Though a few days have passed, I feel compelled to post about my last outing on Aitutaki in the Cook Islands. While I’m not a religious person, I find positive expression of faith by other people uplifting. For that reason, I often seek out a service or ceremony to attend in the local religion while traveling. My chosen sermon on Aitutaki was one of the best I’ve ever experienced and left me yearning for a weekly dose of The Island Spirit.

The Cook Islands Christian Church was built in 1828 and is the oldest church in the fifteen Cook Islands.   Carved entirely of limestone it resembles a sacred white cave, but with better lighting and simple, stained glass windows.   The pastor is a jolly round islander, with small black eyes and full cheeks who resembles a tan Burl Ives. The Sunday I attended he wore an oversized suit that hung loosely on his broad shoulders; navy jacket , dark green pants. An understated ensemble compared to the remainder of the congregation. The island women pride themselves on brightly colored dresses and expressive, hand made hats. The dresses are made from local fabric often adorned with Maori patterns and the hats range from freshly strung frangipani (gardenia) wreaths to elaborate designs that would grace the pages of Vogue. The common denominators being an abundance of color and a small oval shell in the center of the top of the hat. Imagine the Kentucky Derby meets Maui and you have the right idea…

The sermon itself was in Maori so I didn’t catch the theological highlights.  This was ideal as it cleared a path to feel the experience. I closed my eyes and absorbed the singing of hymns that had the distinct beat of Maori song. Imagine a regular volley of voices passed from men to women. The chorus is sung staccato – brief, strong exclamations of words similar to the fire breath used in yoga or the breathing exercises taught in birthing classes. Tribal and passionate. Beautiful. I felt like I was on a vaka (Maori canoe) being rowed to Tahiti 200 years ago.

The non-singing elements of the sermon were no less enjoyable. More than once the pastor delivered an impassioned speech with a stern face that resulted in ripples of laughter from the congregation. The same response was elicited from several men who seemed to be giving testament. Standing, they would gesture wildly while telling their stories then their faces would melt into mischievous, boyish grins and the audience would echo in laughter. There was a consistent thread of joy, lightness and humor throughout the two hour experience that distracted from the fact that I was soaked in sweat from the blazing heat and my ass was stuck to the wooden pew.   I was grateful I had chosen to sit in the back so I could sneak away before the end. I had worn a dress and hadn’t taken into account that my only method of transportation into town was a bike. A man’s bike that required me to pull a Britney Spears getting on and off it. All well and good in the privacy of your own accommodation, not so good in a sea of departing Sunday parishioners.   So I left a bit early, sparing a scene and reveling in the Island Spirit…

Next stop – New Zealand