When on the 16th of March, a Monday, our Australian volunteer organisation announced the worldwide repatriation of all 1000 volunteers, my first thought was, ‘ah, so this what they were talking about Gemma’. The ‘if you even go’ and my ‘what next’ . When weeks earlier I said to friends that Tonga was my waiting place I had no idea that the scuffle between a virus and mankind’s immune system would be the ‘what next’. I was just settling in and could not conceive that this sojourn would be over quite so soon. There was no COVID 19 in Tonga, surely we wouldn’t be the priority? We were notified that repatriation would occur within 2–3 weeks. Let it be three weeks please.
Tuesday. Sharing the news at work I considered the MTC families as a thermometer of sorts, marking Tonga’s temperature. With each international arrival from Australia, NZ or Fiji presenting with alarming symptoms the underlying anxiety of everyday Tongans grew. Awaiting confirmation or elimination of COVID 19 of each blood test couriered to NZ or Australia, two sets per patient, the country sat on tenterhooks. Increasingly the MTC caregivers were keeping the children home. There are only two intensive care beds in Nuku’alofa, where many of the 23,000 population fell into the high risk category. With a pre-existing ‘epidemic’ of obesity, heart disease and diabetes and limited access to good medical care restricted at the best of times, along with the communal life of large families, reliance on public transport to get around — Tongatapua was a tinderbox. While there was a pull to stay, rational counterpoints loomed — limited access to good health care for volunteers, the risk that our presence would drain locals’ access to health care, the possibility of civil unrest and Sunday flight restrictions impacting a medical evacuation. In some ways these still seemed abstract yet they were potent realities.
As the idea of departure loomed I clung onto the little things. Walking east past the New Zealand High Commission residence I gazed out to Pangaimotu wondering, ‘Could we squeeze in the low tide walk to the island before we left?’ Some parts of the routine were rendered futile — shopping for kumala (everything coming in bulk), sticking with Beau Geste, the less than inspiring book club selection, Tonga language classes, and the outrigger training session. Instead Tuesday afternoon Julie and I wandered down to the wharf for a dip in the sea, processing this dramatic turn of events.
Tuesday evening. A St Patrick’s Day movie night had been arranged and a call for pandemic themed movies had gone out. Perfect Sense played. Struck with a virus that unleashed uncontrollable melancholia with no associated loss of life, patients were left with anosmia — a loss of the sense of smell. Really? That’s a pandemic? Unyielding buffering meant we had to switched to a downloaded movie. Not pandemic, apocolyptic, The Book of Eli. Quietly sipping wine, beer or gin, a subdued group of Aussie volunteers lounged over couches, poised on chairs or splayed on the floor, Tongan heat sapping any energy, each lost in private ponderings. Had we ever been this quiet together?
From day one the New Zealand volunteer program had been ahead of the game on COVID 19, sending any volunteers with health risks home early on and disallowing their volunteers on holiday in NZ to return to Tonga. The volunteers in country received regular updates and support. So it was confusing when we were notified of our repatriation, along with Peace Corp and JIKA — the Japanese, that the NZers were carrying on as usual. It was no doubt just a matter of time.
Wednesday afternoon we met at our in country office. Volunteers approaching the end of their assignment, some half way into their stint and we newbies congregated around the long table where a mere 4 weeks earlier we had enjoyed our first Tongan language lesson. Some sat sluggish and heavy like the weather, a few upright and brittle with anxiety, and me? I was not yet committed to an emotion as departure seemed distant. Denial. The Second Secretary and Vice Consul, our Australian High Commission contact, was perched at the back of the room as Dave provided an update. Wary that international routes were rapidly shutting down the plan was to get us all home sooner rather than later. So it seemed I would be home within 5 days. It was quite surreal perched in the pacific. More than a few of us had cars to sell, most had household items to donate and bulk food just purchased to consume and share around. I can’t actually remember what I did after the meeting. A swim? Drinks at the Seaview? Home?
Thursday. Trying to focus on work, with only 3 children in attendance, I received an email. My flight was booked for Saturday evening with a 24 hour stop over in Nadi. WTF. That left me with less than two days to finalise work reports, pack, sell a car and psychologically prepare myself. Let alone arriving very late on a Sunday night, not entirely sure where I would go to self isolate. Immanent departure forged the necessity to train the staff at the MTC now. I wanted to participate. I can;t go Saturday! Just 5 days earlier my blog reflected the sense of ‘starting’ to feel settled and connected. Leaving on the Saturday, rather than Tuesday with the rest of the volunteers, would be a bigger wrench than I was prepared for. I requested a delay and was obliged. Relief. Hmmm, hold on, I think this Kingdom of Tonga is worming its way into my heart.
Thursday afternoon. Jenny took a call from her country coordinator. “I’ve been asked to host the NZ volunteers at my place tonight,” she announced, bursting into tears as she sat. Rushing to hug her, dumbfounded and perplexed we then sat. While her future was as yet unspoken the clock was ticking.
Swimming off the American wharf after work, I ventured out a little further than in previous swims. An array of awe inspiring fish wove in and out of breath-taking coral. I still couldn’t quite believe such beauty lay literally in foot of town. Driving home dripping wet, navigating pot holes and puddles, taking note of the unique markers that made this island Tonga, sadness settled over me. I had just cleaned my apartment from top to bottom, enjoyed morning chats with Isi and an evening catch up with Ngalu, unpacked and made a ‘home’ for myself, something I had rejected for a nomadic life a year earlier. Making a meal, I scanned my supplies. I had just enough coffee, petrol and data for the days ahead. I smiled, recalling my self appointed criteria for leaving Zimbabwe decades earlier. The first was ‘when I finish sewing my wall hanging’ (it lays, incomplete, in storage in Melbourne) was downgraded to ‘when I finish my Pantene shampoo’. I messaged Jenny but no response. Not a good omen. Posting the car on a few facebook pages, gathering some items to be donated, I then sat and watched ‘Suits’. It hit me then that the weather had shifted. It had been the first afternoon where I had not sat in front of the fan bemoaning how hot I was.
Friday morning. Jenny sat tearfully sharing her news with Tammy and Mark. She would fly out Saturday. NZ sure did not muck around. They had houses to pack up, their own and those of volunteers still stuck in NZ. Cars, pets to be sold, re-homed. We hastily provided our training to the staff, our mood passionate, urgent, bewildered. The gravity of this virus in many ways still felt academic as daily life in Tonga continued unabated. Yet as Tammy’s eyes welled (she and Mark, Americans, were trapped, no country would allow them transit) the poignant reality that they were in Tonga for the duration brought the situation into sharp focus. Stories of the loss of a generation of Italians came over the airwaves, of doctors forced to make unthinkable choices so different to their typical experience where vast sums are spent keeping people alive (but perhaps not ‘living’). We had met Dr. Aho, the head paediatrician at Viaola hospital, a week earlier. He impressed as a man of great intelligence and presence. He calmly told us of the pragmatic choices he makes daily. Simple medications, procedures, options to give some of the most disabled children a marginally better quality of life versus the child who will go onto school, learn, contribute to society. He’d worked at the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne for more than a decade, worked in Auckland, been able to offer patients more. Now he and his staff bore these daily dilemmas with compassionate stoicism. Jenny, Tammy and I were excited to have met this impressive personable man. I felt thankful that Tonga had such leadership. We looked forward to working together. But this virus had other ideas.
Friday. After a morning of giving thanks for blessings, tears (Jenny’s lament “I no good at crying” ,” my response “I think you’re great at it”) and the training session, the budding connection between our small team was palpable, intensifying the emotions surrounding leaving. We drove to Tupu’anga coffee shop for a farewell lunch. Departures looming, Tammy, Mark, Jenny and I shared various travel experiences, each story building in momentum, our manic unconscious defence stronger than my conscious consideration that our topic excluded Aki, Lofi and Seini.
Friday evening. Happy hour. Seaview. A large group of NZers and Aussies gathered in the front garden, meeting criteria of the just announced State of Emergency, no more than 20 people inside and 40 outside (other than schools and church). It was beginning to hit, the far reaching impacts of this thing. The owners of the Seaview, restaurants around town, the handful of tourist shops — lost income from the regular volunteer cohort and the tourists no longer streaming in. Some longer term volunteers drifted away to hastily arranged farewells. A group of us headed to Little Italy. A lilt of laughter filled the courtyard as stars glittered in a clear sky, a salted breeze wafting palm fronds momentarily interrupting the quiet of this sleepy island as yet unseen clouds gathered off shore waiting to unleash their load.
Saturday morning. Packing. Sorting. Washing a few items. Rain fell. And fell. And fell. With ABC Australia on the TV I placed items into piles. It was mildly unsettling to be putting things in a suitcase again. I looked out at a leaden sky and the lake forming in the carpark below. Maybe I should head out for a haircut. Cheaper than home. On Vuna road opposite the wharf there is an old weatherboard building clinging to a modern construction next door. Entering an empty dark room I saw an Asian man sitting at the back, cigarette hanging from his mouth while a woman leafed through a magazine. I asked for Tom. He rose. Reading the awning ‘Tom and Yangs’ I had assumed he was Yang. OK have never really associated Asians with hairdressing but the place had been recommended and I’d seen his work, so showing him photos of Stacy’s January creation I put faith in his hands. I had been awestruck by Stacy’s capacity to literally ‘hack’ my hair into the most creative and skilled styles. In contrast Tom painstakingly cut lock after lock, following a little guidance from me here and there until the final creation was ‘ok’. Good enough for Tonga. After all I was heading to Munro, just out of Stratford in Gippsland, not South Yarra. Having heard of a shop selling face masks, a tourist shop, I ended up spending some of my excess TOP on a few touristy things then popped in to see Jenny. We sat nattering away over a cup of tea. Her tears had stopped as the pragmatics of our situation along with seeing her husband and children became the positives to grasp hold of amidst the loss.
Sunday. Driving to church, the only palangi at the 10 am service, I wondered if the virus had impacted choir practice. There seemed fewer sonorous psalms rising to the lofty ceilings. Farewelling my place of weekly devotion I then packed the car, collected Minh and Julie, and undeterred by grey skies we set off to view some sites. Unlike the weather, Sunday was a deterrent. As much of Tonga is privately owned (by royalty) and fiscal transactions are prohibited, Hina cave was closed. Instead we drove to a beach nearby and walked along the wide sandy shoreline with surf crashing on the rocky reef as the sky darkened, obscuring the island of ‘Eua. Julie, containing profound distress (a few hours earlier, just as church bells peeled around her in Nuku’alofa, her mother in Melbourne passed away), interspersed her solitary walk with an occasional chat. We swam in the tepid water, snacked on our dwindling supply of snacks, and sat just a tad melancholy that this would be our first and final visit to such a beautiful beach.
Crossing the heel of Nuku’alofa (look at the map, it does look like a boot) we searched for Captain Cook’s Landing Place. For some reason the GPS on MapsMe put us in the middle of the pacific. Driving a few hundred metres one way, turning and going back a kilometre only to repeat this dance a few times, when we fianlly found the monument it was particularly underwhelming. Rain threatened as we headed for the ankle of the boot to view Tonga’s Stonehenge, ‘Ha’amonga ‘a Maui’. This stone trilithon’s creation has been attributed to various historical periods in Tonga. It poured as I snapped a few foggy shots from the car, OK, tick, one more site done. It’s sweet how each town or country around the world strives to promote their ‘attractions’. Yet to get to Vava’u or swim with the whales, I was certain these few landmarks on Tongatapua were not amongst the countries greatest gems. Driving back to Nuku’alofa on the airport road navigating a curtain of rain that fell a corridor of cars drove in the opposite direction. Hold on, it’s Sunday evening, was there a special church they were all heading to? As the stream of cars headed away from town we facetiously joked were we about to drive into the eye of a storm, had we missed a tsunami warning?
Monday. The sun shone. I decided to have a last beach day. Opening my phone an email alert stated the Tongan government had close all borders. Tuesday’s Virgin flight was no longer an option. While our organisation scrambled to arrange a charter flight we were warned to prepare for an extended stay. l secretly hoped so. I’d had no offers for the car as yet and was arranging for someone to sell it on my behalf. Glad to still have freedom I wondered if I would now need it for longer? After finalising files on the MTC computer Julie and I drove to the very tip of the toe — stopping at Abel Tasman’s monument before a walk, snorkel and long chat at Matatahi ko Namo’olie beach. The weather was perfect. Glad of the investment in good quality snorkel and flippers I drifted out a few meters from the shore again in awe of Tongan’s hidden gems. Hovering over ghostly eel like fish snaking around boulder sized brain coral and parrot fish grinding away at hard vivid corals I glided over iridescent and cobalt blue tiny fish dartin here and there. Soft coral swayed with the current as a graceful ballet corps working in perfect unison. The colony below seemed largely indifferent to my presence other than the clown fish who paused, stared up in curiosity then continued on with their day. Leaving the beach late afternoon we noticed a palangi couple, probably tourists, hovering over a phone, intent and tense. Since Friday night’s arrival of the Vava’u flight we’d seen an influx of tourists. What were their options now flights were suspended? Later that evening as a soft amber sunset settled in the west a few gathered for dinner, 5 volunteers marking their 5th week in Tonga, one finishing his year and another, just 2 weeks in.
Tuesday. I decided to go to work, after all I could be there for the coming month or more. A rewarding morning had me yearning to stay. After lunch I had one more swim (just in case, it could be my last, the theme of the past week) and embarked on a photo safari of town, something I had deferred anticipating many more months in Nuku’alofa. That night a farewell dinner was held at the TOP. A group of twenty volunteers and in-country staff spread around a U shaped table. Having seen a lot of each other over the past week, still in a state of limbo, there was a peculiar feel in the air. We’d been assured of financial support for 3 months with a sense that our projects were merely suspended so many clung onto the idea of returning in 3 or 6 months. I was skeptical. Even from my bubble in the pacific I doubted this virus and its impact would be contained that quickly. The waitress placed my main meal on the table. A ping on my phone. Simultaneously the group of 20 received emails from the regional office — a charter flight was booked for the following day at 1.40pm. So it was real. This was the end.
Wednesday. Isi helped me load the car. His “I’ll miss you Lisa”, seemed a genuine goodbye. Dropping into the MTC for a final farewell I left a mound of supplies. Next, the Tanoa Hotel for my bond refund and to leave the car. Taxi to the airport. Hours early, luggage checked, we sat. Dave and Salote, soon to be devoid of volunteers to orient, support and manage were facing a novel future, maintaining relationships with partner organisations and touting future projects in a Tonga which might look quite different if the virus ever reached her shores. Dave asked for a volunteer to carry bloods for COVID 19 testing to Australia. I willingly secured the package in my carryon case. Fed EX would contact me in Brisbane (Note to self — first thing when I get off the plane, sort out my SIM) and an Australian High Commission rep and I exchanged emails, he wanted to know as soon as the samples were handed over. It was an exciting bit of drama to break up the sad subdued atmosphere. Using levity as a distraction we fantasised a movie plot. Someone steals my bag at Brisbane airport only to discover its contents of little value. Discarding the bloods, contaminated of course, the virus is unleashed, disease spreads rapidly through a community….. Our own ‘Contagion’ story. I have a bizarre affection for that movie. On the evening after we’d discussed with doctors withdrawing mum’s treatment, having dropped off dad alone and quietly distraught, I sat watching Contagion on TV. Over a few glasses of wine, through hours of dehydrating tears I watched the drama on the screen, a temporary relief from my own unfolding story.
A Nauru Airlines charter sat poised on the runway at Fua’amotu Airport. Nauru has, for many Australians, shameful connotations — one of the islands our government has used for the off shore detention of refugees and asylum seekers. Mildly ironic that they were transporting us to our two weeks self isolation in Australia. Walking across the tarmac I turned to see Dave and Salote quietly waving goodbye. There was a subtle pull to my heart strings as I ascended the stairs. Certain circumstances cement relationships quicker. The flight attendants gloved up, masked and wearing glasses settled us in. Only two thirds full, it was clear many of the tourists in town had declined paying the $2000 fare to get home. As a result the plane was lighter (despite all the volunteers’ excess luggage) than anticipated which meant the stop over in Nada to refuel was no longer required. We’d be on Australian soil one hour earlier than planned.
In my four weeks in the third floor Umusi apartment, overlooking Kakau lagoon, I was spared the nightly cacophony of dogs barking, the morning call of roosters, I missed chats with neighbours and serenades from local churches. I saw mothers chew food into pulp before feeding their disabled child, witnessed slaps and pulls dragging children into line, came to recognise Tongans’ forehead lift — their subtle nonverbal acknowledgement. Driving at 40 kph had become standard. Swimming in board shorts, rashie and reef shoes was routine. I fed on fish and fresh food. Wore flowing dresses. I bought in bulk. ‘Malo’ became my automatic thank you and the local greetings “Malo e lelei, fefe hake’ fell off my tongue.
5 weeks in Tonga. A brief sojourn, not as a tourist but starting a life there, had given me a chance to savour a morsel of the pacific. Now, still in a bubble of sorts I sit overlooking the splendour of rolling hills not the turquoise blue of the pacific, with a wood fire blazing instead of swimming over coral. I have been in Stratford nearly as long as I was in Tonga, a 12 month stint abruptly curtailed by a spherical virus that descended upon mankind changing lives forever.
The changes for me: a loss of place, a loss of purpose, a loss of direction, all temporary but real. Listening to a podcast the other day I took note of a phrase ‘What if does not exist yet’ and was prompted to consider again my comment about awaiting the ‘what next’. I will sit patiently. It will evolve.
Post script: the blood samples I brought from Tonga proved to be negative and to date Tonga remains COVID 19 free.
