Kayaking in Muri Lagoon

Muri Lagoon, the most popular tourist destination in the Cooks, is located on Rarotonga’s southeast corner. The lagoon itself is wide and sandy, with calm, clear water maybe chest-high on average, and sheltered by four off-shore islands: three deserted atolls, and one rugged little volcano.

Muri Beach is a strip that bustles with shops, cafes, swank restaurants, resorts, and water sports rentals. The beach is cluttered with sunbathing tourists on deck chairs, umbrellas, kayaks, menus, and now and again, tables set with cutlery, chairs in the sand. Children in expensive miniature wetsuits play in the water, and far out, there are paddle-boats, glass-bottomed charter boats, stand-up paddle-boarders, kayakers, and snorkelers. In low tide, some folks put their bags on their heads and walk from island to island.

We decide to explore the Lagoon one sunny day, and board the anticlockwise bus with throngs of other brightly-clothed tourists. I've invested in a straw hat and sarong, so I fit in more now. The bus roars along the oceanside, through bright patches of sun and under cool shadow, allowing glimpses of turquoise water through the foliage on our right-hand side.

At one point, a group of little schoolchildren get on, wearing formal uniforms and carrying book satchels. The driver warns them to behave. Once they've settled into their seats, they begin to sing loudly together about Jesus, and then giggle between verses. I figure they are maybe eight years old. It surprises me when I know some of the lyrics from my own Christian childhood; John nudges me when I sing along under my breath, so I stop.

It is maybe noon when we arrive at the Lagoon. We couldn't have asked for a more perfect day: there is not a cloud in the sky, no wind, and the water is a clear, inviting blue.

John wants to go kayaking, but I've had the odd trying experience on those (see Paihia and The North, October 2010), so I insist on sharing a double. That way, John can steer, and I can take in the scenery. Good deal.

The kayak rental costs $20 for three hours, which we're happy with. We load all of our supplies (towels, sun hat, backpack containing water, camera and sunscreen) into the middle of the kayak; I get in first, and John pushes us off.

Kaying is way easier with John. I have to admit, he really seems to know what he's doing. All I do is paddle (I think I'm helping), and from the back of the boat, he manages to steer easily in any direction we fancy.

Maybe it helps that the water is completely calm.

Our first stop is the little volcano. We park our kayak and explore our own private deserted island - which turns out to host a couple of young dogs. They ignore our attempts to make friends, and seem completely distracted by their task, or game: digging. Maybe they are digging out crabs, or shellfish, we're not sure. Sometimes they stop to eat something crunchy. 

We spend the rest of the day exploring the other three atolls, and at one point, we discover a shipwreck out near the break. I am having the most fun I've ever had on the water. It's so clear and calm that you can see right through it, to the light-spangled bottom, blue starfish, swimming shapes, and coral reef. 

When we get hungry, we pull our boat out of the water to look around the main beach and have lunch. I have this weird craving for diet coke. The water around us looks so good, it makes me surprisingly thirsty.

We still have about an hour left with the kayak, though - it's only two o'clock - so we head back out onto the water. This time, when we head towards our deserted volcano, I see something. Something green - lime green, bright green - something big - something fast. No, wait - there are three of them.

John sees them too. We try to chase them with the boat, but they are much too fast, so instead, we beach the kayak, don snorkel gear, and wade out into the clear blue waves. 

As I wade out, I notice that the sand is littered with sea slugs. I avoid stepping on them, but I'm reminded of the mess that Canadian geese make on school fields. Same distasteful shape. They're everywhere.

As soon as I'm able, I dip my head underwater and swim out. The place is absolutely bursting with fish, and apparently they're used to being fed by tourists. They have a particular interest in my hands.

The angelfish, triggerfish, moorish idols and clownfish are pretty, but I have my sights set on whatever it was out there that's fast and green. I swim out quite a ways before I finally catch a glimpse: it's an enormous parrotfish, its scales flashing in the sun, green compared to the water. It takes one look at me and it's gone in a flash, but there are other, smaller cousins hanging out nearby, munching on coral.

My mask leaks water pretty badly, and I realize we've been underwater for awhile. By the time we're back to the island, we only have fifteen minutes to get back to the beach, and now that the tide's going out, the current will be more of a problem.

Luckily, I have John.

We head back to the hostel in time for a pot-luck dinner. We make curry to share and then stuff ourselves sick with salads, Spanish omelets, traditional Polynesian fare, and lots of dessert. Our last day in paradise is just days away.

The Cross-Island Track

On the day we had planned to do the Cross-Island Track, we woke up to clouds and spurts of rain.

Disappointed but undeterred, John fried up the last of the breadfruit and packed our lunch: fruit, cheese, rice crackers, hard-boiled eggs, and cucumber-tomato sandwiches. I retrieved my water-bottle out of the freezer, tied my straw hat around my shoulders, and even remembered to pack sunscreen and a sweater.

Then we missed the bus.

It was the kind of bad luck we could only laugh at.

So we caught the anticlockwise bus, which was the long way to town. On the way, we watched the mountains furtively: many of the peaks were shrouded in mist; and at one point, a spatter of raindrops hit the windscreen with a sound like a handful of pebbles. We had hope, though: patches of blue sky let the sun peek out now and then.

And anyway, what’s hiking, really, without a bit of rain?

When we got to town, I insisted on mailing our post-cards first; so we wandered around in search of the post office. When we got outside again, it was still raining intermittently. The road that would lead us to the trailhead was clear on the other side of town; but with all of the walking we were about to do, we supposed that this would be a good way to start.

Away from town, the buildings became more spaced out, and soon we were away from shops and into a suburban district. Small tin-roofed houses reminded us of Tonga; and there were cow-pastures and terraced taro plantations, orange-orchards, and great trees bearded with Spanish moss: the jungle cleared away, but looming not far behind.

Then the sun came out.

There were not many cars on the road (just a scooter or two), but suddenly a truck – big, shiny, new, and black – stopped beside us. The driver was a Maori man wearing a reflective orange vest.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you two going up the mountain today?”

I thought he must be some kind of official, so I said yes.

“Hop in!” he said cheerfully, indicating the box. We hesitated for maybe a second, but then climbed into the back of the truck.

The road would have taken us at least forty minutes to walk, but instead, after having our hair blown around in an agreeable way (reminding me of the old days, in my childhood, when such dangerous activities were not forbidden by law), we were at the trailhead within a few minutes.

“That’s the trail,” the man said helpfully as we stepped down, indicating a path to the right, before shaking John’s hand. “And this is my house,” he added, indicating a large newly-built house down a dirt road beside the trail. Then he drove away, calling “Have a good walk!” and waving out the window as he went.

I was very glad for the ride, since it was nearing 1:30 in the afternoon by now, and the track was supposed to take about four hours. The sun was due to set a little after six (August being the dead of winter in the Cook Islands), so actually I figured we were now making good time.

Before we began, we inspected the trail map that was posted under a shelter, and for good measure, took a photograph of it on my digital camera, in case we wanted to look again later on. It was full of references to landmarks like “Sprawling Pua Tree,” “Fernland,” and “Last River Crossing,” and other things we’d never remember.

Of course it is not easy to describe the beauty of the woods in writing, but I will try. We began in a deep valley, and there were mountains all around us, lush with unknown trees. The trail was an old rutted road, and the sun pooled under the branches, throwing light and shade against the grass and over the hard-packed earth. There were insects dancing in the low branches, and many kinds of flowers, berries, and fruit, and some pods that defied classification, and looked like orange paper lanterns, with seeds inside.

Gradually the trees grew thicker; now they were often covered with vines, and sometimes bowed down toward the trail, their smooth bare trunks creating a tangle of obstacles, which we wove through with apparent energy (as we still had plenty at that point).

However, inevitably the trail began its ascent.

Thanks, I suppose, to the many footsteps on the path, and the amount of rain runoff downhill, the trail had unearthed an immense network of tree-roots; and so the hillsides that led us upward were covered entirely in a textured and patterned staircase of them, which made excellent footholds. We were in for a hard climb of maybe twenty minutes, but I stopped often, preferring (so I said) to take in the view. And to be fair, there was always something to see.

Eventually we crested a rise and spotted The Needle: an immense bare rock that emerged like a spike from the very summit. Within a few turns, we were there, with spectacular views of both coasts and all of the gorgeous volcanic mountains in between. We took panoramic photos, and gave a few sighs, and then noticed a sign nearby: “Trail Ends Here. Proceed At Your Own Risk.” Nearby the plaque was a chain, anchored in the rock: a makeshift handrail. We realized that there was a trail going up, with chains and ropes, around and up the Needle, and we decided to give it a go.

The two chains at the beginning were very easy; the stone was still relatively flat. As the trail climbed, the rock got steeper, and the ropes became more and more necessary. Around the corner, we came upon a plateau, where we decided to have lunch. (The next rope was a vertical climb, and we barely inspected it before deciding to give it a miss.) We were about halfway up the Needle now, and below us, white birds were circling in the heights.

We broke up some chunks of potato bread to eat with cheese, and munched on fruit, and I peeled an egg and dropped the shells off the mountain, where they tumbled in the wind. Then a mass of clouds rolled over the sun, and in the gray light we felt the spray of rain returning.

It was a little scary getting back down again, and I felt a little like a cat or a bear-cub that has gotten itself stuck in a tree: being forced to look down is never easy. But John went down first, and it was much easier than I expected it to be, especially with the chains to hold onto.

The track’s descent took us longer than we expected: about two hours, I’d guess. We walked through a jungle of ferns, and over a stream and back again, many times, all the while heading south and downward. Sometimes there were false trails that led one way and then petered out; but we kept a sharp watch for the trail markers (which were, by the bye, sometimes laughably prominent, as they were enormous and bright orange).

The forest floor was littered with dead leaves, and fallen flowers, and here and there, piles of coconuts. John noticed crayfish in the stream, and there were banana and papaya trees growing wild; there were even several wild chickens wandering around. We supposed that a person might easily survive for a couple of days out here, eating coconut chicken, crayfish, and fruit.

At one point John decided to try and eat one of the coconuts, and after a few tries, he managed to split one open on a sharp river-rock, using his knife to shave the last of the bark away, and then lifting the clean white coconut out. I teased him about his “John vs. Wild” moment, but it was nice to have something to chew on while I walked.

Very suddenly, we reached a car park. There was meant to be a waterfall, but either it was very small and unremarkable, or else we had taken a wrong turn; but either way, we didn’t notice it. Now it was only a matter of walking five or ten minutes down the road to the coast.

On the way, we passed an old abandoned hotel. At some point it was meant to be a luxury resort (I think this was fifteen years ago), and the building sprawls out for ages, over several acres; but the investors, I guess, ran out of money, and the project had been abandoned before it was completed. Now the hotel is rotting in the jungle, in a strangely glamorous, terribly uncanny decay, like the once-grand plantation houses in Louisiana. The many windows are like soulless eyes, looking out at the overgrown grounds, and spilling broken beams into the swamp. The untreated timbers have been weather-washed into a pitiful gray; and worst of all, you can still see the elegant and luxurious details in its decline, like a once-beautiful woman who is struggling to age gracefully.

We reached the shore, where the surf seemed silver in the slanting light of the late afternoon. We had a rest and ate our sandwiches, and then continued on to home (about forty minutes).

The walk back to the hostel was unremarkable – except for a brilliant sunset, in which beams of light cast themselves down onto the ocean. I remembered the old rhyme: Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. And I hoped for good weather.