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.
