There is a continuous cycle of people coming and going on the island, as they work, live and then return to where they came. For the locals this is a normal, and in some ways a sad indictment of a policy that reinforces dependence and a certain personal distance (a whole other topic really). For me, it has seen the arrival and departure of people who have made an impact on my life in a way that is intense and powerful. The transience and seeming temporariness of the relationships serves only to make them intense and meaningful in a way that I have found to be unexpected and I have come to value those connections and people quickly.
It also serves to explain why there is real depth and intensity to the thinking and feeling I have experienced and can reflect on despite a mere 18 months ticking by. One of the first questions I was asked on arrival was, "What are you running from?" This was asked half in jest, but there is definitely an element of escapism in many expatriate journeys, perhaps more-so when you decide to pack up off to a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I can't say that I was running, I don't 'do' running, but there was a need to shift from what I was doing in New Zealand and there was a conscious effort to change-down a gear. I was burning the candle at both ends in New Zealand and I was glad to take on something new and different. I am glad I did.
I was trying to boil-down what I am feeling and it is a sense of clarity. Living here has been a rewarding and challenging experience, negotiating a real tension between distance and connection and all that comes with that.
Physical distance is the first thing I noted on arrival. The long ocean separating me from my life in NEw Zealand and the equally charming and frustrating lack of distance on the island. A 32km round-the-island distance creates a physical intimacy and connects you to where you are, whether you like it or not. I love scootering to work or to town and always seeing someone to wave to and greet, the familiar is created quickly and there is a real opportunity to learn the 'whole place'. There are the other times when you crave some anonymity and wish that you hadn't worn your ugly stained T-Shirt to the shop or don't feel like chatting. There is an opportunity in this closeness to feel a part of a community.
Conversely, it is this intimacy which makes for a real feel of dislocation. For example, watching One News easily reforges a connection to New Zealand and I feel weird every time it finishes, like I have just jumped back to Raro again. There is so much of my 'home' culture here, literally heaps of kiwis, sometimes it makes it harder to deal with the meta-physical distance from home. In other ways, however, you are reminded in no uncertain terms of where you are.
I have always felt comfortable in the margins, it where I see myself and have developed a comfortable sense of identity, professionally and personally. In fact, it is from outside the 'mainstream' is where I draw my confidence and focus for what I do. What's interesting here is that it has given me another perspective on living outside on the 'norm'. In New Zealnd I know how to navigate the ins and outs and revel in being able to slip between perspectives and groups. Here, I have been able to think from another perspective, again from an 'outsiders' perspective but it is real in completely different ways. There is real confidence and beauty in the strength of the culture here, but I find a sadness in the denial of other here that is hard for me to reconcile.
My trip to Mauke, a small Southern Group island, allowed me to experience a culture that was proud and confident, but through the long conversations with two amazing people - Teata and Ta, gave me a glimpse of an honesty and vulnerability which is more hidden in Rarotonga. Ta was a natural storyteller and teacher who found real joy in sharing who he is and the narratives of his place. This was the first time I felt that someone was bursting to share the culture and history with me and Tas, my freind and colleague, and I reveled in this, sitting up and sharing food, journeys, history and culture. More than this, Ta shared their own personal narratives of moving between the islands of the Cooks and New Zealand, offering a personal and, at times, vulnerable narrative of how they shift between places and people. This wasn't a conscious decision on their part, but came naturally to them and in their own deep sense of belonging and honesty. I came away feeling privileged to have been able to have talked and shared. I felt connected through Teata and Ta.
It is this sense of honesty, of owning the strength and vulnerability of the culture here that I found refreshing and it is the wariness and weariness of those back on Rarotonga to connect to this part of the culture and outsiders that I found sad. I understand some of the reasons why, but I am also saddened by the fact. It is is in this space that I can understand how there is resistance to the 'other' here - form a vulnerability and the negative effects of decades of colonisation and being told what to do, comes the necessity of assertion. The sad fact of the matter is that is this that makes it difficult to be different - necessary for expats, but hard for the locals.
As a New Zealand Maori, I have been surprised at the local's relationship with their little cousins. I quickly stopped using te reo Aotearoa, as they just kept 'correcting' me. It was funny, from the first Kia ora, came the first kia ORANA. This was awesome, Mama Hen's chiding showed me where things were at in the Cooks. I quickly shifted knowing that the little cousins had a different place at the table here. Though, tikanaga Maori was out in some ways, kaupapa Maori still helped me to understand and navigate my own place. As different as things are, you can still pick out and use the similarities, particularly in inter-personal relationships. One positive of being othered, is that when one force pushed me, my own sense of personal identity and culture pushed right back, though mostly in an internal sense. I am prouder and more confident in who I am, warts and all. Tihei mauri ora! You go girlfiend!
As an expat, it is really par for the course to sit 'outside' the culture- it is up to the outsiders to fit in and I accept that and don't resent it, even though it makes life hilarious at times. I know my place. Who I feel for are the returning Cook Islanders. Those who can papa'anga Kuki Airani and feel a connection and service to their people, but who can be distanced nevertheless. 'They are too papa'a' is cheap phrase often thrown at returning Cook Islanders, that I find hurtful and frustrating. Either you are a Cook Islander or you aren't. You. It isn't someone else's decision. I think this has resonance with me as it parallels my own journey with being NZ Maori. I make the decision. I whakapapa Maori. I value Te Ao Maori. Other people can get fucked. Hence, my feelings for the awesome friends and colleagues who are sometimes unfairly treated and disregarded because they aren't kuki enough. Fuck them. You are awesome. You know who you are.
Professionally, the sense of 'other' has made making change difficult, but also much more rewarding. I feel proud of the relationships I have built, exactly because things are more difficult here and I leave sad that things are left unfinished but proud in the fact that they have started - more than half the battle I feel. I have had to shuck off my 'in New Zealand' coat quickly and now am happy to leave it in the cupboard. That phrase is a sure fire way of sabotaging any change and I am glad to recognise the Cooks for the separate and amazing people that they are. The distance, here, professionally, has strengthened my ability to analyse and empathise and has made me more open. I am able to distance myself from a workplace, school or Ministry, and am more objective than I was previously. I found a real passion and frantic action in the closeness of my last workplaces, but with a little more objectivity, I can now see that there is clarity and confidence to be gained from a little distance. It also allows me to feel proud of what I have done here and that I have done something purposeful.
Personally, this distance mirrors my professional life. I have been able to slow down and spend some time with myself. I didn't naturally enjoy living by myself but have come to value this. I have even been more tidy and am now a little bit OCD about kitchen cupboards... wonders never cease. Being able to negotiate when I am with people and when I choose not to be has been important. At times in New Zealand I felt swept away. I loved being with people all the time, but sometimes I felt as though I was shifting with others calendars with no chance to stop. Cats are good for that. Stopping. I have taken lessons from my adoptive cats and chilled out. Thanks Tahi and Rua (like the imaginative names?)
Just cause I love my scooter...
So, coming to the end of my blog therapy session, what is it that I can take away from my short time in Rarotonga? A renewed sense of clarity and purpose. Sounds a bit lofty and wanky, but it is just that. It doesn't have to be big - like, I quite like cats more than I thought, but it can be - like I have a better understanding of who I am culturally and am fiercely proud of that. Sometimes we have to step out of ourselves and our environment to realise who it is we actually are - gee I am lucky to be able to have had this time.
Which is why, I feel a real sense of sorrow in leaving. Which is why I feel a deep sense of gratitude and privilege for my short time here in the Cooks.
Meitaki maata, atupaka, ranuinui, Atawaiolo Cook Islands. Catch you up.
