Welcome to this new territory—a territory of mind and heart certainly, but also a territory without borders, without jurisdiction, a place of one’s own. No one shall be warned off because I have received the invitation only to extend it to you. This is a new endeavor on my part, to share in relative real time the various observations of my experiences. Placed gently or not so gently with Belén’s own thoughts and experiences might provide interesting episodes of insight. They may, too, crash together—that is, our visions and understandings (and misunderstandings!) will now be open for coincidences and separations, for the comfortable and uncomfortable, and most importantly, for the sake of our memory and the opportunity to share with our very dear friends and family, those known and unknown and to be known.
After a necessary time apart, Belén joins me in D.C. We immediately march on the Capitol in the name of equality. I highly recommend touring D.C. in the name of equality. You pass all of the places where the various movers and shakers inhabit: the White House, the Capitol, the various gray ministries, the slightly-less gray but more ubiquitous Starbucks. We collect stickers, chant chants, enjoy the homemade slogans and signs of people who passionately believe in the fact that the world is full of difference and isn’t that a wonderful thing? We see hate up close, yelled through a bullhorn, in the name of a god of love. Nice disconnect. Smoke cigarettes on the Lawn where so much history has passed. The Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington sings “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in an anthemic salute to hope. We smile a lot.
I did some work in D.C. as well, but that’s the boring part.
Flight to D.C. to L.A. to Samoa to, finally, Nuku’alofa. Seventeen and a half hours in the air. We are fans of Air New Zealand by the way (and not fans of United Airlines). We are greeted with beautiful necklaces of flowers and greenery (see picture in Belén’s first article). I begin work fairly immediately, but I will skip to the Friday evening where we were invited to attend a traditional Tongan feast on the beach below cliffs on the eastern side of the island of Tongatapu. The capital, Nuku’alofa, means “The Abode of Love”. Later installments shall talk about the history of this kingdom and perhaps one of us will explain the blog’s title. Discover your patience because I promise it will be worth it.
We ate off of plates which were really the tubular sections of the trunk of a banana tree. Hygienic, ecological and just plain smart. The tablecloth consisted of giant leaves, the seats and tables were strung together bamboo poles. We ate raw snapper in a spicy sauce, cooked snapper, roast pig, chicken braised in coconut and ginger, shellfish sautéed in coconut cream, spam wrapped in some sort of leaf and cooked in coconut cream, various sweet potatoes, yams and yaros, and for dessert a coconut deep-fried yam and some watermelon. We were serenaded throughout with traditional Tongan melodies, bathed in torchlight and the magnificent stars. The place was half full of palangi’s—a word that roughly means foreigner but a word with a rich history itself—and half full of Tongans. We were guests of Tongans and there was no question of authenticity. In my travels to poorer nations where expatriates from developed nations work, there are often places where only foreigners go, mainly because the cost prices out the locals. The colonial exclusivity (Whites Only!) of yesteryear has been recognized as racist and colonialist, so it has been replaced with more judicious rules allowing one and all to enter as long as they have the $$$. They should have simply left up the Whites Only! sign. So this place was refreshing, especially after we were driving home, passing some palangi bars where the only Tongans were those serving. Of course, I exaggerate (a little). Here in Tonga, there seems to be much more integration than I had found while working in Africa. Tongans have pride, justifiably so, and we saw it after the feast was over when we were witness to various dances, songs and stories of Tongan history. Although I am new here, I sense that great passion suffuses this culture, a culture of bottomless hospitality, a warrior culture with pride of history and place, a culture that defines itself by small actions with large meaning. I only hope that my actions while here honor both myself and the culture that I now call home.
After a necessary time apart, Belén joins me in D.C. We immediately march on the Capitol in the name of equality. I highly recommend touring D.C. in the name of equality. You pass all of the places where the various movers and shakers inhabit: the White House, the Capitol, the various gray ministries, the slightly-less gray but more ubiquitous Starbucks. We collect stickers, chant chants, enjoy the homemade slogans and signs of people who passionately believe in the fact that the world is full of difference and isn’t that a wonderful thing? We see hate up close, yelled through a bullhorn, in the name of a god of love. Nice disconnect. Smoke cigarettes on the Lawn where so much history has passed. The Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington sings “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in an anthemic salute to hope. We smile a lot.
I did some work in D.C. as well, but that’s the boring part.
Flight to D.C. to L.A. to Samoa to, finally, Nuku’alofa. Seventeen and a half hours in the air. We are fans of Air New Zealand by the way (and not fans of United Airlines). We are greeted with beautiful necklaces of flowers and greenery (see picture in Belén’s first article). I begin work fairly immediately, but I will skip to the Friday evening where we were invited to attend a traditional Tongan feast on the beach below cliffs on the eastern side of the island of Tongatapu. The capital, Nuku’alofa, means “The Abode of Love”. Later installments shall talk about the history of this kingdom and perhaps one of us will explain the blog’s title. Discover your patience because I promise it will be worth it.
We ate off of plates which were really the tubular sections of the trunk of a banana tree. Hygienic, ecological and just plain smart. The tablecloth consisted of giant leaves, the seats and tables were strung together bamboo poles. We ate raw snapper in a spicy sauce, cooked snapper, roast pig, chicken braised in coconut and ginger, shellfish sautéed in coconut cream, spam wrapped in some sort of leaf and cooked in coconut cream, various sweet potatoes, yams and yaros, and for dessert a coconut deep-fried yam and some watermelon. We were serenaded throughout with traditional Tongan melodies, bathed in torchlight and the magnificent stars. The place was half full of palangi’s—a word that roughly means foreigner but a word with a rich history itself—and half full of Tongans. We were guests of Tongans and there was no question of authenticity. In my travels to poorer nations where expatriates from developed nations work, there are often places where only foreigners go, mainly because the cost prices out the locals. The colonial exclusivity (Whites Only!) of yesteryear has been recognized as racist and colonialist, so it has been replaced with more judicious rules allowing one and all to enter as long as they have the $$$. They should have simply left up the Whites Only! sign. So this place was refreshing, especially after we were driving home, passing some palangi bars where the only Tongans were those serving. Of course, I exaggerate (a little). Here in Tonga, there seems to be much more integration than I had found while working in Africa. Tongans have pride, justifiably so, and we saw it after the feast was over when we were witness to various dances, songs and stories of Tongan history. Although I am new here, I sense that great passion suffuses this culture, a culture of bottomless hospitality, a warrior culture with pride of history and place, a culture that defines itself by small actions with large meaning. I only hope that my actions while here honor both myself and the culture that I now call home.
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