The Miss Tutti Frutti Contest

by Graeme Lay

  Somewhat defensively, I tell the priest that I enjoyed the camaraderie of the tumunu, and the talk. His expression now turns hostile. ‘What exactly did you talk about with them?’ he demands. I summarise the session.

  As I do so he nods reproachfully. Everything, but everything my tumunu friends told me was lies. The Atiu traditional sailing canoe wasn’t the only one that made it unassisted to Rarotonga last year from the Outer Islands; Cook Islanders didn’t have alcohol before the papa’a (Europeans) introduced it; the local MP hasn’t done much for this island, and so on.

  This is all a bit sobering, especially since Father Johann is no wowser – he and I are drinking wine, a mead-type brew he has made himself from honey. So, to leaven the conversation, I add, ‘One of the men who doesn’t have a wife proposed marriage to my daughter. That was an interesting gesture.’

  The priest looks at me sharply. ‘Which man was that?’

  ‘Nga. Chap of about fifty-five. Skinny bloke.’

  Father Johann’s expression becomes one of disgust. ‘Nga Taputa. He has a wife all right. And nine children.’

  Later, back on Rarotonga, a local construction contractor tells me about a big concreting job that needed doing on Atiu. He agreed to hire out his ready-mixed concrete truck to the Atiuans, and it was shipped over to the island. Weeks passed, he needed the concrete truck back, but every time he called Atiu he was told the weather was too rough and it couldn’t be loaded for the return voyage. Finally he became impatient, checked on the weather and was told that it was perfect, that the sea off Atiu was dead calm. He flew over to retrieve his vehicle. He found it in spotless condition, cleaner than he had ever known it to be. It was so clean because no concrete had passed through its bowl. The locals were finding it the perfect receptacle for mixing huge batches of bush beer, with the additional advantage of portability.

  On my last night on Atiu, Gavin and Deidre ask me over to their bungalow for a beer. As Zane and Troy explore the pineapple patch next door, Gavin pours me a can of Tooheys.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I ask him curiously. I haven’t seen anything but Steinlager on Atiu.

  ‘Brought a few trays over with us. That’s the best part about bringin’ the boys. We used most of their baggage allowance up in Tooheys.’

  I tell them about the bush beer session. Gavin’s immediately very keen to go to a tumunu. ‘What do you feel like when you drink it?’ asks Deidre, eyeing Gavin uneasily.

  ‘Very peaceful, very friendly. Not at all aggressive.’

  ‘More like an aphrodeesiac?’ she suggests.

  Gavin gives her a sharp glance. ‘No, no, it can’t be that,’ he says.

  Deidre frowns as she sips her Tooheys. ‘Oh no, not an aphrodeesiac – that’s not the word I’m lookin’ for. What’s the word for what you were describing?’

  ‘A sedative?’ I suggest. The brew had had a sleep-inducing effect.

  Deidre shakes her head. ‘No, no, not a sedateeve. I mean a word that makes you, you know, feel like going to sleep.’

  There’s an avian curiosity on Atiu, a type of swift called the kopeka, which lives in one of the island’s many caves. The cave is called Anatakitaki, and it’s reached after a half-hour walk through the forest and across the makatea. Keen to visit it, I join a small team the next day – a middle-aged American bird-watching couple, Kelvin and Gloria, who look like stilts, pale and tall with long thin legs; a local guide called Tereapii; and a shy teenage boy called Junior. We tramp through the forest, its floor made of the flint-hard fossilised coral, until we come to a deep, jagged-edged hole. We leave our daypacks and other belongings beside the pit, then scramble down with the aid of a rope. Carefully Tereapii and Junior guide us into the hole, then Junior, his contribution made, heads back home. The rest of us are led by Tereapii through various rock formations and eventually to the track that leads to the mouth of Anatakitaki cave.

  It’s a vast chamber containing beautifully fluted, alabaster-like columns of calcite. On one side the chamber is open to the sky, with tropical sunlight streaming down on the columns, while on the other it descends to a series of caverns complete with stalactites and stalagmites. We take a short walk into the cave. Tereapii waves a torch and the little kopekas dart around the roof and walls, making a distinctive clicking sound, like a Geiger counter over pay dirt. The kopekas flit and click as they make their way to and from their nests, located on small ledges near the roof.

  Outside the cave, the kopekas never rest. They swoop about non-stop, catching insects on the wing, then bringing them back to the cave to feed to their nestlings. As the birds do not click beyond the cave, ornithologists theorise that the noise is an echo-sounding device, a type of radar which allows them to find their way about in the darkness of the chamber. After a tentative exploration of the cave, I leave Tereapii, Kelvin and Gloria to it, and return to the head of the track. I need to buy some of Atiu’s excellent coffee in the village before leaving the island.

  The next day, Gloria and Kelvin are at the airport waiting for the same plane, and as soon as I see them I can tell that something has gone seriously wrong. Kelvin is visibly furious, his thin face tightly drawn as he paces about and glances at his watch. Gloria looks as if she has been crying. What on earth can have happened, on this sleepy island? Then a car draws up and Tereapii gets out. She approaches the bird-watching couple, wringing her hands, her expression distraught. ‘I am so sorry,’ she says, over and over. The couple turn away, obviously still fuming. Did they not see enough kopekas or something? After asking some discreet questions of the man whose chalet I’ve been renting and who’s also at the airport, I find out.

  It was Junior. After turning back from the trek, he rifled the American’s bags and stole a sum of money. Kelvin and Gloria discovered the theft last night and contacted Tereapii, who confronted Junior, who confessed. Tereapii then went to see his family, and the money – 150 dollars – was retrieved. The Americans felt violated; they had been told the island was without crime. Watching them now, barely able to wait until they take off, I can see that a terrible betrayal has occurred – not the sum of money so much as a loss of innocence. When they think of this island they won’t remember the kopeka, or the coffee, or the dignity of the Ziona Tapu church. They will remember only that they were robbed. As for Junior, my host told me, ‘He’ll get a beating he’ll never forget.’ Watching the stony-faced Americans as we wait for the plane to take off, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. Sometimes the inequalities exposed by tourism do nobody any good.

  The Three Roots are similar in shape (lozenge-like) and size (about fifteen kilometres in circumference). But these geographical similarities are misleading; all are distinctive in at least one respect. The first thing I notice after arriving on Mitiaro is that its villages are where they should be, beside the sea and on the western or leeward side of the island. There are three villages, scattered around Omutu landing, and they’re all sleepy, pretty and sheltered, bisected by a wide sandy avenue lined with tall Norfolk pines and flame trees. Their verandahed houses and the big Cook Islands Christian Church are well spaced and surrounded by expanses of grass. On the verandahs women sit chatting, weaving pandanus mats or making clothes on antique sewing machines.

  I’m transferred to my accommodation by the same old truck which met Jurgen and Helga. The driver drops off air freight at houses along the way to Nane Pokoati’s guesthouse. There are just six tourist beds on Mitiaro, and they’re all at Nane’s.

  Nane is in her early forties, short, plump, frizzy-haired, and with a round face that’s laughing more often than not. Her house is just a pawpaw’s toss from Omutu landing. It’s big and airy, with low ceilings and wide porches at the front and rear: the sort of house I’m in for five minutes and feel right at home. Nane’s elderly mother, who speaks no English, lives here too, while her late husband sleeps peacefully in a big grave in the front garden.

  I sink down on to a sofa on the back porch, screened from the afternoon sun by a curt
ain of beige pandanus leaves, and Nane brings me a plate of poke – mashed, baked bananas. As I eat the thick, filling pudding, I look out over the back yard. On the washing line, neatly pegged, are two big blue towels, two snorkels, two pairs of flippers, and two day-glo orange pairs of diving gloves. Designer diving equipment.

  ‘You have other guests, Nane?’

  ‘Yes, two.’

  ‘Are they from Germany?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I just guessed. Where are they now?’

  ‘They have gone for a walk. All the time, they walk, these people.’

  There are others, not tourists, staying at Nane’s: three of her young nieces – Kura, Krissie and Kristine. Kristine, who’s never been to Mitiaro before, is the most gorgeous of a trio of beautiful girls. Her skin is as smooth and pale as coconut cream, her hair thick and black, her eyelashes lustrous and long. Everyone, male and female, falls in love with Kristine. And what intensifies our passion is that she seems completely unaware of the effect she has on us. Mostly she sleeps, sprawled out on the double bed on the back porch, and when she wakes she always falls into someone’s arms.

  Kristine is three weeks old.

  And it is the old lady – Mama – who dotes on Kristine more than anyone else. The baby lies in her lap, sleeping, or gazing up with unblinking eyes into her kindly, wrinkled face.

  In mid-afternoon, two perspiring figures come around the corner of the house. Jurgen and Helga have been for a walk across the island. Still wearing their Euro-designer gear, they’re sweating under their natty shorts and Italian sports shoes, and gratefully accept the glasses of freshly squeezed lime juice that Nane pours them. (Mitiaro grows superb limes.) The three of us catch up on our movements since we were last together on the plane.

  ‘Did you see what happened to us when we arrived at z’airport?’ asks Jurgen.

  ‘I did, yes.’

  He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘That was … the most amazing welcome. All that singing … and dancing …’

  Helga, bright-eyed, chips in. ‘I was so excited, I forget, mmm, I forgot, to video this welcome. Now, when I tell people in Chermany about it, they do not … they should not … they will not believe me, I don’t think.’

  We all laugh again at the memory of their riotous induction into Mitiaro society. But I still can’t help thinking how incongruous the couple seem here. They look like Riviera, not Mitiaro people. I ask them, ‘And now you’ve seen the island, what do you think of it?’

  Their faces become radiant. Helga gushes: ‘Oh, we love it here.’ Jurgen nods wildly in agreement.

  ‘But … what do you do?’

  Jurgen looks thoughtful. ‘We walk, and we snorkel, and we look for beaches around the edge of the island. Every day we are doing this.’

  Helga tells me they have found deep pools in the reef which have the clearest water and the most beautiful fish they’ve ever seen. At low tide they spend hours snorkelling there and photographing the fish with their underwater cameras.

  I warm to Jurgen and Helga, who are genial, sensitive, tolerant people. Back in Cologne they live a life of affluence, sophistication and industriousness for eleven months of the year, then for the other month they fly across the world to the South Pacific and seek out an isolated tropical island like Mitiaro, where they can do … nothing. No movies, no restaurants or cafes, no nightclubs, no shops. And no crowds, no acid rain, no mines, no neo-Nazis, no autobahns. Helga and Jurgen are so green they’re almost fluorescent.

  Each of the Three Roots can lay claim to a unique natural feature. Mitiaro has a lake, something of a rarity in this part of the world. Strictly speaking, there’re two linked lakes, called Rotoiti and Rotonui, and they lie near the eastern edge of the island, surrounded by the forbidding, scalpel-sharp rocks of the makatea.

  Nane, Jurgen, Helga and I are driven down a rough track to the shore of Rotonui on the back of the all-purpose Bedford. The lake is a bleak sight, black and sedgy at the margins, the water sullen and still, the sort of lake from which you could easily imagine a chain-mailed arm emerging to receive Excalibur. But what comes from this lake is not an armoured arm but eels, known locally as itiki.

  As with all eels, there is an element of mystery attached to the itiki’s comings and goings. They probably slither a kilometre through the makatea from the sea, then live in the lake until they’re about a metre long. They’re prized throughout the Cook Islands – the equivalent of caviar. That evening Nane cooks some itiki for dinner. Its black skin and face are almost repulsive, but the flesh is very pink, sweet and flavoursome.

  Now we drive to the eastern side of Mitiaro, bouncing along on the tray of the truck. It’s unpopulated here, blasted by the south-easterly trade winds, a landscape of jagged grey coral where only small spiky pandanus plants grow. But the road is being re-formed, and there are piles of white sand which will be its new foundation. Nane intends to make a complete circuit of the island, but about three-quarters of the way round the dial the route is blocked by a big heap of sand and an ancient grader. There’s no way through, so the driver reverses the Bedford, turns it round and we return the way we came. The wind whips our hair into weird styles, but Nane is still laughing, Jurgen still looks entranced and Helga is still smiling, turning her face gratefully towards the setting sun.

  ‘The only thing wrong with Mitiaro,’ sighs Jurgen, ‘is that there is no beer.’

  It’s true, there’s not a full can or bottle on the island until the supply boat arrives next week from Rarotonga. This is dismaying news for beer drinkers like Jurgen and me. However, by the merest chance I have a large bottle of duty-free brandy in my bag, and there are appreciative looks all round when I produce it before dinner. Mixed with Mitiaro lime juice, and drunk with our de facto extended family on Nane’s back porch, it draws us even closer together.

  Next day I go for a walk along the wide, straight, sandy street that passes through the villages. The sun is high, the day is windless, the children are in school, and Mitiaro seems deserted, apart from me and the dogs.

  In the Cook Islands there are islands with dogs, and entirely dogless islands such as Aitutaki and Mauke. Mitiaro is an isle of dogs, the oddest ones I’ve ever seen. It appears as if a German shepherd has been busy fertilising a corgi, producing dogs with huge heads and ears, feet the size of hamburgers, and legs as stubby and bent as bananas.

  I’m sure it was these grotesque mutant canines that were responsible for the baying and barking that kept me awake for much of last night. They didn’t stop until 4 a. m., when the island’s roosters started crowing. They often go together in this part of the world, the dog and rooster duets, a squawking, howling, cacophonous serenade. On islands where there are no dogs, the roosters seldom crow.

  Coming towards me now through a shimmer of heat haze is a short, thickset male figure. We draw closer. He is barefoot, smoking, dressed in ragged denim shorts and a filthy yellow singlet. His hair is matted, his facial features bloated, his big bare feet splayed.

  ‘Hello,’ he says cheerily.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply.

  ‘Staying at Nane’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You like Mitiaro?’

  ‘I do. It’s very peaceful.’

  ‘I’m the mayor.’

  ‘Of this village?’

  ‘Of the island.’

  We sit on the grass under a coconut palm and chat. I raise a matter of civic urgency, the unavailability of beer. The mayor grimaces. There is beer on the island, he tells me, showing embarrassment, but they’re keeping it all for next week, when the prime minister is coming to open the new road. If they sold it now, there would be none for the party when he comes. Normally, he assures me, it would be possible to buy beer.

  ‘Where from?’ I ask, as I’ve not seen a shop anywhere on the island.

  ‘You buy beer,’ he grunts, ‘at the post office.’

  On my last night on Mitiaro I stay in Nane’s front room, one end of which is
a curtained-off bedroom, the other the island’s Air Rarotonga office, which makes my onward flight confirmation simple to effect. After a last walk past the village pigpen, past the huge banyan tree near the waterfront and down to the landing to listen to the waves on the reef, I retire to my bed. There I’m disconcerted for a time by the sounds of Jurgen and Helga’s lovemaking coming through the curtain-covered louvre windows at the end of the room. There is a period of peace, then the dogs and roosters start up again.

  Mama, Kura, Krissie, baby Kristine and I all leave Mitiaro on the same flight. I’m part of the extended family now, and as I buckle myself into the seat beside Mama at the front of the plane, Kura passes Kristine to me. I hold the baby, who’s swaddled in a pink towelling jumpsuit, as we are hurtled down the runway and into the air.

  Kristine lies in my arms, her huge brown eyes staring up at me. She seems to be all concentration, and seconds later I understand why. I feel a warm, flowing dampness on my inner thigh – a dampness which makes its way down my leg and into my left shoe. Kristine continues to stare up at me, even as I hold her away and call to Kura for help. Seeing what has happened, Mama cackles gleefully. ‘Ah! Mimi!’ Kura laughs too, takes the baby and hands me a towel from her bag. ‘Sorry about that,’ she says. ‘We ran out of disposable nappies. And because the post office was closed, we couldn’t get any more.’

  Mauke is the third of the Three Roots. At the airport I’m met by Tautara Pureau, at whose bungalows I’m staying. He is a tall, jovial man with a small moustache. Although he doesn’t tell me this himself, I later learn that he is Mauke’s chief administration officer, a man of high standing in his community.

  As we drive around a bend at the end of the runway in Tautara’s utility truck, I see two well-kept graves, side by side in front of what looks like an abandoned house. To me the letters on the graves seem luminous: ROBERT JULIAN DASHWOOD DIED 1970 AGED 71 YEARS and KOPU DASHWOOD DIED 1984 AGED 66 YEARS.