Life goes on

I began this yesterday, but was destracted by another insteresting conversation.

A morning of rain - bringing a welcome coolness, though it would have made yesterday's events harder to manage.

I only met the late king once. 33 years ago, before I went to Tonga, I was asked to go to the Tongan High Commission in London for a briefing. The High Commission was at the top of NZ house, in a room so empty it was hard to imagine that any work ever took place there. The High Commissioner welcomed me with the words, ‘you’re in luck, the crown prince is in town.’ Moments later he came into the room, wearing a double-breasted suit and a monocle. It was as if a character from PG Wodehouse had stepped off the page. I don’t mean that as an insult; there are, after all, far worse fictional characters to come to life and I wouldn’t, for example, want to meet any from Evelyn Waugh on a dark night. After some opening pleasantries, HRH announced that it was time for luncheon. ‘You will join us, old boy, won’t you; we’ll just  pop down to my club.’ So there I was in the Traveller’s Club, Pall Mall, feeling totally out of place in my tweed jacket, sitting opposite a totally at ease Tongan prince. ‘You’ll find the claret’s excellent’. It will be for other to judge his short reign. Tonga’s economic problems remain severe, but there’s been some progress towards a more democratic, participatory political life.

Children line the road waiting for the king's body to arrive on Monday.

Yesterday there were a few hours away from the rather oppressive atmosphere in Nuku’alofa. Winston and I went with Tohi, one of the older Anglican priests, on the short boat-ride to the island of Pangaimotu. Here, for many years, Earl and Anna Amberson have been running a low-key resort, mainly frequented by visiting yachts. It lost most of its wharf in a hurricane last month, so was looking rather sorry for itself. He's of mixed English, Kiribati, Danish and Tongan parentage. He was telling us that his father directed the building of many of the most prominent buildings in Suva: the Grand Pacific Hotel, Gorvernment House, etc. I went for a swim (I wasn't sure that I wanted to, but it seemed to be expected that a palangi would be keen to), the rusty bow of a hurricane-wrecked fishing boat sticking out of the water right by the beach. Anna is from Niua Topotapu, and is related to Winston, whose family come from themere. the Niuas are nearly 400 miles north of here, tiny dots in the ocean, difficult to access and therefore unspoilt. Anna has a vision of building an exclusive resort there, with glass-floored lodges built over the ocean.

Plenty of changes here in Tonga. Tongans have embraced the motor car with the zeal of converts, and as converts to the new religion of driving they give no quarter to the few remaining adherents of the old religion of walking. The earlier wave of worn-out Japanese runabouts has now given way to more sensible and rugged 4X4s and vans. You now never see a horse and cart ('what happended to the horses?'; 'We ate them!') and seldom see a bicycle - a pity as they are such good value, cause no pollution and are easy to use on a small, flat island.

Everyone has a mobile phone and many use that as their internet access to the wider world. Given that 30 years ago we had no phone and were totally reliant on airmail once or twice a week, this is remarkable. What hasn't developed yet, it seems. is the idea that it's sometimes good to turn a phone off. Yesterday, for old times sake, I visited the Post Office. Now rebuilt and partially turned into a cafe, it is as sleepy as ever, the staff seemingly incredulous that anyone might want to buy a stamp.

There are far more businesses. 30 years ago a few general stores provided very basic offering and were dependent on what had come in on the boats in the last few days. There are now many small, chinese-run supermarkets and some specialist shops: sportswear, office equipment, mobile phones (of course). Improvised 'Hair Salons' seem to operate in homes and I have even seen a couple of car wash sites.

Other things remain the same and I have to remind myself that, for example, one dog in the street is likely to run away but a pack is likely to chase you. I have had to run fast once and now avoid that area!

Coming to bury Caesar

We are at the end of two days of dramatically choreographed ceremony. Yesterday the king’s body came back to Tonga. At the airport, Queen Salote College girls sat on the tarmac, ready to form a pathway for the coffin when it arrived. Most of the road from the airport to Nuku’alofa is lined in the same way; some communities even cover the road with ngatu (tapa cloth) for the length of the village. I waited nearby with the students from St Andrew’s High School (where Sr Fehoko teaches). Poor kids! Hour after hour they waited in the full sun. Information is hard to come by; it’s almost as if the government wants to keep everyone on edge. Eventually the cortege arrives. Protocol dictates that everyone has to sit down, their eyes fixed on the ground. After the hours of waiting, it is gone in a moment.

Throughout the night, churches take it in turns to hold vigil services by the Royal Palace. Winston asked me to take photos of the rehearsal for the Anglican service. He is resplendent in a cassock with cape and purple piping – another inheritance from his father. I’m given a lift by my new friend, his brother Stephen. He drives an ancient Land Rover Discovery that once belonged to the last British High Commissioner in Tonga.  The singing is wonderful. Halfway through the practice a group arrive from the northern islands of Vava’u, fresh off the ferry after a long voyage. Nobody knows much about the funeral service – including details like the time it will happen.

Having come all this way I certainly didn’t want to miss anything, so by 9.00 am this morning I was at the Free Wesleyan Church office to find out what was happening. It was soon clear that no one knew much more than I did. I met a number of people I knew long ago. Some recognise me instantly (a surprise), with others it takes us a while to realise that we know each other. I was already hot in my clerical shirt and suit. This would have been a great day for my frock coat (in spite of the heat)! As it is, I have to make do with my Rohan travel suit; ‘technology disguised as clothing’ it says on the label, but it’s no match for some of the outfits around me.

The best policy seems to be to hang around the entrance to the pangai malai and see what happens. The girls from Queen Salote College march in, the pleats in their uniforms immaculately starched and pressed. They have another day in the sun, their two rows forming the pathway along which will come the main dignitaries and the great catafalque. In one part of the ground anyone (as long as they’re suitably dressed ) can come and find a space. Quite a few do -  though with the air of families on a day’s outing rather than people in deep mourning. Eventually I can see cars with foreign flags approach another entrance and I stroll in there. I’m seated with the ‘B list’ dignitaries – diplomats, politicians, assorted military and ecclesiastical folk, etc. Next to me is the head of the Salvation Army in Tonga.

Eventually, the procession begins: Military guard of honour and band (Handel's Largo), then the great catafalque, carried by hundreds of ex-students from Tupou College.

The new king and queen arrive (claim to fame: she sat next to me at a party on the night of my ordination and accidentally put her heel through my certificate – with hindsight I should have kept it instead of having it replaced!). With them are the Duke of Gloucester, a royal Japanese Couple, the Governor General of Australia and a few other heads of state.

Following them come the massed ranks of Tongan nobles and their families, wrapped in the largest mats you can imagine. They occupy the other half of the tent in which I'm sitting. I was rather shocked at the number of them taking mobile phone calls during the service!

The funeral itself is fairly simple and led by ‘Ahio, Church President, royal chaplain and (because he has a high chiefly title) organiser of the king’s royal kava ceremony – quite a collection of jobs. Readings, prayers, hymns (surprisingly poorly sung) and an oration my Tongan wasn’t good enough to follow. The visitors don't know the protocol of sitting in the presence of someone higher, so keep standing for hymns, etc. Tongans are torn between being polite to their ignorant visitors and standing up, or sticking to their own culture and sitting down. The vote seems pretty evenly split.

Eventually, the coffin is taken to its tomb and handed over to the ha'atufunga who have hereditary responsbility for burying the king and watching over his tomb. There's an interesting interaction between the Christian funeral service and the very traditional rites and customs that go with Tongan nobility.

Once the king and queen leave, the event breaks up rather chaotically. I spend a bit of time chatting (a former student from 30 years ago has arrived from Auckland) and then go in search of water before dehydration sets in.

Just another manic (Sunday and ) Monday

It's just after 9.00 am, Monday morning and once again I'm sitting in the excellent Cafe Escape in the centre of Nuku'alofa. The sun is glaring down outside; I've become quite addicted to pre-tropical-dawn walks and this morning set off at 5.30, first for the shore (a little over a mile away), then along the sea wall to Ma'ufanga, with its fishing wharf opposite the huge and rather lovely Catholic cathedral.  If I walk briskly I can be there and back in an hour and a half. As the stars dim and the sky lightens, the sillouettes of tiny islands emerge a little out to sea. A number of Tongans are taking early morning exercise too, while others can be glimpsed curled up and sleeping off the night before.

I'd rather forgotten quite what a Tongan Sunday was like. People in Northern Ireland speak about the Ballymena Sabbaths of the 1960s, with swings chained up at childrens' playgrounds. The elders of Ballymena could learn a thing or two about sabbath-keeping. from Tonga. After all the frantic activity of the last few days - road mending, mausoleum building, garden tidying and black/purple cloth-draping, yesterday began deathly quiet - apart of course for the church bells and hymn-singing.Many churches have 5.00am services several times a week, so the bells  are a regular wake-up call. My two preaching appointments were at 8.00 and 10.00 - quite leaisurely by comparison. The first was at St Paul's. This was actually the first church where I presided at communion as it was the base for the English-speaking congregation when I came here. It would not be out of place in an English village, apart from the way the furniture has been ravaged by wood-boring insects. Winston presided, wearing a cope that had been his father's, and I preached. Quite how you address the current Tongan mood was challenging - I opted for a note of hopefulness. The second service had a very young congregation, with scores of young children receiving communion. Part of the service was led by an older woman called Louisa,;who reminded me that long ago I used to give her a lift on my motorbike to ecumenical bible studies. Over lunch I spoke to Winston's brother, who is a member of parliament representing the pro-democracy movement here.

One result of my ministry with the Anglican church here is that I have teenage girls shouting 'hello Father Richard' across the street.

The king's body arrives back today and Mon and Tues this week have been desginated public holidays. School children will line the route from the airport. Tonight there is a vigil with different churches leading prayers right though the night. Still not sure what's happening tomorrow. I did find 'Ahio (Methodist church president) in his office on Saturday just after my last posting. He was writing his funeral sermon - but even he didn't have any details of what was planned. 
The picture is of the Free Wesleyan Church HQ. Sorry there aren't more pictures, but they are taking for ever to upload here.

Black is the New Black

It's difficult to convey what's happening in Tonga this week. Did I say that nothing happened in a hurry? That’s not exactly true. Western timetables don’t always mean very much, but Tongans have a strong sense of what is conveyed by the Greek word kairos – the right time to act. And these days before the funeral of the late king, George Tupou V have a sense of urgency you rarely see here. Workers have been repairing and re-sealing roads in the town centre through the night – and depriving me of sleep. Children have been pulled out of school en masse to clean up – first the pangai malai, the great open space that contains the royal tombs, then their school grounds, then anywhere that might be on the route that will bring the king’s body back from the airport to Nuku’alofa. Stores, offices, churches, schools and even homes have been draped in the combination of black and purple cloth that has recently become the custom here. And almost everyone is wearing black clothes, with the ta’ovala – the folded mat that symbolises formal respect – round their waist. Even Winston, for the first time that I have seen, is wearing a ta’ovala. He sent me back to my room this morning suggesting that it would be better if I led my workshop wearing clerical black! Ironically, Tupou V was rarely seen in Tonga and preferred the European military and aristocratic uniforms of a previous era.

I’ve now done a couple of lectures at Sia’atoutai Theological College, where I began my ministry over 30 years ago. I spoke in the great chapel, the oldest building in Tonga and the place where Diane and I were married and Liz baptized. Yesterday I delivered my lecture on non-violence and the cross. I thought it had gone reasonably well until the college choir followed it up with a rousing rendition of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. You win some and you lose some! There was then a wonderful lunch with the college staff: octopus baked in coconut cream, lu pulu (corned beef in taro leaves), lobster, roast suckling pig, shellfish, yam, all washed down with niu mata, the delicious juice of the green coconut.

At the end of yesterday afternoon I walked along the main road out of town, then down a dusty side street going towards the lagoon and to the home of Lopeti Taufa, Principal of Sia’atoutai when I was teaching there. Now 85 and having lost his wife (the formidable Mele) five years ago, he looked very fit and a tribute to a life combining gardening with intellectual activity. At the moment he is involved in remodelling his garden for better vegetable-growing and working on the revision of the Tongan translation of the Bible. We talked about the difficulty of translating from Greek into Tongan and he was far more forthright about Tonga’s current situation than most of those I’ve met so far. His daughter, Miki (a bridesmaid for Diane 33 years ago), was there with the two youngest of her 7 children. Tragically, her husband died soon after the youngest was born and she’s been left to care for them herself (and with some help from her extended family). I hope to meet them again on Sunday with the other daughter, Sela, currently manager of The Friendly Islands Book Shop. Lopeti was very much a father figure for us all those years ago, so it’s a gift to find him still alive and in good health.

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.

Towards the unknown region

This time yesterday I was fairly confident of my programme for the coming week in Tonga. Then came the news at breakfast time that the king had died. He was not, it's fair to say, a model monarch, but that will make no difference to the outpouring of grief and the extravagant funeral ceremonies. For a while I wasn't even sure if the trip would be on. Winston has been caught in a whirlwind of consultation and media interviews all day. He is now coming with me so that he can act in his capacity as Church leader. Another day, and all the planes would have been booked. We now have no idea what, if anything, will remain of the plans for the week. I have been asked to represent tne British Methodist Church if there is an opportunity. There is a Tongan word: 'kataki' which means, 'relax, don't panic,things will happen in their own good time'. I will need a lot of kataki in the coming days.

Another day of preaching yesterday. In the morning, Newtown, a village on the edge of Suva in a lush, fertile, valley. Fertile in more ways than one: there were about a hundred children there, amazingly staying pretty still through the service - a mixture of high church ritual, old fashioned hymns (Blessed assurance in Fijian) and modern songs backed by keyboard and drums.

The afternoon saw me addressing the assembled ranks of the Diocese's young people in the cathedral. It seemed to go surprisngly well. I think Island young people are rather more respectful of their elders - though allhave cellphones and most are on facebook.

I'm not at all sure how easy it will be to post from Tonga, but I'll do my best. Everyone here is complaining about the heat, which continues to be extremely humid, in spite of the torrential storms.

St Patrick's Day on a different green island

For two days I've been leading workshops on preaching for clergy and lay leaders at the Diocesan training college round the corner. Nothing happened as I expected, sessions shrank or expanded without warning and I spent much of the time wandering around in a cultural fog. Nevertheless, everyone (as you'd expect in the islands) was exquisitely polite and I hope I did some good along the way. When in doubt I took the 'let's form ourselves into groups and discuss that' approach. Amazingly, people went along with it.  I have even (and this might come as a shock to some of you) been asked to speak at a youth rally tomorrow afternoon. On Thursday evening we had our session in the open as night fell, flying foxes (fruit bats) beginning their excursions overhead. One minute after we finished, a torrential tropical rain-storm hit. They've been quite a feature of recent days, reducing the temperature and humidity for a short while. Rain is very much on or off here - there are none of the Irish 'soft days'.

Weekend nights are noisy - the more so as my bedroom faces the all-night liquor store across the road. As night clubs close late into the night, taxis, apparently without silencers, bring people to stock up on booze. Heated discussion in the street is not unknown! When Winston and I set off for our walk this morning there were still a few clubbers wandering the streets. By the shore, couples sat together on the sea wall or walked hand in hand: the Pacific reluctance to show affection in public has apparently eroded in the last 30 years. The market was getting into its stride just after 6; we bought perfectly ripe pineapples and a bag of pawpaw. I was fascinated by the vast array of fish  on offer, all colours, sizes and shapes were there, just landed by the small boats tied up at the wharf and already attracting the interest of the local fly population. I'll be sure to take my camera to the market before I leave.

Our last session of the day was held in the open-sided dining hall, the teaching room having proved too hot and sticky even for locals. As the last group exercise came to an end, a few young people silently transformed the space into a chapel with altar, candle-sticks, cross, lavabo and even sanctus bell. Winston presided, but asked me to read out some paragraphs on St Patrick at the start of the service. The singing was, as always, full and heartfelt with the Fijian Lord's Prayer an especial highlight. To sense a relationship with these people from very different cultural backgrounds after only a short time together was real gift.

Today is the anniversary of the death of Daisy's husband, now many decades ago. We went out for a meal in his memory to the Mango cafe where everyone made a fuss of her: great age is revered here and she is treated with respect and affection everywhere.

I shoould be going to Tonga on Monday, but the plane on that route is out of service for repair, That means a much longer route on Tuesday. I may get another chance to post before then, but in the meantime, happy St Patrick's Day!.