Saturday 23rd March: and the reason for my twenty-four hours in California
Packed and ready to go by ten o’clock, with George safely secreted in the baggage room, the doorman directed me to the Number 7 bus stop. As a parting shot, he added that I’d have to change to a Number 14 at Brondy to get to my destination. Studying my newly acquired timetable it seemed that a bus was due and, as I headed up the hill, sure enough I heard the rumble of the Big Blue Bus. I ran for the stop.
Clambering aboard, an unexpectedly jovial driver greeted me with, “Hey, that was a bus run, if ever I saw one.”
“Yes – phew,” I panted, “I’m off to the Getty Center.”
“Not on this bus, you’re not,” came his too jolly reply, “you want a 7 not a 3.”
Almost before a small disappointed squeak escaped my lips he added, “Not to worry – I’ll take you to the next stop – where’re you from?”
“London.”
“London – well great – here’s a ticket that’ll see you to the Getty.”
“London,” echoed the old wino lurching in the gangway, “that’s great.”
With the next bus stop upon us, the doors wheezed open and I climbed down the precipitous steps to chimes of “Have a nice day” from the driver, the wino and the rest of passengers. I turned, gave a regal British wave and blushed scarlet. The driver had given me a bus ticket, free of charge, and suddenly I felt ten feet tall and was probably grinning broadly.
Transfer from 3 to 7 to 14 completed, I found myself at the Getty, just as the clouds rolled in over what had started out as a ‘nice day’. The temperature dropped dramatically. Okay, we were considerably higher than sea level up in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, where my I’m on my holidays clothing suddenly seemed to be lacking a layer or two. Having decided to carry all my worldly goods in a money belt, I discovered a further use for this sartorially attractive accessory – it doubled as a tummy warmer.
An electric train takes visitors up to the museum from the car park, and it’s all so clean and efficient. Finally arriving at the limestone clad forecourt and entrance the sheer size, views, setting, architecture, everything, takes your breath away. And as I stood gawping, breathless, at all this majesty I became aware of an irate tourist flapping his arms at me. It took me a second or two to compute his actions; I was standing four-square and open-mouthed in his shot. Anyway, once inside, to reduce a day to a word, the contents were ‘awesome’.
The Getty is out of this world, both inside and out. Paintings, sculpture, tapestries and illuminated manuscripts plus entire rooms furnished in an array of period settings complete with panelling, peer glasses, commodes, porcelain and on and on. The paintings were top notch, nothing second-rate adorned the walls. I drifted past the finest examples of works by the European masters and had I taken a roll-call, all would have been present and correct. Getty, his family and trustees had obviously bought wisely, but with such a deep purse, it possibly made the shopping easier than for the money conscious national galleries dotted around the globe.
Hard to say what the highlights were, even the building and grounds were stars in their own right. However, there was a temporary exhibition which I found particularly absorbing, as it detailed the restoration of a Roman statue of Emperor Marcus Aurelius with the newly restored Marcus standing proudly in the middle of the room. It was fascinating learning how he’d been put together in the first place, re-pieced and repaired over the centuries as bits dropped off, got broken, or lost, and how it had been restored to enable it to be disassembled at will, boxed up and sent on tour without further damage being caused. Not sure why I found it so absorbing, but it was a fine statue and an incredible jigsaw.
Having admired a Roman statue, it followed that I should inspect the array of Roman artefacts. There were pots and jars used by the proletariat, to which I gave a cursory glance, but this was Los Angeles so I homed in on the bling of the patricians and was not disappointed. Spell-bound before one display cabinet, my eyes locked on to the centrally positioned exhibit, a golden diadem shining like a beacon. The craftsmanship was exquisite and for all its age the headdress, which had once adorned the statue of a goddess, looked both new and at home in its modern-day setting. Regretting my ignorance, I had no idea that such intricate work dated back to… h’m… well a long time ago. Note to self: when keeping a journal, have pen and paper handy at all times.
The Getty grounds were as impressive as the exhibits. Momentarily warmed by a lunch of soup eaten whilst huddled in a sheltered corner of a vast terrace, I wandered amongst bougainvillea, sauntered over springy grass and was wowed by the view. Here I was standing outside the magnificent white buildings set high on the distant hills which could be spotted from my hotel room. Suddenly the chill returned and after a quick foray into the obligatory gift shop, it was time to retrace my steps, via the Big Blue Bus, to the hotel. Sitting at the various bus stops along the route proved as fascinating as the Getty. Here, all the Spanish speaking world and his wife paraded before me, declaiming with such fervent intensity that it seemed as if speech was soon to be banned, so let’s make the most of it. In future, sitting at an English bus stop will feel a tad tame by comparison.
Arriving back at the hotel at four-thirty elated if a trifle weary, and with an hour to spare before catching an airport minibus back to the airport for half the cost of the taxi fare, I decided to end my stay in the way that it had started, by propping up the bar. Perching on a bar stool, I overheard the barmaid say to a group of relaxing air crew that Delta flight crew were her favourite flight crew, United flight attendants her favourite attendants and BA crew were just good fun (they obviously save their sense of humour for when they’re on terra firma away from their human cargo).
“That’s diplomatic,” quipped I.
“Well that’s a British accent if ever I heard one,” observed a Delta pilot.
“Where’re you from?”
“London.”
“London!” came the now anticipated chorus.
“Drinks on the house,” chirruped the barmaid with cheery largesse.
So, Santa Monica had treated me to a 50 cents bus ride and a free beer. What a start to my adventure.
Warming to the friendliness of the Californian community, with a slight pang of regret I said “goodbye” to my new friends and reclaimed George. Together we set off for the airport just as the evening sky put on another spectacular sunset. My stay might have been brief, but everything had conspired to make sure, in the nicest possible way, that I enjoyed every moment and could forget nothing. My decision to fly west towards Australia had been the right one. Sitting back on the well-worn shuttle bus seat, my thoughts went into their usual pictorial jumble, until the red Californian sky beckoned just as it had done twenty-four hours previously.
“You can thank the pollution for that display,” drawled a rather laconic airport bus driver who, with a busload of tourists anxious to catch their flights, made a detour to deposit a heavily laden domestic somewhere near the back of beyond. Whilst she was thrilled with this unexpected act of chivalry, our combined tourist pulses quickened as one, as the minute hand lurched rapidly forward, towards our ever-closer departure times.
Back on track, and as the airport loomed large, I realised that the ‘slightly tarnished view’ of the Los Angeles of my arrival had been replaced with a view as genuinely rosy as the sunset. The urban sprawl that had seemed so flimsy and unimaginative when I arrived was, I remembered, built on the San Andreas Fault. Function and not form were what mattered most and the people I met during my brief visit had provided the ornamentation and embellishments – with gusto.
Three weeks later and finally in Australia, I wrote the following in a round robin to family and friends at home:
Well here I am in Adelaide at the mid-way point of my adventure. Feel as if I’ve been on the road for months. Am loving the nomadic lifestyle –
perhaps not exactly in the backpacking league, but adventurous enough for someone unused to exploring the unknown. My day wandering around the Getty seems to have happened in another lifetime. Have finally had several rolls of film developed and it was lovely to be reminded of the museum’s incredible architecture and its accessibility. Even my ‘point and shoot’ camera captured the magnificence of the buildings: a place to revisit if I’m ever again allowed a travel pass.
The Cook Islands
Sunday 24th March: goodbye to the USA and hello to a Rarotongan Paradise
Check in at Los Angeles airport was pleasantly uneventful after my London experience followed by a similarly uneventful flight of nine hours fifteen minutes before touch-down at Rarotonga, the largest of the fifteen Cook Islands. As soon as the aircraft door opened, I was reeling drunkenly from my first heady whiff of warm tropical air. The tourist blurb invitingly announced that this was the place to ‘awake refreshed, walk along the beach hand in hand… and thrill to the dawn of a new day in Paradise’. Pure hedonistic bliss and as I was about to step into this little piece of paradise, the owner of the hand that I might have held was several thousand miles away tucked up in bed with a bad case of ’flu. Did I feel guilty? Well, I like to think so…
Still cheerfully unaware of the ’flu misery back at home, what a fun ‘dawn of a new day’ island arrival I experienced: a chap singing a melodic welcome, sweetly perfumed frangipani leis draped over the necks of all in-bound passengers and utter confusion as those holiday reps who had managed to crawl, yawning, to the airport for four in the morning tried to recognise their guests, whilst other guests (me included) searched in vain for their still sleeping welcoming party. Finally the confusion melted away and we all, I think, climbed onto the right buses/coaches or vans and fanned out in either a clockwise or anti-clockwise procession around the island. My hotel, the Rarotongan Beach Resort, must be at about six o’clock if the airport is at twelve. Then at 5.37 on Sunday morning, with a welcoming fruit punch drink inside me, and wilting flowers around my neck, I found my way to room 537. Who orchestrated that?
As I stepped into my room a genuine squeak of wow escaped my lips. Forget my earlier negative remarks about room allocation lotteries, I had just won the jackpot! Surveying my domain this, I thought, was perfect for a girl on her own: lucky me. Masses of space, a king-size bed, a huge bathroom and a balcony shaded by palm trees with ripe papaya tantalisingly within arms reach. It only seemed right to share my joy. However, after several abortive attempts at phoning home, I finally succeeded only to then conduct a monosyllabic conversation. Looking back, perhaps jet lag and sleep depravation played demon tricks whilst ‘flu can’t have helped the dialogue flow either. Shamefully, I must have sounded very nonplussed about being on a lush tropical island in the middle of the Pacific, especially to someone bed-bound in chilly England.
Signing-off, I flopped spread-eagled onto the bed with no one to nudge me if I snored. After a couple of hours of dream-less snoozing, the clanging of chambermaids aroused me. Up and down the corridor, the strategically placed ‘Do not disturb’ signs seemed to present a house-keeping challenge as chamber maids persisted with rhythmic door hammering until bleary-eyed holiday makers emerged blinking blankly into the bright sunlight: me included.
Quite right too! Why travel half way around the world just to sleep? So it was up, shower (with soothing, soft palm soap) and off to the beach where sun, sea and snorkel awaited. And what a fabulous beach… ouch, the sand was a bit hot. I felt as if I was tip-toeing over countless teeny burning prisms.
The hotel sits on a slight promontory. On either side, sparkling white arcs of pristine beach combine to form a complete curve around the bay. No other buildings mar the view. Here is a picture postcard come to life: shimmering white sand, shady palm trees, sparkling turquoise water, a frill of breakers out on the horizon and blue, blue skies. Pinch me! I opted for the bit of beach in front of the main bar area and, lily white, waddled into the sea. The water was shallow, surprisingly cool, but ideal for snorkelling. Proving my expertise at this sport and as a de-misting exercise, I spat on the glass of my lovely lime-green mask and clamped the matching snorkel firmly between my teeth. These accessories were a holiday gift from Kate. Handing them over, she had explained that the eye-catching colour was important, as you want people to know that a human-being is attached to the stick poking out of the water. I thought she’d have been proud of the image now created by her properly equipped mother.
The coral came as a surprise, as it looked more dead than alive, but was in fact flourishing. Grey coral of different shapes and sizes with splashes of pinks, purples and yellows, form a protective ring around the bay, keeping sharks out and providing a safe haven for the dozens of varieties of fish and sea slugs and of course the nosey humans. Angel fish, parrot fish, wrasses – in fact a whirl of yellow, black and silver stripes flashed busily past. Initially, I had no idea what I was looking at, but loved flapping around watching the hustle and bustle of fin city through the picture window of my mask. As I looked out someone looked in, it was an almost invisible silver fish which was surprisingly large and I hadn’t noticed him until we were both mouthing eek eyeball to eyeball.
So typical of me, the lack of breakfast interrupted this watery idyll as hunger pangs began to gnaw at my innards, ending my first dip in the Pacific. By now it was about two-thirty in the afternoon and a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich provided the ideal rumbling-tum filler. Not exactly traditional Cook Islands fare, but very welcome nevertheless. I was not alone in thinking it welcome. Lined up on every hard surface in front of me and looking like a menacing sequence from The Birds, sat the island’s noisy, jostling bovver boys – rooks/ravens the universal corvid crew. They are not attractive specimens of the bird world and sitting with their beaks open to cool down, increased the scavenging effect. Lunchtime heralded the first of many rain showers; short sharp and not really a problem. What I had missed, or missed most of, whilst head down inspecting the coral community, were the uplifting harmonies of a church choir. Mau Mau’d mamas, papas in bright shirts and radiant sons and daughters in very little, sashayed their way gracefully through their Polynesian Gospel repertoire, for the benefit of a highly appreciative pool-side audience. Of course, today was Sunday.
My absence from the beach was further extended when I spoke to a couple from Derbyshire who had left their seventeen and fifteen year old son and daughter at home and were experiencing the first feelings of mild panic as they’d been unable to reach them on the phone. Anyway, after a longish chat and a poor attempt at consoling them, it was back to the beach for some more splashing around. And then, as the sun began to sink, so did I – not literally, but my energy levels took a dip. The hope that a cool shower would revive me was a hope in vain. When faced with the choice of putting on evening togs or sleeping togs, sleeping won and it was bedtime by seven-thirty. Again, spread-eagled, I drifted off happily undisturbed.
Monday 25th March: time for cafés, communications and curry
A Monday with a difference: no struggling with the beginning of the week London Underground chaos, instead a leisurely breakfast of luscious fresh tropical fruit overlooking the sea followed by the ten-thirty clockwise bus into town. Rarotonga’s capital, Avarua, stretches along a fifteen minute amble of the island’s coastal road. There is only one further road and it runs behind the coastal road, about 500m inshore although it doesn’t encircle the entire island. These are the only roads, so if attempting to go north/south or east/west across the middle, the only way is up and over the mountain… on foot.
My first task in Avarua was to track down a baggy t-shirt for swimming in and a sunhat as I was already lobster-red and that was after liberal slatherings of factor 15 sun-screen. The main shop, Cook Island Trading Company (CITC), is an Aladdin’s cave with everything you could want or need, except for cotton t-shirts without football slogans/motifs. Anyway, a reviving smoothie next door meant that I w
as able to continue a little longer with my quest. Avarua straggles along the road for about three quarters of a mile with the sea on one side and volcanic cones providing a verdant backdrop on the other. Lush green vegetation abounds, softening the structures that are homes, shops, churches, assorted government departments and the Post Office.
Seeing internet prices advertised way below the hotel charges, I spent a happy ten New Zealand dollars worth of messaging. My message home went something like this which probably left the house-bound ailing recipient mutterings things about a spoilt child:
Hi! Sun’s shining and I’m in the cool of an internet café feeling oh, so cool myself. So I’ve made it – to Rarotonga at least. Everything fantastic! I can recommend this spot for a dose of sheer self-indulgence. This is just a quick message as I want to go off and play in the sea. Oops… how’s the flu?
Nobody had warned me that an aspect of travelling on your own is that you sort of morph into another being, which just adds to the unexpected fun of the adventure.
Weather-wise, one thing of note is the abundance of ‘liquid sunshine’, which here refers to the rain and not the amber nectar of Oz. This is not really a problem as it cools everything down for a fraction of a second but the relief is only temporary as the rain also ensures that the humidity is high. Head in the proverbial clouds and back on the road, my search for a t-shirt met with success so, as a reward, it was time to change the pace and seek out a little culture with a visit to the museum. By the time I found it, tucked away, the doors were closing for lunch. So I mooched around various roads and tracks and photographed the flora and fauna of the island and visited the old whitewashed coral built church (1853). It’s hard to imagine living somewhere where everything except fish, coconut, coconut derivatives, fresh fruit and vegetables has to be imported from New Zealand. (On reflection, I suppose the UK isn’t exactly a world leader in the self-sufficiency stakes). The Cook Islands used to export bananas and copra and enjoy a degree of financial independence through its trading. However, today the island nation is too small to compete commercially and is now heavily reliant on the tourist trade for income. Kerchink! I was more than happy to add something to the islands’ coffers.
Travels with George Page 2
