No Child Left Behind

During my time in Tonga, I have tried my best to stay up to date on the latest news, whether it be world, political, sports, or cultural. The reason for this is twofold. The first is that it is very easy to feel isolated living on a small island in the South Pacific and reading the news of the world is an easy way to help feel connected. The second reason is that when I return to the United States in less than two years, I don’t want to be overwhelmed by culture shock, and I believe not living in a news-less bubble while I am in Tonga will certainly help ameliorate that transition.

It is not that difficult for me to stay up to date with the news. I have advised a strategy that works relatively well. I go online about once a week. Working quickly while online, I copy and paste all the news I can find onto a word document that I then read as a quasi-magazine during the week, until the process repeats itself again the next time I am in town.

This is therefore a long winded way to state that I am relatively aware of what is happening in the world at this moment, or at least what occurred last week. Thanks to an article I was able to copy from Time Magazine and other articles I have read, I am aware of Russia’s decision to make it illegal for American couples to adopt Russian children. While the articles mention that this may be a retaliatory measure on the part of Putin as revenge for a recent American bill attacking Russian corruption, the adoption legislation seems to be following a trend of similar laws that have passed in South America, Eastern Europe, and Africa outlawing international adoption over the last few years.

I am sure many of you are aware of this phenomenon, and specifically the recently signed Russian bill. With the current international adoption climate, I have decided that this would be a good time to discuss the unique institution of adoption in the Kingdom of Tonga, mostly for comparison sake.

There is no formal adoption agency in Tonga. No government body concerns itself with domestic adoption, and from what I have learned from expatriate Tongans trying to adopt Tongan children, international adoptions are particularly tricky as it is unclear where one goes to legally adopt a Tongan child. There are no orphanages.

Instead, adoptions in Tonga are governed by family concerns and a sense of community. If one family has too many children, some of the kids will be raised by the wife’s sister, the husband’s brother, the grandparents, uncles, aunts, a close friend, or any connection that you can possibly imagine. If a family has too many children of the same sex, they can adopt a girl or a boy from a family that similarly has too many mouths to feed or pass one of their children along to another family in need.

These children usually grow up knowing that their “Mom” and “Dad” are not their biological parents, but rarely seem to care or want to reestablish relations with their birth parents. For all concerned, the parents who raised them are their parents. Plain and simple.

Adoptions in Tongan can happen for a variety of reasons. A child born out of wedlock. The death of a parent. Having too many children. No issue in Tonga is too large or small to no merit adoption.

To give a more concrete example of how informal adoption is in Tonga, one only needs to look at my neighbor Mana. Mana, who lived in the U.S. for several years in the 80’s and speaks, along with his whole family, fluent English, is probably the person I am closest with in my village. One day, about a month ago, I asked him who the young 10-year-old girl was at his house who I had never seen before. Mana, who has a teenage daughter and son, told me that they adopted their new daughter because their older daughter was lonely and wanted a sister. From day 1, the family has treated her like they have known her their whole lives and love her no less than any member of their family.

In another example, I asked Mana to explain to me whether or not the 5 children, who looked like siblings, were related since they all lived in different houses. It was then explained to me that the youngest daughter, about 4, lives in town with her father. The oldest daughter lives with the mother in my village. The 8-year-old daughter was adopted by another family, and she lives in a different house in the village. The two brothers were also adopted by another family and live in a different house in the village as well. That means the 5 siblings live in 4 different houses, and are being raised by 3 separate families. I asked Mana why they were all adopted and he just kind of shrugged his shoulders and said they just were.

There is also one more interesting quirk concerning Tongan adoption. Tonga, like most societies, is a mostly patriarchal society that is dominated by the men. The one exception to this however, is that the oldest sister, based on hierarchy, is the most important member of the family. This means that if the younger siblings have children and the oldest sister does not have any, she can ask for the child and the younger siblings cannot say no. This practice is still prevalent within Tonga.

As you can see, the adoption system in Tonga is convoluted and quite different from the adoption practices of the Western world. I do not know if it is better or worse, I will leave that up to you to decide. It is certainly different, and while there is rarely, if any, legal tracking of these adoptions, they somehow work in the family-centric, community-dominated Tonga. It is not a practice that could work back home for a plethora of legitimate and illegitimate reasons, but I do know that every Tongan child, regardless of their lineage, has a family and a home in Tonga.

As for my life, there is not much to report. I failed to mention in my last post that during training in Nuku’alofa, the Minister of Education came to speak to us, which was a great honor. Though our work will rarely affect or come into contact with her level of governance, it was particularly interesting to hear the vision of the woman who is leading the revolution of the Tongan educational system.

In the past two weeks, I spent the first week finishing up my lesson plans, reading, and reintegrating back into my community, and this past week I have been attending the teacher-training week with every primary school teacher in Vava’u to prepare for the upcoming school year.

Monday, Tuesday, and today, Wednesday, I listened to speeches in Tongan that I did not understand, while sitting on a bench in a Wesleyan Church Hall in Neiafu. I met my new principal, a nice woman in her early 40’s who lives in Neiafu, and is now at least aware she will have a Peace Corps volunteer at her school. We have yet to discuss what I will be teaching during the school year, but I am hopeful that everything will be figured out as we spend the last two days of the week at our school.

Though, there was one funny/embarrassing moment. One of the woman at the Ministry of Education came up and spoke during training today. A few minutes into her speech, she called me up to the front, and only me, and had me demonstrate a Tongan song, with hand gestures, in front of everyone. It was only slightly horrifying, and I managed to survive the interaction relatively unscathed.

She then mentioned in Tongan that she had seen the Superman movie the night before, though I believe she meant Spider Man, and quoted, “With great power comes great responsibility,” as her inspirational speech. She then said she was Superman and laughed heartily. I think the message, unfortunately, wasn’t quite clear to the rest of the Tongan teachers, but I will always approve of superhero/movie quotes in any and all work related activities.

Finally, I am happy to report that my long period of forced idleness is almost over. Schools starts on Monday and I will be able to actually help my community, and hopeful relate some colorful commentary back to you, my readers.

Thanks for reading!

The Story of Joseph – the non-Biblical version

I have magical powers – bear with me please, this post has several topics, more than is probably necessary digressions, and this first sentence is somewhat relevant to the post as a whole. As I was saying, I have magical powers.

I have yet to see a stick of gum during my entire service in the Kingdom of Tonga, let alone consume one. Mints yes. Gum no. I am not an avid gum consumer, but from time to time I have found myself missing the taste of gum and the feelings of minty freshness that it leaves behind.

On Thursday, during training, I mentioned to my friend next to me that I would love a stick of gum. He acknowledged my craving, and kindly refrained from stating how likely I was in satiating this desire. 20 minutes later – and this is where those magic powers come in – the Peace Corps Tonga doctor, during his presentation, asked us if we would like some gum as if it was the simplest thing in the world. I revengefully reproached my friend with a tacit I-told-you-so-look, and remarked on the odd coincidence of this glorious present. Several sticks of gum later, I was a very happy man.

I, unfortunately, was also a very foolish man. As every American is taught super powers are both a blessing and a curse. I should have known better. Christopher Nolan’s Batman and even the Tobey Maguire Spiderman movies have been trying to drill that into us for years.

This leads me into my first digression. After living for almost 5 months in Tonga, what I am most proud of America, or the entire Western world for that matter, is the almost permanent eradication of insect life. In America, we have won the war. Insects, of every type, while certainly present, rarely have any effect on our daily lives. Even in the battleground state of sub-tropical Florida, with the exception of those tiny ants you can barely see, the battle has largely been won.

In Tonga, I am very much on the front lines. I have recently written about the insects in my home and my views on cohabitation. I won’t recount those again, but I will say I was welcomed home to my house with a beautiful gift of termite poop – it is somewhat astounding how much poop these little creatures can produce. This leads me back to my powers, and how foolish I was.

Forgetting my newfound gifts, I recklessly asked another volunteer, while we were sitting around the guesthouse, if she had ever seen the flying cockroaches or the molekau. Brief digression. Yes, some cockroaches can fly here and molekau (possibly a misspelling) are centipedes that can grow very large, have sharp teeth that can apparently hurt you when they bite, and can even bite you when their head is cut off.

The volunteer said no, she had not seen the flying cockroaches, and asked me if I had. I said yes. The flying cockroaches are quite a pain to kill and I saw my first molekau several days ago when I found it next to my pillow moments before I was planning on jumping in and falling asleep. With the help of my roommates bolt cutter, we were able to safely destroy the creature before it could get up to its devilish tricks. We then moved on to a cheerier subject.

Another 20 minutes later – my powers work quite fast – I felt something slam into the back of my neck. As I have unfortunately been pounced on by insects several times since I have been in Tonga, I knew the proper way to respond. I jumped up, issued a high-pitched and very manly scream, and ran ten feet in the opposite direction. Retrieving my courage, I looked back to see a flying cockroach directly above where I had just been sitting. Shuddering with disgust, I coolly (I doubt it was actually coolly but please let me have this) said to the other volunteer, “So, that is a flying cockroach.”

Several sprays of mortein later, the room was again safe for all of us to return. Or so we thought. Another half an hour later, a molekau slivered out from underneath a nearby couch – they are remarkably quick – ushering fear in all of us. This was serious. Action was required. As one of the two guys present, my role was tracking. I made sure to never lose the spawn of Satan from my sight. Another volunteer, one of the married men, grabbed his wife’s water bottle, and began beating it, immobilizing the creature.

Several whacks, his wife’s disgusted looks at her water bottle, and the use of a knife to chop of its head off, later, the room was safe. I have now learned to treat my powers carefully. I will not say the word shark within 20 yards of the ocean. I am careful whenever I talk about insects. I never say the word rat.

End of topic one.

Topic two. Warning – this may end up being a particularly long post. It is hot, I am delirious, and I am feeling particularly loquacious.

The scene for the previous story was a guesthouse that the Peace Corps always puts us up in when we are staying in Nuku’alofa. We stayed there before home stay, after home stay, and, now, for our January training. It is a cozy little guesthouse – think European hostel and you kind of get the idea – with great people running it, that we have gotten to know a little bit.

One of the perks of staying at the guesthouse is that they have an awesome little kid. I don’t know his age, we all kind of guess it to be around 2 and a half, and his name is Joseph. He is a very spirited kid. He climbs the poles and stair railings. He smashed bananas and places them in front of me for a snack. He picks up the cat and chases the guests with it. He pulls the hair of the girls when they least expect it. He is a great little kid, fun to play with, and he makes all of our trainings a little more interesting.

To get to the point, after staying at the guesthouse several times, Joseph has overcome his shyness and now loves to spend time with us. This is usually awesome, but on Friday, it lead to an interesting scene.

Friday, being our last night together, we all decided to go to the Chinese restaurant in one of the hotels. It is not particularly good, but it is plenty good enough for us at this point. Tired from the week, and running late to meet the rest of the group their, ten of us decided to call a cab. 20 cab-less minutes later, 5 of us, myself included, decided to walk.

After walking several hundred yards we turned around the see Joseph, by himself, following behind us. The moment he saw us looking, he decided it was a good decision the pull his pants down, revealing everything to the world, and stand in the middle of the street. Alarmed, I walked back to Joseph to return him to the guesthouse, while the rest of the group watched and waited for me.

On reaching Joseph, my first goal was to clothe him. I reached down and tried to pull up his shorts, careful not to touch any private areas. Joseph, fully delighted by this attempt, failed to acquiesce and as such his shorts remained firmly around his ankles. Realizing the futility of my action, I lifted him up under his arms, extended my arms as far in front of me as humanly possible to avoid any decision Joseph may have to pee or poop on me, and then began walking slowly back to the guesthouse. (The volunteers who saw me told me later that this created an incredible appearance from their vantage point and, as one volunteer elegantly stated, the silhouette of my holding this small Tongan child and the background of the setting South Pacific sun will be an image he never forgets when he leaves Tonga – I sincerely hope he was joking).

As I was walking I noticed the cab had finally arrived and was picking up the volunteers who had stayed behind. The cab drove towards me and then stopped. The cab driver got out of the car, pulled up Joseph’s shorts not nearly as delicately, but far more successfully, than I had, picked him up, and placed him on his lap as he sat down in the driver’s seat.

Confused, I asked him if I should take the kid back to the guesthouse. He said it was ok. I tried again. He said no it was fine. I asked the volunteer leader who was sitting shotgun and asked if it was ok, as he speaks Tongan and understands the culture far better than me having lived here for two years, and he said hop in. More confused, I hopped in the back.

I turned and asked another volunteer, “Hey, so are we just trusting the cab driver to bring Joseph back after he drops us off?” My thoughts were swirling. What were we doing? Adoption is different here, a topic for later, is this actually ok? I was just imagining myself unwittingly aiding in a devious kidnapping attempt. The volunteer laughed and responded, “Dude, that’s his dad,” eliciting relief within me and laughs from everybody else.

I had never seen him before. I thought it was a cab driver. Slightly embarrassed, but reassured that I was not the only one who had similarly been confused, I was just happy that Joseph was back and safe. I still have a lot to learn about Tonga.

Last but not least, I have decided to initiate Feast Watch 2013. This is not a novel concept. Sports writes often title their articles, “MVP Watch,” or, “Rookie of the Year Watch,” in several sports. We have political watches – candidate, state, and even demographic. I am sure there are celebratory watches. Feast Watch 2013 simply evolved from its predecessors, some more worthy than others, and I will just relate any feasts I attend at the end of my posts, until either you or I get bored with this set up.

Tongans are very generous – sorry, I love these brief, and not so brief, digressions. I have mentioned this many times before. It is, in my humble opinion, one of their greatest qualities. It is also the reason that international development and funding, particularly in agricultural subsidies and animal husbandry, doesn’t work that well here, as personal property is rarely seen as private but rather as communal.

 Tongans rarely have a lot, whether it is wealth, property, or livestock, because sharing is such an important part of Tongan culture. If a person has more than they need, they feel an obligation – or the village reminds them of their obligation – to share what they have. This is true for their family, friends, community, and the church. I am frequently a recipient of such generosity. In Tonga, success and wealth, are meant to be shared, not hoarded. The word kaipo in Tongan, literally meaning one who hoards or steals (the same thing in this case) food, is a grievous insult to place on a Tongan.

The feast I attended yesterday was a fakaafe, rather than a kaipola. The difference, though both events are a feast, is that a kaipola is for a special event while you have to be invited to attend a fakaafe, though the whole village is usually invited.

There was no particular reason for this feast. My town officer, Havea, an incredible man who has helped me fix up my house and integrate into the community, just decided to hold a fakaafe for the entire community as a gift to them.

The generosity was astounding and expansive. Not to be content with the normal feast food, Havea and his family decided to also include several whole crabs for every person. To make things even more incredible, the family did not partake in the feast, until the very end. Havea gave a fakamalo, thanking the community. His family walked around pouring juice for everyone and making sure the food was to the people’s liking.

And…just because one feast is not enough in Tonga, there was another fakaafe in the afternoon, after the 4 o’clock service. Uhila, also a very nice man who had me over at his house for after church lu several weeks ago, similarly wowed me with his generosity and how much he wanted to share his prosperity with the community.

For the thousandth time I have been here, I was absolutely blown away by the generosity I have seen in Tonga. By American standards, the Tongan people have much less wealth, but that does not deter them from sharing everything they do have. As I have said before and will say again, it is this incredible generosity that makes me proud to serve as a volunteer in Tonga.

Thank you for reading. I promise the next post won’t be as long. I hoped you enjoyed it.

A True Tongan Diet

In the course of this blog, I try show how my life in Tonga really is. My opinions are of course subjective, but in terms of the events I attend and my observations of the people and culture, I try to be as accurate as possible without bringing any preconceived notions or bias into my thoughts and writings.

The previous statement therefore leads me to this next one. The next few paragraphs are of a somewhat graphic nature. If you are squeamish or a particularly passionate lover of dogs, you may want to skip reading the next few paragraphs. If you choose to skip it, just scroll down to where it says, “It’s Over,” in large bold letters and you are then safe to read on. For the rest of you, I apologize if this upsets you, but this is simply the way of life in Tonga and I wanted to portray it accurately.

Tongans eat dogs. It is not a main staple of their diets in the same way lu, pigs, chickens, beef, and root crops are, but it is certainly a part of it. In the past, before Tongans had access to as much food and meat as they do now, dog, and even bat, was eaten frequently. Now, if a dog is hit by a car and dies, if a dog attacks anyone, if there are too many dogs in the village, or simply if a person want to eat a dog, dog is eaten.

Volunteers in the past, and in my group, have tasted dog while they have been in Tonga. Though I want to be adventurous and try new things, I really have no interest in eating dog. In more sad situations, Tongan villagers have eaten the dogs that were the pets of volunteers in the past, not realizing how important dogs are to Americans. As I mentioned in a previous post, dogs are not treated well in Tonga and are not considered pets.

I have never seen dog served on a Tongan plate nor have I ever been offered dog. I only bring up this topic now for an event that occurred last week.

Last week, in the middle of the day, I was reading in my house when I saw a Tongan villager I know walk past my house about ten feet away from my back door. I stood up to say hello to Saia, who his around 15, but stopped short when I realized he was dragging a dead dog behind him as if it was a pile of sticks. The dog’s throat was sliced – I could tell by the dried blood – in the same way a pig’s throat is cut when it is slaughtered to eat.

Silently, I went to my back door and watched where Saia was taking the dog. He dragged the dog another 50 yards and brought it to my neighbor’s house. I am sure I was watching dinner being served at the same house I attended a lunch last week, though I am fairly certain I did not eat dog as they would have told me before and the only meat I consumed was chicken…or at least, I hope it was chicken.

To be honest, after watching the event I was a little sad. While I am no great dog-lover, especially for the vicious dogs in Tonga, it was still difficult to watch an animal I have long viewed as man’s best friend so callously dragged around and served for dinner. I did not dwell on it long, as that would serve no purpose, but I thought it was important to relate this anecdote in my blog as it depicts how life in Tonga, though normal by standards in many other countries, is so different than the US. As I mentioned earlier, I hope this did not upset you.

IT’S OVER

As for me I have spent the past week in the main island of Tongatapu for a week of Peace Corps training. I do not have much to report that I think will excite you, my readers. I went to see my host family on Sunday, which was amazing. It was great to see the family that took such incredible care of me and treats me like a son. My host sister was not there, but I made arrangements to stay overnight with my family when I fly through Tonga on my way to see my parents in April so I am really excited about that.

It has also been great to see other volunteers in the group and just compare how similar and different our experiences are over the past week. The wheel was not reinvented, but just speaking English consistently was like a gift in its self.

I know I promised photos for the week but I had forgotten that I really do not like taking photos at group events. Eventually there will be some photos of me again on this blog, but I hope for now the contents of this post and possible future topics of the lack of beaches, adoption, the ocean, my life, and of course my many embarrassing moments can keep you satisfied.

To make your wait slightly less unbearable, I believe it is time that I finally relate to you the Great Onion Famine of 2012.

The Great Onion Famine of 2012 was a terrible event. For 3 weeks in Tonga, around the last week in November and the first two weeks of December, the onions disappeared. Before the eventual collapse of Tonga’s profitable onion industry, rumblings could be heard of future onion scarcity. Onions were going out, but none were coming in.

Tongans, never to be confused with ferocious vegetable consumers, do particularly like to use onions in their lu and when they cook meet. The Palangi population was similarly overwhelmed, as those of us in Tonga have quickly learned, cooked onions make even the most spice less and flavorless Tongan food taste slightly more appealing.

Tongans, expats, and volunteers flocked to the markets and stores buying every onion they could find. I luckily bought a few and threw them in my fridge. To digress for a moment, I have formed a tacit agreement with my food in Tonga – I will protect if from the ants, cockroaches, termites, lizards, pigs, the weather, small children, etc and be willing to cut off the parts that are rotten and eat greedily away, if the food just pretends not to discolor or smell as it rots. So far the agreement has been quite successful, leading to greater personal consumption and minimal stomach complaints.

Returning to the subject at hand, the last vestiges of onions quickly disappeared  -and the results were dramatic. The lu tasted worse. The one restaurant in town that had onion rings no longer had onion rings. I could no longer make spaghetti and tomato sauce – one of the four things I now know how to make and is scarily large staple of my diet.

At first I though this was only a Vava’u problem and that help was on the way. I texted my friend Michael to ask him about the onions in Tongatapu. There were none. Help was not coming.

I then texted my friend Chiara in the island of Eua, an island near Tongatapu that is far cooler than the rest of Tonga. I figured Chiara, a vegetarian, and someone who faced humiliation, lack of understanding, possible starvation, and a frightfully boring pallet for refusing to lose her vegetarian ways in meat-filled Tonga, of anyone I knew, would know how to find the onions. Nope. There were no onions in Eua, she had no clue what was going on, and she was even more concerned than I was.

I was now curious – and by curious I mean confused, angry, and kind of hungry - swirling with thoughts stemming mostly from an empty stomach. Knowing nothing about gardening myself, I asked a Tongan where the onions came from. No one really knew, which was not surprising as Tongans don’t really think of where things come from – they’re just happy it’s there - but the general consensus was that Tonga was too warm to grow onions and that they were probably imported from New Zealand.

My next thought was ok. Sadly, yes, that was my first thought. Resignation was fast at hand. I quickly snapped out of it, however, and decided to discover how a country could be out of onions. I asked around, again, and discovered the following truth (caution, I am using the word truth quite liberally, I have absolutely zero proof what I am about to write is accurate and Tongans love to lie, but I find this story plausible, oddly comforting, and very Tongan):

Apparently, the onions arrive from New Zealand in a large shipping container and are removed in Nuku’alofa. The container is taken off the ship at the wharf and then some onions are sent to the markets of Tongatapu, while the rest are sent to the other islands, including Vava’u.

The person in charge of unloading the onions, however, was sick when the shipment of onions came in but failed to notify anyone that he was not coming to work or ask anyone to replace him. This being Tonga, nothing was done, no safety nets were in place, and no one thought to ask why has the container just been sitting there for several days? The onions sat in the blazing hot sun for several days until the man returned from his illness to a container of rotten onions.

Thus one man, one individual person, caused the entire Kingdom of Tonga to survive without onions for several weeks and lead to your faithful writer’s growling stomach and his quest for the truth. That my readers is the sad Tale of the Great Onion Famine of 2012, may it never occur again.

Thanks for reading!

Oh Yeah….I’m in the South Pacific

Living on a tiny island in the South Pacific I am vulnerable to the frequent and sudden changes of weather that occur. It can be sunny one minute, thundering and lightning the next, slightly overcast a moment later, and back to sunny again all in the span of an hour. I mention this only because I was hoping to regale you in this post with my adventure of camping out on an island this past weekend, with pictures to match, but unfortunately the weather made this impossible.

Though as I type this post the weather is sunny and beautiful, it rained so much this morning that the ground is muddy and swamp-like, making camping impossible. You will thus have to make due once again without pictures – Sorry! – and with the less aesthetically pleasing anecdotes below.

But with the dexterity of a pinch hitter called to the plate in a moments notice, I have tried to do my readers justice with this alternate post below. First I have some Tongan news to relate and then I will relay my semi-expat American need for football.

In Tongan news I gave another fakamalo, thank you speech, on Friday. Uhila, the same man who asked me to give a fakamalo when he invited me to his house for a New Years feast last week, convinced me again to give a fakamalo in the hall.

The only difference, however, was instead of giving a fakamalo to 15 people, I had to make a speech to the entire village along with visitors from the main island of Tongatapu, other towns in Vava’u, New Zealand, and Australia. So…about 100 people all together.

To be perfectly honest, if I had to give an off the cuff speech in English in America to my family and friends I would probably be pretty nervous. To give a speech in a foreign language that I barely know to a village I have only lived in for two months was certainly daunting. To make things even more difficult, Tongans are not what you would call tacit listeners. Whenever they hear something they like or agree with, whether it is at the beginning, middle, or end of the sentence, Tongans shout out one of several words – io, yes, malo, thanks, and monu’ia, blessings or praise. My personal favorite, however, is mo’oni, which literally means the truth.

When making a speech in English, a good speaker expects some laughs, if the joke is decent enough, and a smattering of applause at key moments. Imagine giving a speech in America where instead of clapping, people in the audience would shout, “The Truth!,” at random moments. That being said, I luckily saw the fakamalo coming and am well acquainted with the Tongan responses to speeches, so when I rose from my chair and began to speak I at least had some idea of what I wanted to say.

Since I believe some of you might be curious or enjoy knowing what the actual speech looks like in Tongan, here it is:

“Oku ou lea fakamalo. Malo feifekau. Malo Ha’akio. Malo ‘aupito ho’omou tokoni. Malo aupito mau me’akai ifo aupito. Oku ou fiefia ‘aupito ke nofo i Ha’akio. Ko hoku famili palangi oku nofo i Amelika ka oku ou fakakaukau ko hoku famili Tonga oku Ha’akio (this received a sea of mo’onis and maybe a river of malos). Oku ou fiefia ‘aupito ke faiako i GPS Houma. Ko kauleka i Ha’akio oku poto ‘aupito. Fakamolemole. Oku ou lea faka-Tonga kovi aupito ka te u ako. Malo aupito.

This translates too:

I say a speech of thanks. Thank you minister. Thank you Ha’akio. Thank you for your help. Thank you for giving me delicious food. I am very happy to live in Ha’akio. My American family lives in America, but I think my Tongan family is Ha’akio. I am very happy to teach in GPS Houma. The kids in Ha’akio are very smart. Sorry. I speak very bad Tongan but I will study. Thank you very much.

I was happily, and somewhat surprisingly I must admit, able to make this speech with only a few pauses and in a loud, clear voice. The Tongans greatly appreciated my attempt, and rewarded my efforts with a round of applause and several handshakes when I returned to my seat. It was, without a doubt, my single greatest feeling of accomplishment since I arrived in Tonga, as I have yet to start teaching, and I felt fulfilled that I made an attempt that seemed so unfeasible just a few months ago.

In other Tongan news, I attended a dance (or disco as they say in Tonga) on Friday. I do not think I have mentioned how ridiculous dances are in Tonga. With the exception of Tongans between the ages of 15 to 20 who are at the perfect age for embarrassment, everyone dances unabashedly. The kids are ridiculous. Jumping up and down and having the time of their lives. The married women are even more hilarious, as they dance with the same incredible spirit as the kids only with much larger bodies. Even the men get into the fray if they like the particular song.

The best comparison I could make is imagine being at a Bar Mitzvah, where the only music playing is a combination of techno, hip-hop, and island music, and everyone dances (women and children especially) with the same enthusiasm and dance moves of the ten year old younger siblings going crazy in the middle of the dance floor. To put it in perspective, and this should be a great image for those of you who have seen my horrible dancing, I am considered a good dancer in Tonga – yes, I know, I was shocked too.

It was ridiculous and a lot of fun. I couldn’t stop laughing with the Tongans and dancing with the kids. I am also pretty sure now that my ten year old neighbor has a crush on me as she told I looked very handsome and quickly interceded whenever a small child, be it male or female, tried to pull me from my chair to dance. As you can see, discos in Tonga are certainly an interesting experience.

Now in semi-American expat news, I am uploading this post from a restaurant in town while I am watching the Colts play the Ravens, and later the Seahawks play the Redskins. I walked into town early (arriving here at 7 a.m.) to watch the playoffs as I sadly learned that the Super Bowl is scheduled on my very first day of school, so seeing the game is unfortunately out of the question, and I had to watch at least one playoff game while I was here.

 As these are only the second and third nfl games I have been able to watch this year – the other game unfortunately being the Chiefs vs. the Chargers, which every nfl fan knows, watching either of those teams alone this year, let alone them facing off against each other, is a punishment you would not wish on your worst enemy – I am extremely happy to partake in an entertainment that filled up so much of my pre-Tonga life.

As always, thank you for reading. I will do my best to actually put up some photos with me in them in the near future. Next week all of the volunteers are flying to the main island of Tongatapu for a week of extra training before school starts, and I will try to capture some of the Group 77 touching reunion moments and have then in my next post. Have a great week!

The sunset in Vava'u

The view from my bike ride through the Western side of the island

A Very Tongan New Year

Life is funny. If you had told me a year ago that when the clock first struck 12 and 2013 was ushered in that I would welcome the New Year in a Wesleyan church in a rural village in Vava’u, Tonga, well considering that I had never heard of Tonga and I did not go to church, I would have had a very hard time believing you. A year ago, with graduation just a few months away, I did not know where I was going to be, but certainly the last place I thought to find myself was the South Pacific.

I did not expect to find anything special on December 31^st. I knew that the first week in January is called uike lotu in Tonga (literally the week of prayer or church) and that every day there are two church services, at 5 a.m and p.m., with accompanying feasts to follow the afternoon service. I was not told to expect anything out of the ordinary on New Years Eve, so I did not put any special thought or look forward to the approaching celebration, as I would have if I were home in the U.S.

The day started as my Mondays almost always do. I woke up, read a little, lesson planned a little more than a little, then made my weekly phone calls back to U.S. that I do every Monday. In between the reading and lesson planning I bought some bread at the shop in the village, and the man who owns it told me there was a feast in the afternoon but no church service. He didn’t know what time, just that the bells would ring when the feast was ready, and I was very happy to be rewarded with a feast without going to church first.

In the middle of my first call a Tongan that I know a little bit came over to my house with a sheet of paper. The paper had a list of names that I assumed were names meant to be invited to the feast, and though I had never seen or heard of an invitation in Tonga before, I didn’t think anything of it and he told me to come around 1.

During my second call, another man named Ono came over to pick me up, and I hurriedly promised to call back later, told Ono I would meet him there, and quickly changed into my tupenu and ta’ovala. I was a little late, but time is not as carefully kept here as it is in America so I figured I could sneak into the hall, where all the feasts are held, without being rude. I quickly ran over to the hall only to find in entirely empty.

Confused, I aimlessly looked around trying to figure out where else the entire village could possibly be except for the hall. Out of nowhere, a Tongan then emerged out of the bush and directed me to a house at the end of village. Inside were several Tongans families, including Ono, that I knew and some I didn’t. I was quickly ushered inside and sat down next to the patriarch of the family, which is considered a great honor.

I was shocked at what I saw. The food spread out before me was delicious and plentiful but I had seen feasts like that before. What struck me instead was how beautifully the table was set. There was a very fine tablecloth underneath everything. The plates were not fine China, but certainly were by Tongan standards. There were silver forks, knives, and spoons that people actually used and napkins that were actually cloth and again, and shockingly, actually used. It was like I had been transported, besides the Tongan language, back home.

After a prayer, the entire table began to eat and people started to give the requisite fakamalo, speeches, that are present at every feast. After several Tongans had spoken, Uhila the patriarch, who I know speaks English, asked me in Tongan to give a fakamalo. Nervous and unprepared, I stumbled out of my chair with the hope of not embarrassing myself too much and gave a fakamalo in Tongan. What I said was nothing fancy, and it went something along the lines of “Thank you very much. I am happy to live in Ha’akio and to be at this feast. The food is plentiful and delicious. Ha’akio is great and thank you for inviting me. I apologize for my bad Tongan.” Sitting down I scanned the faces of the people around me filled with devious smiles but contented faces and happy that I tried my best to give a real Tongan fakamalo.

The rest of the meal was spent eating everything in site and being told by the Tongans that I needed to eat more, an always-present ritual at any Tongan meal. Further, as a quick aside, an interesting aspect of Tonga is that even if people can speak English they usually only speak Tongan to me. This is a sign of respect signifying they think I am worth speaking Tongan too and that they believe I understand more than I actually do. It can be frustrating at times, and I was surprised to learn that the one family I didn’t know at the feast lives in Australia and of course speaks perfect English.

I assumed the rest of the day would pass uneventfully. I had nothing else to expect. I hung around the house and waited to be picked up and taken to a Baha’i study circle with another volunteer in town. I spent several hours there – a place where again I would have never imagined spending my New Years Eve a week, let alone, a year before – and returned to my house around 10:30. Upon my return I realized that the entire village was in church, so I quickly changed into proper church attire and walked over.

I will spare you the details of the service. It started at ten and ended at 1, being only temporarily interrupted with the ringing of the bells when the clock struck midnight. The service was boring – I can’t lie about that – but had an interesting twist at the end. Normally, after a Sunday service the men and elderly women line up and shake each others hand, which I join in as well.

After this service, the ending was slightly different. Every single man, woman, and child greets each other once a year at new years with a particular greeting. They shake hands, kiss each other on the cheek in the European fashion, and for the more senior men and women offer a hearty nose sniff at your neck to conclude the greeting. I, of course, took part, which means that I shook hands, was kissed on the cheek and kissed every single person in my village and received a good hard nose sniff from maybe a quarter.

It was certainly not the way I expected to usher in the new year but it was very touching and I went back home to celebrate the new year in the way I probably assumed I would be the year before. I drank a beer, the expected, watched Scrubs, the unexpected, and went to sleep amazed that though I will be here for two years, with my plan of coming to America during next years school break and my service ending in the fall of 2014, this may be the only new years I ever spend in Tonga.

Thank you all for reading. I hope everyone had great New Years Eve and I wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year.