This isn’t a luxury private villa,” says Susie as we explore Connie’s Place near Muri village, billed as “the Beverly Hills of Rarotonga”. “This is a candy shop for menopausal women.”
She makes an excellent point. From the cool breeze coming off the South Pacific just 50 metres from our back verandah – it assists brilliantly with hot flushes – to the numerous paddle boards and kayaks (can daily use re-activate our cores over the next nine days, we wonder?) and the fresh coconut juice on tap (excellent for rapid rehydration), it really is! There’s also a large bottle of gin and plenty of ice.
No wonder Susie is convinced a menopausal woman kitted out this place. And she hasn’t even discovered the outdoor shower and bath yet.
Ah, how different it is second time around – as in the second time in nearly 50 years of friendship, going back to primary school, that Susie, Annabel and I have taken an overseas holiday together. We’ve finally broken free of the tsunami of career ladders, mortgages, kids and stepkids, and know we need to go while our ageing mothers are holding stable.
Our first international adventure, back in 1992, was to Thailand’s Koh Samui when, like us (just 23 and fresh off Sydney’s lower north shore), it was only on the verge of being ruined. We spent three weeks island-hopping, ate huge quantities of fried street food with no concern for our waistlines and spent long, late evenings at outdoor nightclubs with names like The Green Mango.
It was a holiday marked by the constant scent of spliffs and bongs (not ours, but close enough to make us feel dangerously experimental).
FIONA CARRUTHERS
The most boisterous in our group, Susie, went paragliding, surfing and jet-skiing, and encouraged daytime drinking in bikinis, while Annabel and I tried to keep up. It was a holiday marked by the constant scent of spliffs and bongs (not ours, but close enough to make us feel dangerously experimental), reckless no-helmet motorbike rides and the accumulation of swathes of cheap silk at a market we later discovered was just a tourist trap.
This time around, our holiday wish list was simpler: one easy direct flight there and back, healthy fresh food that won’t cause bloating, and the same bed for all nine nights located somewhere we can be asleep by 9pm each evening. There would be no e-bikes or mopeds, but rather a reliable hired hatchback augmented by local buses.
Annabel and I wondered aloud during the planning stage if one activity a day was too strenuous, but Susie told us we really were pathetic and, besides, a one-hour massage doesn’t count as an “activity”.
At least we were all on the same page in desiring a flop-and-drop in a destination new to all of us, a place we could celebrate our friendship slathered in SPF50+ and wearing sensible swimwear. At night, we would play Bananagrams and watch Netflix.
And so, one sunny morning, we hit the tarmac in Rarotonga after a 5½-hour overnight direct flight from Sydney still pondering how we’ve become such midlife clichés. Within minutes, our passports stamped, we slip into the sleepy rhythm of Cook Islands life. “Here’s your key,” says the cheerful car hire lady. “Just drive out of the airport, turn left and follow the signs for turtle safaris to get to your villa.”
We head for the island’s southern end, arriving at Connie’s Place (also called Aramoana on the Beach) 20 minutes later. The owner, predictably named Connie, has left a huge breakfast. Later that day she sticks her head in the door and asks, “Did you like it? My cousin cooked it for you.” So generous is Cook Islands’ hospitality, there’s enough food left over for us to enjoy a fry-up every other night for the rest of the week.
On learning that we’ve been friends for five decades, Connie insists we join her table at a women’s tourism awards night later in the week at the Islander Hotel & Hula Bar. She also might have mentioned that she and her friends are regulars for ladies’ night each Friday at the Tamarind House Ukulele Bar.
The week passes far too quickly in a therapeutic blur of reading, snorkelling in pristine waters and drinking coconut juice straight from the husk.
Many travellers overlook Rarotonga in favour of more secluded islands like Aitutaki, a 50-minute flight away. We visit Aitutaki for a day and it’s gorgeous, especially One Foot Island (Tapuaetai) in the incomparable Aitutaki Lagoon. But we remain firmly besotted with Rarotonga, thanks to its cockerel-controlled timetable, friendly locals and many family-run roadside stalls and shops selling all sorts of fresh produce.
A daily visit to Black Rock Beach becomes a must after we discover the Vibe Fish Van, with its just-caught grilled fish, salad and chips. The Punanga Nui Markets every Saturday morning, with stalls selling local food, fabrics and skincare, are also a must.
We bump into a fun group of Sydney mums who are also on a “friendsmoon” and take photos of each other on the bridge at the dreamy Maire Nui Gardens & Cafe. We climb the Te Rua Manga mountain, also known as the Needle, for its views (predictably only Susie makes it to the top) and enjoy a lazy afternoon at Essential Spa (remember: not an actual activity, according to Suz), followed by tapas at BJ’s Bar on the waterfront.
There’s an educational turtle safari with Ariki Adventures and a lot of driving around the island to take in popular spots like the Te Ara museum, the 1905-built Banana Court (Raro’s first hotel and now home to a range of businesses) and Tivaevae Collectables, where you’ll find more extraordinary local arts, crafts and clothing.
Towards the end of our stay, Connie’s beloved cousin Rangi arrives to cook us an unforgettable feast with help from their delightful 21-year-old niece, Charlee. Connie and Rangi explain the provenance of each dish as we dine on karori ceviche, uto pancakes with parrot fish sashimi, venevene chicken with berry and pomegranate marinade, rukau (a dish of young taro leaves cooked in coconut cream), salads, pan-fried fish and roast pork belly, all finished off with lemon and coconut ice-cream and fruit salad.
When the three of us arrive back to reality, and the open arms of our husbands – who are clearly relieved we actually returned from mature-aged lady paradise – we take a minute in Arrivals to hug goodbye extra hard. Almost 50 years of friendship doesn’t happen overnight. Celebrating that was worth every penny. Besides, we’re now part of the Raro sisterhood, too.
The writer and her friends stayed at Connie’s Place with assistance from Cook Islands Tourism.
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