of Fijian girls in blonde wigs and local guys somehow getting John Travolta mixed up with Michael Jackson.And once the final track had been mimed, some of the audience were dragged kicking and screaming onto stage to perform the resort's signature theme tune, 'The Sun Dance', and boy do we need it to work.19/9OK, now this is the South Pacific. This is Fiji. It's always sunny here. We've seen the pictures in magazines. Now let's be having you. Cue sun . . .Cloud.Great thick mile-deep duvets of the stuff covering up a shimmering blue mattress of a sky.(Still, it's all good TravelPod writing time as you may have noticed from the barrages of cyber-drivel that's been uploaded recently.)We did spend an action-packed hour of holiday camp fun though with a couple of sets of ping-pong and a nine-hole round of not-so-crazy golf using 30 pound solid steel branding irons as clubs. What larks we have.With lunch skipped once more we headed over the road to the resort's tennis court, and not a bad one at that. Kitted out with newish racquets and balls, we enjoyed real-life genuine fun with two closely fought sets of pin-ball style tennis with some rallies actually lasting three shots.Back at the hotel we sidled up to the bar for a refreshing Robinson's Barley Water, but they'd never heard of it so we settled for a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Far nicer.After a relaxing afternoon sunning ourselves under clear white cloudy skies, we headed for the restaurant early and sat, with ice-bucketed wine to hand, at a table in prime position for tonight's ceremonial torch lighting. Once drums were banged and beacons were lit we went over to the Mongolian Barbecue, a section of the restaurant we'd ignored on our first couple of nights. After piling a bowl full of sliced vegetables and sauces we then chose a selection of ingredients including chicken, beef, fish and pork for our waiting chef to barbie on his hotplate. Once meat was browned he added the contents of our bowls to mix in and stir fry for a few minutes while he picked fun at my flourishing lower lip hair. Little did he know I'd smothered my concoction with fresh chilis causing him to recoil in watery-eyed agony from a blinding smog. Once the hot stuff was cooked we headed over to a salad bar to bury our cooked food in rice, noodles and chili sauce. Our last Mongolian Barbie was in Langkawi, Malaysia (CLANG, name-drop, sorry) so we knew it was going to be very tasty, and it was. From that day on we knew what we'd be having for dinner, and each night our little cheeky facial-hair mocking chef would suffer at the hands of my ever-increasing chopped chilis. Don't ever mess with lower lip hair.At 9 we endured a night of Polynesian dancing on stage which got ever more enjoyable after each Mojito cocktail we downed, and somehow I returned to the bure with red stinging shoulders caused by today's ten minutes of sun that shone though an uncharacteristically thin band of cloud while we were playing tennis. That must be one strong sun . . . when it's out.Another cloudy day comes to a cloudy end.20/9Thick cloud, stiff breeze. And so it continues.After breakfast the brunette read her latest 800-page girly epic while I flicked through the laugh-a-minute Fiji Times. It hasn't a cartoon page, but then again it doesn't need it.We were still waiting for the sun to put his hat on so we could bare our spongy white flesh to the unsuspecting world but Fiji was having none of it. It was time to see the 'real Fiji' so we rang Lynne, our lady in Nadi to see if she could do us a deal on a nice little motor for the day, so she went off to see a man about a dog and came back to us with a nice little runner which was a nice little earner for her as well. Sweet as.(I've no idea why I went Cockneyfied then, must be the vino veritas).We were out on Centre Court again at 2 today, and from somewhere within I was engulfed with the spirit of Roger Federer as ground-strokes followed backhands whistling past young pretender Soph's ears as the Tiger Tim Henman came from within her . . . and choked.6-0, 6-1. Competitive? Moi?After another isotonic bottle of wine we headed poolside for the 'Manager's Cocktail Party'. Rum Punches were served under our first partly blue sky in Fiji but soon vanished as the sun set. That would be the first and only time we'd see that big skin-damaging ball of firey goodness whilst on Viti Levu.At 6pm the Australian manageress gave a little speech with the promise of a perfect holiday for everyone - as long as you don't like sunshine that is. We left the little soiree for the bar and some happy hour cocktails before getting stuck into the Mongolian Barbie and an early night.21/9It was perfect driving weather today with lots of lovely cloud, which was just as well because sitting out front waiting for us was a nice shiny red beast of Japanese engineering, the Mazda Tribute 4WD. Let's Off Road.Actually we didn't off-road, but what we did do was drive 100km along the Queen's Road to Fiji's capital, Suva, where we found a parking metre and hit the streets.Suva's streets were awash with a semi-cosmopolitan bunch of folk, though sadly the dilapidated buildings couldn't quite match the biggish city feel of the place. The country's population of half indigenous Fijians and half Indo-Fijians mingled happily with one another through clenched-teeth smiles, and a small percentage of white-collar workers from Australia had been seemingly flown over to add ethnic interest and to do the really hard sums in the banks. We spent a short while in a derelict building calling itself an Internet Café then headed for coffee and muffins at the only inviting looking place in the city, a westernised café called 'Republic of Cappuccino' full of ex-pat Aussies having ex-pat lunches.After searching in vain for anything that remotely looked like Marks and Spencer we headed along the seafront to the Fiji Museum, and in a city full of buildings that needed a Polyfilla and Dulux makeover, the museum was no different.Standing out like a broken thumb, let alone a sore one, the museum sat in the semi-attractive grounds of Thurston Gardens, gamely trying to look prominent, and for $7 each we were let in to roam free around a tatty museum housing a few ancient wares from times when Fijians wouldn't think twice about dining on the flesh of an English Missionary.We dragged out our visit to Suva's pride and joy as long as we could but finally gave in to the thought that it might just actually be sunny outside. Pipe dreams it turned out.We drove out of Suva along Queen Elizabeth Drive which hugged the coastline until it turned inland and continued through roads lined with unstable flats weighed down with rows of washing hanging from balconies like carnival flags. But this part of town was no carnival. We escaped back onto the Queen's Road with hubcaps intact to report back to our open prison of a resort, before heading out once more, this time wearing long trousers for dinner along the coast at the fine-looking Warwick Resort.Perched on an island along a causeway leading from the beach was the 'Wicked Walu' restaurant, one of the Warwick's three or four restaurants. On entering we were greeted by a big jovial man who was born to be a Maitre D', and before we could say 'Bula' we were escorted to a big bowl of Fiji's national drink, the intoxicating dishwater that is Kava. With a soundtrack of handclapping we went through our own little Kava ceremony and had a mouthful each of a drink that neither tasted good nor alcoholic.Once preliminaries were over we were shown to a table for two on a stilted platform overlooking an illuminated sea full of fish waiting for the odd scrap. Our waiter for the evening then made himself known causing us to double-take to make sure it wasn't actually Bill Cosby.This had to be one of the most perfect settings in the restaurant world with food to match as we both went for large seafood platters of differing names, mine the Fisherman's Spear and Soph's the Seafood Combination, but both had pretty much the same ingredients of lobster, fish, prawns and mussels.Next door to us was a couple from Oz celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary who were serenaded by the hotel's ensemble of singers and guitarists including our own waiter, and ordinarily I'm the first to slide cringingly under a table at the sight of a roaming band of musicians, but this was seriously moving stuff which caused Soph to well up.Over coffee Soph remarked to our waiter that we were leaving soon and before we knew it we were surrounded by the serenaders who belted out the 'Leaving' song for departing guests, and before the night was through a girl on another table had been sung the 'Birthday' song. Any excuse for a sing-song.Overall it was a lovely meal with impeccable service and we were wishing we'd paid a little extra to stay at the Warwick so we could have dined there every night, but we could do worse than have Hideaway's Mongolian Barbie each night.On the way home we drove with headlights on full-beam and were met around a dark corner by a family of cows crossing the road which woke us both out of our dreamy state as we slammed on the brakes. Phew, nearly two cow-crashes in five months.22/9We handed our car back to the man from Budget this morning and had a long lazy cooked breakfast, while looking out onto the pool in astonishment as professional holidaymakers reserved loungers with towels. We were amazed because it was cloudier still today with a nice 40 knot sou'westerly and spots of rain in the air. We wouldn't have minded if it was the tight-trunked, blonde-mulleted Muller family from Hamburg but these were Aussies.We packed our bags this morning in readiness to head off tomorrow in search of sunnier climes, a thing we seem to be doing on a regular basis recently, after which Soph went to reception to get a printout of our latest food and drinks bill. It seemed a bit steep on first glance at a shade under $900 so we began to compare it with our scribbled notes of our daily expenditures and soon a pattern emerged and it wasn't the pattern showing we'd been downing one or two bottles of wine a day. A few times a day a rogue transaction was shown which was made all the more obvious from yesterday's activity showing cocktails and beers here and there even though we'd been out in the car all day.Soph then went to reception to run her eye over our wad of signed receipts and found that although all were for our room 46, some were a scribbled signature without a print of the name in block capitals. Someone had been enjoying free cocktails at our expense! Ooooh, we feel invaded.All scribbled receipts were then discarded which left us with a more realistic bill of $300 less. $500 for wine and cocktails, $100 for food.Once paperwork had been organised we went for a jog followed by our usual cooling down session of a bottle of wine, but being as it was our last day we popped open a bottle of the sparkling kind, and used it to toast a passing wedding ceremony on its way back from a beachfront service.Fiji's main island of Viti Levu had it's moments, mostly at the dinner table and on the tennis court, but other than that we could have been anywhere in the world and not even a blue sky could have improved things. We were now well and truly looking forward to eight days in the Yasawa Islands where paradise supposedly awaited us. We shall see.And now a line from that 'Crowded House' classic we've come to love and hum over the past week, altogether now . . . everywhere you go, always take the weather with you . . .McCloud & Venusxx
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