Paddling in Paradise
by Margaret Mardon, South West Canoe Club, Western Australia
Port of Refuge, Tonga, has been a haven for sailors since Captain James Cook and his crew returned from the Pacific in 1770. Cook named the Islands of Tonga, where this superb harbour is found, The Friendly Isles. He didn't know that the local chiefs had planned to have him on the menu! Somehow, because of "Island Time" and arguments amongst the locals, he escaped this fate and left with the impression that this was one of the friendliest places on earth.
These days the traveller can be assured of a warm welcome (not in a cooking pot), although the feeling of "Island Time" is still there. Tonga would have to be one of the few unspoiled places left on earth. The entire country has only twelve telephone lines into it, so forget your mobile. Forget most conveniences and join a sea kayaking tour for the adventure of a lifetime.
On our long service leave in 1994, as two geriatrics in our late fifties, we paddled for eight days around the Vavau group of islands in northern Tonga, three degrees west of the International Date Line. In six weeks' time we return, this time with a party of eight old friends.
In 1994, the Tongans on these coral reef fringed islands, one hour's flying time from the capital of the Kingdom of Tonga, were welcoming and hospitable, sharing their village life with our party of fifteen kayakers. We had access to their water tanks, shared their food cooked in an earth oven and enjoyed participating in a kava ceremony.
Our Tongan guide, 'Epeli, introduced us to spotlight spear fishing at night. Armed with a torch and a spear gun, he swam out to sea, returning about an hour later with fifteen kilos of fish strung around his waist. He assured us that because these islands are fringed by coral reef there was no chance of a shark attack. No-one wanted to test his theory. He was probably more in danger of lung cancer than death by misadventure. His night swim was the only time in ten days that we saw him without a flattened soggy makings cigarette clenched between his nicotine stained teeth. None of the health conscious paddlers smoked, but among the locals smoking seemed to be the badge of Western progress most readily absorbed.
'Epeli was a philosopher, a teacher of Tongan legend and culture, an expert with a bush knife, a knowledgable guide, a very competent paddler and a boy at heart. He delighted in placing sand crabs where they would cause the most disruption in a weary paddler's sleeping tent. Sometimes he snacked on the crabs, live, or sucked the innards from a fresh sea urchin with relish. He was also a gourmet cook, making his own coconut milk by grating the flesh of the nut on a stake. The dessicated coconut we buy was left on the beach to feed the crabs.
'Epeli was an avid reader with a knowledge of history and geography which showed a keen mind. Several years ago he began a library in his village. We gave him a copy of River God by Wilbur Smith and at three in the morning found him sitting on the beach, cigarette butt a red glow in the dark, his torch throwing a pale beam on the page. He finished the book in two days.
Many of us found time to read. The mornings were spent paddling from one uninhabited part of paradise to another. The islands were often within sight and the vivid, clear waters were disturbed only by the swish of paddles or the voices of our group singing Harry Belafonte songs. As the breeze picked up each afternoon, we set up camp, explored the reefs, climbed the mountains, swam, or relaxed in the shade of coconut palms.
The company was great and the conversation stimulating. George and I were the Australians who joined a bunch of fit, twenty-five year old Kiwis by default. They were all young professionals who at least rode mountain bikes for leisure. Two were iron men. Three of the girls had played canoe polo for New Zealand. They welcomed us warmly, even though an American tourist we met at the start asked if they were all our children!
We travelled in a clockwise direction in double or single fibre glass kayaks in new condition. Only one small overnight bag of luggage was allowed as each kayak had to carry a tent, the group's water and food as well as one's own possessions.
It only took a few minutes to develop a rhythmic stroke, then to skim over schools of fish, pristine coral reef or the turquoise sea. Tropic birds, which nest at Sugar Loaf Rock at Cape Naturaliste, wheeled overhead. Fruit bats hung upside down on tree branches and overhanging cliffs.
Some islands were small enough to walk around in ten minutes. Some were joined by an isthmus at low tide. Some were volcanic, others sand cays. Every hour of every day brought new delights and challenges, either physical or intellectual.
Most islands were uninhabited, although many had garden plots where families grew their needs until the soil was exhausted. Then it reverted to jungle. A new plot was then cleared with a jungle knife.
Once or twice we happened upon a Tongan who was paddling a traditional log outrigger canoe. None of us was strong enough to shift them, let alone manouvre them through choppy afternoon seas as did the locals.
We explored a queen's tomb built on a hilltop from huge rock slabs cut and dragged up slippery slopes some kilometres away from the quarry. Spectacular blow holes gave startling demonstrations of the power in these tranquil waters. Mariner's Cave was an interesting paddle when a narrow entrance suddenly revealed a cave the size of a ballroom. Graffiti from past visitors in sailing ship days showed that human nature has not changed much in a couple of hundred years even if the defacer's printing skills have deteriorated.
One island with a regular population of three turned into a restaurant on Tuesdays. It was lit by candles from necessity, not choice, served one dish, paella, cooked by one resident Spaniard. A grass hut with an earth floor became an International Dining Place, with an eight piece orchestra who arrived with generators and instruments from yachts registered in all parts of the globe. A pig, duck and dog coursed through occasionally. One guest fell through the gap where a window might have been expected. Outside, swathed in moonlight, a water taxi gently rocked on its mooring, a hurricane lamp swinging from its rigging.
Walking the kilometre back to our idyllic campsite along a winding track beneath coconut palms and pines, I found it hard to believe that this was not a dream. This is the place in the world which will be the first to welcome the new millenium. Shortly after our return we read some entrepreneur was planning to sell package tours for a couple of hundred thousand dollars to those who wanted to be there, on December 31, 1999. Take a tip from us. If you want to see an unspoilt paradise, paddle your own canoe, but hurry before the rest of the world finds out.