![]() ![]() Like most of the outer islands, Mangaia is struggling to find ways of generating income. Too far from markets to ship produce away from the main tourist trail – there seems no easy way to boost island economies and stop the population exodus to Rarotonga and New Zealand. The old man, as bony as his bike, navigates the lie of the rutted path that leads further into the jungle valley. He pedals no faster than he needs to-slightly ahead of the point of imbalance, but no more. Gravity threatens to overtake him at any moment. His plantation, somewhere up the valley, has been in the family a thousand years. It’s not going anywhere.įor all his economy of effort, he’s still cycling faster than I’m walking, and soon he draws level. By way of greeting, he tosses his eyebrows an inch up his forehead. A few more precarious wobbles, a twist in the track and he’s gone.įar into the razorback mountains of Rarotonga there are surprising corners of cultivation, bringing a dimension not found in New Zealand bush. ![]() Beside the path, in jungle clearings, are man-made pools where swamp taro-its densely fibrous root a staple food-has always been grown. These pools, set in steps, connect one to the other by a succession of trickling waterways, ditches, spouts and aqueducts which, when the valley finally steepens, assume an almost Chinese complication. The earthworks are covered in meticulous lawn, the close-shaved grass revealing the architecture beneath. ![]() Presently, I spy the bike, but see nothing of the rider.
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