The Miss Tutti Frutti Contest Read online

  In memory of my father Donald Luigi Lay (1914–97) who served with the New Zealand Army in the South Pacific in World War Two

  INTRODUCTION

  COUNTLESS THOUSANDS of international travellers have seen the Pacific – through the windows of a jet liner cruising at 11,000 metres. Far fewer have seen it at sea level, or visited some of the scores of high islands and atolls which are strewn across Earth’s largest ocean like constellations in a watery universe. Just to fly over this universe is to miss a great deal, for each of the inhabited islands of the Pacific is a miniature world, with its own distinctive culture and way of life. The Miss Tutti Frutti Contest is about my exploration of some of these island worlds and my encounters with some of their inhabitants.

  My fascination with islands began long before I ever went to one. As a boy growing up in a small town on the rocky, windswept Taranaki coast, the sea became an intimate part of my life. Rock-pool exploration, fishing, swimming, surfing: all these activities brought me into close contact with the sea. And as an avid reader from early boyhood, the books I read – sea adventure stories, mainly – reflected this intimacy. If the story was set on an island, I found it irresistible. I remember in particular reading and re-reading my father’s copy of The Coral Island, by R. M. Ballantyne, along with Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island and Enid Blyton’s Five on a Treasure Island. In my imagination, islands were places of romance and adventure, exotic locations with infinite possibilities.

  When I first visited the islands of the South Pacific as an adult twenty years ago, I was in no way disappointed by what I found there. The islands’ shores, reefs, lagoons and forests captivated me. From their coasts or mountains the Pacific Ocean’s beauty and changing moods could be readily observed: silken and docile one day, tempestuous and threatening the next. And every day, spellbinding.

  Added to these natural attractions were the people I encountered, the locals as well as the often bizarre outsiders who had made the Pacific their adopted home. The indigenous cultures reached back into the sea mists of prehistory. There were languages which had been spoken for thousands of years, songs, dances and art which traced their history, and whose appeal was alluring. Superimposed on these traditional cultures was the introduced way of life of the Europeans and Asians – men mainly – who had come to the South Pacific for a variety of reasons, some honourable, some not. The subsequent blending of these cultures and peoples has produced something unique and special in the islands of the South Pacific.

  The stories in this book are the collected accounts of many separate journeys taken over the last decade, at times conflated to iron out the creases. They are intended primarily to entertain, but if readers become informed as well, that will be gratifying. The collection confines itself to the islands of tropical Polynesia – rather than the other great Pacific cultural spheres of Melanesia and Micronesia – because it is in Polynesia that this writer’s interest lies. It is not intended to be a guidebook; there are many of those already available. Instead, it tries to convey some of the enchantment and surprise I have found when visiting the islands of the South Pacific – islands best savoured not from high in the air, but with feet firmly on the ground or dipped in the warm ocean waters.

  GRAEME LAY

  May 2004

  ONE

  ME AND MY TUMUNU

  NGAPUTORU, COOK ISLANDS

  IN COOK ISLANDS MAORI they’re called Ngaputoru, the Three Roots. Atiu, Mitiaro and Mauke are a trio of raised, flat-topped coral atolls, forty minutes by air north-east of Rarotonga. For years they’ve teased my curiosity whenever I’ve spied them on a map; now at last I’m on my way to see them.

  It’s hard to stay aloof from your fellow passengers when there are eighteen of you in a twenty-seater plane. The seating configuration lends itself to instant intimacy. Right alongside me are a German couple in their late twenties. He is small and compact, with black hair already flecked with grey; she has short brown hair, green eyes, moulded cheekbones and a permanently wide-eyed expression. Both have tanned, olive skin. Jurgen and Helga are thoroughly natty. Their clothing is chic-casual; they look like models from some deluxe department store in their home city of Cologne. Helga carries a video camera which she claps to her right eye socket and points at the mountains of Rarotonga as we soar from the island’s runway. Then they laugh and chatter excitedly for a time, before Jurgen puts his head on her shoulder and dozes off.

  Behind me is an Australian family of four: Deidre and Gavin and their two small boys, Troy and Zane. Troy, who at six is the elder by a year, is the strong, silent type; Zane speaks for both boys, loudly: ‘Hey! Wow! Look! The propeller’s goin’ fast! Look, Mum, look at how eet’s goin’. Hey, Dad! We’re mooveen, we’re mooven!’

  Gavin’s short and stocky, with long, crinkly blond hair and a flushed face. He wears a red T-shirt that proclaims that Tooheys is Simply The Best. Deidre turns to me and introduces herself. She’s small and clear-skinned and must have been pretty once, but now she’s hollow-chested and her long brown hair’s gone dead at the ends. They run a pub in upstate Victoria. No wonder Deidre looks tired: it must be hard being a publican’s wife in Wobbadonga. They’ve come to the Cook Islands, Gavin explains, to make a complete break and to show the boys the sea. ‘We’ve got another one at home,’ says Deidre, looking even wearier at the thought. ‘Three months old. He’s staying with Gavin’s folks.’ She sighs philosophically, wipes Zane’s streaming nose, gives me a rueful smile. ‘Three boys under seven …’

  As I stare through the windshield between the two Air Rarotonga pilots, a level, green, reef-ringed island comes into sight. Mitiaro. The plane begins to descend, swaying and dipping towards a white crushed-coral runway.

  Neither I nor the Aussie family are getting off here – we’re on our way to Atiu – but Jurgen and Helga are. The plane taxis towards the terminal, a blue and yellow fibrolite shed in front of a tall stand of coconut palms. As it comes to a shuddering halt, we can see that something important is happening.

  The front porch of the shed is crammed with people. Six very fat, barefoot women are leaping, singing and wriggling their hips to the accompaniment of another two women who are thumping bass drums. Helga points her video camera at the window and presses the trigger.

  The plane door opens and we disembark. The crowd in the terminal rushes towards us. They are almost all women, all large, all singing at the tops of their voices and wriggling their hips in a none too subtle mime. They are covered in thick garlands of fern, flowers and pandanus leaves. Two of the women, who are so festooned with foliage they look like matching Christmas trees, come aboard the plane. They are weeping – the party is evidently their farewell.

  There’s no apparent sadness on the part of the others, though. They simply redirect their emotions towards the German couple, who are quickly surrounded by the shouting, cackling band. The drums are thumped even more vigorously as Jurgen and Helga are borne away to the rear of the terminal building and a rusting Bedford truck which looks as if it should be an exhibit in a transport museum. The Germans’ Gucci luggage is tossed aboard and pandanus leis are thrust over their heads as they’re bundled on to the tray of the truck.

  The rest of us are now back on the plane, watching the welcoming show through the windows. Jurgen and Helga are completely engulfed; we can just see their two faces, fixed in a rictus of astonishment and apprehension, as the truck moves off along a dusty road.

  I’m staying in a chalet near the top of the central dome of Atiu. The view reminds me of East Africa, which is odd because I’ve never been to East Africa. Perhaps I’m remembering pictures I’ve seen of the Kenyan highlands. Below me are stands of spreading acacia trees; to my left the l
and falls away steeply to a sweep of rain-forest canopy; and in the foreground are patches of bare, henna-coloured earth and clumps of banana palms.

  Unlike almost any other South Pacific island, nearly all the action on Atiu takes place up here, on the plateau. Here on the dome are the island’s five seemingly contiguous village houses, and its shops, churches and schools. As with most raised atolls, this one is surrounded by a crown of thorns, a ring of wickedly sharp, fossilised coral known in the Cook Islands as makatea. But the land immediately behind the coastal makatea looks fertile enough, so why does everyone on Atiu live as far as it’s possible to get from the sea, the reef, the fishing grounds and the canoe landings? Because the missionaries decreed it.

  In the old days the Atiuans were the Vikings of these islands, regularly setting off in their canoes to plunder their neighbours. One of the most feared of their leaders was the warrior chief Rongomatane, who led his men on several conquering raids of Mitiaro and Mauke. Then in 1823 a zealous missionary, John Williams, arrived on Atiu. Rongomatane quickly became one of Williams’ converts and ordered the destruction of the Atiuans’ traditional deities. And where Rongomatane went the others had to follow. Almost overnight, Atiu and the other two Roots turned Christian. John Williams, meanwhile, went on to successfully introduce the new faith into Samoa but conspicuously failed to do so when he arrived in the New Hebrides – now Vanuatu – in 1839. There, on the island of Erromango, he was clubbed to death and eaten.

  On Atiu the gospel merchants – working, possibly, on a rough-and-ready ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ principle – had their churches built way up on the central dome, and the people followed. The big white Cook Islands Christian Church – Ziona Tapu – is certainly imposing, and there’s a logic in centralising settlement, but even a quick look at the island has convinced me that if I were an Atiuan I would prefer to live by the sea.

  Gavin and Deidre have hired mopeds to take themselves and the boys around the island, but I’m suspicious of those seemingly innocuous vehicles, especially on Atiu’s unsealed roads. I prefer a push-bike, and I’ve managed to borrow one. It’s a women’s model, old, with brakes that squeal like a pig being slaughtered, but otherwise serviceable.

  Coming down off the dome on my bike, freewheeling through the dense forest to the makatea zone, is an exhilarating experience, tempered by the certainty that at some stage I’ll have to push the bike back up again. Brakes shrieking, I career down a winding, rutted road to the coastal plain on the island’s western side. Here the huge trees meet to form a tunnel of tropical foliage. It’s cool and utterly silent, and I haven’t seen or heard another human so far. But, foolishly, I didn’t bring a water bottle, and it’s tiring pushing this gearless bike along what is just a sandy track. Out on the coast I stop to inspect the white-sand beaches of Tumai and Taungaroro, which are incised into the mostly rocky coast. Little coves enclosed on three sides by grey fossilised coral, they’re deserted and undeniably beautiful, but the sun is high in the brilliant blue sky and I’m close to being dehydrated.

  I remount, bike on through the forest, where it is at least cool, and pass the place where Captain James Cook and his crew came ashore in April 1777 in search of feed for the cattle on board the Resolution. He got instead bananas, a pig and some coconuts, giving in exchange a bolt of cloth and a small axe. Usually I can’t resist visiting a Cook landing place, but now other urges take precedence. I keep on pedalling, heading along the coast in search of drinkable fluid. My legs ache and I’m saddle-sore. My pedalling pace grows slower, my thighs sorer, my mouth drier. Somewhere up ahead there must be a shop, or at least a house. If there isn’t, I will collapse.

  The forest parts, the road forks. Checking my map, I see that I’m at Taunganui harbour, where Atiu’s imports are barge-loaded from small cargo ships and brought ashore. A couple of Atiuans are sitting on a beached barge, chipping with no enthusiasm at its surface rust, while a group of men repose in the big, open-sided cargo shed at the top of a slip. I dump the bike and stagger up to the shed.

  ‘Kia orana. Is there a shop round here?’

  A tall, powerfully built man in shorts shakes his head. ‘Only shop up in the village.’

  It’s back on the plateau. I’ll never make it.

  The men are looking at me curiously. I must look like someone who’s stumbled out of the Gobi Desert.

  ‘What you want?’ asks the tall man.

  ‘A drink. I’m … very thirsty.’

  He walks over to a crate, on top of which are half a dozen husked coconuts. He cracks the top of one deftly with a machete, as if it’s a boiled egg, flips off its lid and passes it over. I swig at its opening until the sweet juice overflows from my mouth and runs down my chin. It’s fresh, pure, reviving, and I wonder, is there a finer drink in all the world than this? Not for the first time, I have been saved by a coconut.

  The only light is a low flame from a rag wick sticking out of the top of a small tin filled with diesel. The makeshift lamp sits on a crate and only partially illuminates the faces of my six companions. We are sitting on wooden benches around the crate in a kikau-thatched, earth-floored hut, surrounded by forest and the blackness of the tropical night. One of the men says a prayer, then lifts the banana-palm leaf which covers the container at his feet. Dipping a small coconut-shell cup into the container, he passes it to the man on his right.

  The man drinks, passes the cup back. The leaf is removed again, the cup filled, then passed to the next man. He drinks, passes it back. Curiously, expectantly, I await my turn. I am at the end of the circle. The cup is dipped, passed to me. I swig its contents. The drink is flat, fruity, with a taste of earth. I nod approvingly, and pass it back to the head, who says solemnly, ‘So, Graeme, kia orana. Welcome to the Matavai tumunu.’

  Tumunu literally means the hollowed-out base of that most versatile of trees, the coconut palm. It makes a fine container for any liquid, but particularly bush-brewed beer. Tumunu has thus come to mean the place where men gather to consume the beer, a place deep in the forest. Atiu has several tumunu and visitors are welcome, provided they observe the protocol.

  When the missionaries proscribed the consumption of alcohol in the late nineteenth century, the Atiuans, along with the other Cook Islanders who had developed a liking for liquor, were obliged to find furtive methods of producing it. As the missionaries had also brought hundreds of orange trees to the island, Tahitian visitors taught their Atiuan cousins the art of brewing ‘beer’ using the citrus fruit as a base, with sugar, yeast and malt added to assist in a speedy and potent fermentation process. The ‘bush beer’ took only a few days to make and, as its consumption was necessarily a clandestine business, the tumunu were sited within the forest, far from the prying eyes of the London Missionary Society wowsers.

  Today the tumunu are legal (although the last conviction for public drunkenness resulting from a tumunu session was recorded as recently as 1987) and attended two or three times a week. The most popular session is, apparently, after Sunday morning worship.

  The cup continues to circulate. Each man makes a speech about himself and his thoughts on anything he considers worth airing. One man, who is indistinct in the gloom but appears to be in his fifties, is incapable of completing a sentence. Each time, he starts by saying something like, ‘To me, I feel that the important thing is that we make a chance to …’ Then he fades into incoherence, and the cup is passed on.

  After a few more rounds and a few more speeches, I realise that all my companions are drunk. In fact when I think back to the beginning of the session (now not so easy to do), I realise they were drunk when I arrived. The latest rounds were just topping them up. I have been warned that the bush-brew is ferociously potent, so I begin to ‘pass’ every other round, holding up my hand in a ‘halt’ gesture when the cup is passed to me. My friends, though, don’t miss a drink. Round and round the cup goes, on and on goes the talk. Voices are now very slurred, all utterances difficult to follow. The older man’s sentences are furthe
r truncated: ‘I think … to me … I feel … that the important thing …’ His hands shake, his voice fails him, his cup, as it were, runneth over.

  Knowing that I must leave if I am to find my way back to the chalet in the darkness, I am nevertheless reluctant. I have a feeling of intense euphoria, of comradeship towards the tumunu, towards my tumunu, and towards my new Atiuan mates. We all make farewell speeches and I dredge up my few phrases of Cook Islands Maori. We shake hands solemnly and sorrowfully. The leader declares, slurringly, ‘Graeme, you must not get lost on your way back. Nga will guide you through the forest and back to the road.’ Nga is the man whose sentences cannot be brought to a coherent conclusion.

  Nga takes me by the hand and leads me through the black forest. His physical skills are much better than his verbal ones, and in minutes we’re out of the trees and on the road. There he claps his hand on my shoulder and at last finishes a sentence: ‘I hear … you say … you have a daughter. In her twenties. I must tell you … I have no wife … no children. So I would also like to say … that I offer myself … to marry … your daughter.’

  I politely decline this proposal on my daughter Rebecca’s behalf and, after shaking hands again, walk off down the road. ‘Take … the … left fork …’ Nga has instructed. Carefully.

  I’ve been told that bush beer paralyses the legs, but mine feel okay. My head’s clear too, very clear, and I still have an overwhelming feeling of goodwill towards my tumunu companions. Overhead the sky is crammed with stars, their light so clear and strong they shimmer and pulsate, appearing to rush down and engulf me as I trip on through the blackness in the direction of my motel.

  Next night I dine with the local priest, Father Johann, who has lived on Atiu for many years. When I mention the tumunu his face turns overcast. ‘The tumunu,’ he pronounces in his still-thick Friesland accent, ‘cause more trouble than anything else.’ I press him for details, which he quickly supplies. Bush beer is addictive and fiercely alcoholic. It causes mental deterioration and endless social problems. Regular drinkers of bush beer rarely see sixty.