Kenutu

July 15, 2010

Dinghy to Kenutu

We read the Tongan charter company—Moorings—guide notes to Tonga for going to Vava’u’s eastern most island, Kenutu. It is supposed to be the most beautiful of all the Tongan Islands some say.

First you have to find the passage of Fanua Tapu by starting west of Lautala and steering 120 degrees magnetic for ¾ of a mile. Then you have to navigate through an S-shaped channel that is 12 ft at low tide, leaving a boats length away from markers that are no longer there.

Kenutu is difficult to approach. Avoid the reefs off the southern tip of Ofu—these dry at low tide—then line your stern up with the beach off southern Ofu and head for the southern tip of Kenutu or the gap between Kenutu and Lolo islands. Keep a sharp lookout for coral heads.

We did somewhat of a dry run from Tapana to find the Fanua Tapu passage with the dinghy and with the passage markers missing felt it looked a bit iffy. Then Russ got way points from SV Wind Pony and plotted them on the MaxSea electronic charts, which are a ¼ mile off in Tonga. We should have been prepared to go. The sun was even shining brightly and skies were blue.

“Hey Russ, I’ll give you the best back massage ever if we skip taking Zulu to Kenutu. Rather, let us take the dinghy and a picnic basket for a day trip. It is only just over three miles away.” I put this proposal to him in my most persuasive way. My rationale was that way we could have a no-hassle trip. No worries about smacking into coral heads or misjudging S-curves. I’d had my fill of the Seattle 405 S-curves for three years. I was through with them. We’d have a fun, carefree day in the sun.

Russ agreed. Wow! That was easy!! We will go tomorrow, Thursday. Leave Zulu anchored off the southern end of Tapana, where she had been anchored for the last 4 days holding on with chain might.

Thursday dawns absolutely picture perfect. I pack the gift of dried, sliced mangoes Russ’ sister—Bev—had given us; trail mix, macaroni salad with kidney beans and kalamate olives and sweet pickles; canned peaches; oatmeal cookies and cold water--a simple no-frills lunch. Put it all in the little cooler. Pack flippers and snorkel in case the reefs call out to us.

I am seriously looking like Crocodile Dundee with sun-dried skin that would work for shoe soles. Even Russ says I need to protect my skin, which I don’t do well. So for this excursion I smear sunscreen on my face, put on my bathing costume and over that my short pareo and long-sleeved surf shirt to block out the UV rays. The cherry on my top is a serious sun hat and sun glasses--ready for sun combat. I switch the mast-head light on just in case and bring the large bright flashlight. If the Mercury outboard quits, we’d be drifting a long, long way. To Tahiti or Chile?

Russ has his signature cap and cut-off T-shirt with synthetic shorts on for drying quickly. For sure we are going to catch the spray en route. He has pumped the dinghy, has the small dinghy anchor secured, has the hand held VHF, checked the gas. Check, check. He yanks on the starter chord and the Mercury outboard starts to purr. “Let go of the line, he calls.” Away we go. Hey! We’re not going to Everest, just Kenutu 3-plus miles away!

I carry two hermit crabs in a small can. Had inadvertently picked their sweet houses up—this isn’t the first time I’ve done this—while selecting shells on the beach for a necklace. Then in the night I hear them trudging around and over the shells for rent in my necklace box. The tips of their sweet, skinny, hairy little yellow and black legs on view.

As we pass over a reef close to Tapana, Russ throws one, then the other onto a boutique beach where after a shock landing the crabs can resume life in the sun—carrying their beautiful shell homes around with them. I can identify with them living on a boat!

The morning is young and we head north east over the reefs—kind of like dinghy snorkeling. The water is crystal clear and the reefs jut far out from the island of Ofu. It really isn’t too long before we arrive and pull the dinghy wheels up onto the beach at Kenutu.

There are some campers and kayakers there: from New York, and Norway and Chile! All here on Grand Central Kenutu. It is a magnet for free spirits. I was thinking quiet and uninhabited. Not today!

We walk the path to the eastern side. I walk straight into trees, banging my head--my sun hat riding low over my forehead. Ouch!! “That is the trouble with those kinds of hats. You can’t see where you are going. Take it off.” Russ says as he crouches low under branches and I rub my nicked forehead. I need a jolly vinegar rag to soothe the sting.

It is not a far walk to the other side where the Pacific Ocean, blue and benign today thrusts itself upon the island. Huge C-shaped ‘inlets’ are formed, cut into the limestone the high, high headlands of which rest on flat rock platforms. These ‘inlets’ form a sharp and rugged scalloped edging to the eastern side. Huge boulders are tossed up to rest at the inner curve and a semi-circle of receding limestone is eaten away by the tide and waves creating a natural walkway of sorts half way up the vertical sides. The surf rushes into these ‘inlets’ with force crashing over the rocks, sending water that booms into blowholes and spray high up the face of the limestone.


Pacific Ocean waves crashing onto the carved out ‘inlet’ floors of Kenutu.

What? There are two young European chaps on the north side of one of these ‘walkways’. Are they crazy? At one point they hang on as a wall of water breaks over them. They are collecting crabs for some reason. For bait?


Two European kayakers way down in the ‘inlet’ have just had a wave break over them. See the ‘platform’ to the right the vertical walls rest on.

There are Pandanus forests battered and broken by the cyclone season winds. Their roots form an upright triangle of multiple struts and their branches are bent over like the arms of rheumatoid old men, soft like paper mache, and leaves are virtually shaven.


Multiple root structures of Pandanus trees on Kenutu Island.

Russ goes off on a walkabout as usual, where there is no path. He finds a perfect spot for our picnic on the northern headland, which in turn forms the southern headland of yet another ‘inlet’ into which the ocean waves can pound.

There is a pine tree lending shade and another leaning tenaciously over the edge, its days numbered. A mound of red earth is covered by pine needles, creating a soft bed for us to lounge on at the edge of the drop off. The breeze is heavenly.


A mound of red earth is covered by pine needles, creating a soft bed for us to lounge on at the edge of a drop off.

I lay out my orange Hawaiian pareo on which to sit and serve up our simple fare. It hits the spot and tastes soooo good. Nourishment. Respite.

“I’m going to see if I can get down into this northern ‘inlet’." Russ says. Oh boy my mind starts turning. How the dickens do I get him out of there if he slips and falls. Fun in the sun with Mr. Explorer. I know what he is going for. I see floats that have drifted across the ocean wide thrown high onto the huge boulders. I bet he goes for those.

I daydream in the shade. There is bird call. A turquoise finger of water juts out to meet the reefs of the extreme southern point, beyond Lolo island. The ocean is azure blue giving a sense of the passive. But it can change at the toss of a hat! Sailors beware.


The azure blue Pacific Ocean meets up with Kenutu Island, Vava’u Tonga with reefs in the distance to the south.

Russ has returned. Sigh with relief. “This float is from Chile.” He says carrying a white oval float. “There are two from Tahiti and two from China. The names where they come from are stamped on them.” He says.


Russ sits down with his new found Chilean float. It has covered significant distance as have we.

I remember walking through the forest off the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State with Ian, Sarah, and Vanessa. We were staying in a beach cabin at La Push. It was cloudy and windy and gray. I sang a song I made up about a storm in the dark forest and us coming out of it into sunlight on a beach. I sang this to the kiddies as we tramped through the rain.

We came out onto the beach with the wild waves crashing and foam spraying. The winter sun was shining to my delight! There in the white rollers I saw something green off which the light reflected. The waves were bringing it in. It was a beautiful sea green glass float. I ran into the surf to get it--an offering from the seas, a treasure, a gift.

Later a friend of mine, whose father was a beach comber—he had a beautiful cottage at waters edge on Whidbey Island—showed me where to look to find the origin of the glass float. At the very bottom there was a stamp, and from this his father was able to identify the name of the town in Japan where it was made—and came from.

With Russ’ float there were no ifs or buts about the origin. There it was written in plain English--Chile. So fantastic the distance the ocean currents can carry things. Have carried humans too.

“There were a bunch of flip flops too.” Russ said. I looked down at his feet to see if perhaps he was sporting some used Chinese imports.

We rested some more, contemplating the distance the floats had come: from Tahiti and Chile and China, and the distance we had come: from Seattle. And the distance the European chaps at the base of the ‘inlet’ had come—now clinging to Kenutu’s limestone as the waves broke close to over them. We are in the Tongan convergence zone! All things come together through motion.

Russ lies down and dozes off, using his new found treasure float from Chile as a head rest. And I daydream on with image poetry in motion.


Russ dozes off using his new found treasure float from Chile as a head rest.

Shadows are forming. It is time to go back to Tapana. Back down the path we go and I kid you not, I run head on into a tree again! Off with the hat so that I can reach the dinghy with head in tack!

Before we set forth though, Russ wacks the top off a green coconut he brought with and we quench our thirst with the sweet, refreshing, satisfying taste right down to the last drop. It spills down my chin through some cracks and onto my chest a la coconut shower.

We wheel the dinghy into the water and point it west. It is low tide and we venture out cautiously over the shallow reefs. In the distance I see two amazing sand bars in the middle of nowhere between Ofu and Kenutu. After begging Russ to go there, he succumbs. Throws the anchor into the shallows and we walk onto ‘untouched-by- humans’ sand. Really, really, really perfect sand, the edges of which have been carved by receding waters. A few birds alight. A few shells and sand dollars are left as ornament as the tide goes out. Perfection is untouched. Words are uncalled for. Silence speaks loudly.

I take uncountable photographs that really do not capture context. I take what images I can with me, digitally across the waters, avoiding the reefs of southern Ofu on the dry, past Fanua Tapu, across the reefs at low, low tide to Zulu awaiting us in turquoise waters off Tapana.

We are wet through from spray as we board Zulu, but care not as we sit on the aft deck in the setting sun silent with the beauty of this day within. Fulfilled.

Enjoy the digital images I carried across the waters and coral heads and reefs.


A sand bar at low tide between the islands of Ofu and Kenutu, Eastern Vava’u.


We get closer….


….and closer


Russ throws the dinghy anchor in the shallows and walks on up to perfection.


Looking toward the western Vava’u group from our sand bars in the east at low tide.


Looking south west…..


Russ on a solo walkabout on the sandbar between Ofu and Kenutu.


To the east from our sand bar--from left to right see Faloa, Umuna, Kenutu, and Lolo islands. These mark the easternmost chain of Vava’u islands.


Back on Zulu Russ’ expression shows the day’s fulfillment as he sips some red with the setting sun. Fait complet.

Tapana

July 10 - 14, 2010
A day in the life of Tapana; Spanish night in Tonga; Herman the hermit crab.

A day in the life of Tapana: Lat 18 degrees.43 S, Long 173 degrees, 59 W

The winds will change to the NW. We must leave Nuku for a better anchorage. We go to Nuapapu to the west, but it shoals far out and the beach is uninviting. We investigate an area inside and to the left of the coral gardens, but there are reefs and coral heads all around. Reverse. Turn around.

We put Zulu in full throttle once out of the area, pass Sisia to our starboard, thread our way between the southern reefs of Kapa and the northern reefs of Taunga—Russ has the sail covers off and lines ready to hoist sails should the engine quit--watch for the shallow spot. Go eight notches to port. We are here. We drop anchor off the southern end of Tapana. Zulu rests in picturesque.

Morning comes with a breakfast fit for the King: tropical fruit salad, crepes with lemon-honey-cinnamon sauce, and hot coffee in the cockpit. Delicious! Tidy Zulu, put clean sheets on the bunk, wash dishes. Cabins are spic and span.

We take the dinghy to an islet under noon sunny skies. A ketch is motoring eastward toward the Fanua Tapu passage. This is the passage we must navigate through to get to our next destination—Kenutu, the most eastern of Vava’u islands. This passage intimidates us for not knowing. We do know we have to wait for perfect weather to get through and wind from the SE for safe anchorage at Kenutu. A northwest wind will put us on the shore.

We hurry to anchor the dinghy off the small islet, and see which direction the ketch goes to get through the passage. I walk around the flat slab low tide reef to get to the eastern side of the islet for a clearer view. Russ clambers up the craggy limestone and slippery pine needles to get atop the mound—the highest point on the islet. Next he climbs a pine tree to see how the ketch navigates through. Russ sees the eastern most buoy—the rest are awash. We get the picture. Now we know the way to go to a degree. But how to actually get through? This will be our reality. We will try to get some way points to be certain and go another day.


Russ climbs a tree to get a better view of the ketch going through Fanua Tapu passage.


My view through the pine tree from ground level atop the mound.

Russ helps me up atop the mound so I can see from his perspective. We sit on the pine needles and look out to the beautiful waters beyond, with underlying treachery. We can see Kenutu in the distance and even see the pounding of the waves on its southern shore—faintly. Spray. It calls us from afar.


Russ sits atop the mound of the tiny islet, taking in the waters beyond.


Kenutu is the faint island to the far far right, the eastern most island of the Vava’u group.

We take the dinghy to Tapana’s southern shore. Anchor it in the shallows. Try to catch the huge starfish images, but the moving water from the dinghy distorts their shape. So I slide down the dinghy side knee deep in the water and gingerly step in between the coral to the beach.

The tide is still low and I walk the length of the shore to see: broken shells; sea nuts; crabs with green backs hurrying sideways—crablike; creatures hidden under slabs of reef with writhing tentacles of gold and black—eerie; giant gnarled intertwined root systems of trees with low lying branches that curve like the arms of dancers, reaching out toward the water. A bird calls.


Starfish on the reefs of Tapana.


Coral on the reefs of Tapana islets.

Russ has disappeared. I assume he is bush whacking to the other side, where the Spanish ‘restaurant’ is. He’s looking for a path through that we can walk tomorrow night. He’s made a booking for dinner.

I carry some red sea nuts and some shells toward the beach at the southern end. I want to swim. I see a pinnacle of limestone, like a craggy finger sticking up out of the sands. I’ll put my shells there I think and walk toward it. But someone else has had the same idea. Beautiful shells rest in small crevices here and there. I’ll leave this treasure trove be and tuck my shells in my cossi top.

It is getting late. I walk back toward the dinghy and tip toe up to it. The tide is coming in and I don’t want to stand on any of those eerie tentacled creatures. I am hip deep and haul myself up and seat myself on the floor with legs slung over the side. I rock with gentle motion.

Russ emerges. He found a way through to the other side, but lost the path a few times and says it won’t do for a night walk. So we will have to take the boat or dinghy around to the other side when the time comes.

We go to deeper water where the bottom is sandy. And I slide back down in. I gasp at the chill freshness and swim my heart out. This is my tonic--my medicine for feeling good. Russ sits in the dinghy eating sour orange-limes he has picked from a tree. Our day is nearly over. Zulu awaits us.

A short rinse off the transom step with warm water from the solar shower. Dinner in the cockpit: the last of my friend Isabella’s gift of corn tortillas fried in olive oil—double layered with cheese and cumin to melt down in between. Cover them with hot, spicy refried vegetarian beans, add shredded cabbage with tomatoes in an orange-lime-olive oil dressing. Add hot sauce. Enjoy under cool gray skies with a cold Maka—Tongan beer.

Darkness comes. Thunder booms. The longest we have ever heard it boom--dull echoing booms. Lightening comes in sheets. Torrential rain follows. Now all is still and our first day in the life of Tapana comes to an end.

Spanish night in Tonga

I’m ready for our Spanish night ashore. Russ has clarified one only for dinner as I am vegetarian. I won’t even take a camera, just enjoy the moment relaxing. My imagination takes flight away from Tonga and I think: crispy vegetarian tapas, chicken and seafood paella for Russ, cold drinks, sunset, Spanish guitar music--a touch of the romantic.

Russ fires up the dinghy—rather than take Zulu—and we head into the sunset to round the points for the north side. We pass a simple bungalow high up overlooking the water with two women enjoying an aperitif on the deck.

Where to tie up so that we can reenter the dinghy in the dark of night without breaking our necks? There’s a concrete step and an overhanging tree. We’ll go there. Russ throws the anchor out to the stern to prevent the dinghy from banging up against the sharp limestone overhang. Crawl up a thread of a ‘path’ gingerly. There is a surfboard marking the spot.

We definitely are not in Barcelona. There are numerous little shacks scattered here and there--a cross between a run-down restaurant and way budget accommodation. Chickens, a goat and dog roam free. Five orange trees are laden with ripe fruit, many fallen to the ground with chickens pecking away at them for their vitamin C. Getting ready for that paella pan!

There is an attempt at landscaping with flower bushes pruned in a hacked way and a little sand path leads up to the restaurant. The outside of the restaurant looks like it met up with Isaac the hurricane. Weathered and worn palm frond branches hang off the face of it helter skelter.

The goat is trying to ram me and the dog is nosing in places not to be nosed in. Bloody hell I’m not in the mood for animal husbandry. Up the stairs we go into the beyond ‘rustic’ shady restaurant overlooking the anchorage, open on three sides with shutters propped up. We are early. Dinner starts at 7:00 or 7:30 PM.

I sit down with a tonic water and fresh lime and look at the last of the afternoon light bursting over the water and boats at anchor below. A slight breeze is cooling and I feel the after effects of a long, long afternoon swim followed by a shower and some solo yoga on deck. Inner peace is at hand now that the animals have given up on me. Short lived though since the sand fleas are now attacking my legs.

Russ small talks with two yachtsmen. One—a single hander—from Florida speculates he’ll spend the next hurricane season in Savu Savu, Fiji.

“I’ll always keep the boat provisioned enough so that if a hurricane strikes, I’ll just go to sea.”

Ja! Good thinking. Not! I tune out of this conversation.

I hear live Spanish guitar music coming from behind a make-shift curtain. It is beautiful and I walk over to watch the magnificent sunset. William, the Tongan kitchen assistant, is sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette at a table set for guests alongside my sunset viewing position. He is tall and handsome, dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and long gray pants. He points to Pangaimotu across the way.

“That is where I live with my wife and two little children.” His smile is warm and the one missing tooth lends character. He knows our friend Katalina’s family. And we talk of Vava’u resources: fish, coconuts, bananas etc. These get sent to Nuku’alofa in the southern group for export.

It is time for dinner and William makes his way to the narrow back section that runs the length of the restaurant, which is the kitchen behind a long bar. Maria, Eduardo, and William are preparing food. Maria has typical Spanish features: a pronounced profile with roman nose and brown, not black, hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Her expression reflects hard work, skin weathered, and a tooth is missing. She is slender of medium height dressed in a simple maroon top and navy long pants with a matching blue apron around her waist.

Eduardo is spindly, with beady chocolate eyes and wild looking unkempt hair with full flying salt and pepper beard. He cuts an image as potential pirate with cotton shirt and baggy shorts. Three tables have colonial-type guests at them—they are neatly dressed, sit up straight, reserved, have pale skins, naïve tourists, like us.

The tapas arrive on a long narrow platter: breaded croquettes with Béchamel filling (a basic white sauce), two of which have toothpicks topped with a spiral of bacon; cold tortillas, which are essentially small egg omelets with a potato filling and garnished with grated raw carrot. In addition, there are two miniscule cups of gazpacho, cold pureed fresh tomato soup with garlic and olive oil. It all looks appetizing and piped music now plays. A gentle rain begins to fall and the rustic element fades as night sets in. Maria closes the shutters.

Russ says he will eat anything I don’t. You’re in luck Russ, most of it is coming your way. The omelet is cold and beyond bland and my imagination starts running amuck on how the gazpacho was prepared. Both of these go to Russ. His expression is blank as he eats away, no sign of satisfaction. He has a hang dog expression.

I order another tonic water with lime to help down the croquettes, the Béchamel filling of which is the essence of a lump of flour and butter and tasteless beyond help. These are heading straight for my ankles.

William brings Russ a little extra delight. One shrimp in a Chinese-shaped spoon with a tot of sauce and slice of lime on the side. The sauce, Russ exclaims is oh so Spanish and the one thing that hits the spot.

Ahhhh Maria brings the Paella, the signature dish after which the restaurant is named. A medium-to-large pan full of saffron rice with chicken and shell fish, enough for four people who know how to curb appetite. Did I not say no dinner for me?

Russ loads his first fork full anticipating a Spanish piece de la resistance. He had been going on about his Spanish travels with little-to-no money in his pocket when he was in his early twenties. And how mouth-watering the tapas were in Barcelona, and how they satisfied his hunger pangs at the time. He held his thumb and index finger together and brought them up to his lips for a kiss--soo good they were. His expectations of this paella are high.

The look on his face as the fork full of paella registers through his taste buds is shatteringly disappointing. It is funny to behold. I have to laugh. Not good. The muscles taste like they are on the verge of being off--with a very ‘ripe’ taste and the rice is somewhat bitter and overcooked, not to mention the sparse amount of chicken barely distinguishable from the rice. So says Russ.

He orders a small glass of wine at TOP12 (US$6) a glass—after he has had three beers already. He is getting desperate. I’ll have a glass of wine too. I need help drowning out all trace of the croquettes and the tonic water and lime did not completely do the job. I need liquid reinforcement.

Bouncing torch lights appear in the dark outside. People are coming up the path toward the restaurant. Lots of them. More guests? Late comers? Heaven preserve them. There are eight people—canoe-campers—who have bush wacked their way in the dark along the path from the other side in the rain. They look wet. Maria and William arrange a table for them--Kiwis, by the sound of it. They order two bottles of wine at TOP40 each, and soft drinks.

A handsome young Tongan dressed in blue and white surfer shorts to his knees and a white singlet sits separately to the side. His hair is tied up in a fashionable Rasta knot. He has milky-brown skin of satin, an impeccably carved and curved physique, and a unique narrow neat plait of beard hanging from his chin. His eyes are like dark grapes emanating calm and intelligence. To say he is a beautiful human speciman is an understatement. He is the guide of the canoe tour.

He turns to us and we strike up a conversation. He rolls a cigarette, lights it, and takes a long pull on it.

“My name is Ofa.” He says and gives us a high five greeting. The name Ofa means love in Tongan. William is his uncle, the ever extended family on hand. Ofa responds to our questions with a wide and winning smile and tells us about the canoe tours he’s been guiding through Tongan waters for 7 years. Sharon, the Canadian owner of the outfit sits across from Ofa. She is petite, pretty, with a mischievous air.

Russ keeps sipping wine after each mouthful of paella. That and good conversation helped the meal go down. However, he still looks like he is trying to swallow raw fish heads and is not making a significant dent in the pan of paella. It is a struggle. No more wine for you Russ! Cool it!

Maria suddenly appears out the blue with a long narrow platter of ‘dinner’ for me. Hello! I did not order any dinner. I thought perhaps this was an on-the-house gesture. Not! There are two Mexican-style flour tortillas folded over with a small slice of zucchini as a decorative topping. Inside is raw cold mushy tomato slices and copious amounts of soft goat cheese that taste very goatish. The goat is back in my life with all four hoofs.

I can barely get one tortilla down, even though I have scooped out the slimy goat cheese. What remains is dry tortilla and tomatoes. My glass of wine hits the quarter mark remaining, holding little promise of completely eradicating bad taste. I honestly want to be sick.

Detraction! Just in time the live music begins. William, Maria, and Eduardo sit on a bench at side center floor, backs to the kitchen. Maria solemnly shakes seed instruments, William deftly beats out good rhythm on some kind of drum, and Eduardo vigorously strums the guitar singing like a besotted romantic as only the Latins can do.

The ‘floor show’ is a mixture of Spanish music with Maria and Eduardo doing intermittent weak Spanish foot shuffles, emulating courtship. William moseys between the kitchen, dragging on his cigarette, and his place on the bench with drums as needed. Suddenly Eduardo moves into a manic American rock solo lifting his spindly bare feet and legs up to startling heights and back down for a few taps on the floor. His head spins atop his neck and his hair takes on various shapes of dishevelment as the musical spirit moves. A cross between Jimmy Hendricks and Houdini in action.

Maria and William escape to the kitchen for this piece of manic expression.
Ofa is laughing out loud as is Sharon. I start roaring too. The pale tourists, wet canoeists, and scruffy Zulu cruisers all brake out in wild applause after this rendition. It is all so out of character for Tonga that comic relief wells up and we laugh hilariously.

Then, as suddenly as it all began the music ends with a last Spanish piece and William, Maria, and Eduardo shuffle dance and sing their way back behind the bar into the kitchen to take up duty again. Quite touching.

Ice cream and a mini shot of Tia Maria liqueur is served. Between the floor show and desert our taste buds are now at bay and stomachs have found equilibrium.

It is time to pay the bill. Maria is in no hurry to give us the tally. She is out of sight having sought refuge at the computer in the kitchen corner. I walk up to the bar and break into her cover. Her manner indicates she has had enough of us tourists. She is void of expression—poker face, not a breath of freshness about her. There is little grace as she presents the bill. It is as if she has done us the greatest favour and now charges accordingly. The bill comes to TOP214 (US$107)! Extremely high for Tongan standard and sub-standard food.

When I give Russ the bottom line his Paella face turns saffron yellow with a tinge of dead shell-fish gray. The cherry on the top! We cannot wait to get out of there. I give my other disaster tortilla to Ofa, who bravely says he’ll try it and we stumble down the ‘path’ to the craggy limestone overhang and somehow manage to get into the dinghy without shredding ourselves into carrot salad in the act.

Russ rips the Mercury starter chord with a vengeance, twists the throttle to full on, and the dinghy planes through the pitch black night waters around to the south side where we make for Zulu’s masthead light, our haven in this night.
It is time to drown this bad experience out with a tot of NZ port and a cube of bitter-sweet raspberry chocolate. The rain begins to fall and wash away our Spanish night in Tonga. Esta la vida!

Hermi the hermit crab

I hear something falling in the middle of the night. Clomp. It is something hard. Hmmmm? Did Russ drop something? I ignore it and go back to sleep.

Then walking into the main cabin in the morning, I catch a glimpse of something in the corner on the floor below the fridge. It is my top shell I picked up off the reef the day before and carried back to Zulu in my cossi top. How strange? I had placed it on the main salon table.

Not thinking anything of it, I pick it up and put it back on the table where it was before. I put on some music—believe it or not Spanish music—to make breakfast. Then when I am ready to serve the meal, I notice again my top shell is not on the table where I put it. It is on the floor of the main cabin by the port bunk. Wuzzup with Russ knocking my shell of the table? Or did it get inspired by latin rhythm?

I pick it up again and whistle into it for a check of life. Voila! A little hairy leg appears. It is Hermi the hermit crab hiding in there! His poor little crab head must be spinning from the falls.

“Hey Russ we’ve got to save Hermi. Will he die after a night off the reefs?” Russ says no.

So I put him up on a coilled line, on the cockpit combing until my morning chores are complete. Ready to go ashore I look at where I put Hermi and his top shell house, and see not to my surprise he has moved again!

“Russ, Hermi missing again!” I search and search. I don’t want him to die. Fall overboard to a watery death. And I don’t want him to die a death from heat while traveling to Fiji on Zulu.

At last I find him, his top house hanging tight against the cabin top side. He is hanging on for dear life with his hairy little legs, perpendicular.

“Put him in a tin can and I will take him ashore.” Russ calls. This time I take no chances. I put him in a tin can in the dinghy and swim ashore sans Hermi in my cossi top. Don’t want to get a surprise tickle.

Russ putters out in half an hour with Hermi and puts his sweet little hairy hermit crab legs back on the reef where he can move his top shell house around in a cooler environment without dropping from great heights that provide him with dizzying experiences.

Malo e Lelei—go well—Hermi. Long may you live on the reefs of Tapana.

Euakafa and Lua Ui

June 29, 2010

Euakafa


Euakafa from Sisia showing its flat high plateau.

“That looks like Hipnautical.” Russ says as he holds the binoculars up to his eyes. Yes it is. We’ve pulled anchor from Sisia and motor over to them. They are coming into Vava’u through the southern entrance, like we did with sails on show. The wind powering them toward us.

“Welcome to Vava’u we call.” We wave and give them the high sign. I run down to get my camera and take some pictures. We had been worried about them since they left NZ May 21 and have only arrived in Vava’u June 28. But they stopped along the way in Nukualofa and the Ha’apai group. We were incorrect in thinking they were coming direct. It was good to see them and know they were not one of three boats that got dismasted. One’s imagination tends to run away with itself at times. They are carrying our new windlass switch ordered from NZ.


Hipnautical arriving in Tonga carrying our new windlass switch.

We turn Zulu around and head for Euakafa, squeeze through a passage between two reefs, and anchor too close to my liking to a third reef. It is reef city here. It reminds me of an area close to Johannesburg, South Africa called the reef. In this case reef referred to gold mines.

I used to call this place the English Country garden in that once I got into the water I just kept meandering through the colourful reefs until I realized how far away from the boat I had swam. Then I would reluctantly turn around. I felt as if I was in a safe place. That was on our previous visit years ago.

I remember I swam back to the boat and took the dinghy ashore with Ian to climb to the top of a 300-ft plateau, Euakafa’s great height. I beached the dinghy and went in search of the path to the top, not once seeing or hearing Russ waving and calling to me.

A large gray shark had appeared in his line of swimming and he’d found a safe haven on top of some coral. He was trying to get my attention by waving and calling from atop the coral to return with the dinghy as he, too, was far from the boat. But since his calls fell on deaf ears he had to pluck up courage and swim back to the boat with the shark lurking by. Shiver me timbers!

So this time it is with some trepidation that I get back into the water to swim these same reefs carrying the shark image with me. But we take the dinghy with us and anchor it within a few strokes from where we swim. The English garden image has gone though. It is all quite sparse, except where the colourful fish gather at the drop offs into deep water.

Some charter boat people are splashing and having a whale of a time at the drop offs. They are fearless Australians here for a week. They swim up and ask us where we are from. Seattle? “I went to the University of Washington in Seattle.” One of the Oz ladies pipes up. She also shares with glee that they lived on their boat here in Tonga for 4 years! Now they are back to relive it all in a week. They splash and frolic and laugh like happy children and wave goodbye to us as we motor away.

On the reefs that actually ring the island, whole Tongan families comb them on foot for sea cucumbers to export to China. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers--they carry sacks to put the sea cucumbers in. The next day another group come onto the reefs and comb them in the same thorough grid-formation way--and the next day and the next days to follow.


A Tongan boat drops anchor off the reef and awaits the return of those collecting sea cucumbers.


Day after day after day Tongans search for sea cucumbers on the reefs for export to China.

I’ve seen this happen at Sisia as well. A Tongan man said he gets TOP30 (US$15) a day for collecting a box full, whatever size the box is. But it takes him half a day to fill the box and he has to go further and further afield to find them. He has to help feed is family. And here in Vava’u jobs are scarce. His wife does not make much money as a school teacher.

At first I am just dumb struck at how these reefs are being besieged. Can the Tongans not realize they will deplete their sea cucumber resource if they keep this up? But then I am informed that they only collect them for 5 months of the year and that the cucumbers crawl back up onto the reefs from deeper water replacing those that were taken. This is somewhat of a relief to hear.


Tongans comb the reefs for these sea cucumbers 5 months of the year, for export to China. Do you feel like a slice on a bed of lettuce?

We go ashore and walk the lovely beach on the western side--up and down. And then we go around to the east to look for the path to the top of the plateau with a view of the islands worth seeing. We walk all the way to the end of this eastern shore and start up some false leads only to find many, many sheet-like spider webs with large black spiders sporting horribly long black and orange hairy legs. Heaven preserve I get one of these plastered on my face or in my hair.


The western side of Euakafa with the jewel motu of Lua Ui in the distance, with its stealth-coral below blue waters.

I’m hot and tired and salty and sit down on the flat slabs of reef. I think I’ll skip this hike and just look out across the waters to Kapa and Nuku. I watch the booby and frigate birds diving. Russ appears with two green coconuts and we drink them to our hearts content. I’ll declare this day over.


Looking to the north back on to Kapa and Nuku, where I photographed Russ’ footsteps in the sand.


Russ appears with two green coconuts and we drink to our hearts content.

The sun is setting as we go back to Zulu, rolly polly at anchor. We have got to get out of here in the morning!


Sunset from Euakafa with one of our empty green coconuts floating westward.

Lua Ui


A jewel motu with deceptive underlying coral that is ready to bite at your hull. Surprise attack!

“I want to go to Lua Ui.” Russ announces in the morning. Hmmmm. I look at the chart and see little-to-zero sandy patches in which to anchor. But it is just 1 and ½ miles SW of Euakafa and does look like a jewel of an island.

I stand up in the bow and fix my sight on the lovely ring of sand. The water is crystal clear and so tempting. But then I see that yellow brown discolouration in the water off the tip of the beach, telling me to beware. And before I know it, without any warning, I see the bottom coming up pronto with large pale beige and green coral heads about ready to bite into Zulu’s hull. The depth sounder has stopped reading feet, we are in such shallow water!!

Aaaahhhhh. Russ is reversing away from one hot spot, but onto another hotter spot we have just been lucky to miss! Too close a call and luck comes once or twice, but don’t count on it for too many more times. We’ve got to get out of here! And we do. Fast.

I’ve had enough fun for a day! Enough of this tropical stuff. I’m ready for a cottage on a lake in the mountains with a large bath tub for soaks in perfume oil! Switzerland sounds good about right now with an appetizer of cheese fondue and a glass of chill. Dream on.

Traditional Polynesian Voyaging Canoes

June 22, 2010

In 1777 James Cook happened upon Tonga. A Tongan voyaging canoe was sighted with lateen sails that hung on moveable masts. These sails were of the Fijian style.

Now in 2010 three modern Polynesian voyaging canoes with lateen sails arrive in Tonga from the Cook Islands, still carrying through with tradition. A German sponsored the building of these boats, the recruiting and training of the crew, and cost of the voyages themselves--all in the name of keeping the Polynesian skills of sailing by the sun and stars and swell and current alive. True these double canoes have small engines and GPS, but the engines are used just for getting in and out of ports.

The route of these vessels over the last few months has been: Fiji to NZ (where they encountered 50-knot winds) to Tahiti to Cook Islands to Samoa to Tonga. It is an exciting day. And we pull up anchor in Port Maurelle to hurry into Nieafu to see them arrive.

We round the northern point of Kapa and see them pulling away from the Tongan Beach Resort where they spent the night. My camera is ready as they raise their beautiful red-with-black-design sails and let the light breeze carry them toward Neiafu. They sail right by us and give us the thumbs up. Snap, snap, snap, snap I record these images.


Traditional Polynesian double canoe sailing into Neiafu.


Traditional Polynesian canoes sailing into Neiafu.

They tack into Nieafu under sail and tie up at the wharf. The people of Nieafu have turned out to welcome them. They are lined up on the wharf and others sit on mats under a shade canopy with musical instruments, ready to pay tribute to the voyager's arrival.

But before they disembark, they pack sails away and give some speeches to the crowd from their canoes. Then each group on board sing a song in their native language. They represent: Tahiti, Cook Islands, Samoa, Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu, and NZ.

I especially enjoyed the song by the Vanuatans, who are Melanesian and quite dark in colour. There were four of them. One played the guitar. They wore bright red shirts with big wide-brim straw hats. They sang about "transporting" across the sea and that they came from different countries, but were all one on this journey. It was really touching. And their wide smiles of accomplishment won the hearts of onlookers.

The Vanuatuans are very poor compared, say, to the Tahitians who are subsidized by the French. But they all did this trip together on these amazing boats. You would have loved seeing them.

After the songs, they all sit cross-legged on the deck of one of the double canoes and do an amazing chant and knee and hand clapping rhythm with voices joining in a call and response exercise.

Some Tongans with connections to the voyagers, and a group of the sweetest little school children get to go on board the double canoes. It is picture taking time. And after many smiles and high fives and laughs the voyagers disembarked in a single line.

The Tongans stand by welcoming each one with a flower lei. And they then proceed to partake in the welcome and kava drinking ceremony.

Here are some pictures to remember the moment of joyful accomplishment by.


One of the traditional Polynesian double canoes as just arrived alongside the wharf in Neiafu, Vava'u from Roratonga, the Cook Islands.


Representatives from Tahiti and one other island bring down the sails.


The Tongan representative is a woman. Tonga Tonga Tonga IO. IO means YES!


The graphic designs on the sails are absolutely beautiful.


A Fijian and a Samoan bring down the sails.


This seaman has the most intricate of tattoos. He is from Samoa, but does not look like a typical Samoan.


I took a lot of pictures of this cool cat non-typical Samoan.


This is Thompson, whom we later met. He is from Vanuatu.


A Fijian crew person is not camera shy at all.


Good on you mates they seem to say!


The personification of wisdom and experience.


Doing the knee-hand rhythm exercise on deck. See the Tongan, Vanuatan, and French flags.


Sweet Rasta man from Fiji, with a Vanuatan in the background.


Crew and Tongan kiddies gather for a photograph.


A Vanuatan steps ashore and is given a lei of welcome by a Tongan.


Another crewman wears a welcome lei as he steps ashore onto Tongan ground.

After all the celebration, the double canoes moved to tie up at the little dock below the Paradise hotel, where we were anchored. One night when we were returning to our dinghy, two of the Vanuatan crew, Thompson and Johnny, talked to us about their journey. They said one boat will leave to return to Fiji in a few days. And in time the other two will follow. Once in Fiji, they will then start recruiting young men and women for crew positions for future voyages, keeping the Polynesian sailing skills and style alive for many years to come.

Early the next morning we heard the call and response chant going on between two of the voyaging canoes. Crew people lined up on deck facing those on the canoe that was leaving for Fiji. The lines were untied and the departing canoe drifted away, all the time voices in song echoed across the waters. This is how they say goodbye—in the form of song.

The red sails were hoisted and away it sailed through the moored boats of Neiafu out into the Pacific Ocean bound for Fiji. What a thrilling time they have had.


A close up of the last remaining double canoe in Tonga. The little semi-circle ‘house’ on deck is the cooking facilities. Behind it is the washroom.


See the shape of the double canoes stern.


The tiller is long and adorned with beautiful rope work.


The rudder.


A double canoe departs for Fiji. See the lineup of crew facing each other to say goodbye in song.


Away she sails out of Neiafu, bound for Fiji to complete the voyage.