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   I had never heard of Tonga and if you have, you’re probably dreaming. You could count the tourists without counting. Fiji, sure. Samoa, of course. But Tonga? Tonga was the archipelago next door.

The Bed & Breakfast was more bed than breakfast, but the meager morning provision – toast and jam, a fruit here and there – was served with a full plate of sweet and sticky tunes: Piano Man, Hotel California, all sorts of generic treasures from the 70s and neighboring eras. Always put me in the mood for a day. And every day felt like a day in this kingdom, the only island group in the South Pacific that had kept its sovereignty no matter who came knocking.

Fueled by fresh coconut water and the most savory peanuts that ever crossed my tongue, we bounced across Tongatapu like two bouncy balls, from one mini-destination to the next: lava cliffs, overexcited blowholes, a baby Stonehenge, a beach where I napped so blissfully that I can still feel the melody today.

And then there were the other islands, cheeky little things, peeking out of the waters around Nuku‘alofa. Fafa, Pangaimotu, What Have You. Now those were exactly what they sounded like: little white discs with green hats on turquoise velvet.  

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a glimpse

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