In the afternoon, Melelini washed clothes by hand and I did most of the wringing as she pinned them on the line. It was labour-intensive. I once heard that the average American household had appliances that performed the equivalent labour of a hundred slaves. One view of international political economy holds that the average American household is supported by the starvation-wage labour of the Third World, and thus our appliances are the captured and converted value of the labour of our Third World slaves. Some call this “free trade,” others regard it as a raw deal. Now, Melelini and I felt keenly the absence of the slaves we had left behind in America. Our domestic chores had been thrown off rhythm, before we had had the chance to establish a rhythm really, by the funeral, the cyclone, and the fiddling about regarding the delivery of our crate, so we ended up doing a lot of laundry in one day. Maybe it wouldn’t seem so bad the next time, but I did remark to Melelini that we might want to consider buying a washing machine in future. Whether we get our own Internet hook-up will depend on how good the wi-fi is on campus and whether that will satisfy our needs.
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My legs were a bit sore in the evening, which was not unexpected since I had taken a rather long ride for a first day out on the bike. The timing was unfortunate, as these normal aches and pains masked the development of a damned good bout of gout in my right foot. If I don’t recognise the symptoms of gout in the first hours and take medication, I suffer and hobble around for a few days. Of course, compared to having no medication at all, that’s a piece of cake; I used to be on crutches for weeks at a time before I was diagnosed and treated. But hobbling I was on Sunday morning, and I anticipated that I would be hobbling around campus the following day, providing a painful symmetry to my academic career, for at the San Francisco State University graduation ceremony for my master’s degree, I had been on crutches with what I would later realise had been my first attack of gout. A 15-minute walk to the ‘Atenisi campus would become an ordeal of perhaps as much as an hour; however, I didn’t see that the gout would impede my riding a bike to campus, which I calculated I could do in five minutes. I couldn’t help but wonder whether in the coming months there would be times, and how often they might come, when I would question whether this south seas adventure was better suited to a younger, healthier man. Perhaps so, but the proof of that would be a long and hard experience. On the other hand, in time I might become accustomed to the exertions and inconveniences that Tongans take in stride, to the point where I might ride my bike the four kilometres to the Reef Café simply in the hope of a chance encounter with a colourful character who had just sailed into port from another world.
Dogs occupy a very different place in Tongan culture. I don't see that they are treated as pets, not in the Western way, anyway. Nor are they used as workers, such as shepherds or hunters. I haven't seen people interact with them much at all. They hang around the neighbourhood in considerable numbers (as I wrote earlier, they are left to breed out of control), not doing much of anything, entirely ignored. They must think that humans are retarded and boring, only loosely part of their society, if at all, and then only because humans are food providers. Their big thrill is to strike up a chorus with the roosters several times a day... or night... and then the neighbourhood rings with more voices than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. We have a solo performer right across the street, whose breathing control is so remarkable that I am inclined to believe that he studied at the ‘Atenisi Performing Arts School, for he can belt out a phrase on one exhale for about half a minute. We call him Elvis. Thank you… thank you very much.
In addition to the ambient sounds of dogs and roosters, and church bells that boom rather than ring or peal, well before dawn and at various times throughout the day, is a constant drumming. Tap tap tap tap. My first thought was that some construction or home maintenance was occurring a block or two away; however, the sounds come from no specific direction, they’re all around us as are the dogs and roosters. Tap tap tap tap. I believe that it is the sound of women pounding the inner bark of the paper mulberry tree into tapa, a cloth that is used for everyday clothes, wedding clothes, dancing costumes, blankets, home decorations, and gifts at weddings and funerals.
There seem to be a lot of funerals in Tonga. Melelini and I attended one the first week that we were here. Moreover, ‘Uta and Tai are always wearing black, and every few days they tell us of yet another funeral they have attended or are about to attend. It’s possible that they know most of the families in Nuku’alofa and go to most of the funerals in the city. They have been known to return from a wake as late as 0345 hours. Death is an important part of life in Tonga.
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Tuesday afternoon was taken up with a reception at the Helu house, adjacent to the campus, for Marcel Monet, the French ambassador to Fiji. As usual in Tonga, the plans for this event changed right up to the last minute, and, as usual anywhere, there was the ten percent who didn’t get the word on whatever plan was current at the time they should have received it. As instructed by Maikolo, Melelini and I had come to campus wearing black, and in fact I was in Tongan dress, as I had been for Futa’s funeral. Unfortunately, Nada and Morton showed up on campus dressed in bright colours rather than in black, but Melelini and I could fix that. The Runquists had a car, so we hightailed it back to our house, and outfitted them in black as best we could. For Marten, this turned out to be the tupenu that ‘Uta had lent Melelini, and a black T-shirt silk-screened with an intricate Celtic design that I had bought at one of the Scottish Games held annually in the San Francisco Bay Area. Now, picture, if you can, a tall Swede (naturalised French) in a Tongan wrap skirt and a Celtic T-shirt, not looking the least bit ridiculous; that’s the kind of place Tonga is.
Problem solved, we returned to campus, and awaited the pleasure of the gods. First, the faculty was to have walked with the Helu family and the ambassador to Futa’s gravesite, but the plan got changed. “Don’t believe anything you hear….” We cooled our heels while the family escorted the ambassador to the gravesite, using the time for an impromptu faculty meeting. When the ambassador arrived, we shook hands in a sort of reception line on the campus quad. We were politely surprised to discover that he was some flavour of Southeast Asian, perhaps from formerly French Indochina, whereas we had naturally expected to greet a European. Nada later remarked that this was an example of the openness of the French system. At the Helu house, there were plenty of chairs, yet everyone remained standing. My gout was killing me, but there was nothing for it but to play through the pain… and perhaps drink a bit more New Zealander chardonnay than the others. ‘Atolomake Helu, daughter of Futa, and ‘Atenisi’s instructor in music theory and Spanish, introduced herself to me. In the Tongan observance of her father’s passing, she had cut her hair short. “My father Europeanised my name as Andromeda, the Trojan princess.”
I explained, “I received my bachelor’s degree at the University of Southern California, and we are the Trojans, so you are my princess.”
Melelini and I engaged Ambassador Monet in a discussion of international affairs. I began by telling him that Thomas Jefferson said, "Every man has his own country and France." I explained that I was teaching international relations at ‘Atenisi University, and the ambassador mentioned that he had also taught international relations, but preferred serving in the diplomatic service, that he liked being a politician. “Where the rubber meets the road, as we say in America,” I said. I asked him for a personal message that he would like me to deliver for him to my class.
“Tell the truth.”
Interestingly, we learned from the ambassador that the Russians are seeking to gain more influence among the Pacific island nations. The bear is on the prowl again. It doesn’t matter in the United Nations General Assembly that these nations are tiny, for each casts one vote.
Ambassador Monet remarked on our American accents; he could tell that we were not New Zealanders or Australians. “Oi ken sayownd loik en Ostrahlyen if yeh loik,” I responded.
The ambassador cringed as though the sharp sounds offended his delicate French Indochinese ears, smiled, and replied, “Thank you, that will not be necessary.”
“Well, then, the next time you come to Tonga, I will speak to you in French. I regret that I cannot do so today, but I am studying French this semester.”
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After my Friday classes, Tai and ‘Uta picked up Melelini and I at school to run errands together. Our top priority was to go to the Immigration Office and check on their progress in processing our work visas. But first, I poked my head into Paola’s barber shack for a quick hello and a handshake, and I didn’t notice that disagreeable smell from a week earlier. Then, to the Immigration Office next door; they had given the Runquists an awful run around, but we got lucky; we walked away a few minutes later with work visas valid until May 2012. Finally, we were street-legal.
Thomas Gangale's Tales of Tonga
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