Day 6. Rarotonga. Diving for Wend, rain for Dave.

Woke this morning to torrential rain and decided it'd be a good opportunity to catch up with writing the blog. Wend left me to it and went off diving again.

Inevitably she had - and I quote - probably the most spectacular dive since Jacques Cousteau was strutting his stuff. First of all she saw a couple of Eagle Ray (think crocodile hunter killer but 3x the size). Then a 6ft white-tipped reef shark put in an appearance. And finally, just as the dive was ending a bloody family of hump-back whales came swimming by.

I kid you not.

To see these magnificent beasts from the side of a boat is a rare treat, but to be right next to them in the water is about as big a thrill as it is possible to experience while diving.

AND I WAS BACK AT THE GUESTHOUSE SHELTERING FROM THE RAIN WRITING THIS SODDING JOURNAL.

In the evening we went to one of the traditional island nights that they lay on for the tourists. Lots of people at Vara's had told us it was something not to be missed. So despite our scepticism we paid our $5 and went along.

Oh dear. Call us a couple of miserable fogeys, but we really didn't dig this at all.

I smelled a rat when we entered the room and saw a mirrorball and disco lights above a line of bored blokes decked in plastic beads and flowers as they sat behind their drums. It was downhill all the way after that, with 'warriors' jumping around making a racket as they attempted to woo a line of lovelies wearing grass skirts and coconut bras.

Terrible, turgid stuff, although the bras were something of a redeeming feature.

I don't know. Maybe we're just cultural snobs, because most of the audience seemed to be lapping it up, but I can't believe Captain Cook and his cronies came across this kind of thing when they came ashore 250 years ago.