Lay - The Miss Tutti Frutti contest: travel tales of the South Pacific

ONE

NGAPUTORU, COOK ISLANDS

IN COOK ISLANDS MAORI theyre called Ngaputoru, the Three Roots. Atiu, Mitiaro and Mauke are a trio of raised, flat-topped coral atolls, forty minutes by air north-east of Rarotonga. For years theyve teased my curiosity whenever Ive spied them on a map; now at last Im on my way to see them.

Its hard to stay aloof from your fellow passengers when there are eighteen of you in a twenty-seater plane. The seating configuration lends itself to instant intimacy. Right alongside me are a German couple in their late twenties. He is small and compact, with black hair already flecked with grey; she has short brown hair, green eyes, moulded cheekbones and a permanently wide-eyed expression. Both have tanned, olive skin. Jurgen and Helga are thoroughly natty. Their clothing is chic-casual; they look like models from some deluxe department store in their home city of Cologne. Helga carries a video camera which she claps to her right eye socket and points at the mountains of Rarotonga as we soar from the islands runway. Then they laugh and chatter excitedly for a time, before Jurgen puts his head on her shoulder and dozes off.

Behind me is an Australian family of four: Deidre and Gavin and their two small boys, Troy and Zane. Troy, who at six is the elder by a year, is the strong, silent type; Zane speaks for both boys, loudly: Hey! Wow! Look! The propellers goin fast! Look, Mum, look at how eets goin. Hey, Dad! Were mooveen, were mooven!

Gavins short and stocky, with long, crinkly blond hair and a flushed face. He wears a red T-shirt that proclaims that Tooheys is Simply The Best. Deidre turns to me and introduces herself. Shes small and clear-skinned and must have been pretty once, but now shes hollow-chested and her long brown hairs gone dead at the ends. They run a pub in upstate Victoria. No wonder Deidre looks tired: it must be hard being a publicans wife in Wobbadonga. Theyve come to the Cook Islands, Gavin explains, to make a complete break and to show the boys the sea. Weve got another one at home, says Deidre, looking even wearier at the thought. Three months old. Hes staying with Gavins folks. She sighs philosophically, wipes Zanes streaming nose, gives me a rueful smile. Three boys under seven

As I stare through the windshield between the two Air Rarotonga pilots, a level, green, reef-ringed island comes into sight. Mitiaro. The plane begins to descend, swaying and dipping towards a white crushed-coral runway.

Neither I nor the Aussie family are getting off here were on our way to Atiu but Jurgen and Helga are. The plane taxis towards the terminal, a blue and yellow fibrolite shed in front of a tall stand of coconut palms. As it comes to a shuddering halt, we can see that something important is happening.

The front porch of the shed is crammed with people. Six very fat, barefoot women are leaping, singing and wriggling their hips to the accompaniment of another two women who are thumping bass drums. Helga points her video camera at the window and presses the trigger.

The plane door opens and we disembark. The crowd in the terminal rushes towards us. They are almost all women, all large, all singing at the tops of their voices and wriggling their hips in a none too subtle mime. They are covered in thick garlands of fern, flowers and pandanus leaves. Two of the women, who are so festooned with foliage they look like matching Christmas trees, come aboard the plane. They are weeping the party is evidently their farewell.

Theres no apparent sadness on the part of the others, though. They simply redirect their emotions towards the German couple, who are quickly surrounded by the shouting, cackling band. The drums are thumped even more vigorously as Jurgen and Helga are borne away to the rear of the terminal building and a rusting Bedford truck which looks as if it should be an exhibit in a transport museum. The Germans Gucci luggage is tossed aboard and pandanus leis are thrust over their heads as theyre bundled on to the tray of the truck.

The rest of us are now back on the plane, watching the welcoming show through the windows. Jurgen and Helga are completely engulfed; we can just see their two faces, fixed in a rictus of astonishment and apprehension, as the truck moves off along a dusty road.