Tonga celebrates ocean, hospitality
AS I stepped off the little boat after 48 hours of travel, I felt a little like Tom Sawyer. Mostly because my family would be staying in a treehouse. But also because the island looked like something out of a storybook.
The jungle-covered knoll crested gently out of the sea, a small dot punctuating the lagoon between larger islands. A hammock swung between two coconut trees on a sliver of beach, the white sand stark against the green-blue water. The open-air restaurant blended neatly into the landscape, its artistic curves mimicking nature’s swoops and spirals.
I guessed that it would take 20 minutes, tops, to swim around the whole island.
“Welcome to paradise,” said Ben Newton, owner of Mandala Island Resort. He nodded toward two black dogs wagging their tails. “Meet the gatekeepers, Higgs and Boson.”
We’d made it to Vava’u in the Kingdom of Tonga, a far-flung destination in the South Pacific. It looked well worth the complicated travel logistics.
From our home in Montana we’d taken a short domestic flight from Missoula to Los Angeles, then flown overnight on Fiji Airways to Nadi, Fiji, before hopping a small propeller plane to fly 800 kilometres east to Tonga’s Vava’u island group. At the tiny airport, we loaded into a taxi with a friendly local woman (and her high-pitched giggle).
She gave us the “grand tour” of Neiafu, the capital of Vava’u, using animated facial expressions more often than words to describe landmarks.
With 6,000 residents, Neiafu is Tonga’s second-largest city – although calling its few paved roads and colourful one-storey buildings a “city” was a stretch. The kingdom’s 169 islands are spread over the same amount of ocean as the Caribbean chain. But they’re home to far fewer people – 108,000 compared to nearly 44 million in the Caribbean. Tonga’s sparse population and minimal tourist traffic make it a gem for those seeking up-close contact with under- water wonders and immersion in traditional Polynesian culture. We were here for both.
On the 10-minute boat ride to the resort, Ben pointed out highlights as we zoomed past them. There were fruit bats hanging upside-down from thick tree limbs on Mafana island that were as long as my arm and as wide as my torso. The fringing reef, with waves breaking over it in the distance, was where sharks, dolphins and hypercolour fish frolicked in coral caverns. In the village of Ofu, cows mooed next to fishing nets on the beach.
Since we had arrived on a Sunday, the village of Ofu was deserted, save for livestock. In the Kingdom of Tonga, respect for religion ranks as high as it does for royalty. The country shuts down on Sundays, when it’s illegal to swim, play loud music or conduct business. Ben promised to take us to a traditional kava circle in the village the next evening, where the men sang in three-part harmony while drinking cupfuls of a muddy, mildly intoxicating liquid made from the local kava root.
At Mandala, we hopped off the boat and followed Ben along the flower-lined path to our treehouse. The dogs scampered with us up homemade sand flagstones. Our home away from home was breathtaking: Bamboo-trimmed walls curved around a gnarled trunk and the outdoor shower was supported on leafy limbs.
As my husband and son geared up for a swim, I opted for a ride on the wooden tree swing, which launched me out over the coral-studded shallows. Then I took a map to a hammock to get my bearings.
Vava’u is composed of about 60 islands, most of them small and uninhabited. During much of the summer offseason, Ben and his wife, Lisa, are the only residents on their 8,100-sqaremetre island, aside from Higgs, Boson, and their cat, Penzini. But from June through November, the resort’s six seaside treehouses are booked with visitors.
During our February visit, we planned to scuba dive through caves, spearfish on the reef and sail around Vava’u’s yachtfriendly lagoon. Most visitors avoid the South Pacific during its cyclone season, but we didn’t mind the warm rain.
Plus, since we were the only ones at the resort, we had our pick of the many toys. Now that I’d seen the treehouse, though, I penciled in more time to simply sit on the deck, soaking in Vava’u’s vivid hues.
The next morning, I enjoyed a frittata and tropical fruit smoothie in the restaurant while my husband slept in. We planned to ask Ben to shuttle us to Neiafu for a dinner or two at a local restaurant, but it was relaxing to eat most of our meals barefoot, just a few steps from the treehouse.
I took my coffee to the beach, watching herons stalk among the exposed rocks while a school of bait made dark swirls in the clear water. My son clapped in glee when they jumped out in silvery bursts to escape the barracudas and jacks in search of breakfast. I could hardly wait for my chance to get an up-close look at the underwater action.
By 9am, I’d hunted down Ben to ask advice on where to snorkel. Donning a skinsuit as protection from the tropical sun, I listened to Ben explain how to use his “new favourite gadget” – a Sea Scooter that looked like a torpedo-shaped fan with handlebars. You simply hold down a trigger and it propels you along at 8 kph.
“This will turn you into a dolphin,” Ben said.
He was right. I spent over an hour in the ocean doing barrel rolls, peeking under coral bommies, swirling in circles through a river of bait fish, and diving down to study moray eels and clown fish.
The following evening we kayaked to a nearby sand cay that only appeared at low tide. It gleamed bright on the wideopen horizon, a white pyramid lapped by small waves. Two baby sharks cruised by to say hello during our picnic dinner.
On the paddle home, as the sunset streaked pink across the sky, I decided that the Kingdom of Tonga had Tom Sawyer’s island beat, hands down.