Island time

When you visit the Cook Islands, the locals will say that the tendency to walk much slower and to repeatedly forget what day it is means you have shifted into "island time"or "coconut time". Do not be fooled! Coconut Time is no freaking joke. It is an elaborate bending of the space/time continuum on par with the groundbreaking work of Dr. Emmet Brown and the writers of "Lost"! The conspiracy begins weeks before you even set foot on Rarotonga. Let's consider how I got there...

Sydney is a 21 hour flight from New York City, and 14 hours ahead. I know that because I obsessively googled "what time is it in Sydney?" from when I returned to New York City after my first trip to Australia and knew I didn't want to live there anymore, until I made the decision that I really wasn't going to.

Add another 2 hours to Auckland, New Zealand where I was eligible for a work/holiday visa at the ripe, old age of 34. Before I went to bed, I sent emails to see if I knew anybody who might know somebody in New Zealand, and woke up the next morning to find out that I actually did.

Two and a half months in that time zone; two weeks of which were spent tweeking, a month traveling, and month and a half of just living, working, and dogs driving. One month later and two hours back to Australia to reunite with my family from home, my family in Port, and form a new one in Balmain.

And finally my last day in a Sydney hotel room all alone at the end of August- trying to wrap my head around the fact that my flight to Rarotonga that night was only 5 hours, but the time difference was 20 hours behind because I would be traveling just past the international date line.

So I land in Raro in the pitch black, follow flourescent white lights into a tiny airport where I go through customs as someone plays the ukulele, and finally reach for a lei made of real gardenias given to me by a man who is there to take me to my hotel. When I wake up later that morning, I find a tourist map from 2008.

Now I ask you..does that not sound just a bit suspicious? A conspiracy to set you in some suspended time? I swear to God, if I had walked out of that room and seen Jack, Kate, or a Polar Bear at that point, I would not have been surprised.

Instead of the survivors from Oceanic Flight 815, I found a lagoon just outside of my room at the Muri Beachcomber. Clear, calm salt water that you can swim in like a pond with a defined reef that looks like it was built by some clever contractor to keep the raging ocean at bay for the Rarotongans.

I was able to tag that up first thing, because there was no need to do a major unpacking. My tropical wardrobe consists of three clean enough t-shirts, two bikinis, two beachy dresses, and one pair of old jeans which look like they are from Mugatu's Derelicte collection. I would have packed lighter had I known this woman was selling the Swiss Army Knife of skirts.

That was the first morning in years I'd done something other than hunt for coffee the instant I opened my eyes. Caffeine deprived and waiting for my hair to dry because curly hair loves salt water, I couldn't manage anything faster than a mosey on my way to the cafe. Time enough to notice the preferred mode of transportation on Raro is a scooter, and the island's version of a child safety seat is some fabric tied around the mom and child's waists, or in some cases just a big arm holding tight.

Caffeine works the same on the Cook Islands, so when I came to I realized that yes, I was in fact listening Rihanna and the Pussycat Dolls in the cafe in between Bob Marley and Maori pop. When I got back to my hotel room, I finally noticed all the flowers... under my pillows, on the stovetop, beside the no smoking sign, my lei from a few hours before which I absent-mindedly carried to the bathroom sink. Real flowers. Everywhere.

I woke up just before dawn the next day. Since I am normally Ghengis Khan in the morning, I have to assume this was because of jet lag. But it didn't feel like that at all. It was just time to wake up. With nothing else to do, I figured I'd head down to the beach and wait for the sun to rise and found a bunch of people who also thought it was just time to wake up. We all just stood there quietly sans coffee and waited for the sun to rise together. No one said anything until it was too gorgeous for us to ask each other to take some pictures. I assure you, this is untouched. If it were, I would find a way to get rid of the glasses.

I've made a point at becoming an expert in time difference since I started traveling because 1) there are clocks here, so it's ain't even that hard and 2) it's the only anchor I really have at the moment. In the same way that knowing the time in Sydney made leaving New York a little more possible, knowing the time back home makes me feel like I can always go back there if the going ever gets rough. It's a comfort, but probably takes me out of whatever it is I'm experiencing right now.

That is impossible to do in the Cook Islands. Island Time is the equivalent of being blindfolded and spun around before pinning the tail on the donkey. I was temped to stress what was going to happen the next week when I got back to New Zealand, or how much I missed my brother and sister who had just left my time zone. But then I would have missed these first excellent moments in Rarotonga.

Probably best to take the blindfold off, laugh about the dizziness, and enjoy the party.

Comments

[Camels & Chocolate]

That picture of the little girl wading in the water is CLASSIC. A framer for sure. Love it! (Oh yeah, and you look very purty in that bottom photo, too, m'lady!)

[sarahcentric]

C&C, thanks! But please..is it even possible to take a bad picture there? I love that joint so much!

And thank you for loving Roseannaa Danna Danna hair;-)

-Sarah

[Andi]

What an awesome place! I'm so curious, what does Maori pop sound like???