A nightclub in the Cooks,

fruitier than a banana

The Banana Court, sprawling and brawling, is at the site of the staid old Rarotongan Hotel in Avarua. It has more atmosphere and colour than any other steamy pub I have seen in the Pacific for a long time.

The Court is presided over by a huge but gentle Cook Islander nam ed, appropriately, Apollo. (The Rarotongans pronounce it AporoJ I joined some friends one Friday night to watch the spectacle. It was a picturesque and fragrant gather ing imaginative ei katua (flower crowns) of every possible blossom and colour combination dotted the smokey dance floor. A really terrific band played pulsating Tahitian-type rhythms with electric instruments. It was a huge melee of myriad sound, muffled only by the closely-pressed, warm bodies crowding in on the dance floor.

When the crowd thinned out. my friends headed for the Trailways and more dancing. I was tired and Apollo volunteered to drive me back to my hotel within 20 minutes. I ask ed him if he enjoyed his job as man ager-cum-bouncer. He leaned for

ward, huge palms pressing on the table. "My dear,” he smiled at me heavy features thick and fleshy, a huge gingerbread man! "after 30 monotonous years as an account ant, ” he boomed, “I was delighted to shift! They asked me to take it, I didn’t look for it. ”

Apparently “they” is the Cook Is land Tourist Authority which man ages the place. And Apollo is the right choice, he loves working in an atmosphere where there is never a dull moment, I thought, as I watched him trying to gently pry a drunk from a chair. He had wrapped him self around it like a child looking for his mother's breast, and passed out cold.

The 20 minutes I was supposed to wait for a lift grew longer. An hour passed and a few crises. For one, we had to let out Bimbo, Apollo's pet poi dog, who had been locked up in error in one of the little ante rooms of this pseudo Greek- Polynesian Theatre. Another 20 minutes I was still waiting while Apollo was sweeping out drunks and floors. And then, rather embar : rassed, he gave me the news that he

had no gasoline in his car.

" I’ll just rouse this chap,” he offered, " he’ll give you a lift.” Heck, it was the nursing drunk who still couldn’t be pried loose from that chair.

That was the clincher. A hurried goodbye and I rushed out the door in a huff wondering how in the world I would ever get back to the Rarotongan Hotel, 15 minutes and a light centdry away from the Banana Court.

Out of the shadows a local girl, tall and curvy, dashed out behind me, riding on the sweet scent tipani. “I don’t know who you are, or where you came from, but not to wo rry, we’ll get you home. We’ll just get the police to drive you back!”

I followed her like a little puppy dog. We only had to walk a few yards to the conveniently-placed police station. Five limpid-eyed, Rarotongan gendarmes were stand ing around doing nothing. It was no problem getting me a lift home. A handsome chap from Aitutaki delivered me safe and sound at 1 am, telling me en route that nothing terribly exciting happens in Rarotonga.

One cannot store one’s youth in a stone jar. Go and visit Apollo and the Banana Court. Just be sure you have your own transport home.

Sheree Lipton