Aitutaki & Auckland

Aitutaki & Auckland

Today marks the second week I am back in the office for a full week, I have been lucky enough to have traveled around the country and to New Zealand recently. I had a week in Aitutaki and a week in New Zealand.

Approaching Aitutaki I realized that I was fulfilling a childhood fantasy – to be Dr Geoff Standish of the Royal Australian Flying Doctor Service. I could almost taste the beer from Vic’s bar and hear Dj’s annoying banter over the radio, in fact I think Rebecca Gibney was sitting next to me. I am mad but here I was flying to a far flung locale on a rickety pencil-plane in pursuit of better lives for all. Instead of an arid outback station, however, I was heading straight for the brightest turquoise colour that I have ever seen. You can spot the colour of the lagoon long before you can make out the motu or the reef itself. Aitutaki’s natural lagoon is beautiful – vast and vivid, ringed by sandy islands. I was amazed before I even touched the ground. Dr Geoff eat ya heart out!

There are four schools on Aitutaki, three primaries and the only full high school outside of Rarotonga. I was there to help plan technology use and to develop funding plans to assist their needs. The island is to Rarotonga, what Raro is to Auckland – there is a noticeable shift in the hustle and bustle and a real step up in the laid-back nature. Aitutaki is small. Smaller resident population than a NZ high school small. Although tourist numbers do boost the population and ensure there are bars and restaurants to water yourself at, everyone knows everyone. The schools held their annual sports day competitions while I was there, think an athletics competition held in the spirit of an Empire Games circa 1956. Marching on to music, in lines with arms swinging, pennants fluttering! The pride of your school is at stake. Egg and spoon and sack races – cuteness overload with the juniors. All of the track and field events you could swing a stopwatch at! A deep spirit of competitiveness ran through the day and there would have been many a pleased parent at the loss of voices by the end of the day. The community was out in force and there was kaikai aplenty. A really nice day to see in action.

One small side note – the Sunny Beach. The motel where all of the advisors stay in Aitutaki. A Formica and Crown Lynn paradise. It was the most spotless time warp I have slept in for a while, but Papa Rata and Aroha were wonderful hosts and there was a chair set down on the beach which made for those ‘Am I actually here’ and sunset moments. I thought my bedspread was retro-fabulous but have since been outdone by a frilly pink satin number down at Rino’s Motel, you have got me there Gary!

I was lucky enough to be able to stay and get sun burned on the Saturday. Dani treated me to the special Cruise that Air Raro lays on for their guests. A waka cruise around the motu of Aitutaki is a must do before you kick the bucket. I was lucky enough to be able to do it with considerable style: Buffet BBQ, cold bottle of Chardie and a smoking deck. Ahhhhh… The lagoon up-close is even more stunning than from a distance. The colours are other-worldly, the most unnatural turquoise, simply beautiful. I was able to traipse in the footsteps of the Coral Route – The flying boat route across the Pacific and I left footsteps in the sand where Sinatra, Bogart and Brando felt the sand between their toes. Certainly a spot for the romantic – there was a chalet on One Foot Island, where after the cruises left you can happily run around starkers and have the entire island to yourselves – they resupply you with food and drink every day and you are stranded in paradise. Well maybe one day!

Contrast the brilliant sunshine and brilliant natural hues with landing in Auckland at 5am in the middle of an icy rainstorm. Welcome home. I had the opportunity to spend a week in Auckland with the Liggins Institute at Auckland University. With a group of Tongans and Cook Islanders it was the first time that I have been in a situation where I was in my home country representing the Cooks. The Mamas at work gave some pupu ei (shell leis) and I wore them with pride. We were there to continue develop the Pacific Science for Health Literacy Project, an inspirational project working to use education to improve health outcomes in the Pacific Islands. Jacquie Bay - the leader of the project has boundless energy and a zeal for making the project work and the schedule was punishing. Still, we managed to approach the project from many angles: research, classroom, personal experience and a school visit. One of the unexpected results was a renewed pride in the NZ education system, where we are innovative and world leading, but also we are richly resourced and privileged. If you are familiar with the NZ decile system (10 richie rich – 1 poor) think of a Cook Island school as a decile 1 and then think of a Tongan school as -10. At Tonga High, the premier academic college in Tonga, they do not have one data projector. They don’t have paper, most of the windows don’t work and the ceilings are falling in. Yet, the principal there and who was on the trip, is one of the most engaging and inspirational leaders I have met. I was brought to tears by another member of thew Tongan delegation as she explained that the reason she was involved in the project was the recent loss of her husband to the disease we were working to build education programmes around. It was wonderful to catch up with friends and family and enjoy some fancy kai and coffee. I was worried that I would not want to return, but I was only a little sad to walk through the departures gate.

Well, I have slipped back into my daily routine again – scooter, work, lunch, scooter, walk, beach. I am back at home. Most importantly for me, the trip back to Auckland has shifted my mindset, Raro is now my home and a rather nice home it is too! It is lunchtime and I am sure that Vic has my icy schooner waiting at the Majestic. I will say hi to Violet and Nancy for you all.

Work

It is 20 minutes until my Friday afternoon improves and I thought it a good time to tell you about what it is I am doing over here.

I have joined the ranks of the non-teachers. It is a new and unique experience for me. Keep in mind that for the past 30 years I have only known years that have school holidays, so adjusting to be a 'normal' person is unusual. Today I found that when asked what week of the term it was, I didn't know. Doesn't sound much, but, as every other teacher knows, you live your life by the week of the term. I am still in grieving for the loss of my holidays and adjusting to the fact that I have to take 'leave'. As a matter of fact, I am also having a internal paddy over how I have to take 3 days of my own personal leave over the Ministry shut down over the Christmas period. Outrageous! I feel like going in and sitting at my desk to spite them.

It is also a first, because I am sitting at a desk. In a cubicle farm. In a building that isn't a classroom. I am over the initial flush of novelty - I have my pictures of my family, postcards and other little bits and pieces where I have personalised my desk. My own little formica piece of partitioned paradise. I am adjusting to the dynamics of the cubicle farm. The overheard conversations. The wish you didn't hear conversations. The wish that some had a mute button. The failed control over my hyperactive need to be included or distracted by everything I see and hear. The horror at others musical taste.

All of these things are fairly typical of a shared, open-place office. I have already mentioned the chickens and dogs which remain a point of difference to the Ministry office. The hilarious fob English that I hear is another amusing aspect. As is the overwhelming smell of 101 variations of boil-ups that waft from the kitchen. The embarrassing toilets that need one more layer of separation form the communal area.

Here's to offices! And air freshener!

So, my official title is Learning & Teaching Advisor of Curriculum and Pedagogy. Very highfalutin! What I have come to discover however, is that the reality is much more practical.
Oh, you can make a Word document that isn't comic sans and clipart based!
Yes.
Wow. You can be a technology expert.
Okay.

No, there are exceedingly smart people in the ITC Division and I do enjoy using technology, it just illustrates how an interest and knowledge can be used in a resource scarce and personnel deprived organisation. I am doing much more than I expected and with much more potential for impact than I expected! I am beginning to realise that I was employed largely for my perspective, my experience as an outsider and I am exploring my strategic and problem solving ability more and more. I am excited by my ability to work across an education system and that is very challenging. That I can problem solve as part of my daily work flow is very gratifying. I was worried that I might be bored, but I already have too much interesting stuff I can sink my teeth into. Choice.

Currently I am working on:
 - Designing a pedagogical framework to deliver professional development for teachers
 - Building a process to help staff, students and the community to transition to a new school with a different style of teaching
 - Working on developing data strategy for the country to improve educational outcomes
 - Working on a how to deliver digital education in an internet scarce environment
 - Delivering workshops on the above
 - Playing with iPads
 - Laminating stuff (so therapeutic)

So, if the stuff above means anything to you - you  must be a boring education type. An exciting part of working on the Cooks is that this has to be delivered around the country, which means travel to the Pa Enua or outer islands. So, in a couple of weeks I will be off to Aitutaki for a week to work with schools. Nice, to get out of that office cubicle. On the down-side, I hear that Aitutaki is, aside from being one of the largest and most beautiful lagoon environments in the world - it is also home to millions of giant crab beasts who come out at dusk and terrorise everything else. Eeeek, crabby crabby! Gross.

So, it now 5 minutes past when I can slink out and I have a cold beer to drink in the warm sunset. Oh by the way, we finish at 4pm in the Cooks. Ahhhh.
 

Animals

As far as I can tell there isn’t a massive variety of animals on the island, though I am sure Wikipedia would tell me otherwise. When I consider the matter carefully I don't have any knowledge of the animal species that are native to Rarotonga, other than a poor knowledge of the sea life. No doubt there are a hundred Latin names to describe the beauty of the reef when you snorkel. Unfortunately they are out of reach. No, not because I am scared of the water, I float quite nicely thank you, but because I just can’t see the damn things. Blurius swimmus too quickus is the closest fish species i can’t get close to. That, and the fact that when I did get close to some colourful delight I ended up face first in a sea anemone, which inevitably lead to a fright-filled thrash around where the snorkel filled quickly with seawater. No, the best kind of fish spotting I do is parrot fish and chips at Palace Burger for $8. Tasty sealife it is to too, I prefer mine submurged in a vat of hot oil rather than under the waves. I have also been told of a cheeky species of sea snake which doesn't have me running down to the water. 'They are more scared of you' is the good advice of my colleagues, but I am not willing to test this. Just like the ladies of the night on K Road, some things are best left unprovoked (Roz and Nat!).

So that leaves us with the terrestrial animals. The most abundant animals on the island are the insects. It may surprise you to know that insects and I aren't easy friends. Even though I am to them, what Mt. Taranaki is to me, this superiority in size doesn't translate into confidence. They move too fast. Several times, while I am sleeping or drifting off, I have felt a little tickle (who doesn't like that every now and again...) only to find there are 6 or 8 legs instead of 2. Now translate the washing machine thrashing from the water to the bed and after a battle with sheets, a leap from the bed, a paranoid frisk of the rest of bed, I am left awake and creeped out. All accompanied with a few manful shrieks and bye bye sleep.

If it doesn’t crawl, it flies. And eats you. I had thought I had come to some understanding with myself about the hate-hate affair I have with mosquitoes. I haven't. Unfortunately I am sometimes allergic to mosquitoes. In India, I was attacked on my ear lobes, juicy morsels they are. They then ballooned up to 'have to have a secoond look at that strange thing' status. Tramping in the UK, one particularly nasty mosquito bite turned into a semi transparent pus ball the size of a marble, good to poke at and marvel, bad to pop. So history tells me that I should be wary and hateful towards our poky-nosed friends. So, to the Rarotongan variety. Bastards. After a month on the island I think the bite count on my legs has finally dipped below double digits. If there was a scabby legs contest happening at the Edgewater Resort, I'm your man. Still, it is more than vanity, it is like having chicken pox all over again. There is the ‘phantom itch’, the ‘I had nearly forgotten about it’ scratch. There my there is a ‘cluster of 6 bites’ together rub. And the ‘how the hell did a mosquito get there’ discovery. As long as I don't get dengue, I'm happy. I also want to find the man who invented insect screens on windows and give him a big sloppy kiss.

Getting bigger, we have chickens. So many chickens. The island is a free-range haven, Colonel Sander's wet dream. Mostly scrawny hens scratching about endlessly and making mad dashes across the road. I think it must have been a Cook Islander who first coined the famous chicken and road joke. So when they are not on a suicide mission trying to get mown down by a scooter (probably carrying a coffee table) they are laying and clucking noisily. Hens aren't the main source of frustration when considering chickens, no ladies it is the men. More cocks than a gay bar during pride week. I hate Roosters. A hate that will develop some serious pathology during the next three years I imagine. Roosters crow, I get it... a farm yard and a rooster heralds the new day and all of that rubbish. If all they did was herald the new day I could easily live with them. No. They herald the new day, the old day, the new moon, days that are to come and every freakin day that has ever been. So they crow and they crow and they crow. And being strutting men who are jealous of their pride and vain of song, they must reply and out-do all others. Therein lies the problem. It is not just one, it is the other hundred thousand that are threatened and must outdo their neighbours. So, a fairly typical occurrence is a plane taking off. After each plane there follows a rooster chorus. Jesus that giant funny looking rooster just flew into the air, I am unsure of my rooster masculinity so I will crow as long and as loud as a 737. The valley ripples as the crowing flashes from one area to the next and pretty soon there is a cacophony of crowing. This can also happen at random. Shit, it is a worm - and the cacophony will rip from your sleep, if you are not already up hunting bugs crawling through your sheets. In addition, the roosters set off the dogs.

I love dogs, I am a dog person. The breed here is that nice inbred mongrel that you will find all over the Pacific. Brown eyed, their fur every hue that you can make from brown, black and brindle. They are easy going and are usually pretty friendly. However, some things are mutually exclusive. Dogs and scooters are one of them. There is one strain of mongrel over here that has the stunted legs of a Corgi. In fact a short film screened in the last film festival (yes there is a movie theatre, no it isn't a big screen TV) that cheekily invented a visit by Queen Elizabeth and her Corgis and the subsequent loss of innocence of one of them to explain this phenomenon. Back to dogs and scooters, small-dog syndrome is well known, closely related to small-man syndrome. You know, lack of legs made up for with aggressive tendencies. This seems to manifest itself exclusively with small legged dogs being the most vicious haters of scooters. I have been lunged at (well, maybe just yapped at and chased) a number of times by the Corgi Mongrel of the neighbour, mostly on the way to work in the morning. To further complicate matters Corgi Mongrel lives at the bottom of the driveway of death. SO, not only do I have to navigate the driveway and squeeze my poor little scooter's disc brakes to within an inch of their life, I have to watch out for the beast who lies in wait at the bottom. Rusty, however is going to be my favourite dog. With such a surplus of dogs it isn't surprising that the Ministry of Education has one. What isn't unusual about a government department having a dog, firestations have them? He is placid and friendly and has my boss Gail wrapped around his paw.

And the best thing about it: when 2 chickens flew through the door interrupting the planning and betterment of the education of the children of the Cook Islands, there was Rusty to fight with them and chase them out! All workplaces need a Rusty.

Scooters

Thursday 24 July

One of my fondest memories of my first holiday to Rarotonga was the freedom of my scooter. Bright yellow it belonged to the hive, the ironically named Killer Bees. There wasn't much lethal force to the swarm really, just a lot of noise and a cheerful bunch of hoons. The feel of the wind in my hair and sun on my face as we zoomed our way around made me a happy camper.

There is some law regarding scooter use in the Cook Islands. You must wear a helmet, you should only travel at a certain speed if do not own said helmet and the speed limits are quite gentle: 50km on the open road and 30km in town. The open road consists largely of two in Rarotonga. The main road and the back road, so that takes care of the open roading network and town, Avarua, has in its most built up area, four lanes of tar sealed action. This, you may think may limit the scooter in many ways, especially given the state of the roads themselves. There is one stretch of road around the airport, where the seal is smoother than my face, but the rest does not aide speed at all. Despite this, the ways and wiles of the true-blue scooter user are as unlimited in Rarotonga as they are in India and China.

It is this ingenuity that makes me chuckle, gasp and marvel every day. Even on my small commute to and from work scooter riders never cease to amaze me. The other day as I was scooting quickly to avoid the rain, many others were doing the same. They had adopted what I call 'scooter face'. The face should be slightly turned to one side, with eyes tightened against the wind and missile-like insects and you should definitely purse your lips, once again to escape the bugs. So here we were, the sensible scooter-faced people rushing to escape the rain when out in front of me pulls a mama. Mama is a lovely term to describe those who are your elder in the Cooks and one that will inevitably allow me to ingratiate myself into the lunchbox and heart of my older colleagues. Nevertheless, I digress: Mama pulls out, heedless of those who would knock her over - with the supreme confidence of those who have 1) lost their peripheral vision and 2) Are old enough not to give a shit. She is adorned with the typical flowing floral print and festooned with an ei n the top of her head. Nothing unusual, except she is carrying a full sized coffee table on her lap. Not the occasional table you have by a chair, with doily and cuppa, but one that would easily hold the mugs of visitors, a plate of Toffee Pops and a rather large pile of magazines. Ei off to you mama, to be able to control a scooter and manoeuvre a coffee table while in the rain, you are indeed a better scooter rider than I. May your table serve you well.

I am just a beginner with the scooter and a colleague was kind enough to lend me her scooter while off in the outer islands. A nifty looking Yamaha, silver, retro gauges and black racing stripe. I was feeling Fonzy like as I made my way to visit Eddie and Tash on the southern side of the island. Bumps aside, the trip there was uneventful. Add some heavy rain and nightfall and things get interesting. I bid my goodbyes and scoot off into the sunset, lights on, with a heavy drizzle.

One. Scooting in the rain with glasses is crap. I have always complained about the rain on my glasses and god knows I am sick of the old window wipers joke, but they would have been excellent on this occasion. A thousand little rain drops hitting my lenses made it quite difficult to see, but you can look through the rain and concentrate on the road.

Two. Headlights are worse. Do you know when you look at a drop of water and the light gives a halo effect, beautiful for dew and rainbows, shit for the million drops of rain that had accumulated on glasses. Also, given the fact that dipping your headlights is not a priority for many drivers on the road that night, every time a car passed me, my field of vision turned into the Las Vegas Strip. Amusing except for the fact that the road is crap and narrow and twisty. After a number of stops to wipe my glasses I was feeling a little frazzled by the time I turned off the main road to head up to my whare.

Three. Height is not my friend. The one photo I have posted gives you some idea that my house sits on the side of a hill and the distance from the road and altitude gives me some peace and a cool breeze. To reach the peaceful heights requires a steep driveway - concrete for the most part, but in the style of two skinny tracks. On a dry day, even with my weight, I gun the motor and we get up to the top no probs.  Tonight, however the rain and the maintenance man had conspired against me. The maintenance man had been weed trimming as I left in the morning and I gave him a wave thinking nothing of it. He had trimmed all of the long grass along the driveway and had did a good job, the long grass, was now cut grass, all over the driveway. Combined with the rain we have now what the House Rules contestants would call a vertical garden; one which had been whipped into slime by the wind and the rain. My first mistake was accepting the very kind shopping bags crammed with groceries from Eddie and Tash - I was riding heavy-er. My second mistake was wimping out and slowing down at the bottom of the driveway - caution equals failure. Hitting the bottom of the driveway at heavier than usual capacity, going slower than I usually would and feeling less confident than normal, were all adding up in my mind. So, to the driveway itself. Slowly I hit the wet grass and lost some traction, luckily this was only forward momentum, a little skidding. I wrung out the accelerator as I felt myself slowing and still, I made progress. It was about 3/4 of the way up that things were beginning to look a little dicey. I could feel myself slowing; to the point where Mama Coffee Table could probably have sauntered past. It is at the point where you slow too much and your balance gives out; that you have to decide what to do. The scooter is too heavy and the driveway too steep for me to get and push it without falling over so it is either fall over or stick your legs out. Star jump legs it is. With brakes pulled hard and legs balancing I am at a standstill 3/4 of the way up my driveway, wet and worried that this may be the beginning of another embarrassing scooter story (Hastings, intersection, fell over, Anna wet her pants laughing  instead of helping). Damn it. Full throttle, the engine has nothing more to give. Not going forward but not rolling backwards. This is good. Lean forward and crab walk with legs, scooter moves forward a little. Oh, to have been my neighbours watching: 55cc engine screaming, a little scooter headlight inching up the driveway, a fat, wet man crabwalking and pushing, slipping his way to the top.

Ed Hillary eat your heart out - I too knocked the bastard off.