A few words on Raro (note style change - think the tropical air has got to me)

A rooster crows. A ute trundles past on the road outside, kids shouting and smiling from the back. Everywhere is green, lush green; trees of all sizes, covered with blankets of vines. Houses sit amongst the foliage, dotted along the road. Some have washing hanging on the line, brightly coloured sheets, dresses and shirts, with big white ‘Cook Islands’ flowers splashed across them. Some have a goat, or a pig, tied to a palm tree. Others have the graves of ancestors buried near the house, whitewashed plinths with tombstones adorned with flowers and messages of love. Most have chickens.

We hop on our scooter, nicknamed Mutley the Moped, snorkels and flippers in the seat hatch, towels, cameras and (emergency) snacks in the rucksack on my back. Damo weaves us between fallen coconuts and we’re out on to open road, sunglasses down, wind whistling through our hair. A few sleepy dogs, sunbathing outside their properties, lift their heads and watch us go by. A short parp from the horn warns a chicken against crossing the road. People smile, genuine smiles, as we pass.

“Which beach should we try today? The one with the little islands (or motu) that you can swim to? The one next to the airport (just outside the jet-blast zone) where the water is warm and calm? The one where we can act as if we’re staying in the plush hotel next door and use the loungers, and which is allegedly home to a giant, or at least medium sized, octopus? The one with wireless internet…? Or the one that is just outside the back door?”

Under the surface, forest green becomes aqua marine. Pink and orange coral towers lay host to multitudes of fish. “Look at that one! There! And there!” Stripy fish, spotty fish, black fish, white fish, foot-long flute shaped fish. Suddenly we’re in the middle of a shoal. The fish dart and weave as one, whilst we clumsily try to avoid them in our oversized flippers. But they’ve seen it all before, and with a few flicks of the tail, they’re gone.

Back on dry land, the Sun sits lower in the sky, turning the clouds a gentle pink, as the lagoon shimmers beneath. A neighbour lights a fire near the beach, filling the air with the smell of wood smoke and singed coconut husks. Darkness falls, and so do the geckos, finding the right spot for a mozzie midnight feast. From inside, we can hear insects clicking and chirping. But they’re no match for that roar; the roar of the ocean relentlessly crashing, just outside on the reef. A rooster crows again.