We have our cup of tea then get the anchor up and return to Neiafu. Once again, I drive the boat out of the crowded anchorage, under instruction from Mike of course, and manage not to hit anything on the way out.
We choose a mooring ball a little closer to the dock this time, but the anchorage is really crowded and we don’t have much choice. We are not the only rally here. The ICA (International Cruisers’ Association?) are here too, and we all seem to want to leave for Fiji at the same time, which means that getting fuel and checking out is going to be a real game.
I am desperate to speak to Victoria but the free internet in the bay just flickers on and off so in the end I use the satellite phone. It’s lovely to hear her voice, although she is worried sick about tomorrow’s exam, poor baby. Again I am hit with guilt for not being there with her. There’s obviously still a few threads clinging to those old apron strings!
We eventually get enough connection on the internet for Mike to pay for a few hours of proper connection and I manage to get the blog published for the first time in days. Then it’s computers off and into town to get the check out process started.
The first joke is finding the immigration office. For some reason Mike assumes that it is with the customs office. It isn’t. I helpfully point out that maybe checking where it was before we left the boat might have been a good idea. He retaliates by walking much faster than my little legs can go and I end up following him like a good, little, obedient wife. This probably goes down well with the locals! What follows is a wild goose chase around town as we ask the different people where it is. I don’t think anyone deliberately gives us wrong information, but they are very lackadaisical about directions and nearly everything can be interpreted a different way. Anyway, we eventually find it, five minutes before lunchtime closing and of course it is shut.
Rather than go back to the boat we decide to have lunch ashore and look around for a restaurant. We choose The Dancing Rooster as we have seen their specials board on the way past and they look good.
Photo: Entrance to The Dancing Rooster restaurant and bar
Mike orders a beer and I order a glass of white wine and check that it is Sauvignon Blanc. The rather gormless waitress says it is but something on her face tells me she’s not sure so I follow her into the restaurant and she shows me a bottle of it – it’s Pinot Grigio. Well, at least it’s not Chardonnay, although when it arrives it doesn’t taste like any Pinot Grigio I’ve ever tasted.
She shows us the specials menu which consists of everything except the special we have seen advertised outside. We ask for the one on the board, and she disappears outside to look at what the board actually says, but when our meal arrives, it could be what we’ve ordered, given that we have no idea what Brazilian chicken is. Still, it tastes good.
We walk down to the internet cafe and buy our brownies, then walk to the immigration office, which is now open for business. This part is all very simple and the paperwork is completed within minutes. Customs next.
We go back down to the docks, passing a couple coming in the opposite direction. “I hope you’re not going to customs” he says, “it’s closed. They said to come back at 3 pm but we’re coming back tomorrow”. Great. We plod on as we are nearly there but get the same story. We decide to wait for the customs guy to arrive and sit down on a bench to watch Tongan bureaucracy at full tilt.
Basically the office is a warehouse with a few desks at the front and all the goods waiting to cleared just behind. There are cases of wine (a Sauvignon Blanc called Cat’s Pee On A Gooseberry Bush makes me smile - hopefully it doesn’t taste like it), crates of clothes (I see one being opened), fridges, sofas, sodas and loads of other stuff collecting dust as it waits to be picked up and have duty paid on it. There are about ten obvious members of staff milling around but only one can clear out yachts. I sit and watch one official move around his glasses, pens and stapler on the desk for about five minutes before he seems satisfied with the arrangement enough to actually pick up a piece of paper and write something down. It’s frustratingly slow.
After about 30 minutes an official comes over (not the one we need though), sits down with us and explains the process of checking out. This afternoon we order our duty free fuel. Then tomorrow we pay our port dues (already paid but we don’t want to complicate things by telling him that) and get a piece of paper saying they are paid. Then we bring our boat to the fuelling dock, get our fuel and at 3 pm (ah, there’s that time again) Lee, the customs official will turn up, board our boat and check us out. Simple. Probably not. We’ll wait and see.
We go to the fresh produce market again and I go to Mimi’s stall. She was the lady who explained how to cook the breadfruit. I asked her about other ways of cooking it and in the end she offered to cook it for me and for me to pick it up from her in the morning, along with all the other things I have ordered. Good saleswoman. She’s made sure I get everything from her.
Walking back to the dinghy dock, Mike and I feel exhausted. We have wandered around town getting hot and sweaty for four hours all told, and have basically achieved sweet FA. OK, we stopped for lunch but we spent less than an hour doing that. We chat to some of the other WARC boat crews at the Aquarium cafe, all of whom groan at our tale as they have either just been through the process or are just about to go through it.
Roll on tomorrow. I can’t wait!
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