Kingdom of Tonga II

Making room, getting it down on paper before I head on to Samoa. I am sitting at the airport in Nadi, Fiji, waiting for my onward flight. Fiji is the South Pacific island hub. Fiji Airways, huge here, seem to fly to just about everywhere, except New Caledonia as far as I can tell, though I may be wrong about that. So Nadi really is the gateway to the South Pacific, just as a small piece of information on the side.

What were the other days in the Kingdom like? Very relaxing. I quite consciously did not do a boat trip or a taxi excursion. I was fascinated enough by the view from my window, that ocean right outside the door, the pigs and the flies, the tides, I found it beautiful, and besides, I had a bicycle. One of the all gas, no brakes variety, and no pedals either, by the way. They had broken off, and all that was left were those little metal stubs that somehow turn with the crank when you ride. And I made use of that bicycle, either riding into town in the morning after breakfast at the accommodation for a proper coffee, actually two, actually two doubles, actually the kind that keeps you from sleeping at night, especially after a month of French coffee, which is to say hot water with a hint of coffee flavour. Holy shit, the ones in Nukuʻalofa knocked your shoes off, they were on the level of Fragola at Bismarckplatz in Stuttgart. Toni, I will be back soon. Incredibly good, though they came with sleep problems and digestive trouble included.

On Saturday, after that coffee and after shopping, because I had been told that Sunday is a day of rest, I set off on the bicycle. A full twenty kilometres to the tip of the island, where Abel Tasman landed. And there I was, riding on those roads, without brakes and without pedals, and what can I say, it was great. The roads are wide enough in parts that no one needs to feel cramped, and farther out, some distance from the capital, they become narrower but also less busy. It is worth mentioning that you are already something of a rarity on a bicycle. Children wave at you, come running when you stop. It is like in Bulgaria or Romania, except they do not want to rob you. Not all of them there either, but a few do.

What else reminded me of Southeastern Europe? The dogs. There are an incredible number of dogs in Tonga, mostly kept by their owners in packs, breeding quite happily on their own, often with broken and healed looking legs, and of course they chase. Preferably cyclists. If you are on foot they come too and surround you. But on a bicycle you get hunted, and as it goes, one or two come from behind and one or two from the side, the usual tactic. And just as in Southern Europe, it is the same here: they are more afraid of you than you ought to be of them. One sharp word, one raised hand above the head, taking off the cap once, and the whole gang slinks away. No problem, stay calm and threaten them. Works perfectly, always. It even works with a sounder of wild boar in Serbia. Only once did it not work, in the Abruzzo in Italy, between Foggia and Naples, where I had a white dog about navel high, a beast of a thing, chasing me, and no, I was not faster, he just had to take a shit at some point. Phew.

Where was I, dogs, yes. There are plenty of them here, and pigs and chickens wandering around too. Whether they belong to anyone, I cannot say for sure. Same with the cows that stand about here and there, it is just part of the landscape. As is the plastic rubbish. Farther out on the island I did find the usual dirt after all, by the roadside, along the coast, basically everywhere, though not on the properties themselves, those are clean, with bins and rubbish collection. So there is still some of it. So I cycled to one end of the island, arrived, looked around, and saw the rubbish. Those twenty kilometres had already taken quite a bit out of me. Riding without pedals is exhausting, and my feet started complaining right away. I thought, oh dear, another twenty kilometres back, good thing I had time, my feet were really burning. And they still are, I trained muscles again because of that absurd posture, muscles you do not even know by name until they suddenly hurt.

I wanted to look at one or two other spots, but most of the time there was no way through to the beach. Overgrown. The tsunami of 2022 also seems to have destroyed a great deal, including parts of the underwater world, which is why I decided not to snorkel and lent my gear to a Rick from Belgium, a lawyer who works in Sydney. For me, the days there were actually rather boring. On Saturday evening dense clouds of smoke drifted over the town, everyone threw something on the grill on Saturday. And Sunday, as I said, is a day of rest, a real day of rest. Nothing is open, maybe a few restaurants in the evening, otherwise nothing. No kiosk, no gas station, only churches, and they have a great many of them. And everyone puts on their Sunday clothes and even rides around in pickup trucks with praying people on the back. All dressed up in their Sunday best, ten people on the loading bed, arms stretched upward, racing around at fifty kilometres an hour. Some of them sing too. Always toward the sun, on that little island.

I left the bicycle standing and moved through the town on foot on Sunday, and once again I was declared prey by dogs, at least until I turned the tables. I can frown very impressively, as we know. There are stories that the police have even warned joggers in town on Sundays. It is simply Sunday. And there are so, so many churches on this island, really many, and magnificent buildings. The houses are also nice to look at, some of them at least, in part a little reminiscent of Australia, with pretty gardens.

Then on Monday, after the morning coffee, I took one more little ride on the bicycle and then sat down by the sea after dousing myself in mosquito spray. That is essential, otherwise you will never stop itching. And so I really enjoyed my last day in Tonga, staring out at the sea and listening to music.

At three in the morning my hostess had arranged a shuttle to the airport for me, which still had not arrived by half past three. Fortunately I was able to ring a young taxi driver out of bed by phone, and he drove me to the airport, otherwise I might have had to stay. Terrifying. My hostess called me when I was already sitting on the plane. She still assumed I was in her guest room because the actual driver, who had overslept, had woken her up. Wonderful. She wanted to rush me to the airport, but we were already more or less in the process of taking off. My flight was supposed to leave at 5:40, but it lifted off at 5:10. That is how the clocks work in the Kingdom of Tonga. I really do like it there. In that spirit.