Coming of Age in Tonga, Part 2

Copyright © 2010 by Thomas Gangale
@ThomasGangale

Next on our social agenda was a wedding. There is some perversity in human nature that makes adversity and absurdity more interesting to write, and probably also to read, and I have certainly filled many of these pages with such tales, but I would be remiss were I to allow 'Ilaisa Helu's wedding go by without comment simply because it was neither a fiasco nor a festival of the bizarre. It was, in fact, a splendid affair. Well, yes, 'Uta did indeed nod off in the church, but that is quintessentially Tongan.

After the ceremony, I got to meet my doppelganger at last. Back in February, Sisi'uno Helu had walked beside me in her father's funeral procession for several blocks, then she had done a double take and exclaimed, "I thought you were the Prime Minister!" I had been combing my white hair straight back at that time, it having been several months since my last haircut, having been in the kingdom less than two weeks, I had no idea who the Prime Minister, much less what he looked like. Now, outside the church nearest the Helu home, I was shaking Dr. Feleti Sevele's hand. After introducing myself as a doctoral student and an instructor at 'Atenisi, I said, "I'm told that people have mistaken me for you, so if in future you face going into a tough situation, I could stand in for you." Anything for a paesano. After all, perhaps his family's name was Tonganized from Savelli, the name of a Calabrese comune a few kilometres from my paternal grandfather's village. It would account for the uncanny resemblance.

As it happened, I had dressed like a Calabrese for 'Ilaisa's wedding; 'Uta and Tai expected me to be the Godfather and the look the part: a charcoal grey suit, black shirt, white tie, and of course, black wing tips. Years earlier, dressed thus, someone had asked me if I were a priest. "You could say that my work brings people closer to God." Once I had even visited a cousin in the county lockup in my "native dress." The sheriff's deputy had asked if I were his lawyer. "No, I'm a rocket scientist." I had in my wallet my current membership cards from the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics and from the British Interplanetary Society in case the deputy cared to pursue his line of inquiry.

But I digress. It was only a few blocks from the church to the 'Atenisi campus, where a large tent had been set up, and underneath it four rows of tables and benches. Here we had a traditional Tongan feast: more chicken, pork, manioke (a.k.a. tapioca or cassava), kumara, and breadfruit than anyone could possibly eat. Up in front many mats were placed on the ground, where sat the bride and groom surrounded with their wedding presents and facing the King's niece, who sat alone and silent at a small table with a bottle of wine that remained unopened throughout the feast. Being royalty surely must have its perquisites, but at times the job must be only slightly more interesting and less interesting than being a night watchman, whilst requiring the extraordinary discipline to appear genuinely interested in one ceremony after another. Everyone around her had a fabulous time eating and drinking and talking. I hope that the young princess enjoyed the traditional Tongan singing and dancing, although perhaps not as much as Meleline and I did, for it was all a new experience to us. There were lines of dancers in traditional dress, men and women performing separately. A few people extemporised; 'Atolomake the opera diva, dressed in her grass mat tavala, boogied her way down to the little waterway that bordered the university's grassy and danced for a minute or so in ankle-deep water.

At the end of the day, a few members of the Helu dogs pack volunteered their services on the cleanup crew, deftly disposing of stray scraps of food as they policed the grounds. When I greeted Lesi with my usual enthusiasm, he curled his lip at me. It might have been that he was edgy from all the activity in his usually serene domain, or it might have been his astonishment at discovering that his best friend was the Godfather. In any case, when I saw him again the following day, he was happy to receive a breakfast cracker.

Thomas Gangale's Tales of Tonga

Coming of Age in Tonga, Part 1

Copyright © 2010 by Thomas Gangale
@ThomasGangale

Meleline went all out to organise my 56th birthday party. She composed a colour invitation, printed copies, and handed them out to faculty, students, and neighbours. She bought mats so that people could sit on the floor; the little furniture we had would be taken quickly. And she cooked and she cooked and she cooked.

-----

In addition to the traditional European trappings of a birthday celebration, including chocolate cake and the blowing out of candles, Meleline had invited guests to hold a faikava on the back patio. There was much singing, orchestrated by 'Ilaisa Helu, who knew all the traditional songs. Between regularly held faikavas and Sunday church services, Tongans are very well practised singers. Firitia was the first to get up and dance, and after another song or two, 'Atolomake and 'Ilaisa also performed. 'Ilaisa explained to me that the hand movements were from a martial arts discipline. Yes, watching them had already given me that vague idea. 'Ilaisa also explained that many of the songs were sea chanteys, songs about navigation.

"There are those who claim the land and call themselves nobles, but navigators are lords of the sea and the sky," I told them. "We go where we will."

"'Io!"

"Mo'oni!"

Around 2100 hours, one of the 'Atenisi students began announcing periodically, as though giving us regular status reports from Mission Out of Control, "I think I'm getting drunk. I might be getting drunk. I've gotten drunk." Eventually he leaned over a fence and graced the vegetation with a launch of consumed fluids. Roger, we have liftoff. For a time, he appeared to sober up, but during the later faikava singing and dancing, Meleline saw him crawling off the back patio with his backpack on his back. Four or five girls finally showed up in a car and dragged him away.

About the same time, another student began falling about the place, which was of no small concern to the many guests who were sitting on the mats on the patio. I observed, "Now what we have here is a failure to navigate." Not immediately, but within a few minutes, the student said something that sounded offensive. "Motafaka?" I asked. "Did you say motafaka?"

"Faka" is etymologically related to the verb "fai," to do or to make happen; these Tongan words are intriguingly similar in sound and in meaning to the Latin verb "facere," from which are derived the Italian "fare" and the French "faire," and have in certain contexts similar sexual connotations. In the present case, however, I believe that its usage was more credibly explained by the student's familiarity with American popular culture.

"Motafaka!" he slurred as he staggered forward to get in my face.

As he followed me I backed up to a wall, more amused than threatened; this punk could barely stand. "You don't want to do this," I said in a very calm and low tone. Despite the inches he had on me and one-third the years, using the wall as a backstop I would have had little trouble shoving him across the patio, where he probably would have landed on top of Andromeda. That wouldn't have been my first choice; I hardly imagined that the other men present were going to let this brewing altercation get out of hand. My confidence proved itself as 'Ilaisa, Vesai, and a couple of others gently forced him back. Meleline I went to her tool bin and got her bus tow rope with the two steel hooks on the ends. She told belligerent boy's friends and cousins that they would have to tie him up if they could not get him under control. She clinked the two steel hooks together for emphasis. "No, Meleline, we have him under control." And, sure enough, they got him to go to sleep on the living room floor mat.

Then, there was our dignitary drunk. Being the youngest adult son of one of the island's most famous deceased men cannot be an easy role. He is a person to be revered, but has no real status. In his home, his three sisters have more say-so than he does, although he is a talented and an educated thirty-something, world-traveled. He could easily be a diplomat for the Kingdom. He got massively drunk in his own quiet way, but all he seemed to want to do is listen to selections he requested from our music collections and eat, upending the leftovers from the kitchen table. It was astonishing that this slender man of average height could eat so much.

There were other navigational failures as the night progressed, and peculiar to Tongan culture, such failures can result in inanimate items losing their way. Late in the evening I saw a guest wearing a shirt with red and white checked sleeves and "CROATIA" across the front. "That's and interesting shirt," I remarked. I didn't get much of a response. It didn't occur to me at the time that the shirt was one of the presents that the Runquists had brought. Of course, I knew that Nada was from Croatia, but the idea never entered my mind that someone would open one of my presents and brazenly wear it.

As the party was winding down, the student who had passed out on our living room floor suddenly came to life from a dead sleep. We found the distinguished thirty-something standing over him with a belt, as though he had been whipping the sleeping boy. We don't know why. As the younger man arose to his feet a physical struggle erupted. Friends and retainers on both sides intervened, separated the combatants, and escorted them out of our house. Jonathan was one of those on the scene to ensure that situation didn't get out of hand. By then the night was reminding me of a Three Dog Night song, and it was my own party.

-----

The blurring of borrowing and stealing in Tongan culture and the fact that it is a consumption culture as well (eat and drink everything now because tomorrow there may be a famine) and the number of guests that we had could have been a powder keg event. 'Uta averred that it wasn't a good idea to have Tongans in our house with so much alcohol. We also received all sorts of post facto advice from palangis who had attended the party. "Oh, I would never open my house to Tongans. Even the Fijians lock everything up when they hear that the Tongans are coming." One put it this way: in terms of risky behavior, having a house full of Tongans was like having unprotected sex with a bisexual hooker on Castro Street on Halloween. Not politically correct, but it got the point across. Maikolo expressed his belief that because the food and drink had been so good and plentiful, we have now endeared ourselves to the Tongans. The following Tuesday, one of Meleline's students told her at the beginning the statistics class that he and his wife were struck by the fact that we did not act snooty at the party like many palangi (and Tongan nobles) would have. We were "just folks."

Thomas Gangale's Tales of Tonga

First Contact

Copyright © 2010 by Thomas Gangale
@ThomasGangale

Around the middle of May, a large, white dog began hanging around the Lolo Masi Building on the 'Atenisi campus. Sometimes I would catch him napping on the second storey, outside the office. He would follow one of the Helu humans, either Tevita or 'Atolomake or 'Ilaisa, over to campus from the nearby Helu residence. I asked Tevita Helu, the university's office manager, if he knew the dog's name. His name was Lesi, and from other sources, as well as from direct observation, I came to understand that he was the alpha dog of the Helu clan. He was the one who had stood his ground a couple of months earlier when I had loudly chastised the Helu dogs for harassing a pig. At that time I had taken his unwillingness to retreat to be an act of defiance. Now I took the opportunity to get to know Lesi. I talked to him a little bit each day whenever I saw him. He seemed to listen to me attentively, perhaps with some confusion. Why is this human talking to me? I had not observed Tongans to talk to their dogs. They were simply fixtures of the environment, like the trees and the foxbats. Early on in my attempts to establish a bond with Lesi, I moved to pet him whilst he lay on his side. It startled him; he snarled quietly, bared his teeth slightly, and made a slight motion of his head toward my outstretched hand, all just enough to communicate effectively to me. Message received and understood. Lesi had numerous scars on his face and notches in his ears. One ear was healing from a recent fight. One day there was an uproar in the street, and I stepped out of the Lolo Masi classroom to see 'Atolomake throwing coral missiles to break up a fight between Lesi and another dog. I joined Andromeda's police action by baying deeply and loudly; perhaps in a moment of distraction the combatants might wonder what larger and more dangerous was about to enter the fray... and on whose side. I had not walked much of the distance from Lolo Masi to the street when the combatants disengaged, whether due Andromeda's tactical missiles, or my projected threat of an approaching strategic response, or the combination of our peacekeeping efforts, or simply that Lesi's honour was satisfied and his territory successfully defended. In any case, I doffed my metaphorical blue helmet and returned to Lolo Masi to resume teaching my international relations class.

Meleline decided to bring breakfast crackers to campus for Lesi. We had bought these thinking that they would be the sort of slightly salty or herby or garlicky cracker that goes well with a small slice of cheese; instead they were slightly sweet. Lesi didn't mind that at all. We offered him breakfast crackers now and then in the course of the next couple of weeks, which he accepted graciously, and he came to look forward to them, greeting our arrival on campus with a wagging tail. Tongan dogs have not forgotten how to wag their tails; they simply have little occasion to do so. Meleline and I continued to talk to Lesi, and he continues to regard us with questioning eyes. One day he saw us working in the computer lab on the second storey of Lolo Masi, and we invited him to visit with us. This went against the natural order. A Tongan would no more allow a dog indoors than a pig or any other animal. Lesi crossed the open threshold. That was one small step for a dog, and one giant leap for canine kind. We fed him breakfast crackers and talked to him, and by now he was used to being stroked on the head, snout, jowls, and neck. In subsequent days Lesi returned to the computer lab to visit with us.

"When Futa Helu died, Lesi lost his best friend," Maikolo said. "They were close. If there is a dog on this island who has a high level of consciousness with regard to human beings, it's Lesi." His comment was an interesting contrast to an earlier reflection that years earlier Lesi's pack had "torn him up," and he had had to see a doctor to get stitched up.

By late May, other dogs of the Helu pack began venturing onto campus and seeking us out. Meleline named one Annabelle. One day I asked Losi Helu what name they had given Annabelle.

"Lesi."

I pointed to the alpha male. "I thought his name is Lesi."

"They're all named Lesi."

And all of the faculty in the Philosophy Department of the University of Woolloomooloo are named Bruce. I had read that Tongans were not above having the palangis on. The story from 'Aliasa Helu was that he didn't think the family had given Annabelle a name. That was probably the truth. A couple of weeks later we asked 'Atolomake for names. She said that the children had names for some of them, but when we asked her daughter about one of the dogs, she didn't give up a name.

Sometimes one or two other dogs would show up and wander around outside of Lolo Masi. None of them wanted to enter the classroom, but they would come right up to the threshold. I sat upon the cement outside the classroom so that we could enjoy each other's company for a while.

Then on 30 May 2010, Meleline and I were astonished to see Lesi appear with six members of his pack. How had this come about? Why would so many dogs, some of whom we had never seen, come to us? It seemed that Lesi had some ability to round them up and make them follow him to us, but why would he do that? Seven dogs stared at us. One of my cousins commented on the image that Meleline took with her cell phone, "So alert! Are you holding a steak?"

"One would think so! Actually, I was only holding a cracker. Maybe they're Catholic and they massed to receive communion. Church culture is big here in Tonga, bells ringing day and night. I wouldn't be surprised if the dogs have picked up some bad habits from the humans."

There was an alertness in their manner, a curiosity in their eyes, perhaps a light of hope for communication. It was as though we had set down in a starship on their lawn.

Are these humans different? Are they as aware as we are? Do they understand that we are a people, a collective of beings, different from them but deserving? Do they know that there was a time when the world was ice, when we realised that we could cooperate with them and that together our struggle to survive would be easier? To cooperate in the hunt was the height of being. Two species bringing down prey and sharing the kill: that was communion. Then they lost the art of the hunt and therefore so did we, so now what good are they to us and we to them? Here we are now in a place where we are dependent, useless, disrespected, and sometimes eaten. The ancient contract is broken and we have grievances. Would they throw coral at us, and would they eat us, if they understood that we would die to defend them? This was the pact: that we would fight together to survive. One team, one fight.

Meleline and I shared our breakfast crackers with the seven dogs. We celebrated communion. Receive from us these wafers as a symbol of the body of our shared kill, amen. It seemed to us that we went some way toward redeeming the pact. We await whatever may come from this.

For certain, more money spent on crackers will come of it. We don't have to kill for those crackers, nor does the proprietor of the falekaloa where we purchase them look like he's making a killing. We're all just living the quasi-good life here in quasi-civilisation.

Thomas Gangale's Dogs and Cats: Stories, Songs, and Images

Thomas Gangale's Tales of Tonga

Chemistry

Copyright © 2010 by Thomas Gangale
@ThomasGangale

Maikolo could teach French, but he wasn't qualified to teach biology, so in his hands the course would morph into environmental studies, with more emphasis on social issues. The thing was that he didn't need anymore on his plate; he was already working some weekends on the money chase for the University. Firitia had taught chemistry in 2009, but he didn't want to do it anymore. He was happy to perform his administrative duties as assistant dean, teach one math class, and run his Internet business. I averred that I could probably teach chemistry, but I'd need a little time to ramp up. I had last studied chemistry in 1973. I was fairly certain that atoms and electrons hadn't changed much in that time, although a few neutrons might have decayed spontaneously. I remembered the periodic table, atomic numbers, atomic masses, mass defects, isotopes, electron shells, energy states, oxidation reactions, reduction reactions, chain reactions, covalent bonds, ionic bonds, multiple bonds, junk bonds, bail bonds, James Bond....

"What's your undergraduate degree in again?"

"Aerospace engineering... a shit load of math, a shit load of physics, and some chemistry. I have a semester of basic chemistry and a semester of qualitative analysis.

Firitia was far from ecstatic over the prospect of picking up Marten's chemistry class. He showed me the textbook he had taught from the previous year. I asked him how far he had gotten in the book, he showed me, and I thumbed through the table of contents for a couple of minutes. "There's no problem here," I declared. I had learned the material in high school; it certainly didn't come close to qualitative analysis, which is where I had left off at the university level. 'Atenisi was, after all, a school of humanities and social science, not one of engineering and physical science. As Maikolo drove us back to 'Atenisi for the faikava, I continued to peruse the chemistry textbook that Firitia had loaned me. "Relax. This isn't rocket science."

----------

During the uneventful week, in addition to assisting in the economics and modern global history classes, and teaching international relations, I taught chemistry. On an island full of new experiences, dusting off those neurons from--oh my god, 1973!--was just one more. But one hasn't truly lived the good life until one has had to deal with an American bank whilst residing in a Third World country. The whole world loves America. American culture is becoming global culture. Everyone is watching American movies (even if they really are shot in Canada) and listening to American music, and even local music is imitating American forms, from jazz to pop to rock to hip-hop. But what really pisses off the world is having to actually deal with America, because Americans think that everywhere else in the world is like America, more or less. That is a grossly erroneous assumption, or at best, if current trends continue for a few more decades, a rather premature one.

The present case in point is the Bank of America. On Friday, I spent two hours on the phone in a failed attempt to arrange a wire transfer. The Bank of America had set up their system so that the only way to accomplish a wire transfer was through it online interface. This wouldn't have been a problem if Internet access were high bandwidth and reliable; however, here in Tonga it takes geologic epochs for the web browser to load the Bank of America's web pages because of all the security routines running in the background. Also, it wouldn't have been a problem if the settings on my account were set properly; however, for some reason they weren't. This wouldn't have been a problem if I had dealt with a competent customer service associate on the telephone to correct the settings on my account; however, this fool kept telling me that she couldn't verify my identity because I was giving her the wrong answers to the personal information questions she was asking me. Neither she nor her supervisor had the intelligence to question whether they were looking at someone else's personal information, that I was exactly who I claimed to be and that they were screwed up. It also didn't help, that in not atypical Tongan fashion, the Internet was particularly slow and unreliable that Friday.

I began the phone call to the Bank of America in the faculty computer lab at 'Atenisi, about 40 minutes before Maikolo's modern global history class. It was wildly optimistic of me to believe that I could get the problem solved in so short a time, but despite the cynicism with which I express myself with the written word, this is who I really am deep down inside. We live in hope... and die in despair. In 40 minutes, the customer service representative and I had made no progress toward resolving the various technical issues, when Maikolo stood on the campus's grassy quad and bellowed for me to come to his class. With the cell phone at my ear, I stepped outside. "I'm trying to work a financial transaction. In my view, this has higher priority." Maikolo went quietly to his classroom, in full appreciation of the fact that 'Atenisi would receive no tuition from me until I effected this wire transfer. Soon after this interruption, I concluded that the Internet access at 'Atenisi was too slow to work the problem. I had to try an Internet café downtown. I packed up my laptop, and rather than end the phone call and then have to deal with a new customer service associate, I strapped the cell phone to my helmet and continued the conversation whilst I biked to Cafe Escape, about ten minutes away. Once there, I discovered that the Internet speed was no better; Diginet, the Internet service provider, was having a bad day. At that point, it was futile to continue the phone call; I simply had to wait for Diginet to get its act together. The Internet speed improved marginally whilst I was halfway through a leisurely Coke, so I decided to try again, and this is when the ultimate indignity occurred; I was not who I said I was, and I was told that repeatedly for about 40 minutes as I was handed off from a befuddled customer service associate to her supervisor, placed on hold for ten minutes in between, then handed off to yet another supervisor after being placed on hold for another ten minutes, during which time I was treated to the Bank of America's cheery litany about its "higher standards."

The Bank of America. The name could hardly be more appropriate.

Earlier I reflected on Tonga's half-assed nature, but the United States is every bit as half-assed in its own ways. The difference is that America is hegemonically half-assed; in other words, since the US is the global hegemon, the sole superpower, its own peculiar brand of half-assedness is legitimated as being the global standard. I don't like it, but I certainly prefer it to what I anticipate that the next generation will have to deal with: some other hegemon's half-assedness. The previous superpower in the vainglorious parade of history was the British Empire, whose unofficial motto was "Muddle through."

After a total of two hours on the phone, which had accomplished nothing other than to make me miss two classes and to work me up into a froth, I biked home. Meleline had arranged to go out on a shopping expedition with Tai, and had expected me to come along and help out. That was the last thing I wanted to do with my afternoon. Instead, Tai and Meleline dropped me off downtown at Friends Cafe, where I spent the next few hours recovering my serenity. There was a notice at the counter: "VB, buy 3 get one free." I had to ask, "Does that mean than I must buy three at once? I've seen how Aussies drink." They laughed politely... silly American.

I had once heard the expression "Aussie drunk;" that's when you puke on your own shoes. And I had seen the concept in action one night in Mackay, northern Queensland, one night in 1984. I was there on a scuba diving vacation with a brother Air Force officer. As we walked along the sidewalk from the restaurant where we had dined, a bloke staggered up and asked, most inarticulately, for directions. I think we actually knew the place he was looking for, and he staggered away at least as happy as he had been a moment before. "Man, that guy was drunk off his butt!" my fellow Air Force captain exclaimed.

We hadn't noticed that the automobile we were standing next to contained an occupant in the back seat. Apparently believing that the remark had been concerning him, he announced his presence with a convulsed "PIZZOFF!" as vomit dribbled down the side of the vehicle. We reflected on the words of Premier Pizov on a number of occasions during the remainder of our vacation, and after our return home.

Whereas I, by virtue being lulled by Polynesian music whilst consuming a couple of Victoria Bitters, was ably navigating a sea of tranquillity at Friends Café. When Meleline returned from three hours of shopping, I was just being served my third VB, which was perfect timing since that made the free one hers.

During my relaxing afternoon, glancing at what men will glance at whilst taking their ease in a public establishment, I reflected on an article that I had chanced upon earlier in the week as I searched online for commentary and opinion about Tonga that might be of interest to my students. It had been written by Moana Uluave in March 2007 whilst a student at Brigham Young University. She began by acknowledging the aesthetic pressures to which the popular media subjects everyone--be young, be thin, be desirable--but also, be white:

As a pre-teen I would let my hair down believing it looked beautiful, until one day at school my friend told me, "You're hair is so thick and frizzy. Did you brush it?" She chuckled. I never left my hair down again. Accompanying that memory are those of older Tongan women telling me, "Stay out of the sun, you'll get darker than you already are." Then I would cover my face in envy of those who possessed the "correct" qualities. At times I would sit and wish my dark skin would turn fair, my near black eyes turn hazel, and my frizzy black hair--kelo and straight. Of course this had to be beautiful. This was the accepted definition.

This was the hegemonic aesthetic, and as Uluave pointed out, it was little different than the Aryan aesthetic of Nazi Germany, except that no one was going around exterminating the untermenschen these days. However, the spirits of entire peoples were being exterminated as less fortunate races forsook their embarrassing heritage in a futile quest to look more European.

But my struggle for self-acceptance was silent. My mom would tell me, "Keep your head in the books and out of the mirror. Intelligence is beauty." So I received the accolades of academia and pushed everything else aside.

Uluave was saved by an epiphany, perhaps because she was so dark and frizzy, whereas her Caucasian contemporaries at BYU and elsewhere might continue to slave under the hegemonic aesthetic:

I, then, saw for first time the beauty in my Tonganess. I recognized beautiful Pacific Islander young women stripping themselves of their inherited ethnic characteristics and eagerly adopting the majority ideals of beauty: light skin, light hair, light eyes, thin noses, thin bodies, and straight hair. And I was disappointed in myself and others for buying into materialism, imperialism, and capitalism.

How was it that forty years after "Black is beautiful," people of colour were having to wage the same old battle? Why must every woman in the world look European to feel beautiful? A few weeks earlier, a student had come to campus with her hair down, wild and free. My first thought had been, why didn't she wear it like that more often? My second thought was that I was glad she didn't; it was too damned sexy. The same old battle is being fought--black is beautiful, brown is beautiful, you can't be too rich or too thin or too white--because the commodification of the human image has escalated in the past forty years in a war that is being waged against humanity itself.

As a young man I developed a theory of beauty. There are three parts of beauty. First, there was natural beauty. Of course, that is in the eye of the beholder; essentially it is socially constructed. The second component of my theory is even more susceptible to being hijacked by hegemonic aesthetics: contrived beauty, "God hath given you one face and you paint yourselves another," as Hamlet chided the fair Ophelia. Some women want to, and know how to, accentuate their physical attractiveness. Probably some don't care, and I don't have a problem with that. There's a hell of a lot more to life than worrying about attracting a mate. It's not like I worry about that every day, but then, I'm 55 and I have ambitions other than conquests in my bed, such as the conquest of a few distinct corners of the universe of knowledge. Finally, there is self-conceived beauty. There was a Star Trek episode called "Mudd's Women," the upshot of which was a line delivered by William Shatner: "There's only one kind of woman: you either believe in yourself or you don't." That sounds like two types to me, but far be it from me to quibble with scriptwriters for a character who kissed more women on camera than I ever hope to.

Anyway, those are the three, and I always figured that most women could manage high marks on two of the three, in which case they were beautiful. Some call it chemistry, or more accurately, biochemistry. The truth lies somewhere between DNA playing a game on itself in order to reproduce, and the human imagination's ambition to create a single, perfect moment of quantum reality for two. Even so, Uluave pointed out that beauty transcends mere sex appeal:

... [M]y definition of beauty cannot be reflected in any mirror. Beauty /'byu-te/ a noun: A woman who knows who she is and where she's going; who is conscious and selective in decision making, yet teachable; who serves others and lives life with intention and passion.

Could Gloria Steinem have said it any better? Sadly, a young woman felt the need to write this forty years later. Happily, the spirit to write this has still not been exterminated.

Thomas Gangale's Tales of Tonga

Drowned Princess, Drag Queens, and Faikava

Copyright © 2010 by Thomas Gangale
@ThomasGangale

I hadn't come to Tonga for my health, although I was eating less and getting more exercise. I hadn't come for the waters either, although Tonga had water in abundance. Six months before Meleline and I had arrived here, the Waters of Tonga had proved to be decidedly unhealthy for 74 people. The Pacific Ocean has swallowed them in the night as the Princess Ashika was suddenly swamped and pulled under. This was why I had come to Tonga: to study the public reaction to the accident, write a dissertation, and earn a PhD. As the first paragraph of my dissertation introduced the research project:

The 6 August 2009 sinking of the MV Princess Ashika is one of the most controversial events in the Kingdom of Tonga in recent years. A millennia-old island culture scarcely can be a stranger to maritime tragedies, yet the circumstances surrounding the loss of the ferry have provoked considerable public outrage. In the face of 74 lives lost, have Tongans forgiven--or will they forgive--parties involved in bringing on the disaster? On one hand, there is the lenient Polynesian attitude of forgiving faults and mistakes; however, on the other, there has been sharp criticism of the ruling class for two decades. Also, do Tongans accept the findings of the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the Sinking of the MV Princess Ashika in Tonga with regard to its determination of the parties to be principally at fault? Given the rising resentment against the Tongan elite, if the Commission's finger of guilt points too low in the hierarchy, it is possible that its findings may have limited credibility among the people. Another question is the role that the media have played in informing the public and in shaping opinion with regard to the sinking.

The Royal Commission of Inquiry's work was now completed. It had submitted its official findings to His Majesty, George Tupou V, on 31 March 2010. The pubic release of the Commission's findings was expected the following week. Over Easter weekend, people were wondering whether the King would ask for the Prime Minister's resignation; some even speculated that he might sack the entire cabinet.

Although not strictly necessary to the subject of my dissertation, nevertheless, I would have liked to have observed a day or two of the Commission's proceedings. Unfortunately, the demands that I already had on my time on campus had made it infeasible. But, there was more drama to come; central figures in the disaster had already been indicted, so perhaps I could sit in on a few days of the trials. I wondered whether the Tongan lawyers dressed up in black robes and white wigs as they did in Britain.

At Cafe Escape, an effeminate man occasionally waited on Meleline and me. In fact, Meleline had assumed that he was a woman. All the employees dressed alike in tropical shirts and tupenus (wrap skirts), so that was no clue. "No, that's a man," I said. "Look at the flat chest and the narrow hips. Look at how he walks. Look at the bone structure of his face, the straightness of his arms when they're extended." I've learned a thing or two living in the San Francisco Bay Area most of my life.

In the course of conversation with 'Uta and others, Meleline and I came to learn that it was not uncommon for families having too many boys to raise one as a girl so that there would be a young member of the family to help with the housework. Whether these fakaleti ("make a lady" is my guess at translation) become homosexual or simply remain transvestite, who can say, and frankly, no one seems to care. It is an accepted part of Tongan culture. When Tai and 'Uta took Meleline to a hairstyling shop on Vuna Road, sure enough, the two hairstylists were fakaleti. Even in the social sciences, some things appear to be more or less universal constants. It is said that heterosexual women enjoy associating with fakaleti because it's like having a male acquaintance and a girlfriend in one package. They tend to be very witty; I can understand how they might view other facets of human society with a unique sense of irony. 'Uta used to carouse with fakaleti in her youth. There's an annual drag queen contest called "Miss Galaxy" held at a downtown establishment, and Futa Helu often served as one of the judges. If it was radical, Futa jumped on it with both feet. Yet another reason why local church leaders called him "demonic."

Some said that the fakaleti were a recent phenomenon, having their advent in the 1980s or thereabouts. Meleline suspected that the fakaleti had a deeper root in Tonga culture, and that it was merely their open association with each other, their sense of community, that had developed as they learned of LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered) communities in other countries. Meleline pitched the idea of studying this phenomenon to one of her students. It was the sort of study that only a Tongan could do well, and it would be cutting edge. Her student had concerns about being taken for a fakaleti if the research project were to become widely known, so he wanted a certain level of information security. It would be a classified project. He also came up with a method of operational security, anticipating that he might be able to rely on a female friend on some occasions. I labelled the study "Project F." Unfortunately, the student bailed out of the project a week later. He wasn't ready to be on the bleeding edge of science.

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Meleline was adamant about not attending that evening's faikava, in part because she was tired and in part due to the irritation of having this sprung on her at the last minute. "I haven't researched kava to find out what the effects are." Some sources say that it's a mild hallucinogen. Maikolo claimed that the Australian Northern Territory had outlawed it. I had seen some students show up for class somewhat the worse for wear in the aftermath of a faikava, which could last until 0300 hours. Meleline would make the excuse for our absence that we had a conflicting engagement; this became a retroactive truth when 'Uta invited herself to dinner. At about 1920 hours, as Meleline prepared dinner, Maikolo phoned from the faikava to remind me that my bike was still at Lolo Masi Hall... unsecured. Well, I had to go get it or it might not be there the next morning. Meleline admonished me not to get dragged into staying for the faikava but to come straight home. I set off on foot in the darkness just as 'Uta and Mata arrived from next door.

The faikava is a traditional male social event; the men sit around and drink kava, sing, and tell stories until nearly dawn whilst being served by a few women. Yet another thing that Futa Helu did to infuriate traditionalists was to invite women to participate as equals, although the servers remained exclusively female, I believe. As I arrived to find the faculty represented by Maikolo, Firitia, and Virginia Helu, and then myself. 'Elaisa Helu was also there. Students included Feleti, the two 'Ofas, Tevita, Muna, and Paia. All the men sat at the large table at the front of the classroom, whilst the women sat at other tables. That night I supposed that this arrangement was in deference to Tonga taboo against unmarried men and women sitting together, but at future faikavas I saw men and women sit together.

Maikolo insisted that I sit on his left at the table. It didn't take but a moment for the male 'Ofa to ask me whether I would like some kava. I was sitting next to the dean, and it was in my contract. A cup was ladled full from a huge bowl, and I was immediately reminded of the initiation ceremony in the 62nd Tactical Fighter Squadron in which we newbies had won our flying scarves. As the cup was passed to me, Maikolo informed me that I was expected to drink the entire cup in one gulp, exactly like in the 62nd TFS. "Roger, I know the drill." I drained the cup and then placed it upside down on my head. Tevita then told me that that was not allowed, and that I had incurred a five drink penalty. OK, so their customs were a little different from the 62nd TFS. "Can I negotiate a reduced sentence on account of this is my first infraction?" I turned to Maikolo, "Do I know how to plea bargain or what?"

He nodded in agreement. I didn't see Maikolo drink any kava, although he claimed to have had twelve before I arrived. "It tastes like Tide detergent, doesn't it?"

"More like Axion, with just a hint of Comet." That and it looked like miso soup.

As I was given my second cup, I noticed that my mouth was going a bit numb. "That's about all you're going to feel," Maikolo said. "This is pretty tame stuff." As a student at Brandeis in the mid 1960s, he had done about all that there was to do. "Na'aku 'osi 'i ai, na'aku 'osi fai 'a e me'a koia. Been there, done that."

"Sono stato la, ho fatto quello. I'm sure not seeing any bright colours exploding in my head."

"And you won't."

"Well, that's a bummer!"

A conversation ensued regarding 'Atenisi's heyday, when Greek and Latin were part of the curriculum. Maikolo sounded out the students about reviving theses studies, but the response was muted. "I don't know any Greek, but I know a bit of Latin. Italus sum, ergo, Romanus sum." I am an Italian, therefore I am a Roman.

To which Firitia responded with something every schoolboy knows, "Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres."

What gall! No one quotes Gaius Julius Caesar to me with impunity. "Alea iacta est. The die is cast." I treated him to a couple of my original epigrams. "Dei omnes laudamus si existunt." Let us praise all gods if they exist. I think that one might have amused Futa Helu. "Quod ad Pompeium incidet ad Pompeium se tenet." What happens in Pompeii stays in Pompeii.

"What happened in Pompeii?"

"Oh, that was a rockin' little town in its day, and whatever you did there, you didn't tell anyone about it when you got home. You know, like Las Vegas? The phrase has a double meaning now. What happened in Pompeii is still in Pompeii."

One of the effects of prolonged, heavy use was reported to by dry, scaly skin. 'Ofa and Tevita had mentioned this one day while explaining why 'Ofa was wearing sunglasses in the classroom; heightened sensitivity to light was another side effect. "Are you turning into a lizard?" I had asked 'Ofa then. So now I asked him, "At what point do I turn into a lizard?"

"Do you want to turn into a lizard?"

I turned to Maikolo, "I seem to recall I already did that once."

"You probably did," he nodded.

"Sort of the Franz Kafka trip, but not the praying mantis."

As the evening progressed, the more experienced participants instructed me in the finer points of faikava etiquette. One grasps the cup by the edge with the thumb and a couple of fingers, rather than holding it from underneath. Once drained, one gives the empty cup a quick flick over the shoulder, then flicks the cup across the table in a spinning motion back to the grog bowl. This I did repeatedly and with considerable accuracy.

Around my eighth or tenth cup of kava 'Elaisa broke into song, and the other Tongan men joined him in perfect four-part harmony. It was very impressive. It immediately brought to mind the reference to barber shop raga in This Is Spinal Tap. Not that I ever intend to belittle or trivialize something so beautiful as this traditional Polynesian musical form; rather, it's a shorthand description, however inept. Maikolo stepped outside briefly to take a call on his cell phone whilst the men sang, and when the song was over, he told me, "That was Marilyn. She just ordered you home."

As I mounted my bike, I left the faikava with one final Latin phrase, "Gubernaturi te salutant. Those who are about to drive salute you." It was a fitting farewell. Although I wasn't feeling much of an effect from the kava, and so there was no danger due to being impaired, the back streets of Tufuenga and Longolongo were poorly maintained and even more poorly lit. I was about two-thirds of the way home when I rode straight into the deepest crater on the route. The bike shuddered to a halt as the front wheel collided with the upside of the crater, whereas I still had my full measure of 1/2 mv2, so there was no question that the bike and I were now on distinctly separate trajectories. I rolled right to disengage from the vehicle, and as near as I can reconstruct the sequence from my superficial injuries, I executed a six-point roll, coming down first on my right foot and both hands, then on my right knee and right elbow, and finally on my right flank. Couldn't have done any better than that right out of parachute training. I hadn't rolled off a bike in 15 years, but if it weren't for the satisfaction of learning that I could still do it, I would have just as soon skipped the whole thing. I picked up my bike, ascertained that the vehicle was still operable, and I was home about a minute later, washing the gravel out of my abraded knee and elbow. I suppose that sympathy for my road rash saved me from a tongue lashing from Meleline, but as to which of these fates would be the more painful, it is not my purpose to speculate.

Thomas Gangale's Tales of Tonga