Aurora Rarotonga

Say the two words together, rather quickly, aurora rarotonga, aurora rarotonga, aurora rarotonga, and see if you don't feel the rhythm. Au-RO-ra ra-ro-TONG-ga. Somewhere in the deep memory of the race, your butt begins to jiggle.

What would it be like if women only wore grass skirts, and no underwear? Mr. Christian, I think I catch your drift.  

The heat is oppressive, and overwhelming.

Tropical breezes move the palms gently to and fro, as you brush the sand from between your toes.

The picture above is of Rarotonga, major of the Cook Islands in the South Pacific. They be atolls, just craggy accidents of volcanic eruption in the scaleless blue Pacific. We went there in the 1990's, and between the occasional violent downpour, performed a magical circumnavigation of the island on a motorscooter--my first attempt at motorized bi-wheeling.

Here's a drink to conjure by. Straight-laced Englishmen set adrift on a sea of forgetfulness, forsaken to pleasure or the emptiness of desire. 

Call it the Aurora Rarotonga, and don't tell the children. 


By proportion, as usual:


4 parts Bacardi white rum
2 parts Key Lime Liqueur
1 Part Midori Liqueur
1 Part fresh lemon juice


--shaken (or shimmied) and served up in frosted cocktail glasses.


I guarantee this one, without reservation. It will seduce you out of any doldrums, tickle your fancy, feather your ear, and make you feel 22 again. How long ago was that? I won't tell!

Cheers!