A bit of a lie-in this morning before wandering (a long way) to the waterfront in search of bicycle hire shops. Following Sofia's advice that there was one next to the Waterfront restaurant, just next to the dive shop. You forget how quickly a car covers distances in hot weather and some time later we reached the restaurant. We then went a good distance further and still no bike shop.
We sat on a wall opposite the naval base (a couple of small frigates moored up [at the end of the harbour]) and tried to fathom the Tongan licence plate system. There is some method, taxis begin with a T (which is about the only way to tell it [the car] is a taxi) but then some of the R (rantal cars) had TAXI written on them...
We walked back [the fifteen minutes or so in the blazing sun] to our starting point on the waterfront and a whole length-of-the-hotel later there were two bike rental outfits [I wasn't popular]. One looked as though it rented bikes, the other as though it fixed them and rented out what was working. We chose the latter and in no time were wobbling around the car park on two (once) quality mountain bikes.
Helen feared falling off with shopping bags so we dropped the bikes off and taxi'd back into town. I asked where the bakery was and the man said (almost) "next door." We popped into A.Cowley and Sons (since 1893) and bought bread that was so soft that it collapsed under the weight of a swiss roll.
A quick cheese sandwich later and we head off across the island to Mapu 'a Vaea (the Chief's Whistle) blow holes on quite a hot day. An hour's cycling and two sore backsides later we arrive at a deserted blow hole site. As it happens the whole coast in either direction has the same ledge of harder rock with crevasses [as 'Eua] that the ocean waves crash into making noisy spectacular effects. Roaring, fizzing, crashing like thunder with huge plumes of white water soaring into the air. I guess you had to be there. 
We tried looking for Sofia's secret cove (with whirlpool) back along the coast but gave up having found a scraggy beach with a few pairs of abandoned knickers. Hmm.
A long sore cycle back via the ATMs -- all offline -- to a nice cup of tea, slice of cake. Apparently, there is a Tongan Crown prince edict that no machinery should be heard between 7pm and 7am. Instead you heard geckos squeaking, dogs barking and pops of various loudness which we have been informed (at least second hand) are the results of lighting the fuse of a gasoline filled bamboo stick.
This, by a tenuous and not to be imparted thread, takes me onto the impression that the only successful enterprises [except taxi driving] on Tonga are run by foreignors. The suggestion (given to us by foreignors) is that whenever a successful business is left in the hands of Tongans, it all goes to fuck
(which sounds quite funny in a nasal German accent). Not just the (Tongan) big businesses but even the roadside shops seem to be run [exclusively] by Asians.
The argument, which I will relate rather than peddle [though obviously I'm now broadcasting it to the Internet at large], is that Tongans have large, greedily dependent families who take complimentary advantage over whatever the business deals in ([ie. free] gasolene, ice cream, etc.).
The other Tongan oddity, that they don't like foreignors owning land, leaves us with Lolo(?) who runs a taxi service and is Herbert and Sofia's landlord, [who] will be taking us on an island tour tomorrow. At least we've avoided Tony's tour and the associated aggravation from [explaining why we're] not staying at his place...
A word must be said about the cockerels who stand out as an international jet set. That, surely, is the only explanation (by way of a multitude of time zones and associated jet lag) for the dawn chorus spread equally between midnight and 6.30pm. 
Divers' Lodge, Tuka'alofu S21.14321 W175.19405 Elev. 49m!
Copyright 2002 Ian Fitchet. All rights reserved.