After leaving Moorea, I was still emotionally somewhere between paradise and heartbreak.
From the window of the plane, I had watched the island slowly disappear on the horizon, and I had already made my promise: I would come back. The addiction had started. The German man from Fiji had been right.
But the South Pacific journey was not over.
The next stop was Rarotonga, the main island of the Cook Islands.
The flight from Tahiti to Rarotonga was relatively short, at least compared with the long ocean crossings I had already made. In the South Pacific, a “short flight” still means flying over a serious amount of water. Still, after Germany–Los Angeles–Tahiti, everything under a few hours suddenly felt almost like taking a bus.
A winged bus, surrounded by the endless ocean.
I arrived at Rarotonga International Airport in the middle of the night, near Avarua, the Cook Islands’ small capital.
Before I continue, I have to confess one travel mistake from those days.
I don’t have many photos from this part of the journey because I mostly used a VHS-C video camera then. Back then, this felt very modern and clever. Moving pictures! Sound! Real travel atmosphere!
Today, I think: what a wonderfully wrong decision.
Photos are easy to scan, easy to look at, easy to use in a blog post. Old VHS-C tapes are more like sleeping dinosaurs. Somewhere inside them are moving memories, but first you need the right equipment, the right cables, patience, and probably a small prayer to the gods of outdated technology.
But maybe that is not completely bad.
The strongest memories do not always need perfect photographs. Some places stay in the heart more clearly than on paper. Even after 33 years, many scenes from the Cook Islands are still vivid in my mind: the airport music, the strange welcome banner, Ati’s strong appearance, the lagoon, the green mountains, the bicycle roads, Aitutaki’s impossible blue — and one very confident cockroach.
Some memories refuse to fade.
Welcome to the Cook Islands — But First, Please Stay Healthy
The arriving visitors were welcomed with music from a traditional Polynesian ensemble. That was beautiful. After all, this was the South Pacific, and music belongs to arrival like salt belongs to the sea.
But then my eyes went to a huge banner hanging in the arrival hall.
It said:
“Please keep our islands AIDS free.”
Somewhere above it were also the words “Welcome to the Cook Islands,” but honestly, they were easy to miss. The AIDS message was much more dominant than the welcome.
In that first moment, it felt very direct, almost like an accusation.
I remember thinking: “Well, yes, of course I will help to keep your islands AIDS free. I had no other plans. And by the way, I am AIDS free too. Thank you very much.”
Today, looking back, I understand it differently. This was the early 1990s. The world was still living with fear, confusion, and often panic around AIDS. Small island nations were especially careful. Tourism brought visitors, money, and opportunities, but also worries from the outside world.
So yes, I understand the reason.
But as a first welcome after my emotional farewell from Moorea, it was still a little surprising.
Music, tropical night, South Pacific atmosphere — and a very dominant public health warning.
Welcome to Rarotonga.
Madame Ati Appears
A little bit confused and slightly frustrated, I left the airport building.
Outside, I suddenly found myself surrounded by Cook Islanders holding boards with names on them. In those days, travel was still very personal. No apps, no WhatsApp message saying “your driver is waiting,” no GPS dot moving on a screen.
Just people standing in the tropical night, holding handwritten signs.
And then I saw my name.
There she was: Madame Ati, the owner of Ati’s Beach Bungalows.
I remember her as tall and brisk. Or maybe she wasn’t really that tall, but her presence was so strong that my memory made her seem taller. She had presence. Friendly, yes, but not in a soft “please take your time” way. More like, “Come on, we have things to do.”
She grabbed my luggage almost before I fully understood she was my host and put it into her car with the practised ease of someone who had picked up many confused tourists before.
During the short drive to her place — maybe five or ten minutes — she talked a lot.
And I understood… some of it.
Not all.
Actually, not enough.
This was my first serious meeting with the Cook Islands accent, and for my German ears in the early 1990s, with my English still limited, it was challenging.
The Cook Islands have a strong connection to New Zealand. Cook Islanders are New Zealand citizens; many live, study, or work there, and the influence is everywhere — including the accent. To me, it sounded very Kiwi: friendly, fast, relaxed, and full of sounds that didn’t always register in my brain as proper English words.
I had just come from Tahiti, where people spoke French. When French Polynesians spoke English, I could usually followbecause the French accent was somehow easier for me.
But now I was in an English-speaking island world, and suddenly I understood less.
Ati talked.
I listened.
I nodded.
Sometimes I knew what I was nodding to.
Sometimes not.
This is how international travel works when your language skills are still under construction.
Ati’s Beach Bungalows — Or Maybe a Pub With Rooms
When we arrived at Ati’s place, two New Zealanders were already sitting at the bar.
They immediately asked if I wanted to drink with them.
This was not a difficult cultural question.
Ati showed me my room and then more or less ordered me to take a seat at the bar. A large bottle of Cook Lager appeared in front of me.
So there I was: newly arrived in the Cook Islands, in the middle of the night, drinking beer with New Zealanders, still trying to understand the accent, while my quiet island-romance fantasy had temporarily changed into something closer to a pub evening.
Not bad.
Just different.
Very different from Moorea.
My room, however, was not exactly impressive. It was part of the main building and faced the main road, not the sea. The place was called Ati’s Beach Bungalows, but from that first room, the beach was more a theory than a view.
I went to bed anyway.
At least, that was the plan.
Then I saw it.
A cockroach.
But not just any cockroach.
This was an enormous cockroach. A serious one. A cockroach with confidence. It was parked on my nightstand as if it had booked the room before me.
After Moorea’s holy-land feeling, this was a more earthly reminder that the tropics are not only flowers, lagoons, and romantic sunsets.
The tropics also have six-legged tenants.
The next morning, I asked Ati if she had a better room for me.
I mentioned the cockroach.
She was not amused.
Maybe in the Cook Islands, a cockroach in the room was not considered a major hotel complaint. Maybe it was more like: “Yes, and? You are in the tropics.” But for me, that creature had been too close to my head and too comfortable on my furniture.
Ati was a bit pissed, but she showed me a bungalow closer to the beach.
I took it immediately.
At least now I was facing the sea.
If you must share paradise with insects, it is better to have an ocean view.
First Impressions of Rarotonga
Rarotonga was different from Moorea.
That was obvious from the beginning.
Moorea had hit me like a tropical thunderbolt — dramatic mountains, French Polynesian atmosphere, and the feeling of finally standing inside my childhood dream. Rarotonga was beautiful too, but in another way. It felt more practical, more local, more connected to New Zealand, and at first less romantic to me.
The island is almost circular, with one main coastal road circling it. The reef surrounds much of the island, protecting the lagoon, and inside this ring of coast and villages rises a green volcanic interior.
The mountains are lush and wild, covered in thick vegetation. From many places near the coast, you can see houses, palms, churches, and gardens, with the island’s green centre rising behind them into the clouds.
Rarotonga had its own quiet beauty.
But I needed a little time to understand it.
At first, I missed the mixture of tropical atmosphere and French flair that I had found in Tahiti and Moorea. In Rarotonga, many buildings felt more functional. Avarua, in particular, felt more practical—less romance, more everyday island life.
But that was also part of its charm.
This was 33 years ago.
No smartphones. No Google Maps. No online reviews. No travel influencers standing in the lagoon for the perfect photo. No one asking whether the beach bar had Wi-Fi.
Travel was more direct then.
You arrived. You looked around. You asked people. You got lost. You misunderstood accents. You drank beer with strangers.
And if a cockroach occupied your night table, there was no Tripadvisor review to threaten anyone with.
You just talked to Ati.
Carefully.
David from Auckland and a Tour of Avarua
At Ati’s place, I also met a very friendly New Zealander.
I forgot his name, but I think he was called David. From what I remember, he’s David from Auckland so that I will keep him as David. If his real name was different, I hope he forgives me after more than three decades.
He asked me what I was planning to do.
I told him I wanted to check out Avarua.
He said he was going there anyway and could give me a tour.
That was very kind.
So we got into his car, and once again the language adventure continued. He talked a lot. I tried to follow. Sometimes I understood him. Sometimes I just nodded and hoped my face looked intelligent.
He seemed to do business in Avarua frequently and stayed at Ati’s place whenever he was on Rarotonga. He also showed me a warehouse he was connected with. I don’t remember all the business details, but I remember the feeling: he knew the island, he knew people, and on the first day, this was much better than wandering around alone in the heat with a map.
Avarua was small.
Very small.
It was the capital of the Cook Islands, yes, but not a capital in the European sense. No grand boulevards, no monumental government buildings, no heavy architecture shouting, “Look at me, I am important.”
Avarua was practical.
There were shops, offices, churches, a harbour area, government buildings, small businesses, and the daily rhythm of a Pacific island capital. The Avatiu harbour gave the town its working character. Goods came in by ship, people came and went, and everything felt more functional than romantic.
We stopped at the Cook Islands Parliament building. I remember it as a flat, white, bungalow-style building, like many buildings there, but with a little more official flair. It looked modest, almost humble. If you expected a dramatic seat of government, you would be disappointed. If you understood that this was a small island nation in the Pacific, it made sense.
David showed me nearly everything from “not much,” as I probably thought at the time. But he gave me a first glimpse of the island’s everyday life.
And he gave me one piece of advice that would change a lot in my future travels.
He told me to join Air New Zealand Airpoints, the airline’s frequent flyer program.
At the time, I probably didn’t fully understand how important that advice would become. But later, collecting miles and using reward tickets became a very important part of my travel life. It helped me reach places I might not have been able to afford otherwise.
That is why I never forgot David from Auckland.
Not because of the warehouse.
Not because of the parliament bungalow.
Because of Airpoints.
Sometimes the most important travel souvenir is not something you buy.
It is something someone tells you in a car.
Around Rarotonga by Bicycle
During my days on Rarotonga, I explored the island mostly by bicycle.
Rarotonga is not a huge island. The main coastal road around it is about 30 kilometres long, which sounded very manageable. After my 60-kilometre bicycle ride around Moorea, I probably thought: “This will be easy.”
And mostly, it was.
The coastal road circles the island like a ring. Known as the Ara Tapu, the sacred road, it connects the villages around the island. In many places, it runs close to the lagoon, sometimes passing houses, small shops, churches, guesthouses, gardens, and stretches of beach.
By bicycle, you see an island differently.
You are slow enough to notice details: the smell of flowers, the damp tropical air, the sea behind the palms, dogs lying near the road like unpaid security guards, chickens moving around as if traffic rules were only suggestions, and small family houses with gardens full of bananas, papaya, breadfruit, hibiscus, and frangipani.
Rarotonga’s coast changed as I moved around it. Some parts felt more like village life, others more open and beachy. The lagoon was especially beautiful on the southeastern side around Muri, where small offshore islets sit inside the reef.
Even after all these years, I still remember the feeling: shallow turquoise water, palms, reef, churches, small villages, and that calm island rhythm, so different from the dramatic beauty of Moorea.
Places like Muri, Titikaveka, Arorangi, and Avarua each had their own character. Muri had the lagoon feeling. Titikaveka felt quieter and more beach-like. Arorangi on the western side had sunsets, churches, and village life. Avarua was the small capital and business centre, practical and useful, but not exactly what I would call a romantic dream town.
The island also had those beautiful white churches, which are such an important part of Cook Islands life. Even as a visitor, you could feel how strongly churches, Sundays, family, and community were connected.
The ride around the island was one of those simple travel experiences that stay in memory. Not because one dramatic thing happened, but because it gave me the feeling of the place.
The lagoon.
The villages.
The dogs.
The churches.
The green mountains.
The sea always nearby.
And of course, my bicycle, which still had no idea what I would ask of it the next day.
Poor thing.
The Inland Road and the Bicycle’s Revenge
Another day, I decided to take the inland circumferential road.
That was not one of my greatest ideas.
The inland road, the Ara Metua, is older than the coastal road and runs farther inland through villages, plantations, and greener parts of the island. Historically, it was an ancient road, and parts of it were made of coral. That sounds very interesting when you read about it.
It sounds less romantic when your bicycle wheel disagrees with the road surface.
The inland route showed a different Rarotonga. Less beach, more island interior. More gardens, taro patches, banana plants, breadfruit trees, coconut palms, and glimpses of the mountains. You could feel that real island life was not only at the beach.
But the road was rough.
Very rough.
Coral stones and a simple bicycle are not natural friends.
At some point, one of the wheels had had enough of my adventurous spirit and gave up. Maybe it was the tyre, maybe the rim, maybe the whole bicycle was offended. I only remember that I could no longer ride properly.
So I had to push the bicycle back for a couple of miles.
A couple of miles can feel like a long way when you are in the tropics, the road is rough, the bicycle won’t cooperate, and you start to question your intelligence.
Island maps are always the same. Everything looks small. Everything looks friendly. You think: “I will just take this road.”
The map does not show sweat.
The map does not show coral stones.
The map does not show the moment when your bicycle becomes luggage.
But even that memory has become funny now.
At the time, probably less so.
Aitutaki for a Day
One of the highlights of my stay in the Cook Islands was a day trip by plane to Aitutaki.
Aitutaki is one of those names that already sounds like a dream before you even see it.
The flight from Rarotonga to Aitutaki was short, but it felt like real island-hopping. In those days, flying between islands in the Pacific felt more personal and adventurous than it does today. Smaller planes, fewer passengers, simple airport buildings, and the feeling of jumping between tiny worlds scattered across an enormous ocean.
From the air, the Cook Islands looked fragile.
Small pieces of land.
Blue lagoon.
White reef line.
Then nothing but ocean again.
Aitutaki itself is famous for its lagoon, and rightly so. If Moorea is drama, mountains, and emotional thunder, then Aitutaki is light, water, and impossible shades of blue.
The lagoon is wide and breathtaking, protected by a reef and dotted with small motus — little islets that look like they were placed there by someone designing paradise for a movie set. The water shifts from pale turquoise to deeper blue, depending on depth, sun, clouds, and coral underneath. In places, it looks almost unreal, like coloured glass.
Aitutaki is not about big mountains or dramatic cliffs.
It is about the lagoon.
The space.
The silence.
The light.
The feeling that the world suddenly has only three elements: sky, water, and reef.
The main village, Arutanga, had a quiet island atmosphere. Small buildings, palms, churches, simple roads, and that special feeling of being on an outer island where life is slower and the world feels far away. Compared with Rarotonga, Aitutaki felt even smaller, more remote, and more delicate.
Because this was more than 33 years ago, I don’t want to pretend I remember every stop that day in exact order. But the impression stayed: Aitutaki’s lagoon was stunning. It had the kind of beauty that makes people quiet for a moment.
Even talkative travellers.
Even Germans with questions.
The lagoon views looked too perfect to be real. Sandbanks, reef edges, palm-covered motus, shallow water, and that wide South Pacific sky above everything. It was the kind of place where you understand why people travel so far for blue water.
Not normal blue.
Aitutaki blue.
There is a difference.
It was only a day trip, but it was enough to understand why Aitutaki has such a legendary reputation.
Some places do not need much time to make an impression.
They just need one good view.
Aitutaki had many.
A Small Cessna and a Big Gift
Another day, I made a scenic flight around Rarotonga in a small Cessna.
The price was 50 New Zealand dollars per person, which was pretty reasonable. The only condition was that the minimum number of passengers had to be two.
So I needed a second passenger.
At Ati’s place, there was her niece, a girl of maybe sixteen years old. She lived with her aunt because she had lost her mother in an airplane crash.
That made the idea of inviting her on a flight very sensitive, of course.
But she was excited when I asked her to join. For her, it would be the first flight of her life. Ati was not happy about it at first, which I could understand completely. But eventually she gave in.
So we went.
It was a rainy day, not exactly the perfect weather for a scenic flight. But conditions were good enough to fly, and the rain was not everywhere across the island. Tropical weather can be like that — rain in one place, sun in another, clouds moving fast over the mountains.
Because it was her first flight, I let her sit in the front, in the co-pilot seat.
That felt right.
The flight took only about thirty minutes, but it was exciting. From above, Rarotonga looked completely different.
You could see the almost circular shape of the island, the reef surrounding it, the lagoon between reef and shore, and the green volcanic interior rising in the middle. The coastal road formed a ring around the island, like a line between the human world and the wild green centre.
From above, Avarua looked small and practical. The harbour, the airport runway, the villages, the reef, the beaches — everything was suddenly part of one complete picture. The mountains in the centre looked even more mysterious from the air, with clouds moving around them and rain falling in patches.
It was not a perfect sunny postcard flight.
But maybe that made it more real.
For me, it was a beautiful little adventure.
For the girl, I think it was much more.
She was very thankful, and I was glad I could make her happy. I am sure that short flight left a big impression on her life. Maybe she still remembers it. Maybe somewhere in the Cook Islands or New Zealand, she tells someone about the German traveller who invited her on her first flight over Rarotonga.
Who knows?
Travel is strange like that.
Sometimes we remember small kindnesses more than big attractions.
And sometimes a thirty-minute flight means more than a whole week of sightseeing.
Leaving the Cook Islands
My days in the Cook Islands came to an end.
Rarotonga had not captured me in the same instant way Moorea had. That would have been almost impossible anyway. Moorea had hit me directly in the heart. Rarotonga was different: more practical, more Kiwi-influenced, less French, sometimes harder for me to understand — literally and emotionally.
But it gave me memories I never forgot.
Some funny.
Some strange.
Some beautiful.
Some surprisingly important for my future travels.
And Aitutaki gave me one of the most beautiful lagoon impressions of the whole South Pacific journey.
Looking back, I sometimes regret not having more photographs from those days. But maybe memory has its own camera. It does not save everything, but what it keeps, it keeps deeply.
The Cook Islands remain in my mind not as a perfect photo album, but as a collection of strong scenes: the airport music, the huge banner, Ati’s energy, the Cook Lager at night, the giant cockroach, David’s advice, the bicycle roads, Aitutaki’s lagoon, and the young girl in the Cessna seeing her island from above for the first time.
That is enough.
The South Pacific was teaching me that paradise has many faces.
Sometimes it wears flowers.
Sometimes it speaks with a Kiwi accent.
Sometimes it offers you Cook Lager at midnight.
Sometimes it is a lagoon in Aitutaki that looks almost too blue to be real.
And sometimes it sits on your night table with six legs.
Now it was time to fly on to Fiji.
Another island world, another chapter, and the next part of my South Pacific mini-series.
Stay tuned.
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