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.