The Vava'u Islands
The Los Angeles Times
It would seem just my luck, of course, that I would end up in the most unexpectedly romantic place not with the love of my life but with my perfectly nice sister-in-law. We are great friends, Sally and I, but, hey, when you're on a 46-foot yacht in paradise, who could blame me for wanting more?
We were in Tonga on a gamble. A Samoan chief once told me that heaven could be found in Vava'u, a northern group of islands in Tonga. He had not been there himself, he said, but among South Pacific islanders, Vava'u is legendary for its loveliness. I'd also heard yachties say that Vava'u has some of the best cruising on the planet. Beyond this, we knew little.
On a map, Tonga is smack in the middle of the South Pacific, lying northeast of New Zealand and south of Fiji and Samoa. The Kingdom, as it's called by its proudly royalist inhabitants, is composed of 140 islands divided into four chains. They are known as the Friendly Islands.
If Tonga were more accessible, this kind of extreme tropical beauty would doubtless have been developed into a parade of Club Meds. But Vava'u, with its 16,000 easygoing people, has a purity rarely found elsewhere. Smooth ivory beaches surround fertile volcanic islands. Brilliant aquamarine waters, unpolluted and calm as millponds, lap the mostly uninhabited islands. Coral reefs teem with underwater life and trees hang heavy with exotic fruits.
But Vava'u is not a tourist destination; it is a traveler's destination. If you desire spas and cell phones, go somewhere else. If you are looking to be far, far from the madding crowd--bingo, welcome to Valhalla.
Even crabby Paul Theroux liked Vava'u. His ornery book "The Happy Isles of Oceania" attempted to disprove the perception of the South Pacific as nirvana. Nonetheless, in his chapter on paddling the islands he graciously conceded, "Everything about the Vava'u group pleased me."
Like Theroux, however, Sally and I at first regretted our choice of Tonga after spending a night in Nuku'alofa, the capital on the main island of Tongatapu. It seemed overpopulated, badly littered and filled with run-down, unappealing cinder-block architecture. But as the plane to Vava'u--Royal Tongan Airlines is the only carrier inside Tonga--skimmed over islands ringed with every conceivable blue, we were filled with fresh hope that maybe, just maybe, untrammeled Shangri-Las were still out there.
We'd arranged for our boat through Sunsail, a yacht chartering company that leases boats in 42 ports of paradise around the world. Moorings, another large international chartering company, also has a base on Vava'u. The joy of going through companies like these is that no matter how undeveloped the region, you're guaranteed a good quality boat.
At the shed-like airport in Neiafu, Vava'u's capital, we were met by Mark Managh, Sunsail's Tonga-based manager. A New Zealander, Mark has lived in Tonga for five years but has avoided "going troppo," the term for people who drop out, move to the islands and never wear shoes or look in a mirror again. Mark cut quite a dashing figure: hip sideburns, George Clooney haircut, and that charisma exhibited by those who spend 80% of their time outdoors.
Our boat, named Options, was a Beneteau Oceanis 461 yacht owned by an American couple who had made a killing in the go-go stock market and then gone troppo in their own small way--occasionally vacationing on their boat when they weren't leasing it through Sunsail. It was a slick 46-footer with three double cabins, ensuite bathrooms, a large saloon, tidy galley, spacious cockpit, teak cockpit deck and gleaming fiberglass hull. There should have been four of us, but at the last moment two were called back to work obligations, leaving Sally and me to press onward.
Given that we are nautical layabouts, a skipper was required. Although Sunsail mainly offers bareboat charters, they happened to have Limoni "Ray" Siasau on hand for cases like ours.
Ray, 29, had close-cropped hair, bulging muscles and a radiant white smile. He seemed reserved at our first meeting, likely appalled at being asked to shepherd two lone women around for a week. Tongan society is fervently Christian and conservative. Taboos between men and women mean that brothers and sisters cannot sleep in the same house or even ride in the same car. Although Ray was married with five children, he may have been concerned about his congregation's view of him spending time in the blue beyond with two bikini-clad palangi (foreigners).
We'd arrived in the "off-season," which means the hurricane season. Tonga's temperature varies little year-round, but we had read that short bursts of rainfall and occasional storms occur December through March. Two weeks before, one of those storms had rolled through in the shape of Vava'u's worst hurricane in 40 years. Although no one was hurt, the devastation on Vava'u was shocking. Winds of up to 180 mph had flogged the islands from opposing directions, hurling rain and seawater onto the land, denuding trees and mangling palms. Houses had blue tarps for roofs and boats listed with gaping gashes. But Tongans are a remarkably relaxed lot.
One man told me he had slept through it--until his roof blew off. Another woman, looking embarrassed, apologized because Vava'u was "very ugly now." But she was wrong. Although the damage was stark, it was not enough to bury the shining beauty of the place. It must have been painfully pretty before.
We cast off before sunset, motoring for Port Mourelle. An hour later, a vast arc of untracked sand came into view. The water was vivid turquoise, so clear that we could see the fat orange and blue starfish on the flickering ocean floor. We dropped anchor while the sun paved a golden path between boat and shore, blazing up the bushy flanks of the island. Sally and I dove into the warm water, floating on our backs, grinning like fools.
The boat was provisioned with basics such as meat, vegetables, fish, eggs and salad makings, and we had supplemented that with necessities including feta cheese on brie, peanut butter, vodka and wine purchased in Nuku'alofa. We poured cocktails, whipped up dinner, and ate in the cockpit with the breeze licking our bare shoulders. The air was so tepid, clothing was purely for vanity, or for Ray's sake.
The next day dawned cobalt, the flat water mirroring the sky
and island. After breakfast, we set sail for Eueiki. The beauty
about sailing in Vava'u is that usually there are no rough
seas, no blustery slogs to get to the next location, no wretched
seasickness- -just short, languid hops between islands.
Traveling at 8 knots, it took an hour to get to Eueiki, a
tiny atoll famous for being the location of a New Zealand
television show called "Treasure Island." The program
is similar to America's stratospherically successful "Survivor,"
only the New Zealanders didn't pretend to scour the nation
for average Joes who happen to look like models and jocks.
Instead they hired models and jocks to do the job, marooning
them on this minuscule island for weeks of deprivation and
wrenching interpersonal dynamics.
We gazed at the island, imagining the luminaries stranded on this speck of sand without makeup kit or weight machine and limited food supplies. Sally recounted having watched the finale when the stars were asked their innermost thoughts. The interview went loosely like this:
Host (to emaciated model): "Your team wasn't terribly successful at finding food. So what's your first meal gonna be at home?"
Emaciated model: "I'm fantasizing about piles of arugula. I'd totally kill for a salad."
We reflected on how despicable it was to starve for two weeks and then go on national television flaunting a wanton craving for a lettuce leaf.
We swam in the jade waters of Eueiki, then hunted down a fishing canoe we'd seen offshore. Ray seemed miffed that we would seek to buy fish: "I can catch them, too, you know."
Ray was beginning to loosen up. We learned that he was a native of Vava'u, had married young and went to his Presbyterian church three times a week. He had never considered becoming a skipper until Sunsail taught him the fine art of sailing and navigating Vava'u's numerous reefs. Ray had left the islands only once to go to New Zealand. It wasn't the airplane ride that worried him; it was the cars on the motorway there. People went way too fast, he said.
While with us, Ray was constantly on the move. By day three he asked permission to remove his T-shirt. We granted permission, amazed by his decorum. His shirt was not seen again.
Despite Ray's objection, we purchased a sizable tuna from the local fishermen and set sail for Nuku Island, another strip of perfection with nothing on it but some children playing in the water. It is close to Falevai, which has several villages and is the largest of the Vava'u islands. People there seemed busy. In the village we visited, women took turns doing laundry in an outdoor generator-operated washing machine, men repaired boats, teenage boys played volleyball, and young girls harvested coconuts for dinner.
The next morning, promptly at 8, a speedboat bore down on us from the distance. It was a Beluga Diving boat, ordered for a scuba- diving excursion. We'd radioed our position and here was Huib Kuilboert, a Dutch transplant, with Tongan dive guide Ali Takau. Despite hurricane damage, Vava'u was the best diving I've done in a long time. Brilliant fish slipped in synchronized schools between hoary sponges, corals exploded like steroidal toadstools, gorgonians waved trance-like in the crystal waters, sharks swam smugly beneath coral shelves. I was convinced: Tonga is as pretty below as it is above.
We'd heard stories of ex-pats running small resorts on isolated islands before we went ashore for dinner at the Mounu Island Resort. As our dinghy grazed the beach, a sinewy man with a patchy shaven head and chest-length beard appeared with a raised hand. He looked not unlike Tom Hanks in the latter part of the movie "Castaway," with the exception of the hair. He was New Zealander Allan Bowe, who runs the resort with his wife, Lyn.
Mounu Island is tiny and lush with three simple but elegant guest fales (cottages) and a beachside restaurant with candlelit dining. It is real end-of-the-earth stuff. Migrating humpback whales come within yards of the shore between July and November. Bowe said he takes guests out to swim with the colossal creatures, which ignore the swimmers as a rhino ignores a gnat.
Over a hearty meal of coq au vin, Bowe regaled us with amusing stories of life in Tonga, which is one of the world's last contented monarchies. The royal family was Bowe's favorite topic. The king, renowned for his girth (pre-diet he weighed 462 pounds), is a quirky leader, but his 100,000 citizens revere him and accept nepotism and elitism as essential elements of kingly pomp.
Apparently his highness had visited recently and the resort had catered the picnic. Bowe recounted the tale with great gusto:
"He came ashore wearing a Mexican sombrero, humungous
Hawaiian shirt, Tongan tupenu skirt, flax cummerbund, pink
knee-high socks and furry Ugg boots." (Note that the
temperature in Tonga never dips below 70 degrees.)
Bowe went on to say that the post-diet royal highness, now
weighing 270 pounds, swims regularly for exercise. "We
stood about watching as he swam laps in the ocean with two
'talking chiefs' trying to keep up. The king can't talk to
commoners directly, so they had to swim alongside just in
case his highness wanted to have a chat with someone. Two
bodyguards swam beside the 'talking chiefs,' and a speedboat
of soldiers circled the lot. All this for a picnic of about
12 people."
The following day we swam, snorkeled and hoisted sail for Blue Lagoon Resort on Foe'ata. The island has creamy, unblemished sand, but when we went ashore the resort's owner inexplicably asked us to leave. This infuriated Ray, but we retreated, thankful that our splendid yacht could carry us off to any island we liked.
Each of us has a single meal that lingers in our minds, and the lunch we cooked that day is mine. In order to banish his Blue Lagoon funk, we sent Ray off with his hand line. He soon returned holding aloft five snapper. On lonesome and immaculate Euakafa island, we dug a pit in the sand, collected driftwood, lighted a fire and threw the fish on a grill, dousing them with coconut milk and lime. We tossed on some bananas, boiled coconut rice, added avocado and cilantro, cracked a bottle of New Zealand's finest Sauvignon Blanc and feasted.
We had several other memorable meals in Tonga, including a traditional village feast where suckling pig was roasted on a spit and root vegetables were cooked in an umu pit oven and served with papaya, lobster and raw marinated fish. But the most extraordinary restaurant is La Paella on Tapana Island.
Owners Maria and Eduardo Mesias are Spaniards from Valencia. She is an elegant flamenco dancer; he a salty, introverted guitarist with long hair and a wild beard. They sailed to Tonga 10 years ago, were enamored with the place and stayed and opened a restaurant that serves tapas and paella to passing sailors. Accessible only by boat, it has become the most acclaimed dining establishment in Tonga.
It is built high on a cliff overlooking Tapana harbor, cobbled together from an aesthetically haphazard mix of bamboo, driftwood, wooden beams and random Spanish items such as bullfighting posters and mantillas. After serving us lobster ceviche, bechamel croquettes, frittata and seafood paella, Eduardo and Maria flung aside a makeshift curtain and launched into the music of Spain, Cuba, Brazil and Mexico, with Eduardo playing an ancient guitar.
On our final morning we sailed to Maninita, at the southern end of Vava'u. Encircled by a treacherous reef, Maninita doesn't draw many boaters and the island is thick with bird life. Amid the cacophony of fairy terns, swallows, egrets, herons and noddies, we picked our way around the lava shore.
We sailed back to Neiafu slowly that afternoon, not yet ready to leave the rocking boat and the spangled night skies. We did what all travelers do when they are sad to leave a place--we made earnest promises to return soon, to come back and swim with the whales, walk other islands we didn't reach, explore the caves we never entered, and dive the reefs we didn't see.
This is a promise I intend to keep. Only next time, I'll be there with the love of my life.