We left L.A. International airport absolutely dreading the long day travelling. It was 13 or so hours to Auckland with a 5 hour wait and then the connecting 4 hour flight to Rarotonga. We were travelling back in time and then forward again, crossing the date line en-route. I still have no idea what day we left and what day we landed. The flight itself wasn't all that bad. My first ride on a jumbo jet - you hardly notice that you're in the air. And for a change, we BOTH managed to get some much needed shut eye during the flight. Tip for anyone contemplating flying into the Cook Islands. Don't do what we did, trying to be smart arses and abuse the free bar just before landing. We were ordering the wine 4 bottles at a time - I think I'd sweated 2 of them out of my forehead before even stepping foot on the tarmac. Boy it was hot.

The arrival lounge was more of a hut than a lounge. It was like organized chaos with cockerels and hens patrolling the exit of the building. Outside waiting for us was bob and his passion wagon, ready to take us to our home for the next 12 days. This island was tiny. And in the middle of nowhere. Tropical storms weren't uncommon at this time of the year and it was only a few weeks before, the whole island got evacuated to the mountains due to a tsunami warning after the Chile quake.

We pulled in off the main road further round the island, I say main road, I mean only road, to a shanty looking building. Mopeds parked out front, little geckos running up the walls and yet more bloody chickens. And no, we didn't grow to love them. If I could have got my hands on a rifle, there would have been some serious chicken culling on that island.

We stood for 10 minutes waiting for 'check in'; it's a good job we bore easily because we'd still be stood there now. There was no mention of payment, signatures or anything of that sort literally until our departure day, and that's only because we asked how much we owed. We threw the bags in the room and went back down stairs to meet the other hostel goers. Within half an hour, Rhea had invited us to go for drinks at the 'Island Night'. Cue the introduction of Rosie. She rocked up in the clattered out white pick-up and we headed up into 'town'. A few cocktails later, Tom was up shaking his thing with the locals whilst I was stood at a safe distance chuckling and wishing I had my camera...

The following day was Moped day. We rolled up at Budget Rentals expecting a thorough bike test. We were to be severely disappointed. After a quick low down and demo of how to start one of these little racers up (having previously stated we've ridden mopeds before) the little Oreo lady sent us both 100 yards down the road only to turn around and come back. Bonus points for pulling a wheelie or power sliding back on to the car park. Safe to say we passed. Better still, she gave us the two newest bikes on the lot.
A nervy and slow race to the police station followed. No, we hadn't been pulled for drink-driving, we had to pick up our licences. Once the formalities had been finalized (mug shots taken for the photo ID card ) we set off on the gruelling 30km lap of the island. Just for the record, helmets were an extra £5 p/d so we decided being sensible mature young men, that money would be put to better use. Like an extra 2 beers a night...

We were on cook island time now - as the locals like to call it. Anymore laid back and you'd be like Tom after a couple of long island ice teas. The only other 'majorly important' thing left to do on the island was snorkel. Being the Muppet I am though and not being able to operate the 'breathing straw', I just opted for the mask. Did you know if you spit in on the lens before you whack it on your face, it stops it from steaming up? I didn't until Tom decided to tell me after 5 days swallowing sea water trying to de-steam. It had been probably an hour and we were just about due a shower (the heat and humidity is that high - 5 cold showers a day was not uncommon) so we waded into the lagoon. It surrounded the whole island. No currents. No waves, just lots of crystal clear open water and ugly fish. I'm not sure what the obsession with my feet was, but these stripy little fish nearly had me out of the water like a shot. I wasn't harassing them, why did they have to harass me? I recon I've seen just about every type of tropical fish on the planet now. Trumpet fish; trigger fish, Nemo's. You name it - I've swam with it. Apart from the 2 reef sharks that had been spotted - genuinely disappointed. Apparently they're only a couple of metres long - not too nasty either.

The sea snake incident - Mr. Hilarious - funny as aids, Tom; thought it'd be a reet good laugh to take advantage of the fact I wasn't wearing my mask. We were only wading 10 meters or so from the shore when he decides to put his head under the water, bob back looking un-nerved and scream "Mate!! Sea snake next to your leg". I f**king shat my pants. For some reason my legs rocketed from under me and I was left splashing about on the surface, most likely white in the face. I nearly drowned him. The only sea snake we saw was late at night, and thankfully while we were on land.

Saturday nights at the hostel were Bbq night. Tisa, the owner spent the whole day preparing a typical Raro feast. It was immense. Better still, it wasn't a burger - Our staple food for the stay on the island. Amazingly though, there were 5 varieties of spuds. No wonder the locals are built like brick s**t houses. Carb loving Maoris. This was the first time I've ever had to say grace before a meal.

I mentioned before about Friday nights, from what Rosie said, Wednesdays weren't too bad either. So John and Jarvis, our 2 southern *cough* - Chelsea supporting fairies accompanied us both as we set about trying to tear up Avaru's mid week night life. After an unsuccessful first attempt at hitch hiking we landed in Whatever Bar via the clockwise island bus. No prizes for guessing the other bus on the island. Literally laugh a minute with these two. John was a 'Cougar' lover and soon set about chasing the 40 year old local hags. Fair play to the lad. It's safe to say though, Fridays were party night. The hostels emptied and everyone headed to either Wha'ever bar or Rehab, the islands bangin' club. And it was here that Rosie introduced us to Emma, why she had to do this I'll never know. I'm only kidding Wells if you're reading this. She gave me her flower so I couldn't grumble much. We had pretty much the same itinerary as the gals (NZ & OZ) and met up along the way every few days. The third musketeer, Rach, is actually with us in Perth at the minute. She can't live without us. And to be honest, they kind of grew on us a little too...
Anyway, back to the nightlife. Imagine being in a bar and after a few drinks you look over and see what can only be described as Jonah Lomu in a dress - With slap on. If one of those things wanted to chat you up, chances are, you were being raped that night. Apparently it's Island tradition. Not the rapeage. I meant if there are too many boys in the family, they raise their youngest boy as a girl. Reminds me of Rochdale a little bit. It truly is a sight though. As you can imagine we had some laughs. Wasn't laughing so much when I missed the pickup bus home and had to walk half the length of the island at 5am. Partly my fault though. It's not called the walk of shame for fellas' is it...?

Our morning island lap times steadily improved over the days. I think on the straights we could overtake each other maybe three times and it didn't take me long to master the one handed overtake whilst giving the middle finger on the other hand to Tom. Top speed reached - 95kmph. That was well over double the recommended limit or law if you like. Luckily the police only dust their radar guns off once a week. That's when the back road would come in handy. No - it's not a euphemism.

The Jet blast - the runway of the airport literally begins next to the roadside so if you feel it necessary, you can park up and sit under 2 jet engines as they take off and land. To be honest, I'd recommend it in an instant. It's not every day you get to do something like that. Although it does feel like you're being sand blasted rather than jet blasted. I wouldn't fancy riding past on the scooter as one of those things was taking off.

I think 10 days is ample time to explore and experience the place. Our days became a little repetitive. But nonetheless we had a brilliant time. The beaches have spoilt us for life; we learnt how to ride mopeds and met some awesome people along the way. Not just our trio of girls. But John and Jar, Charlotte, Sam & Dan and the Scandinavian lovelies Ida, Nina and Bert. God knows how charlotte tolerated us for so long the way she did. Literally any opportunity to mug her off; she got it. The only downsides were the repellent loving mosquito's, Charlotte, cockerels that started their vocal work out at 2am and our own inexcusable laziness for not doing the cross island hike. Never mind. Our flight was at 1am, and I'm just glad to say it wasn't me that was s*** faced that night, sweating like Garry Glitter on the back of a school bus buying excessive amounts of duty free at the 'airport'...All good fun and would love to do it all again.