Under the tropical sun, lying in the shade of palm trees on a stretch of pristine beach, every care and worry melted away. In the blink of an eye, a week had passed; the days spent bumming around on the beach, swimming; or reading and drinking tea on cloudy days.
Saturday dawned sunny, complete with a chorus of roosters. It was Market Day, and we’d set an (unnecessary) alarm for 8:00 a.m., determined to get to town early and score some premium produce.
In Rarotonga, there is one main road that circumvents the island, and two busses, a clockwise and an anticlockwise. They pass every half-hour, and are much different from the busses in Nuku’Alofa: these are large, clean, and full of tourists. In fact, whereas in Tonga I’d felt out of place, I believe that here I’m in the majority: there are more tourists than locals in the Cook Islands, from what I can tell.
The bus was even more crowded than usual: all the seats were taken, and we had to stand. John and I were referred to as “Backpackers” in stage-whispers as we got on the bus.
We didn’t really fit in with the crowd. Everyone else was very pink, soft, and late-middle-aged; the ladies wore trimmed hats and deck shoes. I have a distinct impression of close-curled hair, frosted gray, and glasses; a rather pinched-looking, birdlike face, with skin connecting chin to neck, and wobbly arms. The men wore polo shirts, if not something louder, with cameras and baseball caps, big bellies and skinny legs. They yelled across the bus to each other, jovially, taking the piss; the women complained in a delighted way about the roosters, being hungry and the distance to town. Most were from New Zealand, but some were also from Australia.
The good part about standing for the bus ride is that you get to exit first. We stepped down into the market: colourful chaos, music, and crowds of even more tourists.
The market was much larger than we’d anticipated, and musicians on a central stage blasted tropical-sounding music: dance-worthy, African-like drumbeats, and ukuleles played side-by-side. Polynesian dancers performed in costume, the women in coconut bras and grass skirts, with fans of feathers belted to their behinds, accentuating their curves and the swing of their hips.
We loaded up on everything we could find: lettuces, tomatoes, capsicums, sprouts, and cucumbers (apparently we’d be eating salad), fresh-baked artisan breads, taro, and breadfruit – a starchy, tree-growing fruit that is prepared very much like a potato, and even tastes a little like one. We hadn’t had breakfast, so walking through all the food stalls was masochistic torture. The barbequed satay smelled delicious, but in the end, we splurged on banana crepes. John also couldn’t resist an awesome silkscreened T-shirt (once you see it, you’ll know why).
Finally, we wandered through all the craft stalls – weavings, carvings, paintings, and more – where we picked up a few inexpensive gifts to bring home to our families. I wished I had all the money in the world to buy some of the amazing masks, artworks, bone carvings, black pearls, perfumes, and fabrics that cluttered the stalls.
I did treat myself to a gorgeous pueru (sarong), vegetable-dyed and hand-embroidered. I knew that the beet-coloured dye would rinse out, so to keep the rich colour, I couldn’t wash it very often. It is my favourite souvenir.
Back at the backpacker’s, John whipped up some breadfruit chips and declared himself a genius. I couldn’t blame him: they were outstanding, crispy on the outside but creamy-soft on the inside. It’s John’s new favourite food (way better than potatoes, he says). It’s better, we think, than arrowroot, taro, or even kumara. It’s too bad that they don’t sell it back home.
No comments:
Post a Comment