When I told my neighbors last month I was going to Rarotonga, the universal reaction was, “Where?”
It didn’t help when I explained it was the main island in the Cook Islands group. It’s a measure of the Cooks’ charm – and challenge – that even many travel aficionados have no idea where they are.
If exploring a prototypical South Pacific island – think white-powder beaches, leaning palm trees, limpid blue-green water and exuberant people – calls to you, open your atlas and look for a vaguely S-shaped scattering of 15 islands between Tahiti and Tonga. The next-to-southernmost speck is Rarotonga. And trust me on this, you should answer that call.
What can you do in Rarotonga? Well, you can swim, snorkel and sail; hike into the lush and precipitous interior; gorge on parrotfish, papaya and other fresh fish and fruit; take in an Island Night extravaganza of traditional foods, drum-pounding music and hip-swaying dance; learn about weaving and woodcarving, Maori medicine, coconut-husking and costume-making at the Cultural Village; or just read a book in palm-shaded splendor, wriggling your toes in that powdery white sand.
Whatever your preference, make sure your stay includes a Sunday, because there is one activity you absolutely must do: attend a Sunday church service.
For my service I chose the simple white-and-blue Cook Islands Christian Church in the village of Arorangi, which was built in 1849. This is the church where Papeiha, the Polynesian missionary who introduced Christianity to Rarotonga in 1823, is buried.
The service was due to begin at 10 a.m. I arrived about 15 minutes early and was greeted by a dignified deacon in a crisp
floral shirt who asked, “Would you like to sit in our guests’ section?” and directed me to a set of rows on the far left side of the church.
I later learned that the congregation comprises four districts of Arorangi town, and that each district has its own seating area within the church.
For 15 minutes I studied the spare white-and-blue interior and simple green, orange and red stained-glass windows, and the women in their bright, flowing dresses and fancy, wide-brimmed woven-pandanus hats. At 10 promptly, the minister rose and said a few words in Cook Islands Maori. Then the deacon began to toll a big bell in front of the church, and the tut-tut-tut-tut-tut of drums drifted from outside.
Soon a procession of youths in different outfits – Brownies in brown dresses and white blouses, Scouts in aqua shirts and deep-blue shorts, another group in pale blue and white uniforms with triangular caps – marched into view and down the aisles to the pews in front.
At first the ensuing service reminded me of childhood church services in Connecticut. As a young girl read from the Bible, babies squealed, coins plonked, children yawned, and adults fanned themselves.
Then the congregation rose and began to sing. First the male singers sang in a single deep, booming voice, then the women answered with a high, piercing, straining refrain, then all joined together, their voices surging, braiding, pounding like the waves and the wind. They seemed to sing with all their bodies, and for a few moments there was nothing in the universe except that ebbing, flowing, crashing, soaring harmony.
In those moments I felt fused with the history and heart of Rarotonga, and as with pieces of a puzzle clicking together, I understood better the marriage of the old religions with the images and ideas of Christianity, the passion and power that had infused the Island Night songs and dances, the deep springs of the islanders’ tranquillity, the roots of family and slow pace and pure enjoyment of the present I had felt throughout my stay. All these braided into the torrent of the song and became Rarotonga for a moment, for me.
And that’s why you must attend a Sunday service, because once you’ve heard that song, you’ll never leave – or rather, Rarotonga will always sing inside you.
Don George is Lonely Planet’s global travel editor. E-mail him atdon.george@lonelyplanet.com. For travel information, visit LonelyPlanet.com.
