June 15 to June 22, 2010
Port Maurelle
The bay of Port Maurelle. See the spec of Zulu at anchor extreme right off the southern point.
Southern tip of Port Maurelle
We’ve anchored off the Southern tip of Port Maurelle, named after the explorer Don Francisco Maurelle who arrived in Vava’u May 5, 1781. His ship, La Princesa, was leaking and his men were sick and he was low on food. The friendly Tongan chief, Tupou, gave him fresh food and Maurelle watered and made some repairs to his ship. He named the bay Port of Refuge, which now applies to the whole Vava’u harbor. Maurelle stayed only a short time as he was on his way to San Blas Mexico with dispatches from Manila.
Always Russ anchors way back on the periphery. Zulu swings wide. The wind hits us at 20 knots off the nose and pushes us around like a merry go round. The KISS wind generator spins making amps, making energy just the way Russ likes it.
I sit on my deck chair eating the last of the precious Minerva yellow fin tuna, a gift from SV Windborne. The wind blows my forkful of sautéed potatoes with onions and peas and a morsel of the yellow fin tuna in soya and ginger and lime and olive oil to the winds. Such is the velocity of wind here!
I read from the book Russ’ beautiful mother gave him: Ship of Gold in the Deep Blue Sea by Gary Kinder. The ship of gold was the steamship Central America bound for New York and carrying 592 passengers from California and their gold to the value of $2,000,000 in 1857.
It sunk in a hurricane off Cape Hatteras about 200 miles off the Carolina coast and all its treasure and most of its men were lost and gone to the bottom of the deep blue sea.
The story tells of Tommy Thompson, a 33-year-old research engineer’s methodical search for the ship —along with his friends’ search: a geologist and journalist -- against all odds and question and competition and greed.
True he was a genius, but he thought in the simplest terms, outside of the box, and came up with break-through technology that enabled him to discover the ship and recover its vast treasure in 1985 after 130 years of it being at the bottom of the sea.
His dream of finding the treasure-- against insurmountable odds--was fulfilled through his determination and discipline. “Discipline, the mother of good luck.” This treasure is the greatest ever found in the deep blue sea.
I lie down in the shade on the deck and I dream. I am out at sea and recovering treasure—gold bars and coins—from the deep. 9,000 ft down. First I see the trails of the sea cucumbers on the ocean floor. Sea cucumbers found that deep?
Then, I paraphrase my dream images as the book describes: the sea stars and the fiery red-orange or canary yellow anemones and gorgonian corals with arms of coral pink around trunks and beams and bricks of gold. I see broken crockery, porcelain tea cups, bottles, vases, leather suitcases with books of poetry—the pieces that make up personal life stories of the California Gold Rush days. I see the ships bell and anchor, chunks of coal, and tube worms boring holes into wood. Fragments of the whole—the whole having succumbed to the elements of a hurricane and which became enveloped in a watery grave. Still, dark, and final at rest.
I awake! My book lies open next to my pillow. It is unfinished. I do not want it to finish. I sit up. The wind is howling and the deck on which I lie is hard. I squint and blink to realize I am in Port Morelle, Vava'u, Kingdom of Tonga. I have to close the book. Seize the present moment in my life, being here in the Friendly Islands. This place will not return. There are treasures to be found here.
I slip overboard into the warm, translucent waters and swim toward a white coral beach with tall palms, the trunks of which are a rust red, and with green frond tops that twist and rustle in the wind. I swim on the surface of the underworld—waters of liquid blues. Black and white tipped reef sharks are out there, but have not met up with me. There are caves with swallows and caves with coral snakes and caves with folktales of lovers eloping not far off from this bay.
A huge slice of limestone sits precariously in the balance.
I keep my head above the turquoise, beyond the reefs, and swim parallel to the undermined base of the limestone that edges the island, ever etched away by wind and waves. A huge slice of limestone sits precariously in the balance as I swim by. I feel light and energized and alive. Like my life is treasure, golden in hue. And that I have just discovered it.
Russ comes on behind me and beaches the dinghy. We tie it to a palm tree. Take a walk along a two-wheel track through red earth toward a village. It is empty of people. Three horses are tethered. Pigs and piglets roam. Perhaps the people are in church. It is Sunday. We veer off to the right—to Barnacle beach and see the sign of invitation to a feast on a Saturday night.
A horse tethered in one of the villages.
Four little pigs munching on grass while mom is away.
A village house with a beautiful view of Barnacle Beach.
“You Well Come To Barnacle Beach.” Tongan feasts are held here.
A wall of a home topped with giant clam shells.
A butterfly alights atop of a flower.
We walk on. Into the interior--on and on in the hot, hot sun. Butterflies are everywhere. Small yellow butterflies, orange Monarch-like butterflies, black winged butterflies with periwinkle blue circles and white centers, white butterflies. They surround us making for a butterfly heaven. Flittering and alighting. My homemade words.
One flies into a spider’s web. The spider has long black and orange legs. I see the butterfly struggle with wings imprisoned in silk. I pull it from the web and set it free. Russ calls me the Butterfly goddess. It flies away. I am happy.
I think of the yachtsman, Steve, from the island of Jersey in the Atlantic, who went to a village of a tiny island here in Tonga. The islanders were preparing for a feast. Steve saw a small turtle and asked what they intended to do with it. They responded—eat it. So he bought it from them and took it far away off another uninhabited island and set it free. He being the Turtle god.
We walk the opposite way now from the previous village. Russ carries his panga (bush wacker) hoping to find a green coconut. But all the groves are set behind barbed wire fences--out of bounds. We walk on. Up a hill an elderly Tongan man with salt and pepper hair pushes a wheel barrow along the two-track red ‘road’. He is going to collect coconuts.
Six dogs make for me. Their ribs are showing. They growl. I try to act relaxed, but do not want any fangs buried in my ankles. I hold the back of my hand toward them and speak quietly. The old man stops and calls to the dogs to no avail.
Russ arrives and makes the Gggggggghhhhh sound from way back of his throat. This sound he heard the Tongans use on dogs thirty years ago! The dogs miraculously freeze and stop their barking. We smile, say hello, a few words of pleasantries. Then walk on.
There is a women coming up the path dressed modestly in worn clothes with a small boy carrying a woven matt and a panga. The small boy waves and smiles at us. The woman gives a warm smile too. A tiny boy walks wide-eyed at her side—holding her hand-- and starts to cry with fright as we get closer.
He has seen Palangi (white people) apparitions: Russ is in a cut-off yellow shirt breast high and has a large, battered straw hat askew on his head. His shorts are worn and stained from previous coconut tree climbs. I am in an orange pareo with a yellow Boeing cap on back to front and wearing scratched sun glasses. What a sight. Enough to scare any island child. The little boy is in his underpants and a T-shirt. Bare feet. His nose runs and tears flow and his mouth is twisted, and his eyes are white with fear.
We try to soothe him. But he continues to cry. So we walk on and wave and his Mom tells him to wave back. And he gains a sense of safety at our leaving and tentatively lifts his little hand. He forces a smile--a smile of relief. Tear stained. Poor darling little treasure boy.
Russ says these villagers are definitely not part of the cash flow commoners. They are subsistence farmers mainly. They have VERY LITTLE. But their smiles are wide and they exude calm. They have so little, yet so much. Their simple, yet neat little houses perch in places that offer views of the waters blue.
On we walk until we get to another village gate, which is closed. I turn around and retrace my steps. Russ must have gained access to the village. I hear a rustle. I get a fright. So does the cow. His hoof gets tangled in the lianas. I want to help it, but it just stands there. Eventually it frees itself and moves into the bush.
The beach on which I sat waiting for Russ at Port Maurelle—my back on fire from sand flies.
I walk on. Pick wild flowers with a pungent smell. Things bite my back. Sand flies? I burn and itch all over. I must get to the beach quickly. There is the beach. I sit on a coconut log in the shade. But my back burns on. I cannot wait any longer for Russ. I must get in the water. I’m on fire.
Cool, clear, water. It soothes my back. Russ eventually appears. I pull the dinghy out into the water, pointing into the passage through the reefs. He talks to a Swedish cruiser with a big fat stomach. About some Spanish people who have a restaurant on a small island called Tapana. They serve sea food and chicken paella and tapas. The whole family is involved. And they come out and sing Spanish songs and dance Flamenco while you eat. He wants to go there sometime.
I call to Russ, my back is burning. I want to go out where the limestone is etched away and drops into the turquoise waters and swim. He comes. And we go out there.
I tie the dingy to the branch of a tree and enter the deeper water and close my eyes and swim through the liquid blues. I see the gray herons with yellow legs take off over the waters. Low flying. High above are the marked boobies and frigate birds diving. I tumble through the cool blues.
I am back into my dream. Back down to the bottom of the ocean deep. Back to where the sea stars and the fiery red-orange or canary yellow anemones and gorgonian corals with arms of coral pink wrap around things. But this time they are not wrapped around trunks and beams and bricks of gold. I do not see broken crockery, porcelain tea cups, bottles, vases, leather suitcases with books of poetry—the pieces that make up personal life stories of the California Gold Rush days. I do not see the ships bell and anchor, chunks of coal, and tube worms boring holes into wood.
The arms of coral pink wrap around Spanish discoverers in Tongan bays of blue translucent waters; around white coral beaches that flow into gentle curves; around wild pungent flowers; around green coconuts; around dogs and horses and cows and pigs and butterflies and turtles and herons and boobies and frigate birds and sharks and coral snakes; around quiet villages; around simple little homes with views of waters blue; around Tongan feasts; around smiles of old men and women; around the tear-stained broken smile of a tiny bare foot child.
The world turns, and lives in the passage of time turn too in a kaleidoscope of history and place. I’ve discovered these treasures and know time has a way of giving them to you and taking them away. I feel light and energized and alive. Like my life is treasure, golden in hue. And that I have just discovered it too.
“Diligence is the mother of luck.” Vast treasures await. But it is in the determination and discipline of the search that we find them. Seize the present moments. Fulfill the dream. Time is still here for us. I swim on.
The sun sets to the west of Port Maurelle and on my beautiful day of fulfilled dreams.
Nuku
We take the dinghy to Nuku, around the point from Port Morelle. A gray heron with yellow legs stands gingerly on the reef at low tide as we wiz by. Another takes off low, like a 747.
“Look at the flying fish!” we both exclaim. Schools of flying fish fly inches above the water parallel to the dinghy on both sides! Wow! Silver streaks with tinge of blue. I have never seen flying fish fly so far. They are either energized by us or by bigger fish.
We beach the dinghy on the perfect coral spit of Nuku. It is so perfect I feel loathe to leave an imprint. The water all around is shallow over sand—turquoise. A sign further in from the beach reads: private house enjoy the beach. There tucked in behind pandanus and palm trees is a small square house with a water tank in the foreground.
Russ walks on along the low-tide reefs and soon disappears, his usual style. I like to walk alone and drink in the vistas to the south that frame white sails against the island of Eukafa. I think I might like to live in that house all alone for a month with books and blank paper and music and tropical fruit.
I walk on slowly and find a little cove in which to meditate. I investigate the tidal pools to find starfish and other creatures. Up on top of craggy limestone outcroppings the roots of the pandanus trees push through the stone, such tenaciousness. The water laps at my feet. Is the tide coming in or out?
I get to where my knees rather than my ankles become the measuring stick and decide to turn back. Russ has either walked around or up over. I retrace my steps slowly making the most of the silence and beauty.
I’m back on the spit. Smoothed in texture and a peach-yellow in colour. A white chicken ventures out from the house yard to the edge of the beach. It struts its stuff, waddling stiffly from one leg to another stretching its neck in rapid forward jerky motion and disappears behind the bush as I approach.
Here comes Russ. I have to laugh at the image. He has rounded the whole island. I take a photograph for the record. He walks on across the edge of the spit. I see his footsteps and think about those of his mother and father who visited here with us long, long ago. They walked this very spit and time and elements have washed away all trace of them having been here.
So I bend down low and photograph Russ’ footprints so they will last through time and element for those who love him to see for years to come. Zulu awaits us. We must pull up the dinghy anchor and return.
The rain falls heavily as I write. It comforts and soothes my soul. It helps me appreciate shelter. I can hear the water pouring down. Slowly with time there is quiet. The drops tinkle, drip drip splash, then cease to drop. And all that remains is empty silence.
The perfect spit of Nuku pointing in the direction of Port Maurelle.
My walk begins going south along the length of Nuku’s beach.
A spec of white sails against the southern skies.
My room with a view as I sit down on a bed of leaves.
The ubiquitous sea cucumber. Tonga exports these to China.
Knock knock. Who is there? Don’t step on my toes.
The ever present blue star fish.
A small crater in the reefs holding creatures with long tentacles.
Russ emerges full circle around the island in his beach uniform.
I photograph Russ’ footprints on Nuku’s spit. Record of his presence for time evermore.
June 14 and July 6 and 7, 2010
Twice to Coral gardens; Swallows Cave
Coral Gardens
My National Geographic picture of New Zealand skipper, Dave, off SV Vittoria
“It is easier if we take the boat up through Ava Pulepulekai, the western passage between Hunga and Vaka’eitu.” Dave says. Whatever, we’ll go with Dave.
Dave is the sweetest Kiwi--intelligent in an understated way and always willing to please. He is a character. I seriously want to submit the picture I took of him on his boat, Vittoria, to National Geographic. Just because where would you find a better epitome of a Kiwi skipper than this! The ocean is their back yard and they are ready to take it on.
Dave says you can take a boat in behind the reef at Vaka’eitu, but then you have to swim over and if there is an incoming swell you might be hard pressed in the true sense of the word.
So Lynn, Dave’s wife, keeps Vittoria out in the deep and her friend from Christchurch keeps her company. Dave and his friend, Jeff, and Russ and I dingy out to the drop off, anchor, and slide on over into the cool waters and swim for the reef. It is a continuous reef that stretches between the two islands of Nuapapu and Vaka’eitu
The sun is high in the sky and filters down into the water casting bright light on the coral and fish. I do feel like I am in a garden with the subtle colours of mauve, lime green, pink, and yellow. Sea flowers.
Fish are sparse, but colourful and Dave is lucky to have an underwater camera! I swim with him and watch him dive down to get close-ups. Without a camera I feel at a loss or ill equipped, but set my mind to just swim through and enjoy this beautiful meander. To look at the wall of reef gradually slope up to the surface where the waves break. To see the surge pushing through underwater ‘valleys’ as the force calves its path through coral vulnerability.
I cannot wrap my mind around names of fish species. This is a language unto itself: Dascyllus albisella; Chaetodon fremblii; Halichoeres ornatissimus; Coris gaimardi; Gomphosus varius. The only biology class I took was at 7:00 AM in the morning umpteen years ago and I used to sleep through it. Give me the English language! But in fish instance, I can’t even try the names on for sizes: White-spotted Damsel Fish; Blue-Lined Butterfly Fish; Ornate Wrasse Fish; Gaimard’s Wrasse Fish; Bird Wrasse Fish.
So, often I use the word kaleidoscope. This is how I view the fish as they swim around or below or above me. It is an underworld that turns in brilliant colour. My favourite fish are the bright yellow surgeon fish with pointed, puckered, cute mouths that form a pout. They wear what looks like a permanent smile, and have cheer-leader bright blue eyes.
There are the-- butterfly fish with a body of yellow and blue horizontal stripes; wrasse that are red with brilliant blue spots and gorgeous yellow tails; bird wrasse that are greenish blue with long, long pointed noses; parrot fish with brilliant hues of green and blue and beak-like mouths; cow fish that carry hexagonal plates with spines above their eyes and that are bloated and have a goofy look; trumpet fish that are long transparent needle-like with a black and white dotted flair on the tail; tiny electric blue fish and cousins of turquoise; schools of tiny silver fish that en mass form a delicate shimmering curtain around you; ubiquitous angel fish; squid with big black eyes and long noses that swim backward and forward with delicate skirt-like transparent “fins” attached to the length of their black bodies topped with silver-blue dots that turn to gold when the school dart forward ensemble if spooked; trigger fish with small eyes and noses that look a bit like a pigs snout and bold black markings against their yellow body, as in modern art. The cherry on the top of this fish paragraph is the latter trigger fish’s Hawaiian name-- Hu-mu hu-mu nu-ku nu-ku a pu-a-‘a. Come again?
This is just one paragraph of fish and I cannot go any further. I have to swim back to the dinghy where Dave’s friend Jeff from Christchurch is turning raspberry red in the Tongan sun. He looks as if he is about to hallucinate. We haul the small anchor up and Russ zooms toward Vittoria.
We climb on board with red-haired Lynn at the helm and motor back around Vaka’eitu’s southern point past the reefs that join Langitau and create a window onto Nuapapu. Past jewel motus ringed by coral beaches, past SV Windborne headed out to the volcano, Late, and back to Zulu for sliced watermelon, chocolate brownies, and tea.
Vaka’eitu to Langitau reef with Nuapapu in background.
Jewel motus ringed by coral beaches.
SV Windborne that we encountered at Minerva Reef.
Some have said this is the most beautiful reef they have ever seen. And some go a step further to say any reef they have seen after this one seems dead. This is slightly over the top or perhaps they have just gone around the reef block once.
Not that you asked, but my opinion is that it is a beautiful reef, but lacks life in a big, big way. Between human kind and hurricanes this and most of the South Pacific reefs are barely alive. On this journey I have not seen one reef, with the exception perhaps of some at Suwarrow—the Cook Island nature preserve--that compares to what we saw 30 years ago--a sad, sad, sad reality.
Note: We went back to this reef July 7 taking our friends--Vicky, Gary, Zeke, and Nina off SV Kallisto--on Zulu. This time it was a gray day with quite a swell and surge and undercurrent. Without the sunlight the brilliance was missing. Still we seemed to get lost in the beauty and on a few occasions woke up to the fact that the surge had pushed us close to the tops of the reefs. Here the waves were crashing and under water they looked ice green with millions of air bubbles. When we surfaced we’d see the white foam and make haste to do turnarounds with accelerated flipper motion to get back to deep waters.
Swallows Cave
SV Kallisto built by Gary and Vicky from Tasmania. We sail to Swallows cave aboard this vessel.
Gary, Nina, and Zeke en route to outer islands, Vava’u.
Gary, Nina, and Zeke raise the topsail. What a first class 8- and 10-year-old crew!
The entrance to Swallows cave off the northern end of Kapa, Vava’u.
Our friends from Tasmania--Vicky, Gary, and their priceless children 10-year-old Zeke and 8-year-old Nina--invite us to go to Swallows cave on their SV Kallisto.
Vicky and Gary built Kallisto, a 32 ft steel hull, gaff- rigged cutter on the weekends over a period of 7 years. Now they are enjoying the fruits of their labor of love on a cruise from Sydney to Bay of Islands, NZ to Tonga. Their plans are to continue on to Fiji, Vanuatu, and back to Australia for the cyclone season. Who knows if, thereafter, Asia might pull on their sailing heart strings? Time will tell. Right now the world is their own to behold.
Talk about a focused and innovative family. Not only did they build their boat, the interior of which is from Tasmanian Huron Pine, but Vicky made Kallisto’s sails, dodger, biminy, splash guards etc., etc. A huge etc., is that she also built a nesting sailing dinghy! All this while getting a PhD and delving into motherhood. Hope this last bit of information didn’t take the shine off Gary, because he is so sterling that he shines naturally through and through. Theirs’ is a joie de vie.
Zeke, always collected and articulate , tells us the name Kallisto (sp) is derived from the Greek myth where after she becomes pregnant by Zeus, is turned into a constellation to prevent her death.
I read up on this myth and find the following: Calisto was a wood nymph and companion to Artemis twin sister of Apollo. Artemis’ parents were Zeus and Leto. Zeus was the greatest god of the Greek Pantheon. He was the god of light, of clear skies, and of thunder. Calisto vowed to remain a virgin. Zeus, however, fell in love with her and she became pregnant. The myth branches out into three different endings from my source—Dictionary of Classical Mythology: (1) Hera the greatest of all Olympian Godesses, and married to Zeus, had Artemis kill Calisto with an arrow or (2) Artemis changed her into a she bear or (3) Zeus changed Calisto into the Great Bear constellation to prevent her from being killed. I think the latter is the ending Zeke shared—as it relates to Calisto.
Now when I search the skies for the Great Bear constellation, I will think of the SV Calisto.
We are happy to be on board and watch this lovely family work together: Gary hand cranks the anchor up, Nina lays chain evenly below, Vicky is at the tiller and Zeke hauls up sails and all make us feel at home.
We sail away to Swallow’s cave where Gary stays aboard Kallisto and the rest of us pile into our dinghy with Russ at the throttle heading into the entrance of a very special place.
Russ brings the dinghy into the entrance of Swallows cave.
Kallisto glides by in colour under gray light on the outside.
Once inside, if we look back toward the entrance, all is silhouetted in this other world.
Nina looks around in awe and she herself becomes part of the silhouette.
We look forward into the cave and subtle shades of greens, and russet-mushroom-taupe browns, and sand beiges, and perhaps a touch of rust come to play-- earth tones painted by an unknown artist from nature’s palette.
Ground water seeps through the cave top in time upon time. The minerals cause buildup of stalagmites—intricate needle-like formations that hang from walls and ceiling. Together, they create an abstract image—emulating a cathedral-- the beauty of which is silencing.
People throughout time feel the need to carve or etch or paint their names in nature’s places of great beauty or significance. 'I have been here' they want to say. And do say, calling for recognition. Their names scream out at you in blue and red and black and brown and white paint. An onslaught of insensitivity—again humankind leaves their imprint. Some say some of the graffiti was left by whalers in days of old, which lend a certain presence from an historic sense. But without the graffiti I would feel their presence or that of interlopers or travelers or lovers or native Tongans in any case, perhaps even more so. I transcend the graffiti and look beyond.
High up on part of the ceiling are mud bird’s nests. One would think they are Swallow’s nests given the cave’s namesake. However, I understand that they are really Starling nests.
The cave walls are covered in earth tones as if painted by an unknown artist using nature’s palette.
Ground water drips drips drips through time on end and minerals from that water form Stalagmites—fine intricate needle-like hanging structures. These give the feeling of being inside a cathedral.
Stalagmites hang in crystal formation from the cave walls. We transcend the graffiti.
The mud nests up on the ceiling are those of Starlings, rather than Swallows.
There are holes in some parts of the ceiling where you can see the sky and trees leaning inward. Light permeates the water. The bluest of sapphire or cobalt or cerulean blue water carries this dancing light. The water is on a par with Italy’s Blue Grotto. It is crystal clear and calls one to enter—to swim through its cool velvet blues.
Nina dons her mask, hearing the call and Zeke can’t resist and hangs over the dinghy side to peer into the exquisite watery window opening up to the colour of coral heads below. Vicky holds on to him. Once back out we all fall into the water and frolic like whales or porpoises at play. What a day!
The bluest of sapphire or cobalt or cerulean blue water carries dancing light.
Nina heeds the call of the water and dons her mask.
Zeke peers over the dinghy side into the exquisite watery window that opens up to the colour of coral heads below. Vicky holds on to him.
June 4 through 8, 2010
Island formation and colonization; Ancient rule; Modernization; Democracy; Making sense of Tonga; Rank; Family; Religion; Tongans like to please; Vava’u High School’s silver anniversary celebration in photo form.
Island formation and colonization
We’re anchored off the south end of Tapana. Last night the thunder boomed for the longest time ever with sheet lightening and short, but heavy downpours.
It made for a good ambience to read I.C. Campbell’s Island Kingdom, Tonga Ancient and Modern. To reiterate in summary would require my cracked skull. Radical, but need for fractured thought—especially with regard the three dynasties.
Try some of these names on for size from the Tu’i Kanokupolu line: Ngata, Atamata’ila, Mataeletu’apiko and Mailelaumotomoto or Ma’afu’otu’itonga or Moengangongo.
I owe some sort of update from a somewhat uniformed, pathetic initial blog introduction to Tonga formed entirely from the sucking of my thumb. This might not be an improvement, but I will free flow—slightly more informed.
The first inhabitants of Tonga arrived from Asia 3000 years ago. They arrived probably in voyaging canoes, or Kalia, that were lateen rigged and held up by moveable masts. Small mixed groups of pottery-making men and women undertook these voyages carrying coconuts, talo, breadfruit, bananas, yams and pigs, rats, dogs and fowl. They came not because of over population in Asia, but rather to strike out on their own.
Tonga was much smaller then. It had no connection to continental history. Rather “it was formed as a result of two volcanic chains associated with boundary between the Australian and Pacific tectonic plates.” With eruption, base was formed for coral reefs to grow and these eventually become limestone islands or sand atolls. Volcanic ash was the icing on these island cakes, forming rich soil.
Ancient rule
About the 13th century legend has it that Tongan society was ruled by a system of chiefs: a central chief who got his status and power from heaven for overrule of subordinate chiefs. There was plenty of food and fish and time for warfare with other islanders.
There was outer island interaction and intermarriage with Samoans especially, and in time Tongans evolved from small people to Samoan-like large people.
Three dynasties took on power and this is where I do a meltdown so won’t go there. There was fair share of assassination and conflict over title and land distribution etc. What else is new with human beings.
Next came unity and independence and leap to Queen Salote’s reign from 1918 to 1965. She was wise, politically astute, got rid of the chieftainship, educated the nobles rather than have them in position by title only. She changed government, put the church in their place, emphasized education and agriculture and health services for all the people.
She was mourned greatly at her death on 17 December, 1965.
Modernization
Tupou IV stepped up to the throne, all four hundred pounds of weight, to modernize Tonga in a radical and grandiose way. Over population became a huge problem and he made for great changes in economic and agricultural development, building of roads, providing for overseas scholarships, teacher training and education, rebuilding of housing from the traditional, adding more health services to include family planning, which in time kept the growth at bay.
Some of his pipe-dream plans fell short because they were absolute pies in the skies and because of lack of qualified workers. The 1982 hurricane also wiped out 60 to 80 percent of everything.
With foreign aid and advisers he tried to find oil; proposed-- building oil storage facilities in Tonga for the whole Pacific region, building on to the Tongan fleet of vessels, played with the idea of regional shipping and even the creating facilities for the building and repair of all South Pacific ships. He built airfields and had a shot at forming Tongan Airlines to bring in tourists, and rebuilt wharfs to better accommodate deep water vessels. A lot of his plans fell short. But cream from some of them took hold.
Democracy
Enter Akilisi Pohiva, a school teacher who had his own radio station and eventually became a member of parliament. Interestingly, he attended the same college in Australia for his degree as did the king.
In 1992 his attempt at bringing government corruption, mismanagement, favouritism to the entitled etc., got his radio station and newspaper shut down and spent 29 out of 30 days in jail before he won his case. His two journalist cohorts kept him company in the goal. The King and nobles and parliament covered their tracks while Pohiva was kept silent.
Even though the people voted for democracy in large numbers, a cohesive body for a strong platform was not there, along with fallout among the leaders. All was not lost though.
Now, in November of 2010 there will be open elections for positions in parliament (rather than positions filled by the King’s choice) and perhaps a fazing in of democracy with the Monarchy on the side able to veto if need be. Things happen when you start then. And I am out of free flow steam.
Making sense of Tonga
A good book to read if you plan a visit: Making Sense of Tonga—A Visitor’s Guide to the Kingdom’s Rich Polynesian Culture by Mary M. McCoy and Siotame Drew Havea.
Understanding the Tongan culture beyond the palangi in-the-box perceptions is so important. Rank is ultra important, as is family and religion the latter of which I cannot find energy to cover.
Rank
With regard rank, there are three levels: Royalty, nobles, and commoners for which a different language for each level is spoken. Therefore, royalty and nobles have talking chiefs when it comes to communicating to commoners.
Also men rank higher than women, but sisters rank higher than brothers. Relatives on the father’s side rank higher than those on the mother’s side. Older people rank higher than the younger.
Family
The immediate Tongan family extends out to third cousins for a start. All uncles and aunts are mothers and fathers to all children. That is the term ‘mother’ or ‘father’ is applicable to all aunts and/or uncles. Tongans call their mothers and fathers by their first names so as not to confuse them with extended mothers and fathers.
It takes a lot to raise a child and Tongans speak of it as sleeping near or close to the child—mohe ofi.
“If the child becomes a menace to the community, it is said he or she did not mohe ofi or lie in the kaliloa (literally a long pillow), referring to the mother’s arm.”
Religion
The missionaries did a thorough job of imprinting Christianity on the Tongan psyche. The church is an integral part of their lives next to family. They work hardest in these two areas, more so than making a living. Commoners can look to a life after death.
The church ‘fathers’ know how to rub this in and draw from their giving spirit in the form of money. They record contribution and at the end of the year read out to the congregation how much each family has given. Some families take loans that they can never pay back to give to the church to avoid embarrassment.
Tongans like to please
Lastly before my breath gives out, Tongans like to please. They answer yes or ‘io’ to a lot of things, so be careful how you ask the question. You might get the wrong answer and disappointing conclusion.
For example: our friend’s wife had ‘Delhi’ (runny) tummy in Nuku’alofa. He went to a Tongan chemist and looked at ingredients on bottles off the shelf until he found what he thought mighty remedy the problem.
Wrong way to ask the question:
Does this medicine work for a runny tummy?
Io (yes) was the reply he got.
He went back to his wife and gave her the medicine and she got much worse with debilitating diarrhea. Back he went to a more western-like chemist.
Right way to ask the question:
What medicine do I need for a runny tummy?
They will give you the right medicine.
When he showed them what medicine he had given his wife, they roared with laughter.
I’m out of Tongan culture steam and need to jump in the water to cool down. There is much more to know so that you are better informed on: time and possessions and behaviour and traditional dress and marriage, but you’ll have to come here yourself to find out or read the book.
Vava’u High School’s silver anniversary celebration in photo form
This celebration was in honor of the high school’s silver anniversary and Neiafu burst into animated colour with culture at large for the event. The princess from Nuku’alofa came for the occasion and the minister of education and others of important rank.
There were students marching in smart uniforms and marching band boys feeling important and teachers proud of accomplishment and onlookers watching the parade on the aside.
At the school hall--which consisted of a huge tin roof over a concrete floor open on two sides—the princess and visiting dignitaries took position on stage on chairs while the students sat cross legged on the concrete floor. The powerful songs the students sang lifted hearts and minds.
There was much speech making and certificate and trophy presentation and more song and conservative dance by 4 young women. The dour-faced minister of education was the authority at large in the end. Students never made eye contact with him and approached him for their certificates bent over with head bowed because of his rank.
I can only share images of this event with few words to accompany. Enjoy.
High school marching band boys waiting under the Banyan tree for word to start blowing the trumpets.
High school girls in smart uniform waiting for the green light to march in the parade.
High school teachers in yellow wearing ta’ovala’s—woven waist mats and kiekies—a belt with numerous strands hanging down from it.
The Vava’u High School Silver anniversary float. See the plastic coconuts hanging off the plastic trees. Lucky Russ was not around, he might have climbed them.
The tall chap on the right looks serious about his place in the marching band.
Grandpa is losing his grandchild. No worries. Smile.
The best sailing children in the South Seas: Zeke and Nina hail from Tasmania.
My favourite family off SV Kallisto watch the parade: Nina, Zeke, Vicky, and Gary.
High school teachers wear yellow and the ta’ovala—woven waste wraps. The ties that bind the mat around the waist are often made from plaited coconut husks and sometimes human hair for funerals.
The band readies itself to march on. Gary off SV Kallisto stands on the side for a good view.
Vava’u residents place themselves in a good place to watch the parade.
High school boys start the march from the market place in center Neiafu.
The princess at center stage. Light and my place in the back made for poor exposure. She was light skinned, slender, composed, and wore fine textured clothing.
A mother and daughter sit on the floor of the school hall, open on two sides during the ceremonies.
Women wearing the ta’ovala to the left and right—woven waist wrap- and kiekie at center—a belt with numerous strands of leaves that hang down. The latter can be made of coconut or sea shells or other material.
Tongans of higher rank sit on chairs. The choir master directs the powerful voices of students in two most beautiful songs: Hallelujah and Jerusalem. The voices of these young people bring deep gratification and awe to those who listen.
Two of four girls in dance costume wait in the wings for their event before the minister of education and other dignitaries.
Young Tongan girls dance in between presentation of school certificates and trophies by the minister of education.
The minister of education—see background right--sits in the higher position of honor, on stage. See the tapa cloth on the steps and stage. Tongan tapa is considered best quality in the South Pacific.
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