Dateline: Tonga

Oh, good lord. How many mosquito bites can one girl get? This about mosquitos and Tonga: two applications of industrial strength DEET and the bastards are still biting me through my clothes. (These intrepid insects put me in mind of their brethren of North America. Michigan state to be specific, where on a bike ride in St. Joes I once watched the MI variety bite (me) through my bike shorts! Through Lycra for crissakes!)

Someone, perhaps an expert in entomology, please inform: are these winged demons not creatures of hell itself? What earthly purpose do mosquitos serve anyway? Food for the bats, I’m going to tender an uneducated guess, just based on the prodigious size of the local bat community here on this tiny little island. And I mean both the size of the population in terms of numbers AND in terms of individual size as well. Biggest bats you’ve ever seen. (Biggest bats I’ve ever seen.) Wing span about 25 inches give or take. Big mothers.

See for yourself in this photo from our tour of the main island of Tongatapu. I guess they get that big because they are feasting on all the gd mossies. (FYI “mossies” is island speak for mosquitos, as if the local folk are fond of the useless mofos. Me? I do not use a sweet-sounding diminutive for a creature you can barely see yet a single one has the power to keep you up all night long scratching like a meth addict.) Sorry about the blue language. Sleepless bug-ridden nights make me sort of techy. Yes, you might be of the opinion that a bat-filled tree shouldn’t really qualify as an E-ticket attraction on a national tour, but honestly it was kind of great. Not killer whales great, or herds of elephants great, but somehow reassuring that somebody out there is devouring those goddamned mosquitos by the gajillions.

One of the truisms (and sometimes an advantage) of traveling on the “shoulder” season, especially at the end of the “high” season, is that things are quite a bit more relaxed in general in tourist destinations. Things and personnel. You should expect for instance that facilities will sometimes display a bit of delayed maintenance here and there. At most tourist hot spots there are fewer travelers around (a good thing for the most part), but that can mean a reduction in staff and in some cases a reduction in service. Not a big deal if you’re talking about menu selections, (“Sorry, but we are all out of everything on the menu except the local grilled fish and roasted breadfruit for the foreseeable future, i.e. the duration of your stay.”), but a very big deal if you’re talking about a break down of your twin engine motorboat transport from Atata to Nuku’alofa, Tongatapu when headed for your return flight back to Fiji.

When it comes to ocean going voyages, word of imminent disaster spreads very quickly on a motorboat that is about the size of my hot tub in Oak Park. Picture me and Pablo (and five Tongans), mid-Pacific, down one engine, and the other one starts to whine like I’ve been known to when the chardonnay isn’t cold enough. All of the adult Tongans (there is one baby aboard) are talking loudly and excitedly on five different cell phones. (To whom they are all speaking is a question that we will not think to ask, nor will we ever find out an answer.) The only word I can make out for sure is “Americans”. There is no laughter on board our crippled vessel. This one thing is true when it comes to the people of Tonga. If nobody’s laughing, it’s time to worry. Anxiety is highly contagious on a small boat. Our anxiety was (stupidly) about missing our flight. The Tongans, it was to be revealed, were much more concerned about losing the one remaining sickly motor completely and drifting into the reef where the rocky shoals would surely punch a hole in the bottom of the boat. (During the crossing, the “captain” – a barefoot teenager – steers with one foot while standing up on the seat to look out for hole-punching rocks sticking up out of the sea. This should have been a clue to our imminent peril, but alas, or maybe luckily, depending on your preferences, we were clue-LESS about this particular hazard on every one of our four passages.) Eventually it was conveyed to us that the “engineer” was on his way out from where we had only just deported, to reconnoiter and “repair” the engine. The “engineer” is the one guy on the island who can repair anything, and he does. He is the plumber, (fixer of toilet stoppages and leaks), the electrician, (fixer of ceiling fans) and now the nautical engineer, (boat fixer). He caught up with us in another boat (this one the size of a large-ish bathtub) and after a hasty discussion, which included all highly agitated Tongans, one of the girls abruptly decamped to the smaller vessel with all of her luggage and a few other leaking parcels containing fish. I supposed that they were reducing the load in our boat to prevent us from sinking but, and not for the first time, I supposed wrong. Part of the Tongan’s concern (the lion’s share, I might add) was the concern that our evacuee was going to miss her ferry to another small island. That was the real crises among our fellow passengers. Secondary was the issue of the Americans and their silly itinerary.

So, as the “rescue” vessel steered toward the mainland with haste, one rather hefty young Tongan woman standing mid-ship holding aloft an umbrella – did I mention it was pouring down raining? – I did have to fall in love with the Tongans (again) a little bit for the obvious deep concern that they feel for one other. It is a co-operative culture, demonstrably communal, and like many of the countries of the African diaspora, it truly feels “all for one and one for all”.

The boat transporting the Americans followed behind, limping into harbor a little late, but well within time to catch our last Tongan meal at the very wonderful Friends Café and also in time for a whole other adventure which can be summed up thusly: Why Leaving Your Luggage in the Back of a Taxi in Tonga to go Toddling off in Search of Cappuccino is A VERY BAD IDEA.

Dateline: Atata, a tiny little island about a half hour’s boat ride from the main island of Tonga.

Thanks to the new fiber optics line laid down courtesy of Fiji in August, we have pretty (erratic but), excellent wee fee. Considering. So here we are, sitting in a bar at 9 am with a group of exuberant Rugby fans. Tonga is in the world cup today against The Cook Islands. This is weird. We could be in any sports bar anywhere in any place in the whole wide world. World travelers can tell you, sports fanaticism is universal. Only there’s no drinking here. The only alcohol consumption this entire week at the Royal Sunset Resort will be completely our responsibility. It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it and we will make every effort to “get ‘er done” in true American fashion.

As of this moment Tonga leads 14-10…make that 18-10. You heard it here. The Cook Islands? (Pussies.) Although the word for that in Tongan escapes me.

These guys are some serious rugby fans. Did I already say that?

You have to forgive me because I did NOT stay on the wagon. Fell off the kava wagon last night. I now know: kava messes with my short-term memory. Big. Time. Which reminds me. I forgot to record my serious error regarding the use (and abuse?) of kava. Correction: Kava is NOT consumed exclusively by the citizens of Vanuatu. No. No. No. Fijians are also BIG consumers of the stuff. And, now we know, they brew it here on Tonga, too.

Kava, it turns out, is very popular all over the South Pacific.

Back to how I fell from grace:

Last night when we arrived here on Atata we were surprised to find that we are the ONLY guests on the entire island. Population of Atata is 300. Last night the census rocketed upon our arrival to 302. Pretty amazing. So, we (by default) get the VIP fale (room) which has everything you might need, but is maybe one or two steps up in accommodation niceties from a great back packer hotel. No stars.

The upside is that our front deck is literally ten feet from the lapping Pacific. Facing west. Imagine the view past several lazily moored fishing boats as the sun sets. Words cannot describe it.

Anyway, when our boat pulled up to the resort’s dock, our greeter, Danny, met us and told us that we are the King and Queen because there will be no other guests until Friday. So, whatever we want…

That first night, five guys (unbelievable musicians) came over from the main island to serenade the king and queen (and, whoa!) conduct a kava ceremony in our honor. How could I say no? (Probably the first time in 30 years I yielded to peer pressure.) I woke up around 3 and decided that it would be a very good idea to take a Cipro. I feel fine today. No worries. (I’ve been carrying those emergency Cipro around for years and I finally needed one. Thank-you, Doctor Horton for the script because I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t had them in my ready possession I would even now be in my fale on my knees wishing I was dead instead of enjoying the game here in the bar with my mates.) I learned my lesson: No. More. Kava. For the queen. This time I mean it. (Note: not sure if it was the kava. Might have been the veggies at dinner. I didn’t drink the water and even boiled the water I used to brush my teeth in, so ????) Meanwhile, the boys in the band drank (literally) a bucket of kava before turning in. They giggle like middle school kids when you ask them questions about kava so I guess they are all addicted to the stuff. (Women on Tonga, unless you are a tourist, don’t partake.)

But they do get to watch the game. In fact the girls are in the front row and seem to be loudly enjoying the game every bit as much (more) as the guys. Like certain Packers fans I know – minus the cheese heads. (No names, but you girls know who you are up there at Pattie’s on 70 in lovely Winter, Wisconsin).

The other distinction regarding kava consumption between the island nations is the ceremony itself. On Vanuata, as previously reported, a kava party bears strong resemblance to a frat party during Spring Rush. Here on Atata in Tonga, the process is more like a pot party. Everybody is MELL-LOW. VERY, VERY MELL-LOW. They sit in a circle on hand woven mats (you can guess who does the weaving of those puppies) and a participant will clap their hands once if they want a “hit”. Then the guy with the ladle, (who seems to have some kind of authority, maybe he brewed the batch???) pours a coconut shell full of kava and passes it over. The kava is slugged down in silence and the coconut shell gets passed reverentially back to the guy with the ladel.

Then a short, quiet conversation occurs, presumably about the next audio selection, and one of three guitars starts up. They are lovely singers and the harmonies are beautiful. Pablo got a description of the lyrics and it had something to do with some guy who wants a divorce but he either can’t afford it or for some other undeclared reason he can’t acquire one so he’s stuck with a wife he doesn’t love. (Tongan Country Western.) Lightweights, we hit the sack after two cups. The band played on and finished the bucket. (We were informed this morning.) It’s a rule. Nobody leaves until the kava is finished. (Except for the tourists who get a kava pass.)

Next up, when the rugby game concludes on the tube, we will enjoy a village tour and the mandatory tour of the elementary school. (This will be our third such tour and so far my preliminary observations of public schools in the tropics leads me to believe that the kids seem to be enjoying endless recess. Not a lot of book learnin’ going on but plenty of P.E. Maybe why Tonga is right this minute destroying the Cook Islands.) Go Tonga!

Dateline: Vanuatu.

I don’t know a single other person who has been to Vanuatu. It is true, most Americans are ridiculously ignorant of world Geography, but I got lots of “Is that in Mexico?” – or even worse – from some pretty well traveled people when I announced my itinerary. From the moment we got off the plane in Efate, ten minutes from the main city, Port Vila which is one of two ports of foreign entry – the other is on Espiritu Santo at Pekoa – people automatically assumed that we were either Australian or from New Zealand. This is their playground. These islands and their numerous resorts are analogous to Hawaii for the U.S. except we were smart and annexed Hawaii as a state, whereas Vanuatu is an independent country, as of 1980. The Aussies “own” Vanuatu, but they don’t own Vanuatu.

James Cook was the first European to map the 83 islands in 1774 naming them “New Hebrides”. The original settlers are thought to have migrated here from Papua, New Guinea some 3000 years ago. The French and English tussled over the place until a formal agreement was made in 1906 to give equal governing mojo to the British crown and the French President. People from Vanuatu are currently known to the world as “Melanesians”.

These days it’s impossible to imagine these warm, friendly, “totally chill” people boiling up a fresh pot of human being, but they will tell you that the practice of cannibalism was only abolished completely in the 1960s. Cannibalism is one of the things that Vanuatu is known for and the practice of having your neighbor for dinner as opposed to having your neighbor over for dinner has given the place a unique rep among South Pacific Islands. A rep that they willfully nurture and promote. Present day references to cannibalism are usually delivered with a chuckle and a display of the special kind of indigenous humor that pokes fun at gullible tourists and lets you know that they know they are being a bit naughty. The Bureau of Tourism probably doesn’t encourage acknowledgment of the fact that many present day Vanuatis have first degree relatives who remember a day when typical protein sources dried up and the chief of any village could designate some poor soul as an entrée item. (Visitors were preferred (tastier?) over tribal members and cannibalism on Vanuatu was generally only practiced to supplement the nutritional pyramid, so if you had other meat, Human was off the menu.) Unlike on Papua, New Guinea, the consumption of your neighbor was never a matter of religious ceremony; on Vanuatu it was only dinner. One conversation about cannibalism that took place in an actual tribal village had a distinct overtone of reminiscence for the good old days, a little like how Californians talk about abalone steaks. “Ah, remember when?” Followed by the big sigh.

Another uniquely Vanuatian experience was the drinking of kava, a substance that tastes like I imagine dirty wash water might taste. It is always taken from a coconut cup and three cups minimum are recommended.

One does not savor kava. One belts it down as quickly as possible while one’s friends loudly and rhythmically exhort one (I suspect) to keep it down. It is decidedly a social venture. One doesn’t sit alone and suck down the kava. It put me in mind of a fraternity drinking party and I guess the end goal of the enterprise might be similar. Kava marketing and distribution questions somehow never got answered and the Vanuatians were a little unforthcoming when queried about the ubiquity of “kava huts”, (designated by certain colored light bulbs burning outside). Kava drinking is universal but only certain people make it and sell it. Like bootleggers. The locals told us that it is perfectly legal and even exported but they discussed their kava consumption with an air of naughtiness exchanging knowing, guilty glances before answering any question. In that way the kava experience reminded me of how Argentines are fond of mate. It tastes godawful, nobody does it alone and everyone giggles like a weight watcher caught with a twinkie in hand when you ask them why they like it.

So, yes, in the interest of anthropological research, and for that reason alone, both Pablo and I partook of the kava. I was not aware of any state of consciousness change. No “high”, no dis-inhibit ion, no anesthesia. This was virtually as promised. “It is not at all like alcohol.” But, that night and the night following I had dreams that were unquestionably hallucinogenic. And, not in a good way. In the first night’s dream I was responsible, (by virtue of my negligence as a house-sitter), for the death of our neighbor’s pet cat. The neighbor’s child could not be consoled. All the dream’s participants accused me of the most heinous insensitivity. I protested, citing the wonderful, well known quality of self-sufficiency in felines but nobody was buying it. Somehow (and instantly) a condemning jury was assembled from my past that joined a group of mind boggling randomness. Old clients, disaffected lovers, in laws who never liked me on a good day, and the spouse of a friend who I had once counseled would make an excellent ex. And they were unanimously pissed. Things went downhill from there. The second night’s dream featured a less boisterous cast, (only me and Pablo), but again I was responsible for animal cruelty. (Wtf?) In this one I throttled a coyote to death (but, only after the little bastard bit the shit out of my hands). The most disturbing thing about this dream was that every time I squeezed his neck, blood with the viscosity of water gushed from the tooth punctures in my hands. Needless to say, I was a bloody mess by the time Mr. Coyote gave up the ghost. (Again, wtf?) So, wait, that wasn’t the most disturbing thing…the most disturbing thing was Pablo’s callous response to my predicament. I woke up completely pissed at him for “not being on my side” and instead showing much more empathy for the coyote. I did have one more night of, shall we say, odd, dreams, but no living things were sacrificed in the making of those dreams. Nevertheless, spirit of adventure, my ass. No. More. Kava. For me.