Not a lot to tell about the last couple of days. Get up, check the weather, sit around a bit and decide what to do, do very little. People joke about "Island time" and it's something I could get used to. People don't move quickly and drive even slower so the length of time taken deciding what to do is not an issue. 
  The weather has been cloudy and rainy but with enough sunny breaks to make the time spent at the beach worthwhile . Besides, our island explorations have taken on another aspect due to the rental of a scooter and me now being the proud owner of a Cook Island car and motor cycle licence. So it's on the hog we jump and throttle up all of her 125cc's of grunt until we reach cruising speed. Which is 40 km's per hour - the maximum allowed whilst not wearing helmets.
  We have discovered a few sights - a waterfall on the other side of the island which was picturesque and worth the potholed road polka to find. Also, an abandoned hotel that is slowly being swallowed up by the jungle. The story goes that some Italian investors were building a 5 star Sheraton resort and due to problems with the traditional owners and a money shortage construction just stopped about twenty years ago and the place was never completed. It really is quite eerie. Bathrooms with spa's installed and tiled. Rooms of bare concrete walls with wires sticking out of ceilings and walls in preparation for lights and fixtures that will never be connected. There has to be about 6 double story blocks spread around the site with probably 60 or 70 rooms all in the same state . Weird.
  There are a lot of things around here I like but one I don't. I don't care if I ever hear a f?&king ukulele ever again. Everywhere you go you hear them. They're the Polynesian answer to Muzak. They sell them, make them, obviously play them and seem to like them. I reckon they were invented as a joke. The early missionaries probably brought guitars because pipe organs don't travel well, and the "natives" wanted to try them. So to keep them happy, the Europeans probably nailed a small branch to a coconut shell, strung some pandang fibre over it and voila, a little guitar. The natives gave it it's name Ukulele, which in the local dialect means "crappy toy". We actually saw one of the well known locals sitting on his street bench, where he now lives because of his dislike of the instrument. The story goes that as a 10 year old he told his parents he didn't like it and didn't want to learn how to play one. First his parents thought it was just a passing phase that he would grow out of but as the years progressed he didn't change. They first sent him to RRUS., Rarotonga Remedial Ukulele School, hoping they would sort him out. They didn't, in fact, he was the only person ever to fail the course, his final written exam was passed in blank except for he words "I hate this bullshit instrument". He was sent from specialists to the local chief and eventually the nearby Asylum. He was eventually released but is now a shell of a man, disowned by his family and shunned by the community. He now lives on his bench and is ignored by most who pass him and hear his calls of " it's still a bullshit instrument". Speak to you tomorrow, maybe, for we say goodbye to this place in the afternoon.