/June-July 2018/
I was up early morning, and looking around I saw, I am not too far from the actual popular anchorage of the area. After a big healthy breakfast of eggs, crackers and coffee, and a quick wash up and boat tidying, I pulled up the anchor and motored around the boats to see if I knew any of them. There was about 20 yachts, mostly under Australian and New Zealand flags, a welcome change after the French dominance around me in the last years. It looked like a nice calm anchorage on the west side of a tiny islet, Pangaimotu Island, with the usual sandy beach and coconut trees. However, it was more than a mile away from the harbour of the town, so after the lap of honour, seeing no familiar faces, I continued toward Nuku A’lofa to do the entry procedure. A radio call to the harbour master later, I motored into the basin of the port, with the instruction ‘to come alongside somewhere and wait for the boarding officer’s visit’. I circled around the small port, where there was a mix of fishing boats, tugs, tour boats and yachts tied up in various ways and forms, before picking a place alongside a beaten up small motor boat with decals on its side saying: Pilotboat. It took the better part of the day before all the officials came, immigration, health, custom officers and all the paperworks were done. I used the time of waiting to inflate the dinghy, and pick a place inside the port, by the breakwater, where I can park the boat stern-to. With the last set of officers, who boarded the boat and filled out some paper so they can demand some money, I took a ride to the nearest ATM, got some Tonga money, Pa’anga, and payed them. Then I was free, and went for a long needed walk, some Internet time and take away food.
There was no plan how long I would stay here or where would I go after Tonga, I was open for everything. It was very strange to be in a place again where I didn’t have to struggle with my basic French, most of the local people spoke good enough English, and nearly all the white people and tourists were from English speaking countries. Eventually, it was only two weeks I spent in Tonga and didn’t venture out to the country side or small islands too much. I was enjoying the differences, between FP and Tonga, just walking up and down the streets of Nuku A’lofa and taking in the visual and other sensual novelties. Not that one was better or worse than the other, but how much I wouldn’t have necessarily noticed the subtle differences if I don’t spend that much time in the backyard of Polynesia. Just looking at people at the patio of a café, sitting around a round table, under a sunbrella, was so different a picture, that I had to stop and spend a few seconds wondering about the image. It is true, I saw at least two violent incidents in town during my short stay, which I couldn’t have imagine to happen in FP. It was a lively scene, when three policeman tried to apprehend a young, muscled local guy, broad daylight on the street, who fought against them, naked from the waist up like a mad warrior, injuring at least one of the officers before they handcuffed and put him in the backseat of the patrol car.
Of course the local custom and people were the real curiosity. Boys and man wearing long skirts as uniforms or traditional clothing, the informality and directness of everyone, who consider you as a close friend if just saw you on the street walking the day before. Tonga is still Polynesia, but with a different origin of indigenous population as of FP. Folk stories often mention how big the men of Tonga were, they were considered giants, and historical evidences suggest that it was probably true. When I looked around the streets it seemed entirely plausible, men of age were walking around much taller (and wider) than me with my 6 feet height. Before my departure I met John, an Italian entrepreneur who moved to the Kingdom of Tonga in 1953, when he was the second of the two white (or foreign should be said considering the speedily growing Chinese population) men living on theses islands. He started out with santal wood export, until the trees lasted, then, as a good Italian, opened a restaurant. He was introduced and cooked for the king, and they became friends. He was telling how he had to be knocking and banging on the back door of the king’s palace sometimes until he let him in. They went on a tour together to Europe, Italy, London etc. John said, the king was so big, they had to make a special seat for him, and bring it around wherever he went, the small chairs made for the then smaller Europeans would not hold his weight. He said, he wasn’t extremely obese, he was just an extremely big man.
There were a few jobs to be done on the boat, and I used the opportunity of the shore being so close and handy as workplace and did some wood work. Part of the main bulkhead was cut out in a nice curved way to enable me to stretch my legs when sleeping at the bow. It made the boat a bit more ‘open-planned’ and I was happy enough with the strip of reinforcement I put on (the plank used was a bit of drift wood from Hiva Oa) with Nuku A’lofa engraved in it. The memories and souvenirs getting numerous, with the beam for the mast support from Curacao, a tile from Lisbon, shells from the Tuamotu, and the gift wooden mask from Fatu Hiva. The lower shroud had to be re-spliced and it took a good day work to finish it. The available steel wire was too short, so a bit of chain was put in as an extension on the lower part, and it will well serve as a toggle as well, to dissipate the stress on the rig.
With such good jobs well done, I went for a night out on a Saturday evening, without realizing that the big night is Friday night here. On Sunday, as it is a holly day, every work is forbidden in Tonga. No shops or restaurants are open no service of any kind provided. Hence the bars have to close at 1130 on a Saturday night – I was back in my bed early. The prohibition is strict, no work even on your own boat and no swimming in the sea either! A uniformed policeman walked around the port in the morning of Sunday to check if everyone obliges.
I got into a conversation with Sepho, the security man of one of the bars and he invited me to his place for lunch the next day. In his early fifties, one of the giant Tongans, with a family in the States but him having no passport, he had his interesting life story, too messed up for me to follow. We opened up the traditional Polynesian underground oven where the different types of food cooked. Pork stew, and tapo roots, and vegetables in small portions of aluminium foil. He was living above the bar, on the derelict floors that were apparently under construction and renovation after the previous owner let the business go down the drain. It was an interesting setting for the Sunday lunch, but the food was good and the water melon juice they were making for the boss tasted delicious. So, there was work done then on a Sunday, behind the walls!
I didn’t stay long, instead went for a walk to the end of the road towards the reef were I was coming from with the boat, about a five miles away. The thing is in Tonga, you can see the effort some people make to keep the place tidy and neat, but it is hard when in general there is so much rubbish everywhere. At the end of the road, in the slum, amongst temporary houses and the ruins after the damage of the cyclone season, pigs and dogs and little children were running around. I went to the sea to wash my face, but the shallow water of the gravel beach was full of plastic bags and other trash. The smell of the air was far from the fresh sea breeze, rather like pig shit and sewage water. I turned around and walked back to the somewhat cleaner harbour area.
The newest plan was to leave Tonga on Friday, for Fiji, to have another 400 miles done westwards. With 4-5 days sailing that would have put the ETA on a sure weekday. However, checking out the weather forecast, it seemed I would just be floating around aimlessly for days between the two island group, as there was a big wind hole for the weekend. I postponed the departure for the Monday.
Monday I cleared out from the island, and went to spend the leftover money on the market. I met a few new friends on the way (it doesn’t take much to make friends in Nuku A’lofa) and said them goodbye. I met in town the adventurous skipper, Roy, from the next boat by Comino. He is on his Xth circumnavigation, and have friends, businesses and things to do everywhere around the world. When I told him I am leaving for Fiji, he asked me straight away if I sent the paperwork to the Fijian authorities about my arrival. I didn’t hear about this before, that I have to notify anyone prior to arrival, so I checked it out on the website. It turned out to be a fairly complicated form of 14 pages that I had to fill out, attach passport photo and photo of boat, send away and wait for acknowledge and approval, and have a hard copy of it with me as well. It meant a gallop back to boat with the shopping, filling out the form, back to the ATM then to the post to print, check and recheck the emails if it was sent and received, spend again the few coins that was left over again…
It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon by the time I released the shorelines and pulled up both anchors from the muddy bottom of the harbour. Late enough on a place when by 6pm the sun went down. I only had 6-8 miles to go just yet, there was a small islet, Atata, on the way inside the reef, where I wanted to stay for the night. Looking at the chart it looked a safe enough place for a night, and a good starting point for the following morning. The proper wind would only come later anyway, and the hull was to be cleaned again. Two hours easy motoring was the plan.
Hardly I exited the the harbour on the calm water, doing about 3 knots under engine, when looking behind I saw a big gray-black cloud approaching from the east. It looked nasty, but there was no serious rain or storm during the last two weeks to make me worry too much. I put on some rain-jacket just in case. Five minutes later I was standing in downpour, similar to the one at my arrival. Visibility was reduced, and seeing any danger in front of me underwater was forgettable. At the end it took four hours slowly driving forward gaging the terrain ahead, for a safe pass and a patch of clear bottom to drop the hook. There was another boat anchoring at my intended location, so I drove up behind them and a bit farther and stopped. I throw all my soaked clothes off and went down below to warm up, closing the washboards and hatches behind me. Five minutes later the rain stopped, and the setting sun seemed to have winked from behind the cloud before disappearing beyond the horizon.
Attila Védő 