Five Go Mad

Day 1

Took a morning walk up the side of the inlet and came back busting to a pitch-black room with Robyn still asleep. Alas not for long as I crashed in and out of wardrobes and cupboard looking desperately for then loo and then the light switch. She woke to curses. Coffee and breakfast from the buffet which is seriously continental.  The closest thing you’ll get here to a hearty, heart artery-clogging English breakfast is scrambled eggs. Powered through toast and jam, cereal(s), fruit, yoghurt, cold meat, cheese, boiled egg, pain-au-chocolat, croissant, more jam, donut, more coffee. Did I mention breakfast is complimentary with the room? Saves on lunch!

Booked an island tour (not a tour) then explored the lagoon at low tide- it goes a long way out. I also found looking at the fish swimming under the bridge childishly intoxicating. The island tour (not a tour) we went on in the afternoon is just a local van driver who takes you around a few spots. We were the only ones in his nice new (well newer than my car) Ford Transit. The driver spoke mostly French, but some communication was possible (“10 minutes, you go there, I wait”).  There was a complimentary A4 photocopied guide book which helped if you’re into reading stuff while travelling in the back of a van after a giant breakfast.  Fortunately for me, Robyn was.

The grotto of Queen Hortensia was down a greasy track into bush. It’s a large cave with some history as a hiding place for the queen with a shrine to Mary set part way up one side of the large entrance.  The entrance also contained the sound of bees swarming, massive stalactites, roots hanging down from holes in the cave roof.  The cave itself looked deep and dark so we went no further.  Even at the entrance the air held a chill which we were glad to shed as we walked out through the forest. Dank.

Next stop were the prison ruins; an overgrown jumble of stone and plaster walls, and cell blocks with the roof falling in.  Iron hooks were still attached to the walls.  A memorial to colonial state cruelty where prisoners, political or otherwise were transported from the home country to keep them out of sight and send a message to the masses. Nearby is the fairly large Cemetery of the Deported. The place carried a sense of lost hope, complete defeat and oppression amplified by the presence of such a hell in paradise. Ghostly.

Onwards, at least it’s recognised for what it is! We continued to a beachy area called Kuto comprising two beaches either side of the road with white sand, palm trees, the whole nine yards.  Big flash yachts were anchored in the lee side; much like Motuihe Island in the Waitemata only with palm trees and a bar & restaurant.  Also encountered a forklift driving merrily along the road, yachties hanging about in the shade of the bar, locals hanging about in the shade of the palm trees. Local teenage boys joking about on top of a picnic table.  Local teenage girls chatting quietly on another one not far away (each group definitely ignoring the other!) Yachties’ kids digging in the white sand in their rash tops, local’s kids jumping and laughing in the waves. It’s also the bay with the port in it, with big freighter being unloaded; the forklift’s destination I suppose, or maybe he was doing deliveries. We have a couple of pepsis and a packet of shapes (original flavour) then back on the van. Universal youthfulness.

Vao- the main village on the island. One stop was to visit a war memorial on the village headland.  A combination of catholic icon worship, colonial remembrance of glorious dead, cultural art (in carvings) and tribal presence (carvings were mostly poles arranged in a fence like a Maori pa). All up,  oddly beautiful and memorable.  We also visited the village’s church, originating from the first missionaries and added on to over years till quite large (and used regularly judging by the colour photocopied timetable stuck on the wall by the door and the healthy gardens around the presbytery). Impressions: that silent church-air, creaky floorboards, master-crafted high wooden ceiling, local hand-crafted contents down at people level. Universal churchiness.

The hotel bus arrived at the church carpark delivering the workers home at end of the day.  On the road we passed several ute loads of young men and families returning to the village as well. Big open-air covered areas, music in the background and woodsmoke starting to form clouds indicated that the Friday night barbeque is a village affair.  Everybody waves.

The remainder of the day involved a drink and wifi at the bar.  Probably a swim in the lagoon (it was a bit of a blur) followed by a swim in the pool (arrestingly cool).

Captive dinner: fish. Expensive but very good.  Just have to accept the prices; it’s a resort, it’s on an island off an island and there’s a rate of exchange where the kiwi dollar seems always to be the slow loser.