TONGA wasn't my original choice for somewhere to 'forget' my 30th - I'd not had a choice, not really thought about it. Truth is, just before Crimbo, Pacific Blue offered a seat sale. I thought sod it, two returns to nowhere in the middle of nowhere for 600 bucks, why the heck not. So I did. Both been working real hard and worn out, like everyone these days. The thought of a week in paradise drove us through and there we were at Auckland airport, drinking a beer for breakfast toasting my 30th. And that's the last of it. From that point on we were on 'Tonga time'. No time. Chill man, relax. The flight from Auckland is two and-a-half hours. It sits about 8 ks from the international dateline. In fact, the dateline jags around it so the 170-odd islands' 80,000 islanders are an hour ahead of Kiwi time - weird.
Some say Tonga is 'the place where time begins'. We'd be more inclined to say it's a place where 'time stands still'. Because, on first impression, no one seems to do sweet bugger all. Even getting a taxi is difficult - and they ain't really taxis. More locals looking to offer a ride, with 'taxi' scrawled on a piece of cardboard, taped to the dashboard. The ride into the capital of the kingdom - yes, it's home to a royal family, quite a strange bunch by all accounts - is nowt special. In fact, for a nano-second, you question whay possessed you to visit Tonga ("No one goes to Tonga" said our friend Angelena, and shes a native for Christ's sake!) We jumped in with Tony's crowd. His name is mentioned in some guide books - some northern English fella who arrived 16 years ago, married a local and opened a backpackers.
Turned out to be a right moaning bar-steward. 16 years and not a word of the local lingo. "They have to speak English, I speak English," he boasted. Marit couldn't stand the bugger, full of more crap than any Indian city we ever visitied. We stayed in the 'Blue House'. A great little place with spacious bedroom, running 'hot' water and a sweeping balcony. Course, we never saw that. Off to town for a mooch and a few more birthday beers. "You won't like town," piped Tony, there's nowt there. Quiet like c'ept when it'b chuck out time, then they like to duff each other upp." And so it proved. Nufu'alofa, the capital, is a small dump. A splattering of cafes, a market and a handful of decent bars. But the waterfront is home to half a dozen half sunken boats and looks like a construction site. Still, we knew that anyway. Found a few bars, teamed up with a few like-minded folk and took advantage of the 'VB promotion' at, wait for it ... Shooters. Yeah, real Tongan this is. Gatecrashed a kava session and called it a night!
Nuku'alofa is on the main island, Tongapatu. You can drive around it in a day. There are a few beautiful sights. But we headed straight to Ha'apai, the middle island group where, it seems, very few people go. It was an eventful 40 minute flight in a little eight seater. The pilot's words when we landed on a stretch of road in Lifuka: "Welcome to Lifuka, the time is, no time, and the temperature is beautiful." He wasn't wrong. Wow. The sun and the small breeze, perfect. It's difficult to explain, but like going back in time. There's nothing that resembles the 21st century here. The government offices look more like empty farm shacks, there is no real road, and the bank's windows are wide open when the front doors are supposedly 'locked'!
Pangai represents the only hive of activity on Lifuka, one of the 62 islands in the group - 45 uninhabited. Out to the west, pyrimidal Kao and its smoking partner Tofua belch fumes into the air. Here we managed to find a guy with a boat, who 'knew' a guy on the island of Uoleva where we were keen to stay. Much waiting later we were aboard a tin pot dingy idling our way out of the small harbour - there were a few jumpy moments when the island dipped out of view - and into the great expanse of water that is the Pacific. After an hour of inhaling diesel fumes we finally caught sight of land and, once our hosts came into view, bailed over the side into the blue waters below. Here we are, our own slice of paradise. Not another westerner in sight and nothing around us but pristine white beaches, coconuts and fish the size of small cars. No running water, no electriciy, no cafes, restaurants or bars. Two hammocks, a bed and mozzy net, and a local Tongan couple to cook us up wholesome goodness - fish, pork, chicken and a whole load of stodgy yam!
Tongan culture is pretty simple driven by a strict family hierachy. In short, they're a pretty darn religious bunch who, when they're not bellowing out hymns at church, can be found licking out the inside of corn beef tins. Yet, you forgive these people their obesity and laziness because they;re just about the friendliest people you'll ever meet - and they boast a wonderful sense of humour to boot! They have no money and crave to move away - a lot chose New Zealand but in reality, unless they can break into the All Blacks first 15, there's little hope for them there outside seasonal labour. Such good people though. We stayed with Sonny and his wife Maria. Christ were those two funny. And Sonny, so many stories to tell. About diving with sharks, discovering bodies on beaches, and sneaking aboard the passing ocean liners - of course, all his yarns stemmed from too much local rum!
And they cooked the tastiest food imaginable. Fresh snapper every night, chicken and mutton cooked in fresh coconut milk with onions, wrapped in Taro leaves. Didn't have to slaughter a pig, but if we had I don't know where we would have put it! Both put on pounds forcing down the fresh pancakes, fried bananas, curries, and an unbeatable 'umu', the traditional Tongan dish where everything is wrapped in Taro leaves and burried in the ground with boiling hot rocks. Dinner table chatter was hilarious, perched around a rickety table under which the mozzys hammered ya ankles.
During the day it was as though we were on our own island. Days were spent circumnavigating the island, the untouched beach laced with coconut drenched palms. Felt like Robinson Crusoe a number of times using shells and driftwood to price open coconuts and slurp the ice cold milk inside. The hardest part was deciding where to stop for a swim!
