Convenience, behind bars

I find the weather here so unpredictable, especially in this, the cyclone season. This morning, right after I got into the dining room for breakfast, it started just pouring rain. Absolutely pouring, though there were hardly any clouds in sight, the heaviest rain I have yet seen anywhere. Then it stopped, like someone turned off a facet. It was still sunny out, and it only got hotter as the day went on. Late this afternoon we had another such rainstorm – several minutes of torrential downpour. On these hot days of blue sky, three or four dark grey clouds appear on the horizon and float over the island until they suddenly let go of everything they have in one great burst.
Before the afternoon mini-storm, after school, I went for a walk to downtown. I know the basic half-hour route now, so I typically wander side streets to see more of the suburb where I live (Mau’fanga). I also enjoy hearing the little children yell “Palangi! Palangi!” and point when I walk by. It means “European” and is the general term for any white guy. Because tourism is still low scale here (only sixty cruise boats will be docking this year), and most tourists don’t venture beyond the capital city, I’ve been told that in many of the surrounding villages I could be the first palangi that some kids see. So, of course, these are the villages I bike to on weekends while I explore the island. I’m sure the kids in Mau’fanga have seen white guys before, but they still get excited. Anyways, this time I took too many rights and not enough lefts and just got completely turned around. I saw plenty of people, but not wanting to look any more like a tourist then I already did (and being a man), I didn’t ask for directions. Side streets in Tonga curve left and right, then suddenly become dead ends or driveways. There are no “no exit” signs and most major intersections are traffic circles, the speed limit is always forty km/h or 55 on highways. After about twenty minutes I managed to find a main street again, but I’d hardly moved any closer downtown.

And it was HOT, around 1pm the sun was almost directly overhead. I stopped at the next Chinese shop to get a drink. Chinese shops are like convenience store in Canada, only…different. A Chinese shop is a shack and a prison combined. A prison to keep the Chinese (always) attendant safe, and all the rest of us out. Its like the booth where you go at a train or bus station to buy tickets. The front of the shack is criss-crossed with rebar through which you can see the wares on the back wall, leaving only a small opening for the exchange of money for goods. And the shops are EVERYWHERE; dozens of a main street, often across the street from each other, selling the exact same things for the exact same prices. I’ve wandered around area of the island seeing no one else on the street and only the occasional house, to turn the corner and find a Chinese woman sitting in an iron bar shack offering me corned beef. On this day, though, I wanted to buy water.
“Any cold water?” I asked.
“Big bottle or small?”
“Small.”
“Chinese water or Australia water?”
“Which one is cheaper?” though I already guessed the answer.
“Chinese water one dollar, Australia water one dollar fifty.”
”How’s the Chinese water taste?”
She shrugged and said “ehh.”
So Chinese water it was! I couldn’t read anything on the bottle except the sole English phrase “natural water,” which is more of an obvious statement then a label. But still it tasted like any bottle of water I’ve had before.