Copied from the Cook Islands News - 22th Oct 2005

The Palmerston Experience

Paradise, politics, and the price of it all: by Jake Page, Gonzo Journalist, United States

Editor's note: Gonzo journalism is a style of reportage, film making, or any form of multimedia production in which the reporter, filmmaker or creator is intrinsically enmeshed with the subject action (rather than being a passive observer). Central to gonzo journalism is the notion that journalism can be more truthful without strict observance of traditional rules of factual reportage. Jake Page called into the Cook Islands News on his way back to his home in the United States.

Have you ever dreamt of getting away? No! Really getting away. No cell phones, email, or faxes. How about going somewhere without noise, light, or air pollution for starters?
I could do without power, cars, airplanes, fast food, stoplights, and toasters, at least for a little while. No more bosses or deadlines or buses or boats ... wait a minute, that's it! I can get away by boat!
I'll hop a vessel to nowhere and have Captain Scurvy dump me there for as long as possible. This is it! But where should I go? Tropical.
It's got to be somewhere tropical. The South Pacific is known for its peaceful beauty to anything that walks and most things that don't. That narrows it down a little bit... white sand filling the gaps between your toes, periwinkle blue lagoons lapping gently at the shore, coconut palms swaying softy to the breeze, voluptuous willing mermaids...
"W-what, yes sir! I'll fax him about that email I sent as soon as they respond to me regarding that phone call we discussed at once!"
Let's see Fiji? No too many tourists. Tahiti? That won't work either, to pricey and rude. Captain Cook really did a number on that place.
What group of islands in the South Pacific didn't get sucker punched by Cook and his group of diseased meatheads? Here we are ... the Cook Islands themselves.
Just as Greenland is ice and Iceland is green, you can't judge book by its cover. Captain James Cook never set foot on Rarotonga? Now I'm on to something, better find out more about this unspoiled paradise as soon as possible. Now where did I put my cell phone?
"Yes sir! I'll meet that deadline, what's that? Sure I can go pick up your lunch from Burritoville."
Oh crap did I leave the TV on again when I left this morning?
On the way back from Tacohut I was pulled over for running a stoplight and the officer thought he should search my vehicle because I was "acting suspicious". All that he found was my cell phone under the passenger seat, as I realized my boss wanted Burritoville not Tacohut. Cook Islands here I come...
Jump forward 10 months and here I am; ready to get away once and for all. I've got far more luggage than I need, and I'm working up quite a nice sunburn at record pace. My destination - Palmerston, if they'll have me.
My two-day journey to the atoll is peaceful and serene. Now this is living, nothing but the boundless sea and some fresh wahoo to fill my belly as we glide along this pristine ocean.
Land-ho! I screamed at the top of my lungs several times before I had to be subdued. Land-hooo! They say seasickness does funny things to people and I am definite proof of that.
After getting a grip and calming down a little, well I guess a lot, I helped unload the cargo for some of the good people of Palmerston and meet Young Bill Marsters the mayor of the island.
When asked if I could spend a few days on one of the beautiful motus, "Primrose" he said kindly and sent me on my way. As my guide raced me across the storybook lagoon, I felt overwhelmed with emotion knowing my dream would come true as long as I didn't get struck by lightning or have a heart attack from all the excitement.
Primrose is the most beautiful uninhabited islet I have ever seen. Its beauty far exceeded my wildest expectations and moved me greatly. My stay was a fairytale.
The first morning of my stay, I woke up smiling and ran straight into the water laughing like a fool. In about five meters of water I relaxed and let the wind blow me out even farther into the lagoon.
I lowered my head underwater and saw a good-sized grey shark about three meters in front of me moving from my left to right. I was terrified. I hadn't been in the water 10 minutes and was already face to face with the world's most feared predator.
I remember people telling me just relax if you see a shark. Easier said than done I thought. Sharks won't attack unless provoked. My butt, I'm just going to assume this shark is starving, crazy and hates humans. Whatever you do don't flail your arms and legs.
The first thing I did was start flailing my arms and legs like a fool. I had to get back to shore as soon as possible and when I started, I lost sight of the shark instantaneously. I was sure at any moment the monster would plunge at me from any direction and take the first big chunk out of me, leaving me to be devoured by all of his friends like a group of giant piranhas. This is what I deserve I thought.
Live like a fool, die like one. Miles from help; they will have to speculate what happened to me. But lucky enough I made it back to shore.
As I stood on the beach demoralized and in a completely different mindset than 10 minutes before, I saw two smaller sharks franticly ripping along the reef looking for what was causing all the commotion.
Not today you buggers, and hopefully not tomorrow. My five days were full of joy ... I explored, I played, and I laughed and cried. I howled at the moon, and had a long overdue talk with myself that unfortunately didn't get anywhere.
I drank too much rum and smoked too many cigars. I was determined to collect all the trash I found on the motu, and was sure to leave no trace.
I caught fish and ate them as mosquitoes ate me. At one point I counted 57 bites ... I guess that repellent I was using didn't work that well. But no matter, this is pure freedom at its highest degree. Or is it.
As my guide was steering us away from my islet it didn't take long to get thrown back into harsh reality, I just hoped it wouldn't be so soon. Of course this wasn't my island at all, and deep down I always knew that. But now it was being made perfectly clear by the man standing over me and waving his finger in my face telling me that this was his land I stayed on, and I was not welcome, in the middle of the Pamlerston lagoon.
After five days of meditative peace it was quite a jolt when the skiff stopped ours, and I was told I was going with them. We ended up being towed into Home Island, and then the real madness began to unfold.
Let me first say that the people of Palmerston (except for a couple) were extremely hospitable to me and made me feel welcome as anywhere I have ever been. The food was superb and the conversation was jovial, and I never felt that I was in any danger or harm's way even though I was hundreds of kilometers away from the next inhabited island.
The man who towed us in turned out to be the minister of immigration for the island. His two brothers, the minister of customs and the island's only police officer, accompanied him. I was beginning to feel a little queasy pondering my situation, considering the permission I had received to go to Primrose by the mayor was carrying no weight.
It felt odd standing in hypnotic knee high lagoon water while my bag was thoroughly searched by these three brother government officials. After nothing illegal was found in my oversized duffle bag, which closely resembles a beanbag chair, we all moved to immigration office where my passport was thoroughly pored over.
At this point I was told by the immigration official that there would be a charge for my stay on the motu.
"Well how much" I asked putting aside my questions of the legality for the time being.
I was told that I stayed "4 nights" and it would cost me "$150 per night" so "$600".
"I haven't got anything close to that" I replied. "I better go find my guide," I said to the three officials.
They refused to give me back my passport as I left and I found my captain having a conversation with the mayor.
"You're free to leave Palmerston," the mayor told me, "Sorry for the inconvenience."
"Thanks mayor, that makes me feel much better, but I can't, they're holding on to my passport until I pay them."
"Pay them for what?" he replied.
"For my stay on the motu" I said.
A few minutes later at the immigration office everyone was finally present and the tension could have been cut with a knife. Their price for my passport had dropped considerably to $150 in the presence of everyone.
But I still didn't have that much on me, and I wasn't sure I would pay it if I did. It just seemed to odd having government officials setting prices for my stay, and changing them with my passport in hand.
I was never rude and actually very grateful to the people of Palmerston during the entire ordeal. I did and still do feel in debt to the people of the beautiful atoll.
I had brought them a box of cigars and a bag of toys to donate to the school before the subject of "fees" was brought up. I just got the feeling I was being taking advantage of, and oddly at the same time felt I was taking advantage of them.
If at any point the council decides a set price for visitors to their beautiful motus, I will gladly reimburse them for what I owe, and I would love to return.
Palmerston is a beautiful place with wonderful people and I will never forget my dream realized on one of their flawless and pristine motus.
So now it's time to head back to the hustle and bustle of everyday life with lessons learned on my journey to the South Pacific that can be learned anywhere in the world a million times over.
That nothing in life is free except the feeling of being free itself. - Jake Page