Atiu! Bless you...

Finished with Easter Island, now I'm on to Vietnam, so naturally I was thinking about motorbikes. No-one who's ever been to Vietnam can remember it without thinking of motorbikes - the sheer number of them, the initial terror of taking on an unbroken tide of them while trying to cross the road, the ever-more-incredible loads carried on them. I was wondering when was the last time I actually rode one, after spending seven years of my youth puttering about the streets of Christchurch on a Vespa 90, and another one in England astride a Honda 50 (no matter how well I wrapped up, I lost so much body heat going to work in winter that it truly took me till morning tea time to thaw out).

Anyway, the answer is five years ago on Atiu, in the Cook Islands. Not many people go there, compared with Rarotonga and even Aitutaki, but it's just a 45 minute flight away. It's known as the island of birds, caves and coffee, because that's just about all there is to see there; certainly it's not the place to go for classic white beaches and turquoise lagoons. It does have those, but they're very small and shallow - no windsurfing here. Nobody lives by the beach because the coast is ringed by a wall of fossilised coral, so the only habitable bit is on the volcanic plateau at the centre.

But the birds are brilliant, literally, and the jungle is a vibrant green, the beaches that do exist are white powdery sand, and the narrow ring of lagoon is turquoise. Some of the caves have birds nesting in them that navigate by echo-location, there's an underground pool you can swim in by candle-light - oh, and other caves are full of human bones and skulls. There are also bush beer clubs where you can sit with the locals in a circle on palm tree stumps and drink orange-juice based beer from a communal coconut shell. It's surprisingly good - perhaps the original boutique beer?

The coffee business, run by a German, is interesting to visit, and his wife makes beautiful traditional and modern tivaevae, or appliqued quilts. So there is tourism there, but very laid-back and low-key, just like everything and everyone else on the island; which makes hopping onto a motorbike for a lazy circuit a very pleasant thing to do. Just watch out for the traffic.

'Stay-cation' advised

While I continue scribbling away about Easter Island, trying to condense four days of busy personal experience and about 100 years of scientific study into 1300 informative and entertaining words, you can read a list of what are apparently genuine complaints by UK clients of Thomas Cook Travel; and we can both wonder if there's any point in what travel writers like me do.

1. "I think it should be explained in the brochure that the local store does not sell proper biscuits like custard creams or gingernuts."

2. "It's lazy of the local shopkeepers to close in the afternoons. I often needed to buy things during 'siesta' time — this should be banned."

3. "On my holiday to Goa in India, I was disgusted to find that almost every restaurant served curry. I don't like spicy food at all."

4. "We booked an excursion to a water park but no-one told us we had to bring our swimming costumes and towels."

7. "The beach was too sandy."

8. "We found the sand was not like the sand in the brochure. Your brochure shows the sand as yellow but it was white."

10. "Topless sunbathing on the beach should be banned. The holiday was ruined as my husband spent all day looking at other women."

12. "No-one told us there would be fish in the sea. The children were startled."

13. "There was no egg-slicer in the apartment."

14. "We went on holiday to Spain and had a problem with the taxi drivers as  they were all Spanish."

15. "The roads were uneven..."

16. "It took us nine hours to fly home from Jamaica to England. It took the Americans only three hours to get home."

17. "I compared the size of our one-bedroom apartment to our friends' three-bedroom apartment and ours was significantly smaller."

18. "The brochure stated: 'No hairdressers at the accommodation'. We're trainee hairdressers — will we be OK staying there?"

19. "There are too many Spanish people. The receptionist speaks Spanish. The food is Spanish. Too many foreigners now live abroad."

20. "We had to queue outside with no air-conditioning."

21. "It is your duty as a tour operator to advise us of noisy or unruly guests before we travel."

22. "I was bitten by a mosquito. No-one said they could bite."

23. "My fiancé and I booked a twin-bedded room but we were placed in a double-bedded room. We now hold you responsible for the fact that I find myself pregnant. This would not have happened if you had put us in the room that we booked."

Scratching my head about the heads

I've got a couple of stories to write about Easter Island and, you know, even having been there now, the place is still such a mystery. I've just been watching video of an experiment in Hawaii showing how three small teams of people moved a 4.4-tonne replica of a moai by using ropes to rock it 100 metres along a flat path. Like a fridge! But many of the statues on Easter Island are much bigger than that, plus they were moved miles over rough terrain, plus they were placed on platforms about a metre high, plus they had red vocanic stone 'hats' that were put on their heads last of all. So many unanswered questions.

They're not all alike, either. Everyone's seen pictures of the ones like this, with the clean lines and sharp nose and chin that appears to us most striking and attractive, but actually there are lots of different looks, as in the Easter Island First XV in the top photo (so called because they have nothing above the eyes). They're actually ariki, or chieftans, not gods, so their features are based on real people.

Though it's an amazing place to visit, it's also a bit of a downer, because of the environmental destruction - denuded of its forests, pests imported, people exported for slavery to Peru, then a few stragglers returned again bringing disease, foreign capitalist farmers imprisoning the people in their town so actual generations never set foot in the sea... It's an object lesson in what not to do.

And another oddity of the place is that, with all those statues, because of the dedicated work of the imported rats and falcons, I only ever saw one with a bird on its head. Is that a plus?

 

Swings and roundabouts

 

So, on the one hand, this happens: a single issue of the NZ Herald's Travel section, and inside not one, not two, but three stories of mine, one of them featured as the cover story. Quite a varied selection, in subject as well as time-scale - the Rail Trail one from a couple of weeks ago, travelling Europe by train from last year, and one about looking at old and new planes in Washington state from two years ago. It was pretty exciting, to be honest, particularly as I was expecting only the plane one. I was thrilled to see it on the cover, although it was only a shortish piece - usually it's the big read, the 1200 words on the centre spread, that gets that treatment; and also that it was on page 3, ie the first real page of the section. Then I looked through to see who else had got in this week, and found the horse one featuring my photo - and then, amazingly, the train one at the back.

I was thinking, apart from "Yay!" that it was famine or feast again, as it always seems to be (not that I'm complaining about the feast bit) - but actually, it was the swings and roundabouts phrase I should have been referencing, because what did I discover a couple of days later, but this:

That's my photo of Geoff Scholz of Gawler Ranges Wilderness Safaris in South Australia, doing a bit of emu-whispering. Looks great, doesn't it, on the cover of this travel mag that's taken a number of my stories in the past, though not recently. I was delighted to see it, then puzzled as I couldn't remember sending them a SA story, then confused to see it twice inside, on the contents page and again with a story about Gawler by someone else, and finally furious to realise that they had not only used my image without permission, attribution or payment, but had printed above it 'Images by Patrick Gawler'.

He doesn't exist, I've discovered. The magazine must have used the reference name on the file of photos sent to them, without thinking; and the image had been mistakenly (and still somewhat mysteriously) included with stock photos supplied by SA Tourism. They are now very apologetic and will pay; the magazine we're hoping will print a correction in the next issue; and it was all a genuine mistake rather than deliberate copyright infringement. But it's still so disappointing that my photo has been given such fabulous coverage, but with no credit to me. Bummer.

Onetangi Beachfront Apartments - review

We booked our week's accommodation at Onetangi Beachfront Apartments online, attracted by their being right across the road from the beach. As they are - although only the upstairs ones have views of the sea that you can enjoy from your apartment, because they're built at right-angles to the beach, behind the owner's house at the front. The website is misleading as it concentrates on photos of the newer Beach Apartments alongside, which have better views and look smarter.

Ours, the first along the drive, turned out to be more ordinary-looking than the ones in the photos on the website - it's a two-bedroom, single storey, and I'm a bit puzzled as to why they call it an apartment when to me it's a motel. Perhaps its the serviced aspect, which I'll get to shortly. Still, looks pretty nice, and one of the fixed seats by that outdoor table allows you to see a bit of the sea. The sheath protecting the umbrella was torn and we had to climb up on a rotating chair and then onto the table to remove it - not my favourite kind of exercise, after falling off a ladder last year. I suppose we could have asked someone to do it for us - equally, a non-torn cover would have come off more easily. Though most of the sliding glass doors had stickers on at eye-level, the main one didn't, and though we are familiar with the operation of glass doors, both of us still managed to walk into it at different times. I cut my nose and the mark's still there - plus, it hurt.

Very small point, this - but why would you stick the number on a pillar so that it's hanging out over the edge on one side, while there's plenty of room on the other? Except to irritate anal people like me? And make them wonder how much care and attention goes into other aspects of the apartment?

Ok, this was perfectly pleasant. The furniture was well-made and much more comfortable than you normally get in this sort of place, the lighting was generous, the kitchen well-appointed, the TV a good size and there was plenty of storage space in the main bedroom. The bed there was hard, though, made of two singles with a really noticeable ridge down the middle.

Sorry, this photo insisted on loading itself sideways. It's the bathroom floor, something there is ample opportunity to study in detail. It doesn't show up very well, but the grout is pretty revolting: totally black in many places, overlaid under the washing machine by granules of washing powder. When was this floor last properly scrubbed? A quick swipe with a mop isn't enough. The bathroom otherwise seemed clean, but though I'm not super-fastidious, the floor put me off. Not enough attention to detail here (see 24 above). While I'm on the subject of floors, why on earth they didn't supply some sort of foot bath at the front door to prevent sand being trailed through the unit, I really don't know. Doesn't have to be a fancy ceramic thing like at Pacific Resort Rarotonga: a plastic bowl would do. More thought needed.

Here's another pointer towards the cleaning team not doing their job as well as they should. A burnt saucepan is hardly a hanging offence, and since there was no scourer supplied, the guests who scorched their baked beans had no way of cleaning it properly themselves. But shouldn't the cleaners coming in between lettings check this sort of thing?

The girls who appeared at the door each day offering to make beds, replace towels, toiletries etc were cheerful and friendly - but I'm thinking they needed to be a lot more professional. This place wasn't cheap: it cost $300 a night, which seems pretty pricey to me. The location is brilliant (especially for the lucky ones upstairs) but the standard of housekeeping wasn't. I didn't feel uncomfortable, I was confident the sheets were clean and so on, and they did do what they called "a full clean" halfway through, but still... There are also dodgy electrics in 24, which kept tripping the switch for the hob - the receptionist showed us what to do. She did say if it happened again they'd call the electrician back to have another go at sorting it. Again, $300 a night for this?

It gets worse. When we first entered, there was a smell immediately apparent: hard to describe, sour, stale, definitely unpleasant, very like cigarettes. It dispersed a bit with everything open, and I hoped that would be it - but it wasn't, it lingered, it came in waves, it was very noticeable in the evening from the sofa, and everyone who came to visit us smelt it too. I complained after a few days and the receptionist was concerned and promised the cleaners would look into it. Yeah, right. We lived with that stink all week. It turned out to be caused by a leaking hot-water cylinder that they promised would be attended to immediately - so we were told in an email that we read back home, several hours after checking out, leaving my business card and telling them that I wouldn't be able to give them a good review. They also offered us a 10% discount on our next stay. Will we take that up? What do you think?

All good things...

Though I'm with Lucy, from Peanuts, who when told there have to be ups and downs in life, stamped her foot and bellowed, "Why can't there be just ups and ups?" I don't see why good things have to end. I could quite happily have stayed on on Waiheke and not come home at all. Lots of people do. Though that's because it's where their homes are, of course, lucky things...

So, no more wine and water, the rose and the turquoise. No more bobbing about in the warm, clear sea, or trotting along the sand picking up the shells that winked at me, or both having and taking the time to conduct a slow-motion experiment on the wet sand. Ever wondered how long you'd have to stand there with the ebbing waves sucking the sand from out under your feet before you were completely buried? I can tell you that it won't happen: the tide will leave you high and dry before you're up to your ankles. (You're welcome.)

No more early(ish) mornings walking to the end of the beach to where the path zigzags up the cliff, and ducking under the pohutukawa, the one with the swing that the little girls have so much fun on, all by themselves. No more stopping at the top, after the 16th zig - or is that zag - to admire the view back along Onetangi and the neat regularity of the lacy scallops made by the waves (the only reason I stop there, of course).

No more morning serenade from Max and his ukulele, walking past the Beach Front Cafe cheerfully singing his Waiheke song and strumming away as he follows his dog along the road while we eat creamed mushrooms and ciabatta or French toast and banana (with extra-fancy 'mapel' syrup).

No more of any of that. Just a slow chug across the harbour on the car ferry, back to the city and home and ordinary old life again. Sigh.

Just another Waiheke Saturday

Here's a bit of a photographic essay for you: a summer Saturday on Waiheke. What to do? Well, having collected today's visitors from the ferry, first stop was Ostend Market, where the locals come for gossip and to shift some stuff, and tourists come to eat crepes and toy with homeopathic remedies and to buy second-hand books. Which were being sold at, cannily, apparently bargain prices, as above. There was a little girl scraping away at a violin, peering at her fingering and not achieving anything like a tune - or, sadly, any money in her open case. I bought the latest in my lifelong quest for the perfect sunhat (which has already failed, both drooping and and being blown off my head. The search continues...).

Then we visited the little museum, which we'd never been to before, and I was charmed by its eclectic mix of artefacts, although some of them were alarmingly familiar. It's never good to see stuff from your childhood in a museum. Apart from the main building which housed a fascinating collection of stuff, there were little baches from all over the island relocated and furnished either as homes or themed displays. The medical one with the kidney dish holding a stainless steel speculum was especially riveting. Outside there was an actual longdrop, carefully explained, the description ending with 'Display only. Not for use'.

Then it was lunchtime, so we went to Cable Bay for a delicious meal that we regrettably miscalculated, thinking entree and pudding would do us well. Here though, alas, the entrees were proper, traditional, actual entree size, so my meltingly tender pork belly with crunchy popped barley was tantalising rather than satisfying. We should have listened to the waitress. Never mind, the accompanying rose was lovely and the pudding equally delicious: gingerbread icecream, raspberry sorbet, cherries, chilli chocolate and hokey pokey. A glorious melding of flavours. Yum. My mouth is watering again just writing this. Our only mild complaint was that the wind blowing through the open doors was a bit cool, so we had to go outside afterwards onto the lawn with the lovely sculptures and sprawl on the beanbags in the sun for a while to warm up again.

Then we went back to Onetangi for a swim, my second of the day might I mention, which was very pleasant, the water having warmed up heaps since we first arrived. Five days of hot sunshine will do that, you know. There were family parties and dogs and couples and old people, all enjoying the soft sand and gentle waves and clear water. Our friends had to catch the ferry back home to the city then, and we were all amazed as we went through Oneroa at how chokka the bay was with boats. Car park!

And finally, we fetched up at Little Oneroa for a delicious Dragon-fired pizza to eat with another glass or two of rose beside the beach watching people play with frisbees and balls in the water, and at the end feeding the crusts to the seagulls, pleased at succeeding in giving plenty to the bird with only one leg (there's always one with only one leg) and having others take bits from my fingers. What a lovely day!