Sad stories of the death of kings

(The title's from Richard II, to save you looking it up. The last one was Walt Witman; I like to keep you on your toes!)

8.15 am and it’s hot and sticky after a series of downpours. Winston arrives back from the office just in time for us to get aboard the Cathedral minibus and be taken by the Dean to Nausori airport. We take the scenic route: over rain-forest covered hills and down to the flood plain of the mighty Rewa river. The airport doesn’t seem to have changed much in the last 30 years. Our bags are weighed on old red  Avery scales and we are promised that we will see them again in Tonga (we do). Then we have coffee. Globalisation has its critics, but it can’t be all bad when you can go up to the girl at the coffee kiosk in a tiny island airport and ask for ‘two lattés and an espresso’. And very good they were, too. The short flight to Nadi is a rip-off in terms of cost, but you could think of it as the aviation equivalent of a steam-train excursion. The plane was a vintage twin-prop job that looked as if it had seen service in the Berlin air-lift (not a joke ). You expected to see pilots with handle-bar moustaches and hear shouts of ‘chocks away!’ With its hundreds of rivets you could mistake the plane for a rather over-ambitious meccano project. Worryingly, the safety information included the advice to ‘use seat cushion for flotation’. We took off at a shallow angle, seemingly skimming the tree-tops, then headed for the mountains in the centre of the island. I tried not to worry when we flew over a mountain pass, with high ground above us on both sides; presumably the pilot knows if there is air beneath us. I did worry that the next time I am due to take this trip it will be dark! Then we dropped down to the coastal plain and Nadi.

Welcome to Tonga! The young woman at the immigration desk conveys the message: ‘it takes as long as it takes, get used to it!’ Slowly, she types in information from each immigration card before reaching for the passport stamp and bringing it down with a gentle thud. Not hurrying is an art form here. ‘Kataki lahi’ (huge patience) is the watchword. We travel from the airport towards Nuku’alofa. A contrast to Fiji. Not the same lushness (Tongatapu is a raised coral atoll) and everything has an unfinished appearance. Already, official buildings and many businesses are draped in black and purple cloth and people of any standing are wearing black. Mourning is taken very seriously here; since the announcement of the king’s death the radio has only been broadcasting hymns and religious music. The funeral is to be next Wednesday and there is a strong possibility that I'll stay on for it if my ticket can be changed. It means missing out on the free days I was looking forward to in Suva, but it would mean I could represent the British Methodist Church. Winston will be here for the duration.

I'm staying in a little convent, The Community of the Sacred Name. At the moment there's only one nun in residence, Fehoko, with her nephew as chaperone/home help. She prepares food for me and then watches me eat it - very much the Tongan style of hospitality. I've just given a lecture at Sia'atoutai theological College and will go again tomorrow. More pictures, then. The Principal brought me here for lunch to 'Cafe Escape': air-conditioned, good coffee and wifi - it's more than you have any right to expect. I did a long walk around town as it was getting light. A lot is depressing - re-building is still taking place after the riots 6 years ago when much of the centre was burned down.