(For new readers: if you’re just discovering this blog and you would like to read about my South Pacific travels from the beginning, you can click on this link to go to the first chapter: Travels in the Cook Islands.)
I left Aitutaki on a Friday morning, driven to the airport by Tracey. En route we passed the motorcade procession of Miss Cook Islands, who had just arrived on an early plane and was standing up in the lead vehicle, waving and smiling to all and sundry. Her retinue comprised men on scooters and in cars and trucks, including what looked like most of the musicians from Island Night, playing and singing enthusiastically as they bowled along. Most of the locals had come out to greet her, standing outside their homes and Puffy’s Bar to wave at Miss Cook Islands as she cruised past. It seemed like a fittingly fun ending to my stay on this lovely island!
Arriving tourists at Aitutaki airport were being greeted with tiare leis (flower necklaces) as I walked to the tiny prop airplane that would carry me to Atiu. The pilot cheerfully greeted me on the tarmac, then hopped aboard as I and fellow tourists Donna and Mark from New Zealand took our seats. (Donna and Mark had also been staying on Aitutaki, having got married there the previous week.)
Once in the air I took a last look back at Aitutaki’s beautiful lagoon with its milky-white sandbars, before our plane headed southeastwards over the wide ultramarine blue of the Pacific. En route to our destination we flew over the island of Manuae: a small oval of green fringed with yellow beach and turquoise lagoon and surf-ringed reef; shallow sea falling away into the deep blue fathoms of the South Pacific ocean. It impressed me again how isolated these little islands are, in their thousands-of-miles-wide lapis lazuli sea: how remarkable it is that the people who populated them navigated this vast expanse of ocean.
Landing on Atiu’s small air strip was an interesting experience, as the island rears out of the ocean on fossil coral (makatea) cliffs several metres high. This produces violent updrafts and sidewinds which meant our plucky pilot had to bring us down pretty steeply and rapidly, the plane rolling and yawing as the wind buffeted it. But once our wheels thumped down onto the tiny crushed coral landing strip we all released the breath we’d been holding, and disembarked into the charming corrugated iron-roofed shed that is Atiu airport.
All three of us visitors were staying at Atiu Homestay, a bed and breakfast run by Marshall Humphreys and his wife Jéanne. Marshall met us at the airport and drove us to his home via some local places of interest. First stop was Taunganui Harbour, constructed out of concrete in the mid-1970s by New Zealand Army Engineers to enable ships to load and unload goods safely. Before it was constructed, accessing the island by boat or ship was a lot more perilous, especially in poor weather. The harbour had benefited local fishermen, many of whose boats we saw pulled high up in the scrub inland behind the harbour (to protect them from the same tsunami warning I’d received while on Aitutaki).
Our journey took us along a mostly single-track road through Teenui and Areora villages. In the settlements the roads were tarmac, but elsewhere we trundled along on crushed coral or packed dirt. I saw single storey houses built from breeze blocks and timber, corrugated iron roofs and louvred glass windows, painted in rainbows of colours.
When we reached Marshall and Jéanne’s house, it was raised up off the ground on stilts: a sensible precaution to allow cyclone winds to blow through. Set in a pretty garden in a quiet corner of the island, it was a lovely (and very comfortable) place to be staying. I was looking forward to a few days of comparative luxury, having my meals cooked for me!
Donna and Mark then displayed the typical generosity and friendliness I’d encountered in all the Kiwi tourists I’d met so far: on hearing that my digital camera had died on Aitutaki, they offered to lend me one of theirs for the duration of our stay on Atiu… Which is why I have actual photographs of this wonderful little island! Huge gratitude to both of them.
After dumping my backpack in my room, Marshall refreshed and refueled us with some chilled water and a snack of sundried banana, which he makes using a solar drier in his back garden. (The drier’s feet stand in tubs of water, to prevent ants and other minibeasties getting at the drying banana strips). I’d not previously been much of a fan of dried banana, finding it somewhat like chewing sweetened shoes, but Marshall’s was a treat: soft and succulent, and brimming with rich fruity flavour.
Atiu is a very small island (3.7 x 4.3 miles, or 6km x 7km): the current population is roughly 450 people, so it feels like a pretty quiet place. People live in the island’s interior here: a demographic shift that happened with the arrival of Christian missionaries in the mid-nineteenth century, who encouraged the population to relocate centrally, away from the makatea and swampy areas they were formerly living in. Jéanne and Marshall live in this central area of the island, not far from the village of Areora (you can see the red dot marking their house on the map of Atiu, pictured below).
Once we were watered and banana’d up, Marshall took us on an expedition to Anataktaki, the cave of the kōpeka or Atiu swiftlet, Aerodramus sawtelli. Jéanne is half Cook Islands Maori, and Anatakitaki is located within her family land: its name comes from the story of Tangaroa and Inutoto, which I set out here as Marshall related it to us.
Tangaroa was a skilful warrior, while Inutoto was a wonderful dancer. One full moon night – a good time for fishing, and for dancing – Tangaroa wanted to go fishing, but was worried that if Inutoto went dancing without him she would be too popular… So he asked her to wait at home until he returned. A group of Inutoto’s friends passed by her home and asked her to come dancing, but she told them she had to stay; then later a second group of friends came by, begging, Hey, we’ve waited a whole month to see your new dance, you have to come and dance with us! So eventually Inutoto was persuaded, and went dancing under the full moon.
Out on the reef the fish stopped biting: Tangaroa tried every trick his father and grandfather had taught him – different bait, different fishing spots on the reef – but to no avail. He gave up and returned home… to find Inutoto not there. Heading to the dancing area he found her dancing, the centre of attention and admiration. Becoming angry, Tangaroa spoke harshly to Inutoto: then each of them left the dancing ground, separately.
Though Tangaroa waited at home, Inutoto did not return. He assumed that she went to stay with cousins or other family or friends… But over the next day and night there was still no sign of her. No-one had seen Inutoto since they quarrelled on the night of the full moon dance. A search was carried out of the bush and makatea and swampland; a week went by, three weeks, and still no trace of Inutoto. People began to say that she must have had an accident and died somewhere on the island… But one day Tangaroa was working in his planting field when an ngōtare, a chattering kingfisher (Todiramphus tuta, pictured below in Jéanne and Marshall’s garden) began pestering him, diving down at him and pecking at his head, again and again. Rangaroa couldn’t drive it off: it seemed as though the bird was trying to tell him something.
When Tangaroa turned to the ngōtare it flew off a little way then back to him, as if trying to lead him in a particular direction. He followed the bird through the makatea and eventually he came to a cave where he found Inutoto, still alive. (‘Inutoto’ means ‘drinker of blood’ – according to the legend she survived by drinking her own blood!) So this story of jealousy and a lovers’ quarrel has a happy ending… And the helpful ngōtare who reunited Tangaroa and Inutoto gave the cave its name, Anatakitaki: ‘to the cave he brought him, he brought him’.
And indeed, ‘to the cave he took us, he took us’! But at the very start of our walk Marshall advised us all to take a sturdy walking stick, to keep us steadier on the journey. Our path lay across a stretch of makatea: the ancient fossilised coral that was formed around the island’s central raised volcanic core thousands of years ago when the island was lower than it is now; and raised up by tectonic plate action in the intervening centuries. (Hence the six metre-high makatea cliffs around the island’s periphery.) Makatea limestone is as jagged and sharp as the corals that it formed from, so falling onto it would be a painful experience.
The photo above shows a pretty typical stretch of the craggy makatea path we followed: like walking across a stony surf, with ferns and scrub growing out of every nook and cranny. The walking sticks were definitely necessary!
We’d only been walking a few minutes when I spotted a brightly-coloured spider on the path, which I pointed out to Marshall. He pronounced it a non-native invader – and he was right, because it was a female Asian spiny-backed spider (Gasteracantha mammosa), originally from India and Sri Lanka and introduced recently to the South Pacific. Further research once I was back in the UK yielded this entry on the Cook Islands biodiversity database: “Poisonous bite. Its spiky webs can be a residential nuisance; and it frequently bites people it comes into contact with. The bite is painful with localised swelling.” Marshall proceeded to squash the spider with the tip of his walking stick, which may sound harsh… But invasive non-native wildlife species are a serious threat to the biodiversity of these little island ecosystems, and Atiu takes protecting its native wildlife very seriously.
A little further on our journey we came upon a wonderful big old Polynesian mahogany tree or mastwood (Calophyllum inophyllum), locally named tamanu. Timber from tamanu trees was highly valued for shipbuilding by Polynesian and Maori peoples, much like oaks were valued in English culture for the same reasons. Sacred tamanu groves were planted at marae sites, considered the homes of spirits; and the wood was also used for carving tiki. Tamanu oil extracted from the ‘nuts’ of the tree is also important in Cook Islands Maori and Polynesian cultures, being used for medicinal and cosmetic purposes. Marshall explained that there were many of these huge tamanu trees hidden away in the makatea, because the inaccessibility of these areas keeps the trees safe from felling and logging.
Another thing I noticed along our route were the numerous empty coconut shells lying on the forest floor, with ragged frayed holes through the shell. Rather than being signs left by some giant tropical squirrel, Marshall explained that these were the remains of coconuts opened and eaten by the coconut crab or unga kaveu (Birgus latro). I’d encountered these largest of land crabs moving about nocturnally and climbing trees on Aitutaki: they can seem like fearsome critters at first sight.
These land-based crabs go to the sea to spawn, but after a while the young crabs migrate back to dry land, wearing borrowed seashells to protect their vulnerable soft hind parts. As they mature they develop hard shells and discard their armour, foraging for food using their acute sense of smell. Despite their name these kaveu eat a variety of foods including fruits, nuts, seeds and even carrion: they have the reputation of carrying off any food they find lying around, giving rise to their scientific alias – latro means ‘robber’. Astonishingly they typically live for 40 – 60 years… So although kaveu are highly-prized as food, their longevity makes them a vulnerable species for over-exploitation.
When we finally reached Anatakitaki the way in was to descend down a ladder below ground ground level. I’d done some potholing with friends in Derbyshire in my youth, so I was reasonably relaxed about the prospect of going into enclosed dark underground spaces. Anatakitaki is a karst cave: the calcium-rich makatea is dissolved by water, eroding into an undergound landscape of caves and fissures and chasms; minerals in solution then solidify again into diverse speleothems (stalactities, stalactites, limestone ‘curtains’ and pillars).
In practice, this means that travelling through Anatakitaki’s upper levels is not particularly claustrophobic, as there are many fissures and large holes which let in daylight. Having Marshall as our experienced guide obviously helped: he was able to share with us stories such as the tale of Inutoto and Tangaroa, as well as showing us Jéanne’s family monument within the cave. Each time a family member visits the monument (e.g. for special occasions) they can place a stone upon the pile. Somewhere buried underneath will be a carved seat, a carved bowl, and spears.
Caves of any sort are an unearthly landscape, but there was something particularly fantastical about this one. The caves I’d visited in the UK had been crawled all over by thousands of potholers, and in many cases their delicate limestone draperies and features had been eroded and broken… But here in Anatakitaki Cave, everything looked almost untouched by human hands.
The feeling of being in a lost mythical world was enhanced by the places where the cave has collapsed, creating openings looking out into the surrounding forest. It felt as if a dinosaur or a dragon could hove into view at any moment, lumbering through the coconut palms and ferns.
In places the makatea is thin enough that the roots of ava, Pacific banyan trees (Ficus prolixa) have grown through in striking curtains, following the rainwater that drips and filters down into the caves below.
Just beyond the banyan roots we descended into the deeper recesses of the inner cave where the object of our quest here lay: the nesting sites of the Atiu swiftlet, or kōpeka. We paused in the entrance of this inner chamber to watch and listen to the kōpeka swooping in and out. Whilst flying and feeding outside in the daylight they make a high twittering chreeee call: but as soon as they head into the cave’s darkness this changes to a rapid clicking sound, like someone swiftly clicking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. The birds are echolocating: navigating in darkness using these audible clicks, which increase in frequency as they approach objects. A wonderful example of parallel evolution: birds echolocating like bats!
Once inside the deeper recesses of the cave it quickly grew almost pitch dark, except for the headtorches that Marshall used to show us the space. We kept still, listening to the clicking of these weird little birds, as we tried to spot them roosting and nesting in the nooks and crevices in the limestone – no easy task. You’re basically trying to spot a small black bird in a large black cave, with the light of your head torch creating shadows everywhere it falls on the convoluted stone.
Eventually we began to pick out the slender forked-tail silhouettes of the kōpeka, clinging to their niches on the cave ceiling. Male and female birds build their nests out of strips of vine and plants and lichens gathered on the wing outside, fragile little circlets stuck together with their saliva. They lay 1 – 2 eggs which hatch after 18 – 20 days; sometimes eggs fall out of the fragile nests to smash on the cave floor. Both parents take it in turns to brood; and when the nestlings hatch the adults share the task of feeding their chicks on insects hunted outside in the forest. These insect food hauls are stored in special pouches within the bird’s cheeks, so that they can still make echolocating clicks with their mouth full!
Once kōpeka chicks are old enough to leave the nest the parents bring them to hang out on a section of cave wall or ceiling with other youngsters, still feeding them. After another week they encourage the young by withholding food until the chicks move a little further out of the recesses of the cave. This process continues until after three weeks the juvenile birds make their first flight out of the cave to find their own food… And then navigate back inside using their clicking echolocation for the first time.
Sitting in the darkness listening to the clicking of these dark-living little swiftlets felt enchanting. I’d been drawn to visit Atiu by its reputation of unspoiled wildness and rich biodiversity: very different from the tourist paradise of Aitutaki, or even the teeming undersea life of the coral reefs. Atiu felt ancient and alive: a beating heart of stone and water and green plants and living creatures, a precious little gem.
Before we left Anatakitaki Marshall had one last surprise for us: an underground swim. We clambered down a narrow passage to an artesian pool, which Marshall illuminated by lighting a couple of candles in the inky blackness. I was the only one who took the plunge, and it was gorgeous: pleasantly cool but not too cool, refreshing in the humid tropic air. As I swam gently in the blue water by candlelight, dozens of metres underground, thousands of years of fossilised coral reef above my head, I found myself laughing with sheer joy. The gift of this eerie, beautiful place, with its family history and its water-carved limestone sculptures. The shadowy flitting spirits of the kōpeka, their clicking percussion echoing from the stone. This wonderful, magical moment.
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Coming up next time, in South Pacific Adventure part 8:
Gods and government, proud warriors and foreign invaders: discovering the landscapes and history of Atiu.
