Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
of the dock. Looking about the island on any day, one could expect to see several tell-tale
columns of smoke from the cooking fires. On a calm day, this could be quite alarming with
the smell of burning coconut leaves and husks and whatever else. This morning there was
smoke everywhere, and it was almost difficult to breathe, especially in the thick humidity.
Penny was bristling with duty and had spent the evening with her mom making little Christ-
mas puddings. Craig and the young Spanish lad, Raoul, had helped put up a few desperate
Christmas decorations, namely some hastily painted coconut shell and tin foil along with
swathes of banana leaves and palm fronds. A rickety line of tables had been duly scraped
up from the local church, and they too were adorned with leaves, fronds, hibiscus flowers,
and a variety of improvised Yuletide impedimenta.
The sleepy anchorage had been brutally awakened by the final death squeals of the two
suckling piglets that had been earmarked by Jonas, who obviously felt that no Christmas
was complete without the sound of a squealing piglet or two, aided by his rusty old knife.
Gavin and I had rowed about the shoreline gleaning firewood for the occasion, and now
we were charged with the duty of getting a big fire going for these two luckless piglets.
A battered, old oil drum that had been sawn in half was produced by Jonas, who said he
would turn all the pig fat into crackling. He had gutted them by then, and the drum soon
had a pool of clear fat bubbling away in the sooty depths below.
Large local women wearing traditional wraparounds converged on the dock bearing freshly
woven food mats made from coconut palm fronds, and a neater job you would not see.
They sang carols in Tongan and were very into the festive occasion. They laid these serving
plates out along the entire length of the tables and added more tropical flowers and bou-
quets. There was an amusing assortment of chairs and benches lining these tables, having
been donated from heaven alone knows where. There were home-made wooden chairs held
together by jagged, bent, rusty nails, shiny new chrome and canvass affairs that must have
come from some of the boats, and lines of unstable church benches that would collapse if
one person stood up too suddenly.
Sailors and locals began converging on the dock around midday. Beers and wine were
pooled in the large iceboxes. A galvanized tub tinkling with ice cubes held Cokes and sodas
for the children. There was an odd little table that served as bar, and Gavin was assigned
barman, entrusted with a fascinating assortment of whiskey, rum, and vodka from various
parts of the world, and, I was amused to see, home-made ginger beer, for anyone who had
been unfortunate enough not to have tried it yet.
The crackling can was a major point of interest with the sailors and locals who stood about
pointing with their drinks and guffawing with Christmas cheer and overall once-a-year fest-
ive bonhomie.
