Samoa, Part one.

Let us start with a caveat. I understand that I am a tourist. I do acknowledge that the places I go are not there for my entertainment nor should my judgments of them be expected to matter at all to the residents. I am a gringo outsider with all of my personal biases and intellectual baggage coming into someone else's home and telling my stories. I acknowledge and embrace this.

Perhaps you have guessed that I did not unreservedly enjoy my stay in Apia.

The place is pretty. The view below is across the bay towards the governmental complex and main business district. There is a nice, well maintained seawall walk where you can get mugged at night before a truly beautiful backdrop. It is small enough (40,000 population) to walk to most locations, though the Samoans look at you as if you are mad should you try to do so. There are some nice cafes, and a very helpful library. The mountains surrounding the town are gorgeous.



You don't walk not out of a lack of things to see, you don't walk because the damn place is 90F and 90% humidity pretty much constantly. Surprise, and welcome to the tropics. Yes, I know, but I am a cold-weather boy and my brain works sluggishly at best in these conditions. Since my chosen method of exploring a town involves walking it for a week or two, this posed some problems.

Perhaps I was spoiled by Nuku'Alofa, or I have been on the road too long, or I am just getting soft in my geriatric repose. Apia just wasn't much fun. It felt hostile. The bar district had guys lounging out front staring you down and the aforementioned seawall has hustlers of every stripe, hawking the range from dope to virgins. Women do not walk around alone after dusk. Fights are common, waves and smiles are not. Despite there being more obvious displays of wealth here than in Tonga (though nothing like AmSam) property crime is more common. Or perhaps it is because rather than despite?

In retrospect perhaps Suva was like this too, but I just don't remember getting the same hard vibe. A local bar owner described it to me as the outcome of kids moving away from their very traditional, very hierarchical villages in the back country into Apia, where they have no chief to watch and socially sanction them. Away from the rigidities of their childhood they follow no rules. Whether this is just the local version of 'kids these days' or has a grain of truth I do not know. I do know that I had to watch myself much more carefully here. No late night wanders as throughout Tonga.

Big bummer there, as the night is when I felt most functional. The stars are beautiful here, clear skies and a equatorial locale providing for combinations I had never before seen. The residential neighborhoods were quiet, and human menace was minimal if you avoided downtown. Canine menace was omnipresent. Thousands of dogs run loose and attacks occur frequently. Locals walk with sticks; I quickly learned to wear my boots. In Tonga bending down and acting as if you are picking up a stone would drive away the hounds. Here a bit more direct action is required. The third time I found myself happily booting a dog in the head I gave up. Apia kept its night. I found early bedtimes.

One element was nice. The University has a house on campus where I was allowed to stay for a minimal charge. Three bedrooms, blessedly air conditioned, and with internet. Unfortunately they did not give me the right key to the gate, so several times every evening I found myself hopping this two meter fence.

I waited each time for the cops to be called, since I had to do my vault on a busy road. The fact that they didn't show started as a relief and grew into a concern. What exactly would I have to do to get the cops called? Turned out that the place had been squatted for months before my arrival by a campus security guard and two friends. If no one noticed the nightly parties, I suppose a bit of fence hopping wouldn't trigger any alarm.

The house was pretty sweet, despite the huge cockroaches. The centipedes, well, they are a whole different bundle of anxieties. Cockroaches are fairly fragile beasts, at least here, and they don't dodge well. When you find yourself chasing a 13 inch red and black centipede (I know the size because I tried to step on the thing and it was longer than my shoe) around the house for half an hour, then it disappears by running up the gap between the toilet outflow and the wall, it makes you reluctant to use that particular set of conveniences. I pissed in the garden for two days.

The barbed wire just screams 'friendly'.

Continually encountered the Utah link here, as well as in Tonga. Having been raised LDS in Salt Lake I knew Samoan and Tongan kids from childhood. I had not realized how much the flow reversed. There were Utah shops, buses with names like 'Provo' and 'Moab', and graffiti from Utah groups carved into tourist sites. Much of the funding for development projects, and some for commercial enterprises, comes from Utah. You simply cannot escape your childhood. But I shall endeavor to persevere.


Have to admit, the roads are pretty. Not something I say a lot.


Favorite bit of Engrish yet in Polynesia. Karl Rove's apparent brother selling Chinese-made underwear from the "FAT COLLECTION".


Not that all of Apia reminded me of Oakland. Good experiences abounded. The first night there I was recognized by a young Indian gent, dripping with gold jewelry, who had apparently helped me through the application process for a Tongan driver's license. He insisted I come into the roughest bar in Apia, Crabbers, and that he would buy me a beer. Not having anything else better to do I agreed, and was soon in the dance area with about 15 very large Polynesian men who my host, Paul, referred to as his 'boys'. He went on to tell me about his business dealings in Fiji, Tonga, and Samoa, and how I never needed to worry about anything in any of these places as his boys would take care of me. Never really having worried about anything before Apia I was a bit confused, but mildly grateful. Meanwhile the boys were harmonizing along with a locally produced remix of Abba's 'Waterloo' and drinking enormous (750 ml) local Valima beers. Then they all wanted to dance.

Hell, on an average night I would prefer to be in a gay bar than a straight one. They are more fun, more relaxed, and I get sick of the breeder guidos stomping around meat markets. These guys, however, were the massive gay mafia. No one else was even entering the dance floor on a Friday night and aside from Paul the smallest one of the bunch still could play lineman for Oklahoma. I was flattered, and terrified. Slamming back my beer I headed for the door, claiming a prior engagement. A few ass-pats and a phone number later I was sitting out in front of pizza joint down the street when I was hit upon by the first of many fa'afafines to approach me in Samoa. Third gender, very cool, not my thing sexually. But boy, did they like me. Whether it was because of my being a palangi, or my sweat encrusted sexy student t-shirts, I think I met and spoke with half of the 50/50's in Samoa. Probably a good thing, but a bit daunting by #10.

Just an aside (unlike the rest of the blog), how do people actually have sex to some of the music I hear in clubs? I assume that is the point, right? Usher exists to somehow encourage people to have sex with each other, preferably after buying a t-shirt. But dear gods, Abba? I would be laughing too hard to function. Has anyone ever actually got lucky to the strains of 'Waterloo'? Is this why Scandinavia is so sparsely populated?

So that was Friday. Good Friday. Everything then closed at 10PM and the country remained closed until Tuesday. Literally. The whole damn country. I went through my food on Saturday and lasted the rest of the time on peanut butter and Tim Tams. On Easter they showed all six Rocky films in succession on TV. So I went to church instead:


As with the Tongans, the Samoans sing beautifully.

Other great things about Apia? Palolo Deep, some of the best snorkeling I have ever found and a 5 minute walk from downtown. Further confirmation of the over-the-shoulder air conditioning method (Polynesian men frequently walk down the street with one corner of their shirts pulled up and tucked into the collar. Considering the scale of the bellies in some cases, this can be deeply impressive.). Driving in a place where they just switched from the right to the left last September and the cars are a mad mix of left and right hand drives. With arrows pointing both ways still painted on the pavement. And no apparent minimum age for drivers. Decent pizza. The fa'afafines were a bit flighty, but generally interesting to chat with.

The best thing? Hiking up to R.L. Stevenson's grave. Just outside of Apia on a beautiful piece of land he named Valima. He came here to try and recover from TB, ended up dying in Samoa. Highly esteemed by the locals, he still has pride of place in the local mythology. Valima's gardens radiate life.


The hike to the gravesite atop Mt. Vaea should not be as bad as it proved. I have not been swimming in this picture, that is sweat. See my comments above regarding climate. I had no idea my body contained this much moisture.


The view made it all worthwhile.


His epitaph reads:

"Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live, and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

"Here he lies where he longed to be.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill."

That, I can appreciate. Especially right here.


Next up? Savai'i.

American Samoa

Easter holiday in Polynesia. Did I mention just how Christian these places are? Everything shuts down from the beginning of Good Friday until Tuesday morning. I am already down to eating Timtams and peanut butter, which is actually damn good. Plus, I got to put on a skirt and wear it to church this morning, which will please both my mother and my deadhead friends, two categories rarely pleased about the same things. So Easter ain't all bad. It also gives me time to catch up with my blogging and other crucial matters, like a nap.

Spent a couple of days in American Samoa. Had planned on a week but when my transport to Ofu island failed, the trip was shortened. Ofu is supposed to be the most beautiful island in the Pacific, and is nearly impossible to get to. After the FAA shut down the one airline going, only the Governor's plane made the trip, a couple of times per week. I called and pulled the 'researcher' card to get a seat. However, this plane melted its landing gear trying to abort a takeoff on the extremely short strips in the Manu'a islands. So Ofu will have to wait.

The main island of American Samoa, Tutuila, was my home for a couple of days. I suspect most Americans do not have a clue this place exists, much less is part of the States. Kind of like Oklahoma. A relic of the era of expansion in the Pacific, this part of Samoa is still US territory mainly because the locals see no good reason for independence. Lots of funding comes in from Washington, and while the locals can't vote in national elections they also don't have to pay federal taxes. This is a trade-off I suspect many mainlanders would accept.

A bit of history here. In the late 1800's Britain was still expanding its empire, the US Navy was looking for coaling stations and the Germans were dealing with their empire envy by trying to swallow up anything not already Red or Blue on the map. Britain and Germany had interests in Tonga, while all three were eyeballing Samoa. In 1889 a force of three German warships began supporting their favored candidate for the king's role via artillery bombardments of coastal villages. In doing so they destroyed some American property, so the Americans retaliated by bombarding other Samoan villages. Not being particularly satisfying bombardments (the Samoan fales just tended to collapse instead of producing those really neat smoke clouds you get when you blow the shit out of masonry), the three American warships and the three German warships steamed into Apia harbor and prepared to start a war. Over Samoa. That's right, the US and Germany very nearly fought a war in 1889 over Samoa (betcha also didn't know that we invaded Korea in 1871, or Sumatra twice in the 1800's, did you? Yay for history!). The one British warship present was not as distracted and decided to check the weather rather than grease its guns. Noticing a cyclone approaching, it quite reasonably left the harbor, and was the only ship not totally destroyed by the storm. After the death of 148 sailors and the loss of all six ships, the major combatants sat down and decided not to start WW I early over some relatively minor land in the Pacific. They did continue to fund and arm various factions, however, until 1899 when Germany agreed to give up claims to parts of Tonga and several other island chains to Britain, and to give the US the excellent harbor of Pago Pago and all islands east of this, in exchange for keeping the majority of Tongan land and population in the two islands of Upolu and Savai'i.

I am in American Samoa because it was the only place on the globe that managed to impose an effective quarantine against the 1918 flu, and thus the only place without fatalities. By contrast, independent Samoa had the world's highest known death rate from the same infection, at 26% of the population. This contrast is what I am here to investigate.

There are about 60,000 people here. The vast majority of them live on the main island, with a few thousand on the small Manu'a islands. These include Ofu, Olosega, and Ta'u.

A brief note on punctuation. In most Polynesian languages 'g' represents a truncated 'ng' sound, the 'n' part being a bit shortened. In Fijian the 'q' represents the same phoneme. Correctly pronounced, Pago Pago sounds more like 'Pungo Pungo' than 'Paygo Paygo'. And now you know. Because knowing is half the battle.


Flew into Pago Pago on a puddle jumper out of Apia. Perhaps the most beautiful airport I have ever seen. The terminal itself was not much to mention, although the fact that it was showing a completely uncut copy of one of the 'Leprechaun' films on all monitors was a bit discordant. The surrounding country, however, was stunning.


This place is all cliffs. Mountains climb straight up from the waters, and the terrain is defined by edges. There is little flat land, and thus little agriculture. The population subsists on imported food for the most part, including American fast food. One of the nicest parts of Tonga was the complete absence of any fast food chains anywhere in the country. Not so here. Carl's Jr. is considered high cuisine, and the health of the population reflects this. The local diet seems to be an unholy combination of the worst of Polynesia (canned corned beef, lamb flaps) with the worst of the US (fast food, soda, chips). The pigs omnipresent in Tonga have been eliminated here due to environmental concerns, so even the pork is imported. Samoans of all nationalities have some of the highest obesity and diabetes rates in the world.

This particular Carl's Jr. also had a bit of Polynesian flavor to its drive through. Folks here tend to bury relatives above-ground in large, concrete memorials. These take up a significant amount of space, and reflect the wealth of the family involved. They are seen in many yards and parks. Apparently there was one in place on the land purchased for this outlet because to use the drive through you have to dodge the mausoleum. Eternity guarding a fast-food driveway, probably not what grandpa had in mind.


Did I mention that this place is beautiful? A mass of black volcanic rock spilling into blue-green waters, it is one of the prettiest places I have ever seen in the States.


This beast was for sale in Pago Pago. The amount of pure class involved in driving a 70's hearse around an island paradise.....


The fact that what little flat land is available clusters around harbors proved to be a liability following the earthquake and tsunami of late last year. American Samoa was hit hard. Most of the dockside businesses in Pago Pago were wiped out, along with multiple villages. The damage was visible throughout the coastal areas of the island, with various iterations of FEMA tents still housing much of the population. The Lonely Planet guide, just published last year, is totally useless as most businesses listed have been washed away. The US government is trying to help repair the damage.

That said, the money coming in seems to go in directions perhaps not envisioned. there are more new, huge, American-style trucks here than any place I have ever lived, including Alaska. They are everywhere, and seem to be the main source of transport. These are $40,000 Tundras that clog the roads. Sources tell me that many folks have chosen to rebuild to a lesser quality than their former homes, while spending the FEMA check on a truck for an island with perhaps 120 miles of road in total.


Of course, corruption is not limited to householders. The governor was recently allocated funding to buy a ferry to the Manu'a islands, since the planes are no longer flying. Instead of buying a passenger ferry he spent 1.6 million buying a yacht his friend in New Zealand had been unsuccessfully trying to sell. It takes 6-8 people. This is the theoretical new ferry for the poorest area in the US. On a smaller scale a grant was secured to build a practice court for local school basketball teams. It has not yet been built as the the official in charge is insisting it be built in his backyard. Not in his neighborhood, in his literal backyard.

Sports are huge here. Not only is the NFL recruiting grade schoolers, school rivalries are at times extreme. Victorious teams are regularly attacked in their buses by stone throwers as they pass through intersections. Fights are common. The Polynesian warrior tradition combined with good old American sports-focused sociopathy makes for interesting Friday nights. Like to see British football hooligans try to survive here, the 12 year-olds could thrash them.

But, it sure is pretty.


Despite the beauty there are very few tourists. In part this is because American Samoa is just as expensive as the mainland, if not slightly more so. A tourist can spend their time much more frugally in Fiji or particularly Tonga. In addition, the feel of the place is a weird mix of American and Polynesian. There are touches around town, such as forged drain-covers and posted rules regarding seat belts, that remind a visitor of this mixed heritage. As much Duluth as Apia. The roads crowded with new trucks, the American chain stores, all of this fights with the relative poverty and traditionalism of the majority of the population.

Tradition thrives in the villages. Sa are evening prayers, noted by whacking a suspended, empty oxygen tank with a stick at 6 pm. Another whack a few minutes later indicates that all activity must stop. No walking, jogging, playing, working, or any activities aside from driving the main roads is allowed, and palagi joggers oblivious due to their headphones have been very unpleasantly reminded of the need for cultural awareness. Most of the family stays inside for prayers, but the house-holding male will come out to his property line wearing the lavalava of his village and stand until the tank is whacked again about 6:20. Then activity resumes.

It is clear that American Samoans are generally wealthier than most other Pacific Islanders, but it is not clear why. Most jobs were provided by two huge tuna canneries, one of whom has recently closed and the other of which is considering the same. The islands produce more NFL players per capita than anywhere else in the US, by a huge margin. Some of this money comes home. The military is also very significant here, with recruiting posters and tributes to those serving throughout the island. Many of the residents, however, are on welfare. Unemployment is rampant, there is no real incentive to get work, and not enough work to go around.

There are some tourist spots nonetheless. I spent an hour discussing tattoos with an Aussie named Candyman who was tending bar at Tisa's, right on the beach. He showed me his traditional, and excruciating, Samoan tattoo, which stretches in an intricate pattern from his navel to his knees and includes his backside, mons pubis, and inner thighs. This tattooing is done using tools hand carved from wild boar tusks and a stick to whack them with. His tattoo took over 100 hours, spaced throughout 15 days, followed by several weeks recovery.

It is a beautiful tattoo (here is an example of the style: http://www.creativetattooreviews.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/Traditional_Samoan_Tattoo_-_back.jpg) I wonder how one of those would look under a kilt.......



The highlands are covered in flowers, flying foxes, and waterfalls. There is a village named Alaska (unofficially) as well. Not sure if it is named for its relative low temperature (it is the highest village on the island) or for all the Samoans that live in AK.



A great example of the American influence here. This road was a rutted, beat-to-hell stretch of one lane gutbuster all the way down the mountain, until it hit the spot where the tsunami washed it out. Then, since it was rebuilt by federal money, it turned into this beautiful, two lane, well anchored, piece of Utah freeway. For about 7o feet. then it turned back into Polynesia.




Perhaps the best part of AmSam was the folks who put me up. I had been speaking with Kate on Couchsurfing, and she hosted me the first night along with her two roomies. All these folks are teacher volunteers, doing a rough job with little support in a place that is not always welcoming. Being a teacher in any circumstances is rough, but this reminds me of the trials of teachers in the Alaskan bush, except they volunteer their time. Fantastic folks, and she introduced me to a whole crew of them. The next night we went to the home of Taylor and Scott, a young couple working for an NGO in Pago Pago. The picture below is of their backyard. Absolutely gorgeous place and very kind folks, they hosted myself and three teachers that night. Thanks, all.

The next morning they were all headed to a friend's place on the islet of Ta'u, and they tried to bring me along. While the flight wasn't available (I suspect they arrived without luggage, as a matter of fact), it is nice to be welcomed so completely and so quickly. Next time, folks. Or maybe in a place with a more amenable climate. Nome, perchance?

My flight to Apia was a reminder of just how funky Polynesia can be. In front of me sat a 60+ year old Aussie Karl Rove look-a-like sucking face with what seemed to be an 18 year old Samoan girl. Considering the number of large Samoan men in the plane, that took balls of brass to match his depraved soul. Next to him up front was a nearly 7 foot tall fa'afafine (third gender). Like the rest of this place, very different, and very beautiful. Also, completely capable of breaking you if you fail to keep your wits about you. Life is good.

Day 5 and then some

Neighborhood shots in Nuku’Alofa:

The Storm.

Cyclone Tomas looks to give us a pass and the locals are relieved, though I was hoping for a show. Not that the near miss isn’t great, this morning the wind woke me at 5 AM and I realized that for the first time since my arrival there were no damned roosters or dogs sounding off at the hour. I am not too worried; these buildings are built out of rebar and blocks. Horrible in earthquakes but well suited for hurricanes. The sign for my accommodations blew down, and I saw a young couple whapped on the heads by a falling palm frond. So I suppose my bloodlust has been temporarily quenched.

Remember my comment about the virility of this place, its overwhelming sense of life and growth? As I type this my laptop is seemingly full of nearly microscopic ants. Why they are here, I haven’t a clue. I don’t tend to eat when I work, and the keyboard does not seem particularly filthy. Nonetheless, they are here as they are everywhere else. The long-term impact of ants nestling in your laptop is not clear, but I doubt it is good.

I spend my days wandering Nuku’Alofa looking for materials to use. Very little luck so far, the records from before 1920 have simply vanished, and no clue remains. I am thus seeing little of the rest of Tongatapu, but I am getting a feel for Tonga itself. There is nothing like wandering a town for days to really absorb the vibe. I justify my trip by claiming that this should help my writing about Tonga as a whole.

Nights are spent wandering as well, at least until 10 or so. Once the sun goes down I can actually tolerate the climate, and I try to get out to walk. The locals are not there, mostly inside---either at home watching TV or at church singing (which they do with an ethereal beauty), drinking kava, or playing basketball dependent upon the congregation and the gender.

The evenings have an other-wordly air to them. Trash is burnt in most yards once a week, or more frequently, usually at dusk. Most of this is agricultural waste of one type or another, so the smoke is not particularly acrid but it does permeate the neighborhoods outside of the miniscule town center. Walking through areas with no other palagi (foreigners) in sight, passing yards full of rubble from the 2006 riots and subsequent natural disasters, the place has a bit of the Kurtzian horror to it. Locals sit listlessly in the waning heat of the day watching the smouldering piles fill the still air with haze, while the children run up to the fence line to say goodbye at your approach. It is poverty voyeurism, but dear god it is compelling.

There are many places where I would not feel comfortable wandering alone in a strange town after dark. Tonga is not one of them. I have yet to feel any menace or resentment from the locals, aside from that consistently expressed by young men globally. Those I have passed always offer a greeting, and generally a smile. I have had a few more welcoming comments from some of the residents as well, especially the fakaleiti (third gender), best acknowledged with a grin and a steady gait.

Since I spend my time alone I am violating a couple of local traditions. One of the most important is that Tongans generally do not eat alone. A truly severe insult in Tongan involves suggesting that you hide food and eat alone. This is not a culture of food shortages where the insult is placed on the concept of not sharing. Instead, the animus is placed upon those that would perform something as social as eating alone and away from others. When I sit alone in a restaurant the looks vary from curiosity to pity.

My God. I sweat in cheap hotel rooms. I wish for devastating storms. I wander around sleepy foreign capitals looking for justification for my presence. I spend too much in bad bars at night. I can describe the traditions around transvestism in multiple cultures. I think I may be becoming an expat.

Rather than spending my weekends in Nuku’Alofa I head for ‘Eua. ‘Eua is to the west of Tongatapu, making it the last piece of land the sun sets on in a given day. It is of a completely different heritage than the rest of Tonga. Even by Tongan standards life here is slow, with the big excitement every week being the Mormon-sponsored disco on Friday and Saturday nights. No alcohol but plenty of ice cream. It also has the interesting distinction of having more Peace Corps/local weddings than anywhere else in the Pacific.

Having survived the storms and the heat, Karsten and I wait for the flight to ‘Eua at the domestic airport. Karsten is a tall, friendly Bavarian gent I have met at our lodgings. An engineer, photographer, and a bit of a rake he is a great traveling companion. I was fortunate enough to spend several days with him.

Waiting for our domestic flight to ‘Eua, we were seated in a rudimentary terminal reminiscent of a bus stop. The shaking started suddenly, and the locals all stood up and quickly moved away from the building. Remember the early comment about local construction not being suited to earthquakes? As Karsten and I realized what was happening the cracking of cinderblock walls popped like rounds from a .22. Before we could do the rational thing and flee, it was over, and life resettled into the tropical pace. No one seemed interested in checking where the cracking might have occurred. We moved outside.

The flight was unremarkable, at 7 minutes it is the shortest regularly scheduled flight in the world. Plus, I am pretty sure Simon Pegg was putting on an Aussie accent and piloting the thing. Nice touch.

‘Eua was an incredible surprise. Much older than Tonga it is one of the oldest islands in the Pacific, and one of the highest. Riddled with limestone caves (one walk passes through eleven of them in three hours) and covered with unique local plants and birds, this place is almost unknown and untouched.

We stayed at The Hideaway, being picked up at the grass strip which passes for a runway here by Taki, the proprietor. In Tonga it is still the norm to ride in the back of pick-up trucks, which I did at every opportunity. I forgot how much damn fun that is; how much I loved the feeling as a kid before it was legislated out of possibility. Also, Tongans frequently do not shut off their engines while fueling so I judged that the bed was the safer place to be. I also discovered that attaching a seat belt is considered by Tongans to be a negative comment on their driving skill. So if you are going to be loose, might as well be free.

The Hideaway is very cool. Very basic, hosting a max of about 12 folks, it is situated right on the beach with nothing about. Silent, beautiful, and of a scale which encourages socialization amongst its guests, it is my favorite spot in Polynesia thus far. Highly, highly recommended.

Karsten and I headed for the south end of the island on bikes that would have made Mad Max giggle. That said, it was well worth it. Rock gardens with wild horses, sea cliffs and arches, ‘Eua is simply gorgeous. The fresh guava hanging from bushes along the route helped temper the oven we rode through.

Returning to the Hideaway we met the rest of our crew. Erin, a climber lass and geologist from B.C.; Ronnie, an old Swedish hippie from the northwest who had been Willie Nelson’s double in a truly horrible canuxploitation film, “Starlight”; Katherine, an Aussie nurse and festival fiend; Michael, her brother, an Australian volunteer in Tonga, and their mother, Diane. We lucked out. Every one of these folks are of the highest quality. A damned good time was had by all. They made the days on the trail pleasant and the nights at the Hideaway a blast. We clicked immediately.

The next morning we set off on an unguided walk into the eastern part of the island, which allowed us to get lost multiple times. The cyclone damage to the trails, such as they were, and the loss of ‘two beers, please’ Ronnie lent drama to what would have been simply beautiful on its own. There are much worse ways to spend your days than lost in paradise with good people.

First stop was the banyan tree. This was the single most impressive thing seen on this trip thus far, and possibly in any of the islands. She is an 800 year-old tree growing out of a limestone cavern/sinkhole which we did not have the gear to adequately explore. You can clamber down into the cave and climb out up the tree, assuming you don’t mind the spiders. It was too cool to pass up.

Lots of spiders. After the tree and a series of wrong turns we headed for the sea cliffs. Luckily, when the entire Eastern side of the island is a sea cliff finding such is not difficult.

The Rat’s cave is a small tube you can scurry down, followed by a two meter drop into a cave in the side of one of these cliffs. It is stunning. It is also on the edge of definitively lethal drop, so if you take a couple of steps back when entering or leaving the hole they will be your last. Worth it.

Eventually we gathered for a shot off of one of the overlooks. As I said, truly excellent people. I could not have asked for any better. This, right here, this is the best part of travel. Bugger the concierge.

Then we lost Ronnie again.

We were headed back towards camp when Michael suggested rumconuts. I was intrigued. A green coconut is the creator’s way of apologizing for the climate of the tropics. Fresh from a tree you lop the top off, stick in a straw, and drink. It is fresh water, slightly carbonated and with a hint of sugar to it. It is the single most refreshing thing I have ever tasted, and I don’t particularly care for coconut. Michael’s suggestion was to have a whole bunch of these, but with rum. Simplicity and elegance are combined in one deeply dangerous package. Asking Taki what he thought, he drove to some random house, collected our cash, and went inside, emerging with two bottles of potent local dark nectar. The night turned out well, though we did completely clean out Taki’s coolers. He did not seem to mind.

The rest of my time in ‘Eua was dominated by rain and tales more suited for a novel than a blog. Ronnie alone could occupy a cycle of sagas. This place was the highlight of my time in Tonga and I liked it well enough to return the following weekend to meet yet more good people (thanks Kathy, Harek, and Mari!). I will be back.

The remainder of my stay Tonga was work related, though I did rent a car for a day of touring. Doing so requires a Tongan driver’s license, which requires a trip to the DMV. I entered and there was nothing to suggest how to get in line, so after a few minutes of blankly wandering a well-dressed man came up and pointed out that I needed to take a number. Following his hand I noticed a pile of slips of paper with numbers scrawled on them, apparently in no particular order. When I started looking through them for the lowest one my guide interrupted and told me to just take one, it didn’t matter. He was proved right as the clerks seemed to yell random numbers, each of which set off a scurry of petitioners attempting to figure out who got there first. After holding on to #38 through a range of called number stretching into the high fifties I gave up and left. I simply told the rental counter that I had a license and no one seemed to care.

My rental car turned out to be a beater Toyota that was a woman’s personal car and full of her personal garbage. After informing me that she needed a ride home, she told me I was beautiful and asked how many children I had produced, and with how many mothers. Feigning ignorance of the language, I got her home and hit the road.

The trip produced the best example of Engrish I have seen in years (look at bottom):

The ornate gravesites decorated with upturned beer bottles in concrete were another revelation:

This billboard to the King was also high irony, given how the people see him and apparently how little he wanted to be a Tongan (as evidenced by his London cab for an official car, spending most of his year in Britain, and his refusal to cut short a Scottish hunting vacation when the local ferry sank):

Gotta love monarchy.

After a final farewell to Ronnie in Nuku’ it was time to move to the Samoas.

Tonga is poor and has its share of social problems, but the people are great, the place is of a mellow pace, and it is strikingly beautiful. I am strongly considering returning here to do some of my writing. Compared to Fiji, or my experiences so far in Samoa, Tonga is much more welcoming, tolerant, and ungentrified. You are not separated from the people, you do not have liveried hosts, and you cannot get a massage around the corner. You can find your inner islander. You can find corners to be left unmolested for as long as you wish. You can truly relax.

Yep.