Category: Cook islands

A Raro Life is a chronological recollection of stories from the six months I spent living in Rarotonga during the 2021 Covid lockdown.

We’re at Mai’i.

“My favourite restaurant on the island,” Amandine says.

But she also said that about Mooring Fish Cafe.

And Nautilus.

And OTB.

We’ve just been to yoga with Michelle. I’m eating fish and chips. Roberta’s eating kumara fries. Amandine’s got the sashimi platter.

Roberta isn’t doing much eating, though. She’s talking. Entertaining us with stories of her teens – when she backpacked through Brazil in the seventies or eighties, did all the crazy backpacker things. She talks and talks, and I can see Amandine zoning out, then I zone out, and it’s Roberta talking to herself, then after a few minutes, we zone back in. She’s still talking.

So the island is like home, now? She finally asks me.

I nod. Every day there is something.

Tuesday and Thursday is yoga, Amandine says.

Friday and Sunday is music at Waterline, I say.

Saturday is the rock band.

Just Wednesday is free …

Wednesday you can go to Lucille’s house! Roberta says.

Amandine perks up.

Yes! The magazine thing!

They start laughing.

You want to go tomorrow? Roberta asks.

Amandine nods. Yeah!

She turns to me and starts explaining.

So it’s this thing – you take all these pictures from magazines, but you don’t even think about it, you really don’t think anything about it, you just take it and then make this picture, and then when you finish you will have a card with all these pictures, then you can make like four or five cards or however many cards you want, and at the end all the pictures will tell a story about your life …

Uhuh …

It’s really fun!

Uhuh …

Even Kamil went once.

Just once?

Yes, he hated it.

Why?

Because he’s Kamil, that’s why. But we should go!

I know I’m not even allowed to say no.

We will goooo, Roberta says. We can leave at foouuur.

---

I wake early the next day. Go to the beach. Read.

Just before lunch, I lace up for my run.

As I leave the house, I spot Carlo in the garden, shirtless, doing garden stuff. He grins at me.

You run everywhere!

Yep, I smile to myself. Seems to be all I know now.

Carlo is so jolly. He has a permanent smile, like it’s painted on. When he talks, he lifts his eyebrows, high as he can, like he’s putting in eyedrops. His Italian accent is so thick you almost need subtitles. You can’t not love him.

I walk down the driveway, around to the front of their house. I don’t know if he’s a carpenter, but I guess he built this house himself. It’s soulful, tropical, built in a nest of trees, straight out of an island movie. The guesthouses – where Amandine and myself stay – are on the bottom floor. Carlo and Roberta live up top, in their breezy idyllic treehouse. I’m jealous. It’s beautiful.

I start my run, down their long gravel driveway, same as always.

The funny thing about Rarotonga – it’s nearly impossible to get lost, because there’s only one main road, that circles the whole island. I don’t even know if it has a name – people just call it Main Road. It makes it the most beautiful place to run. Normally, in a foreign country, you need to keep a damn GPS in your head when you run, remembering every turn, every landmark so you don’t get lost. But here, you can just run and run, and when you get tired, just turn and run back. You can’t get lost when there’s only one road.

I hit the main road and hang left.

I run past the Edgewater Resort, where I had gone for lunch on my first week.

Were you running this morning? The waitress had asked.

Yes I was.

The next day, I went back for a swim.

The guy on duty grinned at me.

Saw you running this morning bro. Chyeah!

Go for a run, everyone on this island knows. No secrets here.

I run past Alberto’s Steak House. Pretty good food, Carlo had told me on the first day, on the ride from the airport.

Next, I pass the bakery that Amandine likes, with the one-dollar Spanish rolls.

A few minutes down, there are roadworks.

I run by the orange cones. The guy standing there does a little hop step.

Wanna race, bro? He grins.

I grin back.

I run by Black Rock. Oceanside now. I follow the road all the way to the wall that runs along the sea. They call it the Sea Wall.

Even though cars are zipping past, it’s soothing, running the Sea Wall. Hearing the ocean crash, tasting the fresh salt in the air.

I look at my watch. Three kilometres.

I turn around, start to head home.

Along the Sea Wall again, past Black Rock again, past Alberto’s again, back to Carlo’s driveway. But I get to Carlo’s driveway and I don’t want to stop. This weather is too beautiful, this sun is too warm, the humidity is too nourishing.

I keep going.

I run past the Crown Resort. Then OTB. Then Beluga. Then Waterline. This stretch of resorts and restaurants, I’ve run it many times now. This part of the island is Arorangi. I know it by heart. Without even realising it, it’s become home.

As I run this stretch of road, there is a moment when all cars have cleared the road, I see no buildings. All I see in front of me are bright green trees hanging still, piles of coconuts gathered by the roadside, and a spotless turquoise sky glowing in the sun. It sits there like it’s in a photo frame, and all I can think is how I regret not having my camera, but I know I’d never be able to capture the perfection anyway. The beauty stuns me, like a beautiful woman, or a beautiful sunset – my eyes try to take it all in, and it’s almost overwhelming, to the point I just want to stare into this blue and run forever.

How did I not know this island existed until now?

It’s four.

Just as I’m locking up, I can hear Roberta and Amandine outside, walking towards my door.

Do you think he still wants to come? I hear Amandine say.

They pop their head around the corner and see me.

Oh yeah, he’s here!

It feels like a short drive to Lucille’s house. I have no idea where we are, but we pull up a long driveway which eventually opens out to a beautiful, sprawling lawn. A large house sits in the middle, immaculately kept, straight out of a Home & Garden magazine. Around the house is an L-shaped deck, lined with statues and carvings. My first thought – I’d love to live in a house like this.

We pull up to the doorstep. There are no other cars in the driveway. Just us.

Lucille is waiting to greet us on the deck. She’s a retired French lady with a soft voice who reminds me of a fortune teller. It’s everything – her wavy blue clothes, her shallow eyes, her pillowy voice.

Behind her on the deck is a long table filled with stationery – glue, glitter, coloured pens, candy.

We sit.

She offers us tea – not normal tea, of course, but tea with turmeric or lavender or masala or some combination of these.

Can I steal an M&M? I ask.

She gazes at me strangely, then looks over at the bowl of M&M’s on the table. Smiles.

“Oh, of course. They’re all for you.”

As I chew on M&M’s, she introduces herself. She hands me a piece of paper. Across the top are the words Soul Collage. She asks me some questions. Where I’m from, what I do.

Then she finally tells the ladies to go ahead and get started, before sitting down beside me.

“So, Brendan, what I would like you to do is to go to that table, spend some time looking through all the pictures, and your task is to choose one, only one. I want you to choose the one that jumps out at you. You won’t need to think about it too much. You should know as soon as you see it. We’re looking for that one picture that, when you see it, you feel that ahhhhhh inside of you, you just know it’s speaking to you. Do you know what I mean?”

I know I’m supposed to say yes.

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.”

I go to the table. There are hundreds of loose pages torn out of magazines and brochures, with pictures of everything – beaches, cars, people, plants, animals. I flick through them all quickly, and eventually I pick up a page with a small photo of a bonfire, and I stop.

I stare at it for two, three seconds.

It brings back memories of Afrikaburn. A happier time in my life. Right before everything changed.

I guess this is what she was talking about.

I take it and go and sit back down with Lucille. She looks at it.

“Very good. This is the centrepiece of your collage. Remember, it can be anything in this photo that speaks to you – it could be the fire, it could be the people sitting around it, it could just be the colour. It’s all about what you see. Now I want you to return to the table and pick one more picture. This second picture will be your background.”

I go back to the table. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I find a picture of a guy. He has a leather jacket and he looks confident and focused and most importantly, at peace.

I take it back to Lucille.

She puts a pair of scissors and a glue stick in front of me.

“Time to be a kid again,” she tells me.

She’s right, it is like being a kid again. I cut around each picture meticulously, like I used to in primary school, agonising over the angle I should paste it on, over the straightness of the edges, over getting just the right amount of glue.

I look up at Roberta and Amandine.

Silence. Intense concentration.

We are all kids again.

Lucille comes over and looks at my finished piece. She smiles.

“Fantastic.”

She holds it up and shows the girls.

“Che belloooo,” says Roberta.

“It’s beautiful,” says Amandine.

“Isn’t it?” Says Lucille.

I try not to laugh. Am I supposed to say thank you?

She hands it back.

So now, I want you to do it again – look for the pieces that speak to you. But don’t limit yourself this time. Use as many pictures as you like. And remember – don’t think, just listen.

We spend the next thirty minutes glueing pictures from magazines onto cardboard. None of us talk. None of us take a break. Somehow, it is so simple and meaningless, but so engrossing at the same time. It feels almost … sacred.

After we’re finished, and still sitting in silence, Lucille comes out of the house. We’ve been cutting and gluing for hours.

“Shall we share?”

The day is dimming now. The sun has started to set. She takes us over to some couches on the edge of her deck.

We sit in a circle, around a small coffee table. She asks Amandine to go first.

Amandine talks a lot about loneliness. About being on this island for so long. Being away from her people. I hear her, but I’m not really listening. I’m looking at my own cards, wondering what they mean. But the truth is I know exactly what they mean. I’m just wondering if I’m courageous enough to say it out loud.

Amandine finishes. She hasn’t looked up the whole time. How much of her soul has she bared, I don’t know. But she finally looks up at us and smiles, and suddenly it hits me how bizarre this is, how we barely know each other, yet sharing things so intimate.

“Brendan, would you like to go next?”

I have three cards.

I pull out the first one.

I stare at it, and it takes me a while to start talking.

“When I saw this guy, I saw … confidence.”

“I know he is living freely. He’s not afraid of anything.”

My voice starts to quiver.

“I miss him. Because I used to be him.”

I pause. I didn’t expect to be this emotional, but the words catch in my throat. Tears want to collect in my eyes.

I don’t let them.

“I chose the fire because … I remember when I had a fire that burned bright like that …”

“My fire is gone now. I feel like it was taken away from me.”

“All I want is to heal, so I can have that back. I want to be this guy again.”

I don’t look up. I’m afraid a tear might fall if I do. I don’t want to see if they’re looking at me, if they’re listening, if they even care.

I just move on to the next card.

But somehow, saying this out loud, looking at this card in front of me, it has moved me. I’m reminded the fire is mine, nobody can take it away. You nurture it, fight for it. It can only die if you let it.

Suddenly, I am so grateful I am sitting here. Maybe there’s a reason I met these people. There’s a reason I ended up on this island. Around this table. I needed to do this. Maybe this is what healing looks like.

---

Heading to Rarotonga? Check out my accommodation guide here!

A Raro Life is a chronological recollection of stories from the six months I spent living in Rarotonga during the 2021 Covid lockdown.

I’m on the beach, reading.

This is tradition now.

Every morning.

Bottle of water, Kindle, the sun.

It’s not the prettiest beach, but it’s my beach. Three minutes walk. And always empty. I have the same spot each morning. Under the first coconut tree.

Engrossed in my book, I hear a voice.

“Hii!!!”

I look up. A girl is waving. Sarong. Big sunglasses.

“Oh. Hey. What’s up.”

The Swiss girl from my kitchen.

She walks over.

“I’m gooood, how are you?”

Frenchest of French accents.

“Just…reading. What’s goin’ on?”

“I’m going to take a little swim!”

She stands a few metres away, looking down at me through her sunglasses. Asks what I’ve been up to. How I like the island.

I tell her I’ve been doing … nothing. And the island’s great.

Then, finally, as if we’re friends now, she sits down beside me.

Her name is Amandine.

“Like Amanda,” she tells me, “but French.”

As we start talking, I realise she has so much to tell me. All her friends have left. Her boyfriend is in Australia, and their borders are locked. Nobody is allowed in, nobody’s allowed out. And I guess, being here for this long on this small locked down island, you don’t meet so many people. I’m the only new ears she’s had in a while.

“Do you have plans for later?” she asks. “If you like, there is a sunset party. At Vaiana’s. Just down there. I think most people on the island will be there! So we could go there, meet some people, have a little drink, listen to some music? What do you think?”

A party. I hate parties. Two weeks ago, you couldn’t have paid me to go to a party. But now, my skin looks half-normal. I feel okay. And I know this now – on the road, alone, you have to say yes. You have to see things, do things. Give yourself a chance to fall in love with a place.

“Sounds fun. What time?”

“It starts maybe two. But we can go at four! Do you have a bike?”

“No.”

“That’s okay! We can walk! If it’s okay for you …?”

“Yes, sure.”

“It will take maybe forty minutes. It’s not too far for you?”

I laugh. She has a lot to learn about me.

“I think it should be okay,” I smile.

She smiles back.

“So I’ll see you later!”

She gets up, walks off. Into the ocean.

Four o’clock comes.

I go to knock on her door, but she emerges right as I get to the doorstep.

Long, red dress. Interesting choice, for a beach party.

“Looking lovely,” I tell her.

The walk is pleasant. She plays tour guide the whole time.

“Nice place to watch the sunset,” she says, as we pass the Edgewater Resort.

We walk past the bakery. “They sell Spanish rolls for a dollar,” she smiles. “Really good!”

We pass a little path onto the beach. She stops.

“Have you been to Black Rock?”

I shake my head.

“Oh, I have to show you! Let’s go down here, we can walk along the beach.”

After fifteen minutes of shelly beach, we get there. For some reason, I’m surprised that Black Rock is … just a big black rock.

“People come here to watch the sunset,” she tells me. “Sometimes, you see whales. Down there, it’s a good place for a little swim!”

That seems to be her favourite word. A little swim. A little drink. A little walk. Everything is little, just like in French, everything is petit.

We walk another fifteen. Arrive at Vaiana’s.

It’s a gorgeous beach bar with tables scattered on the sand. There’s a DJ in the booth slamming tunes, so loud I can barely hear myself speak. The ocean is like glass, the sand powdery white. Postcard quality. Amandine spots a friend. He’s a thin Indian guy, dressed sharp with slicked-back hair and a friendly grin.

We go to his table. Handshake.

“Shanks.”

“Brendan.”

Shanks is an interesting guy. He’s the finance big dog at one of the resorts. Standing with him at the table, shouting at him over the music, and my island mocktail, I learn a lot about the island. Who owns what. Where the money comes from. Where it goes.

Standing there talking about the rich people on Rarotonga, we manage to pass hours. The sun sets. Beautiful. The beach gets drunker and drunker. It’s dark. There are kids running around, among people dancing on whatever drugs, among families eating fish and chips, among people drop dead inebriated.

Magical.

“My friend is coming,” Amandine says to me, tinkering on her phone.

“Yeah, who?”

“Oh, he’s so great! You will love him.”

An hour later, she points.

“Here he is!”

He’s maybe fifty, in a worn tee, long wavy hair, like Jesus. Asian Jesus. Spectacles. He doesn’t really walk, he shuffles. Small steps, like he’s making sure he doesn’t stand on anything.

Amandine introduces us.

“Brendan, Kamil.”

Kamil is soft-eyed, soft-spoken. But the first thing I notice about Kamil, he’s inquisitive. Asks lots of questions. But not stupid questions. Wise questions. Well-thought-out questions. He doesn’t ask what I do, he asks why I do it. He doesn’t ask where I’ve been, he asks where I would like to return to. I also learn, he and I are not so different. Just from different eras. A man who spent his life travelling all over the world, and then again, and then again.

I also quickly learn, he and Amandine are tight. Inside jokes. Finishing each other’s sentences. Total BFFs.

“I want to eat,” Kamil says.

“Here?” Amandine asks.

“Nah.”

“Traders?”

“Yeah.”

They turn to me.

“Have you been to Trader Jack’s?”

Trader Jack’s is a popular restaurant bar in the centre of town, right on the water. Apparently, one of the Rarotonga’s flagship spots, but with closed borders and no tourists on the island, it’s quiet. We walk in. Every table is empty. Kamil and Amandine march right to the corner table on the balcony. They know all the staff. The staff know them.

“Try the sashimi pizza,” Amandine says.

“Yes, it’s good,” says Kamil.

“But it’s small,” says Amandine.

“It’s not that small,” says Kamil.

“Sashimi pizza?”

“Yes,” Amandine says. “I know it sounds a little strange, but it is very good! I’m sure you will love it.”

Because she says it in a French accent, it sounds convincing.

The waitress comes.

“I’ll have the sashimi pizza …”

She nods.

Amandine gets a drink.

Kamil orders the nasi goreng, but then asks if he can talk to the chef.

The waitress goes and gets the chef. The chef comes out.

Kamil says something about more spicy, less oil, not so oily. The chef nods. Then walks off.

I raise an eyebrow.

Mister VIP over here.

Finally glad to be out of the deafening party, I relax into my chair, the ocean breeze. Amandine and I both sip drinks, while Kamil talks.

Kamil likes talking. Thankfully, after having travelled so many years, to so many places, he actually has interesting things to say. He talks about Iran, and Indian billionaires, and Malaysian banking. And then, after the nasi goreng is gone, and the sashimi pizza (delicious as promised), and an hour of Kamil’s stories, we finally get up to leave.

Kamil covers the bill.

“Thanks, mate.”

It’s one a.m.

We get into Kamil’s car.

“Have you been to Muri, Brendan?”

“No.”

“Oh, we have to show you.”

“Now?” Amandine says.

“He’s never been!”

“It’s dark Kamil. He won’t see anything.”

“Okay, fine.”

He starts heading toward home.

On the way, we see two shadows by the side of the road. They have their thumbs out.

“Hitchhikers,” Kamil says. “Shall we get them?”

“Of course,” Amandine says, as we drive past.

“Too late,” Kamil laughs.

“No, you have to!!”

Kamil pulls over.

I turn and see them running towards the car.

They lean in the window.

“We’re heading to the backpackers. Next to Beluga.”

They’re two young guys from Europe.

“Yes of course,” Amandine says, as if it’s her car, and the two of them cram in beside her.

As the five of us chat away, I find myself feeling at home once again. Five strangers from different countries, driving along in the middle of the night in a faraway place. I thought I’d never live this life again, but here I am.

Right back where I used to be.

---

Heading to Rarotonga? Check out my accommodation guide here!

A Raro Life is a chronological recollection of stories from the six months I spent living in Rarotonga during the 2021 Covid lockdown.

It is exhausting to live with this skin condition. It’s exhausting to wake up and deal with it, it’s exhausting to talk about it, to have my life revolve around it, every single day. But here we are.

It’s been one week since I came to this island.

I’m staying in a small Airbnb, just off the beach. Since my face has been flared up and mangled, I haven’t ventured too far. I don’t want to see anybody. That’s the whole reason I’ve come here. So I don’t need to see anybody.

The island is empty anyway. Its border has just opened with New Zealand, whose border is also closed to the world – a “Covid bubble” they’re calling it, so nobody is here. I was on one of the first flights. But I still keep to myself. I wake up, run, then go to the empty beach and read. To eat, I walk across the street to the corner store. The only foods of substance they have are eggs, bread, butter and ice cream. Sometimes papayas.

So that’s what I’ve been eating for the last week. Egg sandwiches and ice cream. Sometimes papayas.

But today, I look in the mirror and my face looks kinda … better. My face isn’t red. It’s brown. Just one week. Is my skin really getting better? It’s not near perfect, of course, but I look at the patches on my neck, down my arms, and my skin looks … relieved. Maybe my skin likes this place. Maybe I can show my face to the world today. Maybe I can even go for my first swim.

Roberta and Carlo – my landlords – are the only two people I’ve talked to. They’re an old Italian couple. Very sweet. Roberta told me she’s coming by to clean my room today. I told her, not in the morning. She said it has to be before five, because she has somewhere to be. I said two o’clock. So I have the perfect day planned. I’m going to spend the morning reading by the water. Then at lunchtime, instead of walking along the beach, I’m going to swim along it. I’m going to swim to the nearest resort, have lunch, then swim back, read until sundown and go to sleep.

I sit on the beach all morning with my best friend. His name is Kindle. Then just before two, I head for the water. The water is warm, tropical warm. I wade out until it’s shoulder height, set my watch and go. The water feels shallow, but deep enough for me to swim freely. It’s crystal clear. Fish everywhere. Sea cucumbers, blue starfish. Everywhere. As I glide through the water, I mouth a word. Paradise. This ocean is my personal fish tank, there’s nobody but me, and while submerged I can forgot about my red flaking skin, and I just swim and swim and swim.

Six or seven minutes go past before I pass the first resort. I pull up my goggles and scope it out. It doesn’t look right. The tables are all empty. There’s nobody in sight. It looks tired.

I keep swimming. Pass another. Not this one either.

That’s okay. I’ll swim all day, until I find one I like.

After about twenty minutes, I see one. Laid out on the beach, stylish, clean.

I swim to shore, walk up to the restaurant dripping, barefoot, topless.

A friendly lady strolls out.

“You guys serving lunch?”

She winces.

“Our lunch just closed.”

“It’s alright. I’ll try you tomorrow. What’s this place called?”

“O-tee-bee.”

“Oh tee what?”

“OTB. On The Beach.”

“Oh, OTB. Cool. See you tomorrow.”

I walk back home, along the beach. A week ago I was shivering through painful winter nights, skin flaring across my face, now, I’m drowning in Pacific island sun. TSW is a complex beast, but I’ve learned a few things – during a flare, my skin loves sunshine, loves humidity, and hates New Zealand. Especially New Zealand winter. So I bask in the sun, breathe the humidity deep into my lungs. It cooks me until sweat starts to drip from my brow and armpits. I rub the scars on my arms, my chest, see the flashbacks of the pain this skin has been through. The sun healed me back then. It will heal me again now.

I get back to the house. From the driveway, I can already see someone scrubbing my bathroom window inside.

It’s Roberta. Or Carlo. Adorable.

I don’t want to get in their way, so I go sit on the lawn and work on my coconuts. I collected them yesterday. I’m terrible at husking coconuts. I wish I could blame it on Carlo’s blunt machete, but I think I’m just useless. The village idiot who hasn’t learned to husk a coconut yet. But practise makes perfect, so I line them up, four, five of them, and chop chop chop.

Finally, I get one open, and go inside to get a spoon. Roberta is in there, scrubbing the floor, and Carlo is in the bedroom doing something. And there’s a young girl in there. Chatting away. She sees me and smiles warmly.

“Hi!!!!”

“Hey. Hi.”

She’s pretty.

I turn to Roberta.

“This your daughter?”

She laughs.

“No. Well…yes.”

I turn to the girl.

“You’re her daughter?”

“Their adopted daughter,” she laughs.

Her eyes are brown. Her hair is brown. Her skin is brown. But not chocolate brown. More like a Mediterranean olive brown. She has a button nose, and a slight overbite with nice straight teeth. While standing in my kitchen, scrubbing my bench, she tells me her real story. She’s Swiss. French Swiss. French accent. Very French. Geneva, probably.

“I was only supposed to be here for two weeks, she tells me. Then we had the pandemic. So I’ve been stuck here since then. Fifteen months.”

“Fifteen months?”

She smiles.

I figure she’s told this story a million times already, so I don’t ask.

“How do you know Carlo and Roberta?”

She shrugs.

“It’s a small island. And I go with her to yoga sometimes. There’s yoga tonight actually. Tuesday. You should go!”

“You do yoga, Roberta?”

Roberta pops her head up from under the kitchen counter.

“Yessss! Toniiiiiight. You waaant to goooo? Fiiiive o’clock.”

“And it’s Michelle tonight,” the Swiss girl says. “She is the best, oh! She is amazing. Amazing! You will love her. Seriously.”

I think about it quickly. I want to stay home. Read a book. Like every other night.

C’mon, I convince myself. Do something. It’ll be good for you.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll go.”

Five p.m. rolls around. I go sit outside Roberta’s door. I’m excited. Maybe anxious. My first Raro activity.

Roberta comes down very yogi-looking, yoga pants on, yoga mats tucked under her arm.

“Reaaady?”

The car ride with Roberta is – how do I say – entertaining. Italian people know how to talk. Like a non-stop stream of consciousness pouring out, with an Italian drawl. Naturally, I learn a lot about Roberta and Carlo on this car ride. I learn that Carlo makes a fantastic pizza. They used to own an Italian restaurant on the island. People were sad when it closed. They met in their thirties. But only got married ten or so years ago. She can’t even remember the year, and laughs about it. And I can tell, she loves Carlo. Carlo is really good at this, he’s really good at that. This little bald Italian man with a pot belly, but with the million dollar smile, he has this lady swooning. I see it. Carlo is indeed a pretty cool dude.

We get to the yoga place. I have no idea where we are, which side of the island, north, south, inside, outside. But we wander down the long driveway, pass under the little arch, and emerge into a little sanctuary. There’s nice curtains and flowers and lots of green open space with fruit trees and aloe vera plants and stepping stones. We walk across the immaculate lawn to a beautiful covered deck with Christmas lights.

“This is Brendan,” Roberta says.

“Oh hi!!! Hi!!! I’m Michelle.”

Michelle’s name shouldn’t be Michelle. It should be Sunshine. That’s what she is. Absolute sunshine. She’s in her forties, fifties, I don’t know, but has the body of a nineteen-year-old gymnast, long, messy blonde hair, tattoos from her feet to her shoulders, and from the moment we meet, I can feel her warm smile and soothing voice and kind eyes, her loving spirit oozing with tenderness. All I can think to myself is, she is sunshine. At a time in my life when I am desperate for sunshine, I have now met sunshine herself.

The yoga class is small. Four of us. As the sun sets on the island, we spend an hour listening to Michelle telling us to breathe and twist and stretch and finally, once we’re all dripping with sweat, to lay down and relax. Shavasana. I lay there and make peace with the mosquitoes, and the mosquitoes make peace with me. The others swat their arms, but for some reason, I stay unbitten. Somehow, all my pain is gone. For the first time in months, I have no pain. No pain. My skin feels normal. I am at peace here. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay. Not just on this deck. On this island. I want to stay here forever.

… to be continued.

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Heading to Rarotonga? Check out my accommodation guide here!