Let us quickly manage your expectations: Nuku’alofa is no Papeete. The streets are not crawling with full head tattoos, beauty queens, or flamboyant purple mangomen, but we love the Tongans and are always on the lookout for a frame that says “I’m a Tongan.”
The sun was hot, and everybody had a plan. Youngsters were wading in the urban shallows…
grandpas were fishing…
hip young couples were lounging in the shady park…
and not-so-hip middle aged ladies were wrapping extra ta’ovala mats around their heads.
Other hip young couples were hanging out in the upscale cafe.
A few hard workers were soaking pandanus leaves for future weaving.
Lots of people were spending the mid-day hours in the bingo shack,
or watching a competition-grade checkers match in the covered market.
There was also some shady texting and de-lousing.
The smallest shade loving Tongans wanted to be anywhere but the family vegetable concession.
By the time she’s eight she could be running the whole business (including the coconut bladesmanship) by herself.
The park was full of dishing office ladies,
and young moms.
The bus stops were full of hot people but no one seemed bothered.
By 1230 the streets were crowded with people loitering around on lunch break.
There were a few Tongans on the move: busy matriarchs…
serious schoolboys…
giggling girls…
pesky younger sisters…
kiekie skirt models…
and visa babies.
