When we were in Rarotonga - I never thought I'd utter those words - we could feed the fish from the deck of the restaurant at our hotel. It didn't matter what you threw into the clear blue waters, hordes of fish shot over from all directions. The morsel was swarmed, sometimes batted around like a volleyball. Some fish even came out of the water. Can you see evil fish eye above?
Today I was sitting quite happily, and blessedly alone, on the bleachers waiting for Morgan's rugby game to start. The warm-up act - a highly contested and florid-languaged game - had just finished. As I was enjoying the first quiet moment of a hectic day, the team manager brought over what must have been two seven-pound packages of chips (French Fries, for my American friends) and put them on the row in front of me. It was like Rarotonga all over gain. Within seconds a dozen kids swarmed the bleachers, grabbing at the food. It was all I could do to speedily vacate my no-longer solitary post and scuttle off to the sidelines.
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