John Outside the Lines

A Machine That Washes Clothes

2012-02-14T11:39:00.000Z

“Where’s Charles?” asked Timothy, one of my senior high school students who always seems to arrive, not coincidentally I’m told, in time for food. But today he’d be disappointed; I was only reading a book on my porch while my junior high school neighbor did his homework in a chair next to me. I put down my book to shake his hand, as you do to all Liberians when you see them. My neighbor kept reading his notes.

“I didn’t have work for him to do, so I couldn’t pay him. He went home.” I said. Charles wanted desperately to work as my full-time servant. His family was very poor. But I couldn’t afford to keep him so employed.

“In America, people pay other people to do work for them? Like draw the water, sweep the house, wash the dishes…” he asked, assuming the answer was already yes.

“Well, some Americans pay people to clean, but most don’t. We don’t need to draw water from a well – it comes out of a pipe. And we don’t need to wash dishes like you do. Many Americans have machines to wash dishes.”

“A machine?! TO WASH THE DISHES!?” He was flabbergasted.

“Yeah, I saw it in a movie once,” my younger neighbor said quietly, barely looking up from his notebook.

Timothy shook his head, not in envy but in pity. “A machine for the dishes, water from a pipe, a machine for this, a machine for that… what to people do? Just sit and eat?”

“Pretty much, yes.” I said.

“Liberians are very strong people. Stronger than White People.” He said with pride.

“Well, yes, Liberians have much stronger muscles than most Americans do.” I was trying to maintain objective and avoid his direction towards racial stereotyping. I was saved, however, by two young women in blue jeans walking in the road.

“Do women do that in America?” He asked, changing the subject.

“Do what?”

“Wear trousers.”

“Yes,” I chuckled. “Women wear trousers in America.”

Timothy, a very active church member, shook his head again. “It is against the bible.” I also disliked the direction of this conversation. I sparred with him for a minute but thankfully he sensed my discomfort and asked a new question.

“How’s the cold?”

“The what?”

“The cold. The cold air. This is the cold season.”

I looked at him wide-eyed. There was a thin film of sweat on my forehead. And I was resting.

“Yeah, don’t you feel the cold in the mornings?” he pressed, not comprehending my surprise.

“That’s not cold.” I told him.

My neighbor laughed, “Yeah, sometimes I see you in the morning without a shirt on. We think that’s funny.”

I sleep naked and without a bed sheet and still I'm often sweating at night; only twice in two and a half weeks have I ever reached for the extra bed sheet. The mornings can be cooler, but I am still often shirtless. Just one morning I reached for my fleece vest. In the middle of the day, however, you’ll find students wearing jackets more appropriate for a Chicago autumn.

“You guys don’t know what cold is.”

I took out my laptop to show them photos my father sent me last year of our yard after a just-your-average-Chicago-snowfall. My students were speechless, mostly out of discomprehension. They just couldn’t imagine what that felt like. They had no idea. Neither had even seen snow before, though one swears he “saw it when it was raining once.” I’m skeptical.

Dish-washing machines, women wearing blue jeans, and snow. To Timothy, at least, it sounds horrible.

Happy Valentine’s Day

2012-02-13T17:44:00.001Z

No joy can be compared to the one which I experience when I am with you. Those extra little touches that you shows, how much you care, encouragement when there are not.

These may seem little things to you. But they are surely means a lot to me. I am assuring you the best of me at all times.

I promise to express my deep love to you.

My heart desire is to love you more and bring happiness to your life just as you bring happiness to my own live. You are the perfact in everywhere.

Happy Valentine to my love one.

Touching, isn’t it? While filling up on gasoline the other day, I noticed some of the village youth sitting under an umbrella selling Valentine’s day cards. The words above are from the inside of one of the cards. My other favourite is now hanging on my kitchen wall:

What d’u want,

I Can’t give you,

Tell me,

quick!

A candle may meld and it’s fire may die, but the love you have given me will stay as a flame in my heart.

(with a photo of an overweight man spoon-feeding an overweight woman).

I think a better cover would have been, “I love you so much that I would spoon-feed you into obesity.”

They Kill You!

2012-02-12T18:28:00.001Z

I often take walks through my village or to the rubber plantation, and some walks are more interesting than others. Today's scared me.

The first stop for this stroll was the soccer field, a usual site of activity and today was no exception. A game had just finished and most of the players were walking away. Under a lonely tree to the side, I saw two men pinning a small goat to the ground. I could see it bucking from afar. By the time I had approached over their shoulder, it was lifeless. I saw the pool of blood first, and then the slit throat. They would be feasting on goat that evening, and were just starting the skinning process.

I was soon joined by a group of kids and young adults, the first time in two weeks I was a part of and not the cause of a crowd. They all shared with me my first ever goat killing and goat skinning.

Step 1: Slit the throat

Step 2: Hold the goat until it stops kicking

Step 3: Peel away skin from one of the goat’s hind Achilles tendon, creating a space between the tendon and the bone.

Step 4: Hand the goat from a tree by tying a rope around the hole created behind the tendon.

Step 5: Slowly peel, pull, and cut off the goat’s skin, working down. Cut off each of the goat’s legs near the hooves.

Step 6: As you are nearly done pulling off the goat’s coat, and are now near its head, cut off the goat’s head.

Step 7: Finish pulling off the goat’s coat. Using the now-inverted coat as a bag, put the goat’s head inside.

Step 8: Slice open the abdomen and pull out the organs. The heart must be cut out.

I don’t know if the goat’s coat or head were used for anything edible or useful. I left here, as the man took the goat inside for cooking. He told me he would chop up the meat for soup. I had no idea at the time that I would be there at dinner to taste it.

And my walk continued…

Somewhat dividing my village from the rubber plantation is the country’s only railroad. It carries iron ore from the mines in Nimba country to the port at Buchanan. It is used only twice each week, people tell me, once in either direction. I thought following for a few miles inland could take me interesting places.

I picked up the tracks after emerging from a narrow trail that took me past a few houses and men moving a mound of earth. A few people were also walking the tracks, going both directions. After walking unevenly atop the rocks and railroad ties for about a kilometer through level terrain, the ground came to slope steeply off the side of the tracks. At the distant bottom were women washing clothes in a stream.

“John! Hello!” They greeted me. I couldn’t make out faces, but I could tell by their enthusiasm that a few of them were my students. I greeted back.

“Where you going?” They asked.

“Just going for a walk up the tracks.”

“John! Don’t go that way! They kill you!” I heard from multiple people. I could see them making throat-cutting motions with their fingers.

“Yeah, OK!” I said, brushing them off. They sounded ridiculous. Why would anyone want to kill me? I continued walking.

One of the girls then bolted up the slope, her breasts almost popping out of her skimpy tank top, yelling at me in near panic, “JOHN! STOP! Don’t go there! They kill you! THEY KILL YOU!”

Reaching the tracks, she arose out of breath in front of me to block my advance. Again, she made the throat –cutting gesture, and again she reiterated that if I continued along the tracks that people would kill me.

“They use fire,” she said.

There was no humor in her face, so I turned back. I was slightly curious, but more afraid, and I didn't want to end up like the goat I saw earlier.

My village is not an iPod-friendly village. It’s not that I risk losing it, damaging it, or getting it stolen, it’s that I’m so often greeting people and being greeted by people that I can take me a half hour to finish a song. That’s a good sign for community integration and I appreciate living where people are so eager to talk to me. Some days, however, I appreciate a long contemplative walk. For that, I need the rubber plantation, and you can access it from the railroad tracks...

Following the tracks in the safer direction took me to the intersection with one of the main “roads” in the village. It’s where one overbearing yet friendly railroad security guard always greets me with “CHICAGO JOHN!” I paused for a few minutes to converse with him, then continued down the tracks with little girls carrying heavy weight on their heads. A sad rusty rail soon branches off the main tracks and heads towards the “workshop” at the rubber plantation, suggesting that trains long ago carried rubber to the sea. What’s left of the track passes over a stream just before reaching the “workshop” gates. Women were doing their laundry here too.

Those Liberians who live on the plantation live in much nicer houses than those who live in the village with me. They have electricity too, courtesy of the rubber company. Seeing a white person strolling through is just as rare there, however, as it is near my house, so one curious family asked me to sit and talk with them. It was a good time for a break anyway.

I don’t yet understand the mechanics, logistics, and chemistry behind rubber processing – that will come after our school’s chemistry classes take a field trip there – but what I can report so far is that rubber comes somehow from a white milky sap that drips down the diagonally torn bark of these rubber trees into small cups wired into the trunk. The white substance in the cups is taken by Liberians to the “workshop” for processing. And for some reason, this gives off a strong smell of stale cheese.

It’s not a good smell. There’s enough dust in the air from the trucks driving through the plantation that my respiratory tract doesn’t also need the olfactory assault of cheesy chemical fumes. The advantage of a plantation walk, though, is the fewer number of people and the view of a forest.

I took a different route home, bypassing the tracks and coming up through the stalls in the center of town. It was a long, interesting, exhaustive walk; quenched satisfyingly by a whole fresh pineapple.

Standing naked over my bathroom “shower” drain, I admired the dark tan the long walk had earned me. Then with the first douse of my cold shower-cup of water, my tan washed completely off and into the drain.

The Old Timers

2012-02-12T18:26:00.000Z

“What team are you?” a Guinean man asks me. He’s wearing a traditional African hat with pointed seems in front and back that remind me of military hats veterans wear with their pins and medals attached. It’s a common question here in Liberia, and it usually means which football club do you support? Common answers are Manchester United, Barcelona, or Arsenal. In this case, however, the Guinean simply wanted to know if I supported the Old Timers from our village (the red team), or the Old Timers from the rubber plantation (the green team). We were standing on the sidelines with a few hundred other Liberians, excitedly watching the conclusion of an extremely rough matchup between these two teams. It was a blockbuster.

I was for red, not only because red represented our village but because the team captain had been so adamant that I come out to support them. Martin was one of the most friendly Liberians in the village. Before kickoff, he had me take the team’s group photo.

Martin plays dirty, just like all these Liberian football players. There are dangerous slide tackles, pushes, shoves, arguments, insults, fake injuries, and little cheats like moving the ball forward from a penalty spot when the ref isn’t looking. Fortunately, the ref is almost always looking, so whistles are blasting constantly. The ref never gets upset, and I never saw a yellow or red card awarded, so I think this is just your typical Liberian football. And it’s all played on hard dirt on a crested field with goals many feet lower than the midline (meaning many kicks go clear over the goal). Liberians ask me why I don’t want to play. “I like watching.” I simply say, though it has much more to do with the fear of personal injury – one of the red players was currently receiving stitches from a neighbor down the street after getting pushed into spectators on the sidelines.

The Guinean man and I spoke for a few minutes about football while the crowd of mostly children continued testing the game’s two security guards, who were walking the sidelines with their baton and switches to whip kids into staying back. There were no actual field lines, so the boundaries of play were up to the whim of referees, security guards, and the late-twenties Liberian Boy Scout who patrolled the lines with his wooden staff.

“Cookies! Cookies here! Cookies!” I heard the booming of the Budweiser man at a Cubs game at Wrigley Field, only this voice was much higher pitched -- it was coming from a six year old. Little boys and girls meander the sidelines selling from buckets and plates anything from chilled water in a bag to fried plantains to cookies. There was no organ leading the crowd in “charge!” but the game did have a professional ballpark feel to it. Everyone, it seemed, was here either watching or capitalizing.

A sudden flurry of activity took place at the far goal. An argument ensued and the whistle stuttered with Turret’s syndrome, thus ending my talk with the Guinean. What happened?

“Penalty Kick!” we heard yelled from people along the sidelines. Green had a chance to even the score. The Guinean and I stayed put as many others contracted towards the other goal. Intrepid children descended onto the field to get closer views, exciting the two security guards and their switches. The best view of kick, however, went to the two hawks soaring overhead.

Green scored on the penalty kick, tying the game between my village and the plantation. The crowd was abuzz and a few green players showboated along the sidelines. But they ate their pride the next minute when Martin responded with his team’s second goal. Then the final whistle blew.

You’d think our village had just won the world cup by the strength of their celebrations. I shook hands and offered congratulations until my stomach asked me to go home for dinner. I was barely off the field when one of our team’s defenders caught my arm. “John! You need to be with us now. We’re eating goat for after the game. Come.” I followed him back through the celebrating mob and into the adjacent youth center, where women were service players and officials goat soup -- from the same goat I had seen slaughtered and skinned that morning. It felt great to be so warmly welcomed. I was apparently now the team’s official photographer.

Recipe: Potato Green Soup

2012-02-12T17:57:00.000Z

Ingredients:

2 bunches of potato greens

1 handful of peppers

1 onion

½ clove garlic.

1 medium-sized fish

1 teaspoons salt

2 bouillon cubes

rice

water

red oil

Step 1: Prepare the potato greens. Pick off bigger stems. Hold the bunch with one hand while finely shaving it with a knife in your other hand. Wash the greens and place them in your pot.

Step 2: Add the 2 bouillon cubes and the two teaspoons of salt to the pot.

Step 3: Cut up your fish, bones an all, into maybe eight pieces (it’s not important). Place in the pot.

Step 4: Add water to the pot until everything is submerged; boil and simmer.

Step 5: Pick off the pepper stems and then mash them in your mortar.

Step 6: Peel your onion, then mash it with your peppers.

Step 7: Peel your garlic, then mash it with your peppers and onions.

Step 8: Add the pepper-onion-garlic mash to your boiling pot

Step 9: Prepare your rice to your liking

Step 10: Soon before your soup has reduced to the thickness you like, add perhaps 4 tablespoons of spicy red oil. All Liberians have this red oil, and I don’t know what else to call it.

Sep 11: Combine rice and soup to your liking, ENJOY!

I’ve eaten this traditional Liberian meal several times now, and I love it. It is healthy, filling, spicy, and delicious. Dealing with the fish bones is the only tricky part. With this recipe I can feed myself plenty, feed the boy who cooks it for me, and give a big plate to the neighbors.

Ideal Teaching Conditions?

2012-02-12T17:52:00.000Z

Friday was a great day for my classes, but a bad day for my junior/senior high school. We were missing our UN teacher-troops, who understandably can’t teach every day, as well as many other teachers, leaving only me, the chemistry teacher, the biology teacher, and two other teachers. But while initially saddened I was quickly inspired. I finished with one of my best ever days of teaching.

After morning flag ceremony, my first move was to the office to learn the day’s schedule. It was missing again, which meant someone was making alterations. But that someone wasn’t at school yet, so the vice principal told me just to start teaching from period 1 – there weren’t many other teachers there anyway to inconvenience by stealing their class time.

Class went well, as it has every day so far. My 10^th grade students, of ages from fifteen to upper twenties, are very respectful and eager to learn. They ask lots of questions when they don’t understand or when they want to understand more. They anticipate what’s coming next and won’t let me slip by with a bad lesson. And when first period ended, they asked me to keep teaching until another teacher came to force me to stop.

And that’s what really has me inspired. These students could have let me leave class and then enjoyed a free period until the chemistry teacher came (their only two teachers on campus this day). Instead, they asked me to keep teaching. They wanted to learn.

Our 45-minute biology class became an hour and 30-minute biology class.

Ninth grade science went the same way. Although the junior high schedule had me teaching them after recess, they had no other teacher around so they asked me to start before recess. Then recess came, and they stayed in class. THEY REFUSED RECESS. They asked me to keep teaching. Science class went for an hour and 45 minutes, until I had no steam left in me. Our only interruption came when one other teacher poked his head inside the door to literally say hello (as teachers here often do for reasons I can’t yet explain) and then got angry with one of my students for being asleep. I knew he was asleep; he had been for at least twenty minutes. But he wasn’t disturbing anyone, and we’d already been learning for an hour, so I didn’t feel the need to force his attention. This was too informal.

And then after my science class, we all went home. There were no teachers around to teach their afternoon classes.

Unlimited class time and respectful students eager to learn. Could the teaching conditions be more ideal? Well, yes, they could. We could have a science lab, a latrine, textbooks, and a realistic national curriculum (these students have three weeks to learn about distance, displacement, speed, velocity, acceleration, work, power, light, colour, mirrors, reflection, refraction, heat, convection, conduction, radiation, sound, and simple machines; while they don’t know algebra and have trouble dividing twelve by three). But right now I’m a teacher beaming with happiness. I love teaching here, and it’s all because of the students. When you finish class, they say “thank you” with an impassioned, “no, really, THANK YOU” behind it. Isn’t this what passionate teachers dream about at night?

China Well Known Trademark

2012-02-12T17:43:00.000Z

“No warranty!” declared the Lebanese storekeeper as I handed him US dollars for my brand new Tiger “China Well Known Trademark” generator. His warning made me uneasy; I didn’t expect there to be a warranty, but the way this store owner so emphatically made his point made me wonder how many times people have come to return their broken Tiger “China Well Known Trademark” generators. After all, the first generator he tested for me was broken straight out of the box. I was buying the second one, the one that actually started during a test run.

And so I found myself nine days later with a broken Tiger “China Well Known Trademark” generator. Neither I nor the kids around me could get it started. The well-written safety and maintenance manual made suggestions like keeping the generator away from “rain or soow” and checking the “spsrk plug,” (and by the way, never operate indoors because the fumes are “polsonous”) none of which was very helpful – it didn’t explain how to check the “spsrk plug.”

For maintenance I turned to my gasoline supplier, who sent his middle-school-aged brother to come fix it for me. For fifteen minutes he tinkered until he discovered that the spark plug had indeed been saturated with carbon soot. He pried it clean with one of my kitchen knives. The engine sputtered to life on the first crank of the cord.

The most interesting part of the whole operation was not learning that my spark plug would need weekly cleaning or that middle schoolers could fix machines with professional precision; it was a completely unrelated cultural lesson in sitting styles.

Fixing the machine, the boy squatted, keeping his butt off the ground. Watching him, I sat cross-legged.

“Do you do martial arts?” he asked me earnestly.

“Do I what?”

“Do you do martial arts? You sit like in martial arts.”

The three girls watching us began giggling. When I asked them why my sitting style was so funny, they said that my butt was dirty.

And so I learned why I so often see Liberians, men, women, children and adults, who are tired of standing and without a chair, squatting over the ground instead of sitting their butts down on it. I wish it hadn’t taken me a broken generator to learn it.

Monday Monday Monday!

2012-02-09T13:34:00.000Z

“It will all be better on Monday,” they promised. “Just wait till Monday.” I hoped so. For various reasons, not much actual teaching took place during my first week of school. I only had four students in attendance for Friday’s 10^th grade biology class. There were supposed to be thirty-six. But the problems have all been worked out, they said, and Monday would start the real show. Monday Monday Monday! I could hear it in the monster truck voice.

I was so excited for this first real day of class. I hadn’t yet met my 9^th grade science students yet, due to a last minute scheduling change, so we would start with a sprint. The national curriculum expects me to cover speed, velocity, acceleration, energy, work, power, simple machines, heat, light, color, and sound over the next three weeks, which is by far more ambitious than my own high school honors physics class – and these kids don’t have textbooks or even a basic understanding of algebra. There could be no fooling around. On Monday, then, would be important to set this tone with a good first impression.. Unfortunately, I blew it.

It all started well. I arrived early and waited near the Junior High classes to watch the full roster of teachers and students flood the campus. I was constantly greeting, being greeted, and shaking hands. When the bell rang, about twenty minutes later than it was supposed to, the students began massing around the flag pole for a rallying speech from the principal. A group of the teachers stayed to converse with me. That’s when the rumbling started.

Diarrhea is inevitable during Peace Corps. It will probably strike many times over one’s service, and it always starts with a rumble. Was this it? Was this my first episode? How bad would it be? Was this just from the large amount of coconut meat I ate the day before? Or was this the result of some foreign antigen? And what kind of antigen? Bacteria? A Virus? Our medical officer said we could usually tell based on how explosive the diarrhea was. Oh please let this not be one of those.

Over the next few minutes the rumblings only grew worse. Then the opening speech ended and a mass of students began flowing towards the my classroom. My science class was about to start, but my bowels told me I’d never survive the next 45 minutes of class. I asked one of the head teachers to direct me towards the school toilet.

“There isn’t one.” He said. No toilet? I couldn’t believe it. A school without a toilet. Not even a pit toilet.

“Then were do teachers and students go?” I asked him.

“Oh, behind the school usually.”

As I came to observe over the next few days, teachers and students would waddle behind either of the two school buildings, and in full view of other teachers and students -- since all classrooms have windows – either unzip or squat over the ground.

I came here to live as the Liberians do, but I wasn’t feeling quite culturally integrated enough to defecate in front of the school body. Luckily, the head teacher saw the look of horror on my face. He offered to take me to the police station beside the school, as maybe they’d allow me to use their facilities. The walk only took a minute.

There was no one at the station, so we walked briskly to the police checkpoint in the road. “Go find the guy in the police housing in the back,” They told me. My guide took me to the police apartments in the back, knocking on different doors until we heard someone shout back. After a quick, muffled negotiation, I had permission to use the toilet at the end of the building. The head teacher went in with me.

There was a toilet, but no water to go in it. There is no running water, so standard procedure is to bucket well water into the toilet bowl after doing one’s business. “We’ll have to find water,” he said to me. Technically, we could wait until after my business to find a bucket and the key to the well, then pump the water, then flush away my business, but that would be a mountainous chore in itself. And I had class to get to.

By now I was straining to holding everything inside me. I was about to blow.

Excusing myself from the head teacher, I ran to the bushes at the edge of the jungle behind the police apartments, ripped down my slacks, squatted, and donated a loose organic meal to the flies. I almost hadn’t made it.

Fortunately, it was only a minor episode – it was just the coconut meat. I finished quickly, wiped myself with notebook paper, and charged to the 9^th grade classroom to begin my first real day of teaching.

But there was another teacher inside teaching. Due to the late assembly and my digestive emergency , the first period was already over.

It wasn’t quite a disaster, as there are still vacancies on the faculty that leave open classes later in the day. I was still able to teach later in the day, I just blew my first impression out the ass.

Eating Iron

2012-02-09T13:32:00.000Z

“Mr. John, are you ready to eat iron?” (pronounced E’ [with a hard glottal stop] EYE-n [with a soft, throaty “n”) one of my students asked, arriving at my porch.

“Yeah, hold on, I’ll get changed.” I said. I went to my room, put on some gym shorts, a t-shirt, socks, and gym shoes, and grabbed a water bottle. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t forget, you need to pay your membership,” he reminded me.

I put $50 Liberian (about 70 cents US) in my pocket.

We walked up my sloped road, through the market, past the cell towers, and across the railroad tracks to the only place in town where we could lift weights, or, as Liberians say, eat iron.

The gym is nothing more than a aluminum-roofed hut protecting two hand weights, a wooden bench press, two very heavy bar bells, and a pile of bricks to rest on. The equipment is owned by the young men living next door, but it seems it doesn’t really get used unless I’m there to attract the attention of neighbors. Within minutes the place will go from empty to packed, with an audience of ten to twenty children, students, mothers, fathers, and grandchildren to watch the White Man try to lift weights like the Liberians.

And there’s the problem. I can deal with the attention, the eyes, and the celebrity. What’s difficult is lifting a safe amount of weight when every muscular I-work-manual-labor-at-the-rubber-plantation-five-days-a-week Liberian man watching you insists that you should be lifting as much as he can. I physically cannot lift the two bar bells that they can toss around like plastic toys. Most of them don’t understand why.

One of the few who does understand my weak body is a former child soldier everyone there looks up to. I’ve only come a few times so far to lift weights, but if he’s there he’ll put down his marijuana cigarette to become my personal trainer. He pushes me hard, but never too hard, testing my body like I haven’t felt since high school swim season. Still, I ignore some of his less helpful advice, like holding my breath during each set, lifting every day, not drinking water, and popping steroids. Thankfully I’ve had enough States-side gym training to know good advice from bad.

Even if they don’t know the science of exercise, everyone’s heart is in the right place. They are welcoming, encouraging, and genuinely want to help me get in shape. They even chase and threaten the staring children when the audience gets embarrassingly large. They want me to lift every day, but my training tells me the body needs at least a day of rest between sessions; I’m usually very sore for days. I don’t like to disappear for long, however, as I do need to get my full 70 cents worth out of the month.

School Introduction

2012-02-09T13:31:00.000Z

In my district, all public students are taught on the same compound: elementary, junior high, and senior high. I haven't been inside the two elementary school buildings, but I assume they are packed with kids during class time because they've also constructed makeshift classrooms out of tree limbs outside.

The junior high school and senior high school are near mirror images of each other, and each consists of just three classrooms and a cramped administrative office. That's it. There are no science labs, toilet facilities, storage rooms, libraries, tables, benches, cafeterias, gyms, or sports fields.

In the junior and senior high schools, there are six 45-minute-ish classes a day. They begin around 8:20, pause around 10:40 for recess, and end in the early afternoon. Each grade in junior and senior high gets its own classroom, so teachers rotate while students are always taught in the same room. All students in the same grade study the same subjects, and subjects are either taught 3 or 5 times a week.

Because of many faculty vacancies, the Ghanan troops at the nearby UN base come mornings to teach English, physics, chemistry, and mathematics.

And that's my high school.

The White Man Hotel

2012-02-09T13:10:00.000Z

Traveling in central Liberia and need a place to stay? Try the White Man Hotel. John will be your helpful host. He and his friends (the cockroaches, spiders, centipedes, the mouse, and the toad) would love to have you.

You can choose one of two bare, unfurnished, undecorated concrete rooms, though you better bring your own mattress.

You’ll have access to John’s multi-purpose sink/toilet (where he relieves himself, dumps unwanted liquids, and spits his toothpaste) and his adjacent hole in the floor for showering. Just spoon cups of water from the bucket over yourself to get wet, lather with a bar of soap, then rinse off again with the cup. Don’t forget to duck your head coming in and out of the room.

In the grand kitchen, you can use his 3-burner stove, but you’ll need to borrow John’s pair of pliers to turn the metal knobs – the cheap plastic handles snapped off within the first few days. There’s no running water, so you’ll have to wash your dishes in the basins on the floor. If there’s no water around, you’ll have to send one of the kids (who are always nearby) to go pump water from the well outside.

There’s no electricity, so John will let you tote around one of his wine or beer bottle candle-stick holders once the sun goes down. Or better yet, use your headlamp.

That’s not all! There’s even a back door, though John rarely uses it.

If you need John’s, he might be in his bedroom here:

But he’s most likely sitting on his front porch reading, lesson planning, or talking with his students and neighbors.

There’s not much to do besides read a book on the porch, but perhaps once a week John will host a special viewing of an American action movie for the neighbors. Because of the generator, it’s impossible to hear the movie, but at least it’s entertaining.

It may not look like much, but it’s great. The mattress is comfortable enough and the net keeps away the mosquitoes. The ropes John’s students hung for him keep his clothes organized. He doesn’t have to go outside to use the bathroom, and with the well nearby he’s never in danger of dehydration. Bucket baths are no big deal on hot days. The gas stove is a lot easier than cooking with charcoal, as most Liberians do, and one learns quickly how to wash dishes without running the faucet. It’s home, and, besides the spiders, cockroaches, and centipedes, mouse, and occasionally appearing toad, there’s nothing to complain about.

DISCLAIMER. This post was meant to be facetious. No, I am not trying to run a business while service as a Peace Corps Volunteer, nor am I actually inviting any people to come stay with me.

It's Electric!

2012-02-05T22:10:00.000Z

First it was the stove. During my first few Liberian food lessons, children from next door would come gawk at the machine that made flames instantly and without charcoal. Many Liberian have gas stoves, but they are apparently rare enough in these rural villages to produce wonder and excitement.

Then it was the table. Because my home came furnished only with bare concrete walls I spent my first five nights cooking from the ground. Soon I had a simple $15 USD wood table constructed by a local carpenter, and by the neighbors’ comments you’d think I just brought home a plasma TV.

None of these reactions, however, compares with the community response from my new gasoline power generator. You’d think they just won the lottery.

Generator are common enough here that the kids knew exactly how to bring it to life. Generators keep the shop/stalls open at night, keep the Akon looping at the nearby “night club,” keep the cell phone towers operating, and power a few homes along my street. But they are still rare and expensive enough to generate an excitement reminiscent of childhood Christmas mornings.

“Thank you!” One of the kid said, standing over the buzzing machine. Your welcome, kid, but I didn’t buy it for you. I didn’t buy it to watch movies and power light bulbs either, as everyone here apparently expects me to use it for. No, I bought the generator, the voltage regulator (which prevents the Chinese machine from exploding my computer), the extension cord, the power strip, and gasoline so that I can charge my iPod and phone, show science videos in class, check email, and post blogs.

There’s no other easy way for me to do so. Powering my computer would mean sitting with it for hours in a rusting freight container while it charges off the phone company’s generator, and paying dearly to do so. Many volunteers visit UN bases or other NGO offices to socialize and leach power, but my village has no such aid presence. My only internet option is connecting through a mobile phone SIM stick; which is both costly and slow. These first few blogs, I’ve calculated, have cost me just over a dollar each to post just in gasoline and internet fees. Then there’s all the equipment needed.

This means I am always sprinting through tasks while online or on the computer. Time really is money, so I apologize for needing to rush through my proofreading phase. I’m just happy to be chronicling my adventures so I don’t ever forget them.

The generator isn’t ALL WORK and NO PLAY. My neighbors will be welcome to join me for the occasional movie night. Our first one happened yesterday.

I readied my laptop on my fine wooden table while a half dozen kids set up chairs in my kitchen. Their mother, let’s call her Mary, sat on my porch outside to keep an eye on the generator and her own open door. Unfortunately I failed to bring from the states any sort of speaker system; these puny computer speakers are no match for the roar of the generator. As soon as Disney’s 101 Dalmatians (my choice because of the audience) began, however, no one seemed to mind not having any effective audio. I’m fairly certain most of the kids had never seen a movie before.

Mary was unimpressed by the Disney cartoon, and before the opening credits ended was already asking for something with “war” in it. The kids whined but mom got her way, and I went instead with Ninja Assassin, also my go-to choice in Tonga whenever guys wanted to watch a movie and not need to follow much of a plot. It’s just the type of American culture Peace Corps loves for us to share. The movie is bloody and violent, though in a painless action-movie way that didn’t have me too concerned for the children. They all loved it, and have already asked when we can do it again. That film might have done wonders for my community assimilation, but I don’t think I have many other mindless action movies available. Or the funds to keep the gasoline flowing.

Let’s wait and see how expensive this new electrical system becomes. You may not be hearing from me very often.

Hell Cab

2012-02-05T22:07:00.000Z

After thirty minutes of riding under the hot African sun in a non-existent seat between the gear shift and the front passenger, with a side window stuck shut and four steaming bodies in the back seat, I began to wonder if those Chicago winters were so bad after all. After wiping another line of sweat from my brow, I mused that the closest I’d be getting to a snowflake in the next 6 months was this cab’s intricately cracked front windshield.

Ten US dollars for an hour long taxi ride doesn’t sound so bad. But here in Liberia, taxis are usually packed four in the back, and three in the front. Sorry for you if you get stuck in front middle like I did – you’ll get hit in the ass every time the driver shifts gears. The cars also tend to be old and dilapidated.

A rough taxi ride is the only way for me to get important supplies, like peanut butter, a colander, a bottle of wine, a bank account withdrawal, and a gasoline power generator. For those precious things, I need to head to big city Buchanan. This past weekend I made my first city run, and my first ever Liberian taxi ride.

The outgoing trip went rather smoothly, despite being crammed in the back with two people to my left and one person to my right; that the young lady next to me alternated resting her hand on my knee and my shoulder was not a sexual advance but spatial necessity. The only excitement came two minutes into the ride when we reached the police checkpoint, which my students tell exist solely as an illegitimate income generator for the police force . As we pulled up, a officer said something stern to the lady riding front middle and then a yelling argument conflagrated between them. If only I understood Liberian-English. For minutes, I assumed that she was refusing to pay her bribe. But soon I watched the policeman trying instead to give her money, which she refused to accept. After ten minutes, we had a Ministry of Justice official arbitrating, and five minutes later we were on our way. I learned later that the woman and policeman were husband and wife and he refused to permit her to travel to the city. He even tried to pay her to get her to stay, but she won. It didn’t look like a happy marriage.

If the trip to Buchanan didn’t allow me to see two other Peace Corps friends teaching in the county’s main high school, then it would only be a chore. There still aren’t good stores and it is so bustling that I’m constantly guarding my giant wads of Liberian dollar bills. Also, without ATM cards, the wait to withdraw my meager monthly allowance at the bank would have taken more than two hours. I waited fifteen minutes, didn’t move an inch forward moved, said Fuck It, and used my American bank’s debit card at the ATM outside.

I couldn’t wait to go back home. But home meant an ever rougher taxi ride.

The car banged, shimmied, and blew a thick white exhaust behind us. At the halfway point, the driver stopped to give the cab a walk-around to make sure nothing had fallen off.

Back on the road minutes later, while I pulled tightly on a hole in the dashboard with one hand to reduce the force of the gear shift against my butt as my other hand again wiped my brow, a motorbike sped past us. I bet the air feels amazing on one of those. AND you get to your destination faster. Why doesn’t Peace Corps let us ride them?

A dozen yards ahead and to the left, the speeding motorbike make a series of tight wobbles and then slammed sideways into the dirt. Our taxi driver swerved aside and continued on, ignoring the crash and the woman in the back seat demanding we stop to help them. Because of the opaque cloud of terra-cotta dust the fall created, I couldn’t see the damage. The closest decent hospital is an international flight away.

OK, Peace Corps…That’s why.

Almost home, I chose to ignore the heat and humidity and just appreciate that my seat-partner had recently used a breath mint.

Anger Management

2012-02-05T21:46:00.000Z

The students are angry. For the first half of the first week of the second semester, there were barely any teachers in school. The only teacher to actually conduct class every day was the new White Man from America.

The teachers are angry. They hate that in order to receive their monthly paycheck they have to pay money to travel an hour away by uncomfortable taxi to reach the bank. The bank only processes 50 checks per day and the teller queue can take several hours. It can take most of a week, then for all of the country’s government workers to get paid. The teachers are also upset that the ministry was late paying them this month, further delaying the process. It forced them to miss most of the first week of school.

Everyone is angry that the school has no electricity or science laboratory.

The problems are severe and many, but the anger is a good sign. Unlike in Tonga, where the broken system was plenty good enough for everyone and brought no complaints, Liberians would love to tell you all the things wrong with their system. They are not complacent. They want solutions. They want a better school system.

Unfortunately there aren’t any easy solutions right now. The country is rebuilding from twenty years of civil war, and the government must tackle basic issues like constructing a national power grid and promoting peaceful elections before it worries about building science labs.

The solutions may be far far away, but the will is there to fix them, and that makes me optimistic for my service in the Liberian secondary school system.

Jackie Chan

2012-02-04T20:03:00.000Z

We were twenty minutes into a ludicrously plotted Chinese Jackie Chan film that had been both dubbed and subtitled – though never with the same translation – when my eyes caught a poster of carnage hanging next to me. Titled, Taylor Soldiers in Action, it was a collage of gruesome civil war photos. I was puzzled, but didn’t say anything. Was my principal making a statement about the war? Why is it hanging in the family room?

“That was a very bad time,” I heard suddenly, “a lot of people died.” My principal, across the coffee table from me, gazed sullenly at the poster. But only momentarily. He quickly returned his eyes to the film and continued sipping his Big Mama. It must just be there as a cautionary memorial, I mused, and I also returned to the film and sipped my Dark Horse. That was the most solemn I had ever seen him, for usually he wore a full smile.

My principal was one of my first Liberian friends, and while my students were busy cooking me Liberian meals, he took it upon himself to introduce me one of his culture’s other important ingredients: alcohol. Big Mama, Dark Horse, and Country Ginger were brands of too sweet and too strong liquors bottled from recycled beer bottles in Monrovia and slapped with cheap, crooked labels using cheap glue so that sometimes the labels fell off in your hand. Army Bitter was too bitter and too strong. Palm wine, brewed I believe like moonshine, was too yeasty and too strong. Perhaps I’ll come around to these flavors, seeing as how each bottle goes for far less than USD $1 and there is no wine available in my town. And I’ll sip almost anything to keep the conversation going.

He has a generator, as do many Liberians. Without an electric grid, it’s the only way to watch Jackie Chan movies. He loves his movies. I can definitely foresee having those rough weeks when just any movie and any serving of alcohol could come as a relief, and I’m glad I have a friend who says I’m always invited. I'll just ignore the gruesome war poster.

Human Capital

2012-02-04T19:52:00.000Z

Finishing the last round of Savannah Ciders, our small group of Peace Corps Volunteers and NGO workers retired from one of Buchanan’s only beach bars and headed home after an evening of welcome stories – this was my time in Buchanan, my first time in Grand Bassa County, and my first time meeting this cadre of aid workers. They were so helpful in getting me acclimated.

As we shuffled into down the bar’s creaky steps, one of the non-PCVs offered us a ride home (I’d be spending the night with the local PCVS). It would be much faster and much safer that way, everyone agreed . As our friendly driver opened his car door, he slipped a dollar bill to an older Liberian standing beside the car.

“What was that for?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s a little something for him watching our car.” Our driver said.

“Would he get angry if you didn’t pay him?” I asked, assuming it was an empty job like the men who wash your car window when you are stopped at a red light – you didn’t really want him to do that but now that he did, here’s a dollar not to get angry.

“If he wasn’t there then we wouldn’t be a car,” responded one of the PCVs. “It would likely be stolen.”

I was shocked. Peace Corps warned us about crime in Liberia, but I didn’t expect that even a dive bar would have security around to prevent grand theft auto. Why kind of place was I about to jump into? Why was the crime so high?

A Red Cross Worker who once served a year in Liberia described the problem as a lack of Human Capital. After twenty years of civil war and dire poverty, peoples’ morality breaks down and stealing becomes rampant. “Don’t’ bring your DSLR.” She told me. It sounded like chaos.

It’s not chaos. I’ve been a week and a half at site now, and I love these people. My large family of next door neighbors looks out for me all the time. We cook for each other, we talk together, relax together, and trade some chores. My students are almost always around me and make sure I keep my backpack zipped, my money secured, and my doors bolted when I’m inside.

A taxi driver found a pair of expensive Smith sunglasses in his front seat soon after dropping me off. He returned to see if they were mine, but I wasn’t around. He needed to return to Buchanan, so he left them with his cousin, who returned them to me the next day. He so easily could have kept them, and I couldn’t have blamed him.

A student who washed my clothes for me found a wad of money in my back pocket. He returned it to me.

Clearly it’s a few bad apples that gives a population a bad reputation most of my neighbors have been nothing but nice and trusting. That’s not an excuse for laziness, however, so I am always guarded. During my introductory visit to the police station I asked the lieutenant if the community was safe and he responded, offended, with, “Yes, it is absolutely safe here. There are no problems.”

Just thirty seconds into the resulting awkward silence that followed, a second police officer marched to our desk while dragging a young teenager by the arm. The boy had clearly just been arrested. The offended lieutenant barked some Liberian English I couldn’t understand, then told him to remove any razor blades or knives he might be carrying. Well, I guess no place is 100% safe.

The Fellowship of the Chicken

2012-01-26T19:41:00.001Z

“John… John… John. JOHN!!”

I awoke to my student Charles outside my window. It was my first morning at site, and I could have slept for hours. My watch showed 8:00 am.

“What is it, Charles?” I moaned.

“It’s time to wake up. We go to the market.”

My principal had assigned Charles to look after me during my adjustment to site and school, and he was doing an excellent job. Over the next week he would cook for me, clean for me, wash my clothes, tell me who to buy from and who not to buy from, how to get where and what shortcuts to take, and which important people in town I should know. He kept my doors locked, kept little kids from poking around my room, and he even twice caught me walking outside with my fly down.

“Ok, hold on.” I rose from the mattress, already showing a slight dip where my body had laid, and unbolted the front door. Charles immediately went to work, sweeping and washing my popcorn bowl.

As I reached for the water bucket, an 9-inch long red centipede appeared beside it. Trained for two years to treat large centipedes as the devil incarnate, I jumped back.

“Charles…Charles… is that dangerous?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He said, unimpressed and unexcited. His tone said, “yeah but it’s the least of your worries.” He killed it and brushed it outside.

I moved to the toilet, undoing the pillow case I had nailed up the low window the night before. The room needed more light. As I relieved myself, I wondered how bad it would be if someone out that large window caught a view of me. Before I had even finished my business, one of my 9-year old neighbors walked into view, squatted over the dirt field, and relived herself less than discretely. Well I guess that answers that question.

Charles took me shopping. I desperately needed shopping. We bought sheets and cooking supplies and containers and other miscellaneous things to help give some character to my drab concrete home. With the place starting to fill out, I moved to more important cultural assimilation.

“Charles, I want to eat Liberian food. Let’s cook a good Liberian dish.” I asked while looking around one of my student’s family “stores.”

“You want Liberian food? Ok.” He smiled, as he reached for pasta and tomato sauce.

“NO! Real Liberian food! Not spaghetti.” As I would come to learn, my impoverished student often ate pasta with tomato sauce and eggs because it was a very cheap meal.

He agreed to make me potato leaf soup with rice. But what kind of protein did I want? “Cold meat,” I answered emphatically. Without any cold fish at the market my first morning at site, that meant a trip to the rubber plantation store. Soon we set out for an adventure that took much longer than I anticipated.

Our village exists because of the enormous rubber plantation nearby. It employs, students tell me, about 75% of the people here. The white people who run the plantation, who everyone here automatically calls “my friends,” shop at a small store within the plantation limits. And to there we ventured.

We soon left the bustling concrete houses of the homely Shire, crossed the stalls lining the center of town, and passed by the Two Towers (our twin cell towers), crossed the railroad tracks, and entered ~~Mordor~~ the plantation.

A terra-cotta landscape suddenly transformed into a thin forest of only rubber trees and low-growing vegetation. Most trees bore candy-cane scars from when workers cut at the bark to allow the white rubber sap to drip down into small collecting cups held to the dry by wires. Some freshly cut trees were slowing dripping rubber into these cups.

What started as a walk through the village became a beautiful hike in the woods, enhanced by a slight lingering morning fog. I could easily seeking solitude in this quiet forest with iPod in tow during weeks when I need to get away.

The walk took us past a small compound of houses for families of some of the plantation workers. These Liberians had electricity and satellite dishes, though their houses weren’t ostentatious. Now on a main road through the property, large trucks kicked up clouds of dirt as they sped past us. We left the road for a forest trail.

Thirty-five minutes into the adventure, we found our store, and it wasn’t at all what I expected. I was the size of a gas station convenience store and sold many of the same things I could find at the town market. Their one prize, however, was small freezer full of hand-wrapped mystery meats and factory-packaged chicken. I went with the chicken.

Returned from our adventure, Charles prepared a delicious soup from “red oil,” a bouillon cube, salt, potato greens, chicken, hot peppers, and fish. I loved it. So many flavours, and so much spice. I just with he hadn’t bent my sharp kitchen knife hacking at the frozen chicken.

We made food for ourselves, for my neighbors, and for the additional students who seemed to arrive just in time for lunch. With full stomachs, I put those students to work cleaning and organizing my house. Those on picture posting duty did their best with a limited supply of tape, though my hands-off guidance means some of them are upside down. Instead of bothering me, it makes me smile. The house is building character, I’m getting closer with the community, and the food is delicious. I can’t wait for the next adventure.

First Night

2012-01-26T00:00:00.000Z

During one of our many medical presentations during training, our medical officer defined stress as the difference between reality and expectation. Sitting alone on my concrete “kitchen” floor, I aimed my headlamp on an empty Heineken bottle and jammed in a fresh candlestick. Without electricity, I’d be making this and all future late night dinners by candle and dad AAA battery. With the same match I lit both the candle and the left burner of my gas stove, all while sitting, again, on my concrete floor. It had been such a long day that I had forgotten to eat, and the only food I had in my house was oil and popcorn kernels. I’m so glad I had such low expectations, I thought. Otherwise I might have been having a panic attack.

That morning I had visited the bank and finished shopping in Liberia’s second largest city, Buchanan, which would be my future oasis when I need a break from my site in the middle of Grand Bassa County. Buchanan is still barely a city, though at least there are stores selling cheap wine. It’s also only an hour away.

That afternoon I arrived with a Peace Corps escort at my new house, was shown my porcelain toilet and adjacent hole in the floor for showering over, my three “bedrooms,” my “storage room,” my common area, and my quaint outside porch. I chose a bedroom and closed the doors of the other rooms, knowing that I would probably never open them again. The place was too big.

I had wanted plop down my new foam mattress on the floor and fall right to sleep, but my entourage had other things planned. First a welcome from teachers and students at the school, which is a fifteen minute walk away. Then an hour and a half long meeting hosted by Peace Corps to explain to the school what actually I was there for. Then a tour around town from some of my high school students. Then a drink with the principal. Then another tour.

I felt loved, I felt welcomed, and I felt incredibly tired, but it wasn’t until late at night that I was finally “home.” And home was a cave of concrete.

The popcorn popped quickly and it filled my large plastic bowl. Picking it up, I began walking to my bedroom to enjoy the meal when a small dark figure scurried across the floor. A cockroach. “So you Fuckers are here too, huh,” I sighed. I was too tired to put up my mosquito net, so I hoped desperately that the nocturnal critters left my alone for my first night.

I barely finished the bowl before I was fast asleep, on my uncovered mattress, next to two unopened suitcases, lying a room away from a “kitchen” that was nothing more than a gas can connected to a two-burner stove on the floor. That could have been a very stressful night. But I slept like a baby.

Cheers

2012-01-23T01:11:00.005Z

We were exhausted, stressed, sleep deprived, jet-lagged, and required in the morning to sing the Star Spangled Banner for the president of Liberia and about half her cabinet. My body cried for sleep, but this was our training group’s last night together and that called for camaraderie. I donated a bottle of an inexpensive South African Pinotage. Using a Swiss Army Knife, I cut six “glasses” out of plastic water bottles (since our hostel/convent’s kitchen was closed and all wine, however cheap, deserves to have its full bouquet) and emptied the bottle for the remaining night owls. We raised our “glasses.”

“Cheers,” we toasted, unimaginatively. Perhaps we were too tired to think of anything better to say, or perhaps there were too many things to say:

“To new friends!”

“To a successful week of training!”

“To the start of a new adventure!”

“To Peace Corps!”

“To inexpensively priced wine!”

The “glasses” thudded instead of clinked and the wine tasted like its four dollars. It fit in with all the other inconveniences over the previous few days: living out of suitcases, the constant sputtering of motorcycle noises, the blanket of humidity, the toilets that didn’t usually flush and the showers that had neither heat nor pressure. But this was Peace Corps and you’d never find one of us complaining. Wine, and any water pressure at all were about to become luxuries, and the convent even had electricity! These were Response volunteers, the veterans, the ones who loved their first two years of Peace Corps hardship so much that they signed up again.

It was this experience that allowed Peace Corps to shorten our training from 3 months (for regular Peace Corps) to just five days. It wasn’t an easy five days; they were packed with informational sessions and advice sessions from currently service Liberian volunteers that continued informally into the night. That didn’t leave much time to socialize.

Our two extra days jaunting around Atlanta meant we sacrificed time seeing Monrovia. A few of us made a rushed early morning walking tour on which I was not so kindly instructed not to take any photographs anywhere near either of the two American embassy fortresses. Later that evening we made a short trip to the beach at sundown that ended abruptly once the Frisbee landed in human feces (they did warn us that the Atlantic Ocean is often used as Monrovia’s toilet).

The only whole group event outside the convent’s tall, cement, barbed-wire and jagged glass topped walls, was to Tides bar. Peace Corps told us it had a great view of the beach and city. From its third floor balcony, I sipped a deceivingly strong cocktail of freshly squeezed oranges and mystery alcohols and admired the blackness. Without a national power grid, Monrovia is almost as dark as night as the sea. Faint shadows of scurrying crabs below me, the drone of conversations and the bar’s generator, and someone’s attempt to cover Bob Marley were the only signs of night life in Liberia’s biggest city.

Split six ways, the bottle didn’t last long and people soon began saying their goodnights. A month-long close-of-service window and the lack of any group training events meant that tomorrow’s swearing in ceremony would be our last time all together; that our sites were scattered around the country and required whole days of travel between them in overcrowded taxis on dirty or muddy roads discouraged us from contemplating inter-site visits.

Still, there was too much excitement to be sad. It had been a great training week, and I think we all excited to accept the challenge of six months at isolated sites in what our Country Director called the toughest post in Peace Corps.

Land of the Free, Home of the Braves: A Fortuitous Failure at 35,000 Feet

2012-01-19T22:37:00.000Z

Somewhere just off the coast of South Caroline, in rough turbulence at 35,000 feet and an hour into our flight to Accra, Ghana (where we’d connect to Monrovia, Liberia), my seat partner Avery was telling me about her attempt to raise a puppy in her small village in Rwanda. That’s when the pilot came on the intercom:

“We’re sorry about the inconvenience here folks, but we are having a malfunction with our navigation system and we won’t be able to fly over the ocean. We’ll need to turn around and head back to Atlanta. Because we’ll be landing so heavy, you’ll be able to see some maintenance crews outside your window. Don’t be alarmed, that is a typical situation for this type of situation. We’ll be on the ground in 25 minutes”

An hour later, our plane made contact with the runway, flanked by a squadron of “maintenance” vehicles that looked suspiciously like fire trucks and ambulances, full of flashing lights (a pilot I met the next day admitting it was a pretty serious problem). A flight attendant asked the Ghana passengers to switch planes, and told the Monrovia passengers that due to a curfew in Monrovia, we’d be spending the next two nights in Atlanta.

I was actually excited about the next two days; the Peace Corps couldn’t have planned a better ice breaker. Our eclectic group began a blitz of stories from first assignments in South Africa, Tanzania, Mauritania, Micronesia, Tonga, Rwanda, Uganda, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. Each country, I came to learn, had its benefits and challenges; work satisfaction in Azerbaijan was balanced by incredibly cold winters where showers came once a week; an emotionally closed populace in Rwanda was balanced by the opportunity of regional travel and engagement with lessons of the recent genocide. Though everyone had stories to get me both jealous and relieved, I couldn’t help but feel that I had it very easy in Tonga (the Azerbaijan volunteer gave me “the look” when I complained about our frigid 68-degree winter).

So what do thirteen excited strangers do with a pad of Delta vouchers and free reign on a Major American city? Hop on MARTA and visit a downtown microbrew. The wine and beer flowed as quickly as the stories, and we soon realized that however rough Liberia would be, our already strong camaraderie would help. Some volunteers then went to visit the Body World’s exhibit, others to the park or to see friends in the area. I joined a small group to see the Martin Luther King Center, a national museum across from his former Ebenezer Baptist Church, his birthplace, and his tomb. Later I took a solo tour of the CNN world headquarters. Unfortunately I didn't meet any anchors, as Wolf Blitzer's show is in D.C. and the glowingly attractive Robin Meade had already finished her morning show (I had no interest in waiting around for Nancy Grace)

Of all the opportunities allowed by our layover, however, it was the one extra hot bath that was most satisfying. We each had hotel rooms all to ourselves.

After a set of salubrious group meals, I’m looking forward to getting this adventure back on track and truly crossing the Atlantic. That is hopefully just a few hours away.

The Adventure Continues

2012-01-16T17:38:00.000Z

Huddled under the heat lamps at the DAMEN “L” stop in Wicker Park a few nights ago, teeth chattering, arms shivering, and breath instantly fogging, more pleasant memories came to mind – those of shorts, T-shirts, the beach, the ocean, palm trees, and the sun. And they reminded me that I’ve been neglecting those people who followed me while I made those memories. For that I apologize. It’s been a crazy time.

It wasn’t the transition to “clean life,” as some volunteers call it, that made my life crazy. Last year’s lengthy holiday visit prepared me for what to expect and this Chicago winter has been a heat wave compared to last year. Friends and family have been supportive and reconnecting with them was much easier than the Peace Corps warned it would be – I think because so many of my friends and family are travelers too. Also, I was mentally ready to move on from Tonga to other things. I enjoyed myself there, but two years was enough.

The craziness came instead from time management. Needing some spending money, I took odd jobs from family in between family outings and excursions into the city (I’m so thankful to have friends in fun Chicago neighborhoods). I took advantage of after-Christmas sales, as Tonga had either destroyed my clothes or made them too big on me. And, of course, there was frequent relaxation in the bathtub.

There was an action-packed extended weekend here when Juleigh came to visit (after he week-long vacation in Dallas to see Blair). We immediately dined on deep dish pizza, and then my Chicago friends showed both of us the cool hipster bars in Wicker Park (Velvet Hour for expensive cocktails mixed with egg whites and ingredients I’ve never heard of; The Map Room for imported Belgian beer). We used the “L” to get around, reaching Evanston, Millennium Park, The Willis Tower, Berghoff’s Restaurant, and Wrigleyville (for drinks during a football game). For her last day we sprinted to Milwaukee for a brewery tour and a stop at Mar’s Cheese Castle. It IS the land of cheese heads.

None of these events, however, made my life quite as hectic as the preparations for my next adventure. Tomorrow afternoon, I fly to Liberia to begin a 6-month assignment as a Peace Corps Response Volunteer. The job is the same as in Tonga, but they tell me not to expect running water, electricity, or internet. It doesn’t intimidate me, but it leaves me a little disappointed that there won’t be the frequent blogging that I did in Tonga. There’s not much I can say about my future assignment because Peace Corps hasn’t told me much and I’ve learned from Peace Corps Tonga how little one’s actual assignment resembles their description anyways. I’m going into it with an open mind and a commitment to flexibility. I just wish there was less paperwork and fewer medical hoops to get approved for the program (like getting 5 vaccines in one sitting).

Stay with me for the next 6 months and I promise more fascinating stories.

Sione’s 6 most frequently asked questions:

What was the first thing you ate off the plane?

After dropping my bags off at home, we picked up some Lou Malnotti’s Chicago-style deep dish pizza.

What do you miss most about Tonga?

The weather.

How’s Banjo?

ALIVE. He’s with Kaitlin in Utulau, and she says he’s doing well. He’s already been through his first dog fight, though she didn’t say if he won or lost. I like her story of when he tried to follow her onto the bus and she had to force him off.

What do you like most about being home?

The family, the friends, the food, the hot baths, and the iPhone – no, seriously, these devices are magical. When I left the states I was still using a Motorola RAZR, so imagine jumping that far ahead in technology.

Why only 6 months?

I’m going to Liberia as a Peace Corps Response Volunteer, which is a program open only for those who have finished an original 2-year assignment with Peace Corps. They post openings for specific openings in specific countries usually with shorter assignments. Otherwise the programs are pretty much the same.

When will you get a real job?

Do I have to?

Sione's 100 Best Pictures from Tonga

2012-01-16T03:33:00.002Z

An Executive Welcome

2012-01-02T08:13:00.003Z

“I hope you guys don’t mind… we’re extending your contracts, from six months to a year,” our country director informed while we mingled with Liberian civil servants and US Embassy employees at the conclusion of our swearing-in ceremony. Those of us who heard him met eyes and answered with a chuckling, “no problem.” I was so stunned from the warm state welcome that I would have agreed to stay forever.

It was a fantastic welcome. Whereas in Tonga our office managed only to find a deputy minister of education and the ambassador of Japan (?) to welcome us into service, in Liberia we swore our oath and sang our Star Spangled Banner for Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, the President of Liberia, as well as the Minister of Education, the Minster of Women and Gender Issues, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the Minister of Justice. A troop of other Liberian civil servants also took seats, and our own US ambassador brought her army of Foreign Service Officers.

Our ambassador told us the story about President Sirleaf’s meeting with President George W. Bush a few years ago in the Rose Garden in which she surprised him with a request to bring the Peace Corps back to her country. Bush then made the announcement a press conference just minutes later, causing surprise at the Peace Corps office and prompting the PC Director to sprint to the White house for an explanation (these decisions usually aren’t made on a whim). But after some budget adjustments, and postponing the opening of Peace Corps Sierra Leone, Peace Corps was soon here.

The series of speeches from government ministers and then finally the president of Liberia was inspiring. I only wish there hadn’t been a miscommunication between the US Embassy/Peace Corps and the President’s Office; in her speech she thanked us for being the first Response Volunteers to stay for a full year, that those six-month terms they used to do were way too small to be effective. She was almost right, the next group of Response volunteers will serve full years. If she ever learns her mistake, I hope she won’t be too disappointed. I’ll try to make it an especially productive 6 months.

Below the portrait is the US ambassador, to the right is President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, then the Minster of Foreign Affairs (I think), then me

My New Home

2011-12-14T21:07:00.003Z

What the Fido is going on around here? Just a few days ago I watched Sione build a box out of screws and wood scraps and then proceed to feed me inside of it for a few meals. Then one morning he tricked me inside the box, lifted me into the school van, and took me to the airport.

I never barked, because Sione hates when I do that, but I was thoroughly confused. Two strangers lifted me into the back of the DC-3, but thankfully Sione soon came by and called my name and told me not to worry. I waited there through that terrible earthquake started with loud noises and shimeys until Sione came to sit and pet me behind the ears just the way I like it. He kept asking if I was enjoying my first plane ride.

The Peace Corps office didn’t want me to stay in their apartments in Nuku’alofa, so Sione moved in with fellow volunteers Mark and Elena for his last week in Tonga. Their neighbor’s fat cat attacked me, but otherwise I had a pleasant stay. They kept me locked inside most of my two days in the capital, save for that second afternoon when Sione let me join in on a series of errands in the crazy streets of Nuku’alofa. So many smells! He’s never yelled at me so many times, and I have no idea what he was upset about. I don’t see what was wrong with walking in front of speedy cars.

Then came my first ever taxi ride! Mark and Carolyn joined Sione and me in a drive to Utulau, where Kaitlin lives. I remembered her from her visit to Ha’apai last winter, and she seemed very happy to see me.

That’s when I got confused all over again. Sione gave me a great hug and his eyes started watering, which I’ve never seen before. Then he and his taxi crew drove away while I was locked behind a screen door. Where did he go?

Hours later, when Kaitlin finally let me outside, I ran off after that taxi, but I couldn’t find it. Will it be back? I hope so, but I’m also really happy to be here with Kaitlin. There’s no beach here for me to splash around in, but at least there aren’t many cars. Kaitlin feeds me well and her neighbors, for Tongans, are unusually friendly towards me. I miss Sione but I’m also enjoying my new life in Utulau.

The Last Sunset

2011-12-11T21:09:00.000Z

A yellow-orange sky was usually my cue to pour a glass of refrigerated Franzia and stroll to our school’s beach, dog in tow. I’d sit on the fallen coconut trunk and dip my feet in the ocean. Five or so minutes would go by, and the sky would darken. Then we’d return home for dinner.

It happened exactly this way dozens of times.

Tonight’s sunset was different, and the most meaningful. This was my last sunset in Ha’apai, and to celebrate I bought myself a bottle of New Zealand Pinot noir (newly available on the island), put a relaxing playlist on my iPod, and headed to the beach with my camera and tripod. This wouldn’t just be a 5-minute break, but an hour-long cathartic reflection. And Banjo meditated with me.

It had only just hit me that my time in Ha’apai was about to be over. Just hours earlier I had emptied my house into my principal’s house. He became the beneficiary of almost everything I owned. Using my dishes and utensils, he made me one last hearty and delicious meal, finishing just in time for the sunset. This was it.

As the sun peered between clouds and Air played their downtempo electronica, I nearly finished that bottle.

Environmental Determinism

2011-12-11T02:51:00.000Z

Does environment and climate determine culture? Environmental Determinists think so. I first learned about the school of thought in Mrs. Rosenthal’s nine grade social studies class after reading an article proposing that Europeans conquered Africa and the tropics because the severe European weather instilled a strong cultural work ethic, whereas equatorial heat made tropical people lazy. It was an interesting theory, but we learned as high schoolers that Environmental Determinism had long since waned in popularity.

Consider this post a new defense of Environment Determinism. I just spent the last week in extreme heat and humidity and it was debilitating. I slept without any clothing with the windows all open and a fan blowing directly on me, and I was still sweating. And that was at night. Yesterday’s mid-day heat put me into a nap-coma from noon until 5pm, and I still slept a full 8 hours last night. My neighbors have the same nap and sleep schedules. Obviously, this heat kills productivity.

I haven’t blogged for a few days because of this motivation-sapping heat (and because I have a head cold and my typing with my index finger splinted to my middle finger is inconvenient). I have only two days left in Ha’apai and the excitement has my thoughts racing with things to say. But to be quite honest right now, I’m not wearing a shirt or underwear here at my computer, the fan is one me, the windows are all open, and I’m sweating. I think I might just lay down for the day’s second nap…

My Own Goodbye, and How to Roast a Pig Tongan Style

2011-12-07T21:14:00.001Z

The food, the mass of people, the speeches, the crying, the gifts, and the juggling made for a touching and very Tongan goodbye. It was, however, far too formal for me to feel comfortable at my own celebration; there was too much procedure, the speeches followed droll outlines, and I had to sit in front with the row of ministers. That’s why I threw myself a separate goodbye party a few days later. And it just isn’t a party in Tonga without a roasted pig.

How to Roast a Pig, Tongan Style

Step 1: Obtain a pig

Many families raise their own pigs, and it is easy to do. The laws requiring fences and pens are never enforced. Pigs don’t wander too far away, and they eat grass and the inexhaustible supply of coconuts. Tongan families keep one large healthy female around to pump out generations of piglets, and these piglets seem rarely to reach sexual maturity because there are so many feasts throughout the year. This low supply and high demand makes them very expensive.

I didn’t have my own pig family, and my principal slaughtered his last pig at the school’s goodbye party. So we went a huntin’ for some pork. He and I drove to Fangale’ounga, my training village, and asked around at different houses until one man (who I of course already knew) offered to sell me one for $70. That must be $40 or $50 USD, and it was a small pig. But that’s the going price these days.

He delivered it to our school compound alive and tied inside a flour sack.

Step 2: Kill the pig

This was my first animal slaughter. Warning! It gets bloody and squealy. Note my confused, hovering dog.

Sione's Goodbye Party -- Killing the Pig by JJManioke

Step 3: Remove the hooves and hair

Pangungungungu (crispy) pigskin in the best part of the pig roast, and no one wants to ingest pig hair. That’s why the pig gets dipped in near boiling water and then scrubbed with hand and spatulas. The hooves are popped off with a knife. (You don't need to watch the whole clip, I just wasn't able to edit it down).

Sione's Goodbye Party -- Removing the Pig's Hair by JJManioke

Step 4: Remove the insides

But save the heart and liver, those are nutritious and, depending on who you ask, delicious.

Step 5: Wash the Pig

Clean out all that blood and intestinal juice. It's easy when the ocean is next door.

Step 6: Spear the Pig for the Spit

Sione's Goodbye Party -- Spearing the Pig for... by JJManioke

Step 7: Roast the Pig

Keep rotating it for about an hour. If it starts raining, like it did for us, throw some corrugated aluminum sheeting over the fire to keep it going.

Sione's Goodbye Party -- Roasting the Pig by JJManioke

Step 7.5: If you don't want to serve it whole, then hack at it with a Machete

Sione's Goodbye Party -- Chopping Up the Pig by JJManioke

Step 8: EAT the Pig!

These are very happy faces. Who doesn’t like a roasted pig? But there were many more faces than we had planned for.

My principal helped me with the guest list: a few of my favourite neighbors and favourite students. The list was small enough that one small pig should have covered it, and in America it would have. You might have extra visitors to your own American holiday party, but only a few. You wouldn’t be expected to feed every neighbor who walks by your house. But two years of Tonga taught me that I’d probably end up needing to feed twice the number of people on that list, so I also bought a 15 kilo box of frozen chicken. And I’m so glad I did.

A few strangers (to me, but not the rest of our group) smelled the pig from the road and came to join. A few people were living on our campus to prepare for a wedding days later, and they also joined. Other neighbors came, and my principal took some food to the head minister. It was just enough.

There were no speeches and there were no ministers. The party insisted I sit at a table while my favourite Tongans sat on the floor, but I wanted a more casual and egalitarian goodbye and joined them on the floor. We told jokes and got our hands dirty with grease. Just the way I like it.

After the students, neighbors, and strangers returned home, my principal and I laid with porked potbellies on the science room veranda as sunshowers passed over us.

The Big Show

2011-12-05T18:57:00.000Z

Depending on which of my neighbors you speak to, it happens either once every four years, ten years, or whenever the government feels like hosting it. Whichever the case, I’m glad it happened while I was still here; the 2011 Ha’apai Agriculture, Fisheries, and Industries show was the greatest homegrown spectacle I have ever seen in Ha’apai.

Every village from every island in Ha’apai was provided tent space to show off their crops and weaving wares for a best-in-show competition. Since Ha’apaians all grow the same crops and weave with the same techniques out of the same materials, every display was similar. It was the enormity of the display, however, that drew the crowd. I’ve never seen either shoreline or the rugby field so crowded before.

I arrived with my camera after the judging finished so I could buy some of their prize-winning fruits. With the constant call of “Sione!” from kids, parents, teachers, and outer islanders I met on my tour, Ha’apai reminded me warmly why I love this place so much. Everyone was eager to have their picture taken, even those I didn’t know (and won’t ever see the photo) but I was happy to make them all happy. A pair of post office ladies also made sure to express how sad they’ll be when I’m gone -- because there won’t be anyone to give them candy.

My favourite tent was Fangale’ounga’s. They were my host village during training and they brought a beautiful variety of vegetables. I bought a palm-leaf bag of their young coconuts (for drinking), and they gifted me a watermelon.

The fair was stimulating, but it only lasted a couple of hours. Then Ha’apai returned to its regular summer break ghost town, as most young people have escaped to Vava’u or Tongatapu for more exciting things.

Sayonara

2011-12-04T23:03:00.000Z

Ha’apai is two weeks away from losing all of its Peace Corps Volunteers. Aussie youth ambassadors don’t come here, and since there is only one Kiwi for the whole country, neither do New Zealanders. Ha’apai won’t completely lose its foreign help, however, because there will still be three volunteers from the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA).

The JICAs have always been kind to us and we’ve had a few mutual social events. Mostly, though, they keep to themselves. Tonga must be a an extra challenge for them since they need to learn both English and Tongan to be able to work with locals. Tongans don’t have family in Japan or import much of Japanese culture. Some Tongans also assume that JICAs are Chinese, which broaches immigrant tensions.

Fortunately, Sachi, Kimika, and Miyuki (whose names I hope I am spelling correctly) have a perfect new hang-out location for their future, culturally homogeneous, social events. Sachi just moved from “all the way across town” in to a well-constructed fully furnished home, which became a good excuse last week for a joint house warming / goodbye Peace Corps dinner party. It was only the second time I’ve sat on a couch in the past six months.

There’s no such thing as normal when you combine Americans and Japanese culture in destitute Ha’apai, and that’s why having them around was great. Connor brought a bottle of wine (which might be normal at a dinner party in the states but is very expensive for us and only newly available). I brought an olive oil and balsamic vinegar based salad (very special ingredients), a pineapple, and a corner table – Sachi had asked me to teach her to build a corner table for her new family room out of a plank of wood and a hammer, which taught me enough about her home improvement sense just to give her mine.

Connor and I experienced Japanese culture by dining on Japanese pancakes composed of cabbage, corn, and a floury mixture that were tasty when drizzled with a sweet soy syrup; by watching the three JICAs obsessively photograph the entire evening; by playing their “pick up the card with the country’s flag you hear me call” party game; and by listening to their chop-stick etiquette lessons. The only culture Connor and I gave back was a silly drinking game and a bickering argument over who’s hometown produced better pizza (I think if he ventured off Long Island into heartland America he’d accept the supremacy of the Chicago-style).

It was like no evening I’ve even had, and that’s why I’ll miss our three JICA. Thanks Sachi, Kimika, and Miyuki for the great good-bye.

Legacy

2011-12-04T22:49:00.000Z

As the end draws near, more and more people are offering the compliments “You’ve done great things for Tonga,” “we are grateful for your hard working,” and “Tonga will miss you.” It makes me feel good, but it also makes me think. Of all the great things our Ha’apai team has accomplished, how will this impact Tonga’s future? What will I leave behind? What is my legacy?

It’s not just a thought for the plane ride home. The Peace Corps also wants to know the answer. “Sustainability” is the crown buzz-word in the Peace Corps lexicon, as the best projects are supposed to carry on after we leave.

The reason Peace Corps wants to hear about sustainability is that it’s so difficult to accomplish. A Vava’u volunteer not many years ago helped start a library and a DVD rental business, but as soon as they returned to the states the town raided the buildings and distributed the books and DVDs amongst neighbors. Libraries indeed have the worst reputation, as a previous volunteer told us about the time she returned from a mid-way break in the states to find her school’s newly renovated library (her pet project) utterly destroyed by careless students. Libraries are one of those projects that interests foreigners more than Tongans, so it’s difficult to pass them on after your service ends. Todd knew that even if he could find community support to re-open the Ha’apai library this year that it would not open next year in his absence.

Watching something you’ve worked on for months so quickly crumble can be devastating. That’s why I’m so happy with our education projects in Ha’apai. Sex-ed, Juleigh and Blair’s Camp GLOW girls’ empowerment camp, and my health promotion tour cannot fail in the same way as a ransacked library. The goal was to teach people, and the people have already been taught. We have no way of measuring the future impact of our education projects either; we’ll never know how many STIs or unplanned pregnancies we prevented, how many girls we empowered to become future leaders, or how many people turned towards healthier diets.

There are sustainability goals with these projects that can fail, sure, but these goals are secondary. We hope the government conducts another Ha’apai Camp GLOW next year without us, but it won’t devastate us if they don’t; we already felt our success at this year’s camp. My sex-ed website will remain online forever whether or not Teisa continues with sex ed classes next year.

My own Ha’apai Healthy Eating and Oral Health PCPP is showing strong signs of sustainability, as Ha’apai’s health promotion officer has all but continued the project without me despite me already beginning to write the final report. I think she will continue the health talks for months, but even if she doesn’t, we’ve already reached nearly 1000 people. I’ll feel great is she does, but not bad if she doesn’t.

But all this uncertainty makes answering the original question rather difficult. What impact will I have had on Tonga? I like to think that I’ve taught many people many important things about science, biology, teacher training, healthy eating, oral hygiene, and sexual protection, but the future impact will never be measured. That’s okay with me. For the rest of my life I’ll only have happy memories of my accomplishments and nothing will be able to take that away from me.

Two Impressive Peace Corps Resumes

2011-12-04T07:27:00.002Z

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You Know You're In Peace Corps Tonga When... (picture edition #5)

2011-12-04T03:24:00.001Z

... the walls of a house you live down the street from are made entirely of aluminum cans.

... ladies dance with roasted pigs at graduation ceremonies.

...men like to show off their Batman shorts.

...people can fall asleep with almost anything as a pillow.

...you accidentally grew your own watermelon (didn't see it from under the weeds until it was already ripe).

...you've watched two cockroaches have sex while you were taking your shower.

...there truly is "only one" Jeep in your entire island group.

come on windy city, not the sox, the other one

The Anniversary of a Tragedy

2011-12-03T03:14:00.001Z

Dec 3^rd is a day which will live in infamy. One year ago today, the Tonga Customs Bureau murdered 13,272 perfectly drinkable bottles of wine that they claimed had been imported illegally by the Tonga Rugby League. Details and many more pictures of the massacre are available on Matangi Tonga’s website here.

I have but one question for Tonga’s desperately cash-strapped government. Couldn’t you just have sold some of those innocent bottles to me?

come on windy city, not the sox, the other one

Lockdown

2011-12-01T21:45:00.003Z

A received an email last week from a Tongan-American who had recently spent time teaching in Tonga to experience her mother’s country. She had been following my blog because:

“I can very much relate to what you share and it brings back many fond (and not so fond) memories of my time there.”

That I had been fair in showing both the happy and the frustrating aspects of Tongan culture was one of the greatest blog compliments I had ever received. A blog reader wouldn’t know what it’s like to live in Tonga or get a good grasp on Tongan culture if I only wrote about the positive things.

Most PCVs don’t write so honestly online. Most PCV blogs show smiling students, sandy beaches, school graduations, and lavish feasts. For honesty they write more privately. Juleigh kept 3 different written records of her experience: a private journal for her personal feelings, monthly emails to America for what might be offensive to Tongans, and a public blog for what wouldn’t get her into trouble. It was safer that way. But it also means Juleigh would tell you different things in private conversation than blog followers would read online. People asking me about Tonga privately would hear about the same feelings I wrote.

Such honesty can be offensive. So can jokes, facts, and exposing corruption and incompetence. I’ve been told that my “you know you’re in Peace Corps Tonga” posts are offending Tongans, as well as my recent description of Tongan love and marriage. I don’t know what the offenses are specifically, but I imagine it’s the way I’m so blunt in publicly discussing what Tongans don’t publically discuss. Tongans don’t talk about sex, relationships, politics, governance, customer service, education, or a host of other topics publically. And from my own experience, employees witnessing bosses mismanage funds don’t dare report it; and employers witnessing employees shirk their responsibilities and come persistently late to work don’t report it either. No one wants to rock any boats. My blog, then, might just capsize the boat.

And that’s why, I think, Peace Corps has asked me to password protect my blog.

Not everything is “offensive”, and I didn’t want to block every post, but Blogger doesn’t allow password protecting individual posts. I instead used a JavaScript trick by editing the HTML code. So now about a third of my posts from the past 2 years require a key to decrypt them. The key shouldn’t be difficult for Chicagoans, or anyone else knowledgeable about American sports. The hint below the “show encryption” link should help immensely. If anyone non-Tongan still has trouble figuring out the key, send me an email and I’ll give it to you (I apologize that this encryption system ruins some of the formatting of my posts).

Not every post from here on out will be encrypted, but I imagine now my blog following will drop off the cliff. That’s alright, it’s been a good run. With 2300 pageviews, November was my biggest month yet. And I only have two more weeks to go when it would all be over anyways. I glad so many of you enjoyed following my blog. This has been the happiest two years of my life, and I enjoyed Tonga immensely.

The Social Struggle

2011-12-01T20:35:00.000Z

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come on windy city, not the sox, the other one

I Found A New Home

2011-11-30T02:32:00.000Z

Thank you everyone for your sympathy. My plea for help finding a new home before John’s neighbors bake me in the underground oven was by far the most viewed post in all of October.

I can now happily announce that once John leaves me for America, I’ll be living with Peace Corps Volunteer Kaitlin Tufts on the main island of Tongatapu. We already met when she visited Ha’apai last June and she made a fun cuddle buddy. She promises to keep me safe and feed me well. She’s a vegetarian, though, and I refuse to eat anything but straight fat and protein, so we’ll have to work something out. I also hear there’s a dog gang already there, so I’ll probably challenge their leader for at shot at top dog. John tells me Kaitlin lives away from city so there won’t be many cars around, which is a good thing because I do love to play chicken with them (but for some reason always lose L).

I want to thank everyone else who offered their homes to me in Tonga: Mark & Elena, TK, and Elenoa. I also want to thank John’s cousin Katie for offering a spot in her home in Illinois even though her husband would probably have killed her.

John says I’ll need to take a 45 minute flight to Tongatapu in a wooden cage he still needs to make. I’m not looking forward to that, but I should probably be good to him since he’s been feeding me like a king this month. We have only 17 more days of bonding before he leaves me so there’s been a lot of cuddling.

I overheard Kaitlin telling John on the phone that a year from now when her service ends she’ll be willing to put me on a plane and send me to Chicago. ATTENTION JOHN'S FRIENDS & FAMILY! That means we have one more year to convince his parents to take me in to their soon-to-be-empty-nest! Tell them how you feel this Christmas.

A Day In The Life

2011-11-28T11:01:00.000Z

In normally share the most interesting parts of my Tongan life in these posts, assuming that the mundane would turn everyone away. But Juleigh recently suggested that a post chronicling my average day might make for some interesting comparison for readers in America. So here goes: A Day in the Life of Sione Puputu’u.

My alarm clock is usually the sound of students shouting in the home economics room next to me. It’s around 7:30, and the students are socializing while waiting for the 8:15 ish assembly bell. I put on some shorts. While walking to my front door to let in Banjo, who is usually waiting for me on the door stoop, I press the power button on my computer. By the time I’m finished with our morning petting ritual, the computer is alive. I check my email, scan my blog stats, and then pump the house with energizing music for my gloriously hot shower. Next comes black tea and breakfast, which might be crackers, buttered bread, or last night’s leftovers. My favourite form 3 or form 4 students come and out looking for things to do while I’m brushing and flossing my teeth.

There’s still time to finish preparing the day’s lessons. Sometime before my two morning classes I put on some formal teaching attire. My classes run on a six day cycle, five of which have only two morning classes. Day five puts them in the afternoon.

I spend one of the 50-minute blocks teaching my single biology student. My home has one of the only functioning computers on campus and I rely heavily on low-resolution YouTube videos to help explain lessons that are difficult for me to explain in Tongan or impossible to show without a microscope (like ecological succession, mitosis and meiosis, gene transcription and translation, plant and animal cells).

I usually hold form 4 science in the form 4 classroom, though I will also invite the class to my house to watch a video if I need YouTube help (it’s great for body systems, physics, simple machines, electricity, and molecules).

I’m not very productive after dinner, so I pack my afternoons and remaining mornings with projects. There have been many different project phases throughout my two years:

For my first four months it was strictly lesson planning and home construction. I hadn’t been trained to be a teacher, and my home was, as Todd put, “a shit hole.” The Peace Corps’s teaching manuals, the school’s textbooks, and my father’s tools helped with these projects.

The middle and end of my first year had me studying ferociously for the Foreign Service exam I took in October 2010 and passed.

Exercising and spear fishing took a big block of my afternoons, especially after returning from the States with embarrassing holiday weight. I might swim or ride my bike or, if fishing, do both. I could be out fishing for 3-4 hours. The exercise regiment stopped after an April dog bite temporarily made walking difficult, and the spear fishing stopped when I lost my spear in that Tuna and the cheap replacement spears from New Zealand were poor substitutes.

Exercising’s demise brought a drastic increase in blog posts. I would write between one and three a day, several times per week, placing extras into a queue so usually one would post each day. Most posts required much of my time, but it was one of my favourite things to do.

Restoring my fence after February’s cyclone and enlarging my garden were massive construction projects.

If my principal wanted me to run a 4-day after-school in-service program I usually had only a day’s notice to research it and put it all together.

Team Ha’apai’s CRIBS episodes devoured two weeks of my time.

My principal might need help proof reading letters of recommendation (for visa forms) or the police station might need help fixing their printer.

Some afternoons I would assist the island’s dental therapists with the malimali tooth brushing program. Others I would spend at my Peace Corps Partnership Program’s health talks. Getting that PCPP paperwork ready for approval also took most of my November 2010. It also took me a month and a half to get my sexual health website running by the middle of 2011.

The third quarter of 2011 saw me obtaining, highlighting, and analyzing anything related to Tongan history I could find. Writing a series of blog posts and Wikipedia articles on Tongan history was one of my favourite projects. This was also the same quarter I taught a dozen kids to use Facebook, decision I regret as it bled my afternoons of any productivity (it takes hours each to get them to create their own accounts and earn enough working knowledge that they can navigate the site themselves).

Somewhere in there I would take a trip to the store or perhaps check on mail at the post office. Trips to town are Banjo’s favourite part of the day, and he gets all jumpy as I exit the school gate. He doesn’t always make it to my destination with me, however, because he finds girlfriends along the way and I can’t compete with his sex drive.

Juleigh might also stop at my house to say hello or vent a frustration in between finishing her morning classes and heading home for lunch. Or I might do the same with her later in the day. There’s probably a glass of wine or four in there somewhere.

Usually twice a week Juleigh, Todd, and I meet for a social event, which would usually range in excitement from eating dinner to watching a movie. Usually it’s just me and Banjo for dinner. In my home growing up dinner was always the most important meal of the day, so I almost always spend a good deal of time preparing it. My meals don’t vary much from my 4 stoveable staples (I don’t really have a functioning oven): pasta with tomato sauce, sautéed ground beef with vegetables over rice, sautéed chicken with vegetables over rice, or chicken curry. Chopped garlic and onions go with almost every meal. I sometimes made quesadillas, pizza, Mac and cheese, or carbonara, until I backed off of fatty and expensive cheese.

There are always errands and upkeep, like constant floor sweeping, a weekly 2-3 hour hand-laundry session, swatting the occasional cockroach, boiling drinking water, editing photo albums, and reading my economists. Teachers and students are constantly coming and going to beg for computer use or for the electric tea kettle, or just to sit and watch me work; there isn’t much here to keep them entertained.

I ate plenty of sautéed fish my first year, but mostly chicken after I stopped spear fishing. 1 kilo of American legs and thighs can feed both me and Banjo, who always seems to know when its chicken de-boning time. He gets the majority of the kilo in raw scraps because there isn’t much good meat I can get off them bones.

During dinner I’ll watch some television (.AVI files on my external hard drive). When the sun gets really low and yellow I’ll play with Banjo on the grass or at the beach, often snuggling on my back with Banjo while gazing at the sky. After it sets, if I have the energy, I will continue projects or blog writing. Usually there’s another TV show and some internet surfing. There’s always another blissfully hot shower (these past few months anyway). I’m in bed between 10:30 and midnight.

Saturdays were project days. Sundays allowed quiet in-home projects, but I couldn’t build anything, and there wasn’t much time always – I would sleep in until 10am church and then consume a neighbor’s after-church lu (baked green leaves wrapped around coconut milk and chicken).

It's been a nice life, but I'm ready to change things up -- do something else, somewhere else.

Tis the Season: Love and Marriage

2011-11-27T11:01:00.004Z

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Password: Come on Windy City,... it's not the sox, it's the other one

Music Tastes

2011-11-27T07:14:00.000Z

The Goodbye Speech

2011-11-26T19:35:00.001Z

The Tanaki Tu’unga is supposed to celebrate the students. It’s the last day of school, when each student’s position (tu’unga) is ranked (tanaki), when school supplies are awarded for test scores and attendance, and when everyone eats and dances together. That’s why I was surprised my principal gave me a thank-you speech and a gift in the middle of the ceremony. I was so surprised to receive the circular painted tapa pattern of Lifuka Island that I didn’t know what to say. Thankfully I wasn’t expected to say anything.

My principal’s speech surprised me too. To paraphrase, he said, “Sione Puputu’u, we know you are always , but we want you to please take with you only the good things. Forget all the bad.” I was expecting the “forget the bad” speech, as both Todd and Juleigh received the same advice at their assemblies. I wasn’t expecting him to call me Sione Puputu’u.

Puputu’u, as with most words in the simple Tongan lexicon, means many similar things: confused, I don’t know what to do, what’s going on?, I give up, or, I just want to put my head in my hands in frustration. It is used often in my daily vocabulary. I used the word so much that the nuns assigned it to me as a comical surname, and it’s popularity grew over two years to where strangers will call that name to me while I ride my bicycle through town. My principal, however, never used that nickname, and never even called me Sione. But now, several times throughout the rest of the ceremony, in a speeches from the deputy director of the school system and the deputy principal, and in prayers from the ministers, I was referred to as Sione Puputu’u. With the word’s possibly negative connotations, I grew worried that my school thought I didn’t enjoy my two years.

The next day I would have my chance to explain everything. Students disappear after the Tanaki Tu’unga, but teachers return for one last day of a meeting and a feast. This year it was also a “goodbye Sione Puputu’u” feast at which I would be required to give a formal thank-you speech. After the opening prayer, when everyone grabbed for their roasted pigs, curries, lu, “chop suey,” root crops, and fizzy drinks, I stood up on the gleaming new tiled floor and gave the following words.

[The first half is very formal and was written for me by my principal; I read it off a pad of paper. The second half was entirely in my own words and spoken naturally without paper. I probably made many mistakes but judging by the positive audience reaction they mostly understood me]

‘Oku ou kole keu fakamalumalu atu. I he talaaofaki kuo kamata ‘aki ‘a e feohi ‘angani.

Pea I he’ene pehe ‘oku ou fiefia lahi ke fai atu ha fakamalo kihe Tokoni Talekita ako (Sione Kaivelata) faifekau pule le’ole’o. Pehe ki he kau faifekau hono kotoa pe.
Fakamalo lahi atu ki he puleako, tokoni pule, pehe ki he kau faiako hono kotoa pe. Malo ‘aupito e ‘ofa mo e tokoni kotoa pe kuo mou fai mai ma’aku.

‘Oku ikai ke u ma’u ha lea fe’unga ke fakamalo atu’aki kia kimoutolu hono kotoa pe.

Ofa ke mou ma’u ha kilisimasi fiefia moha ta’u fo’ou monu’ia.

[I put down my paper, pause for a moment]

Ko hoku hingo ko Sione Puputu’u koe’uhi ‘oku au puputu’u ma’upe mo e anga fakatonga. ‘Oku ikai ke u mahino ko e ha uhinga ko moutoulu fiekai lole ma’upe. ‘Oku ikai ke u mahino a e fanau’ako. ‘Oku nau pou’u lahi pea na’e ikai te nau fai honau homeworka. Ko fe a Litili? Na’e ne pau’u lahi. Na’e ne ako lelei, ka na’a ne pou’u. ‘Oku ikai ke u mahino ko e mohe fakaSefa. ‘Oku ne ngaue lahi ma’upe, mohe ‘osi hoko e 12 pe 1, a ‘osi hoko e 4, ‘aho katoa. Te ne ngaue lahi I he aho. ‘Oku ikai ke u mahino a e kole fakaTonga. ‘Oku mou fa’a pehe, “Fakamolemole Sione, ‘eku kole a e hele? Te u fakafokmai!” Ko ia ai ‘oku ou ave a e hele ka ‘e ikai te tau fakafokimai. Puputu’u lahi.

Ko ‘oku ikai ke u puputu’u fekau’ako mo homou anga lelei. ‘Oku ou mahino ‘aupito. Kapau ‘oku ou fiekai’ia, ‘oku ou lava ke alu’atu ki homou api ke kai. Kapau te u fie talanoa, ‘oku ou lava ke alu’atu ki homou api taimi kotoa pe. I Amelika, ‘oku ikai te u lava. I ha’apai’ni ‘oku malu ‘aupito ke luelue I he hala I he po’uli. Kapau te u sio ki he ha toko taha kona, te ne anga lelei ‘aupito o pehe, “Malo e lelei Sione.” Te u ilifia I Amelika. I Tailulu ko hoku matapa ‘oku ava ma’upe kapau te u ‘alu ki he feitu’u, pea ‘oku ikai ke u hoha’a ia moutoulu ke kaiha’a meia au. ‘Osi ta’u e ua, ‘oku hala me’a na’e kaiha’a. [think for a second] Ko e fanau ako na’e kaiha’a ‘eku hina kavamalohi mei hoku ‘api I he ta’u kuo’osi, ko sai pe, ‘oku ikai ke u ita.

‘Oku ou ave ofa lahi kia Sefa, ‘eku kaungame’a sai taha. Na’a ne fakangofua’I au ke faiako I he pongipongi pe o ‘alu ki he falemahaki ‘osi kai ho’ata. Na’a ne fa’a inu uine mo au. Na’a ne fa’a kai me’akai fakapalangi mo au. Na’a ne fa’a talanoa mo au. Te u ave mei mei me’a katoa kia Sefa. I just wish I had more to give him. Malo Sefa.

‘Oku ou ave ofa lahi kia Hamoni mo Toa, ‘eku tamai mo fa’e fakatonga. Mo Honiala mo Lina, ‘hoku toko ua fakatonga mo tu’anga’ange fakatonga. TU’OFFEFINE! Tu’offefine fakatanga!

‘Oku ou ave ofa lahi kia ‘Eseta mo Sifa, ‘eku tamai mo fa’e fakaVava’u, I he conferenisi.

‘Oku ou ave ofa lahi kia Meaka, ‘eku moa Vava’u. Fakakata pe, fakakata pe. Kaungame’a pe. Vati, ‘oua ita ia au.

Malo ‘aupito ‘aupito kia moutolu.

The first half is a formal thank-you to everyone who attended so I won’t translate it. The second half is roughly translated here:

My name is Confused because I am always confused about Tonga culture. I don’t understand why you all like to eat candy so much. I don’t understand the students: they are so naughty and don’t do their homework. Where is Litili? He was very naughty. He studied well, but he was naughty. I don’t understand the sleep schedule of Sefa. He works a lot, falls asleep late like at 12 or 1 and then wakes up at 4. Then he works all day. I don’t understand Tonga borrowing. You are always saying, “John, can I borrow your knife? I will bring it back.” So then I give you my knife but you don’t bring it back. Way confused.

But I am not confused with your friendliness. I understand completely. If I am hungry I can go to you to eat. If want to talk, I can go to you any time. I can’t in America. Ha’apai is very safe if I am walking in the road at night. If I see a drunk person, they are very nice and will say to me, “Hello John.” I would be afraid in America. At Tailulu my door is always open if I go somewhere because I am not afraid that you will steal from me. Nothing was stolen in 2 years. [think for a moment]. One student did steal a bottle of alcohol from me last year but I’m not upset about that anymore.

I have much love to give Sefa, my best friend. He allowed me to teach in the morning and work at the hospital after lunch. He often drank wine with me [to which he gets playfully embarrassed and denies this]. Well, he ate lots of western food with me. He often talked to me. I am giving him almost everything of mine. I just wish I had more to give him. Thank you Sefa.
I have much love to give Hamoni and Toa, Tongan father and mother. And to Lina and Honiala, my Tongan brother and brother [used word for brother instead of sister, causes uproar of laughter]. SISTER! Tongan Sister!

I have much love to give to Eseta and Sifa, my mother and father in Vava’u for the conference.

I have much love to give to Meaka, my Vava’u girlfriend. Just kidding, just kidding. Just my friend. Vati, don’t be angry at me [Meaka and Vati were getting married the next day and the joke went over perfectly].

Thank you everyone.

I prefer funny yet meaningful over sad and somber, and I succeeded; I had the audience laughing at almost every sentence. But I also conveyed that while I might be forever confused by Tongan culture, I also appreciate all the great things my community did for me. I don’t need to understand why they are so generous and friendly.

Their generosity continued following speech. After more heaps of praise they unveiled a table with Tongan handicrafts for me to bring back to the States. Then during a break from speeches one teacher did a traditional dance for me and then another tried her best at juggling. I had been asking months ahead for a traditional juggling show at my goodbye feast, so her gift was better than any handicraft she could have made or purchased. Finally, my Tongan, “brother… I mean Sister!” unveiled that she had an egregiously unflattering picture of the two of us printed on a T-Shirt for me.

I’m usually not interested in trinkets, I don’t know what to do with their tapa prints, I don’t usually wear necklaces, and I would never have chosen that T-shirt for myself. But in this case it truly is the thought that counts and I love everything they gave me. I will find places for all of my gifts and I will wear the T-shirt with pride. Again, I don’t quite understand them, but I do appreciate them.

I Could Kiss The Sky

2011-11-23T11:01:00.001Z

My principal decided, a week before the Rugby World Cup Final, that he wanted to watch the match from his living room. I applauded his decision to purchase a Sky Pacific satellite dish and thereby bring news, comedies, movies, and sports to Tailulu, but I was not surprised that the dish was not installed in time for the game.

I was surprised that my principal was surprised. I listened to him vent for the next four weeks each time the Fiji-based company postponed their shipment to Tonga and raised their price. This is typical Tongan customer service -- shouldn’t he be used to it by now?

I had hoped Todd and Juleigh would be around to watch an hour of BBC World News with me before they left, but they just missed it. The morning the plane left was the day the dish arrived. When the install guy arrived the day afterwards to bring it alive, I bought a 15-kilo box of chicken to celebrate with the Tailulu community. I wanted to see and hear what I’ve for so long only been able to read about: protests in Syria, Anthony Weiner’s weiner (though that’s probably passed now), presidential debate implosions, and that giant camping party on Wall Street. This would be an amazing night!

Alas, how I forgot to adjust my expectations for Ha’apai; Sky Pacific pulled a Comcast. The install guy said it had to be activated by the Fiji office, who was for the longest time not answering phones. When they answered they said it was a problem with the install, but the guy had already disappeared. The heaviest rain of the month then washed out any chance of having a community barbecue (we still grilled the chicken, but people hid in their homes).

Good news came the day after when the first rugby game appeared on the television screen. My second attempt at celebrating went much better too. I opened up Todd’s marshmallows, melted chocolate chips, and found some arrowroot crackers. My principal’s houseload of teachers and students received their first ever lesson on s'mores, toasting the marshmallows on Juleigh’s kebab skewers over the stove. It was a hit.

We retired with our sugar highs to the living room to watch the evening’s feature entertainment: low budget New Zealand regional soccer and the last third of Lies and Illusions, starring Christian Slater and Cuba Gooding Junior. It was without hyperbole the worst movie I’ve ever seen. For a 2009 film it felt wincingly close to a low budget 1980’s Jean Claude van Dam production, only with less action, worse special effects, uninspiring camera angles, and atrocious dialog. But you know you’ve missed television when even this type of movie is enjoyable.

The highlight of the evening wasn’t even the Sky TV or the heavenly s'mores, but an experience under the actual sky. It happened during a spontaneous trip to the store to buy milk to help melt the chocolate. With my principal driving and me in the back of the flatbed with Banjo, we picked up some neighbors on the way who needed a ride to Koulo, the village at the airport. For the ten minute ride home I laid in the back with Banjo at my side and the comfortable milk carton as my pillow and gazed at the whizzing palm trees and the cloudless field of stars. There is almost no light pollution here, so the whole sky opens up and seeing shooting stars is almost guaranteed. I was almost disappointed that on my short trip I only saw one. The ride was so peaceful and beautiful that part of me wanted to pay my principal to keep driving for hours. In America I would have gotten a ticket for not wearing a seat belt.

You Know You're In Peace Corps Tonga When... (#13)

2011-11-22T23:33:00.002Z

…the only flavor potato chips at the store is “chicken flavor.”

...that extra zesty crunch in your pasta salad is beach sand.

…you need to plug the bottom gap of your front door when it rains to avoid getting your floor pillows wet.

…you are 26 years old and still get chain mail text messages. Most recently:

I'm sorry to bother you but it is urgent. I have a friend coming from far and need a place to stay since He'll be around, so I have indicated your house. Pls receive and love him. His name is Jesus of Nazareth. Say this slowly, Jesus of Nazareth, I love you and I need you, clean my heart with your blood and my family. Send this to 10 people

… there is roti and UHP milk available on your outer island, but there is none available in the capital; there is olive oil available in the capital but not your island; and there are no potatoes anywhere.

…you’ve lit your shower on fire, four times. Last time it singed your eyebrows (sometimes the gas hose falls off the heater and spews gas directly into the fire jets).

…you’ve used test tubes as shot glasses.

…you’ve started signing your emails with the salutation, “Cheers.”

...you heard your first Christmas song of the 2011 holiday season, the Little Drummer Boy, from a radio on an outer island of only a few hundred people. It was the second week of November, showing that not even Tonga can wait anymore until after Thanksgiving.

…when hearing you’ll be soon returning to the States, your student asks you where in the States you live: “New York or Mexico?”

…you consider buying a USD $5 can of pineapple splurging.

...The most stinging insult one student can say to another is that they are fiepoto, or trying to be smart. (You'll get called this by raising you hand too much, answering too many of the teacher's questions, or showing too much interest in your own education).

…immature yet adult neighbors have asked to borrow your electric shock-collar to “play” with their dog.

…your neighbor asks you for antibiotics because that’s what he always takes when he gets a runny nose.

...…you’ve used American candy bars to pay students to water your tomato garden, you’ve used a bag of your tomatoes to pay for a beer, and you’ve used a beer to pay for your taxi ride.

…it’s been one month and that package you sent through the national post office to an office in the capital only 100 miles away still hasn’t arrived.

…in the primary school soccer league scoring system, a penalty results in a direct free open-goal kick from the midfield line. Making the kick earns one point for the kicking team, but missing the kick earns one point for the other team. Since primary schoolers aren’t usually strong enough to kick a ball from midfield, the team that caused the penalty gets a point almost every time.

...according to official police statistics, the most common crime in your country is pig theft.

What Am I Still Doing Here?

2011-11-21T20:25:00.000Z

For a Ha’apai airport check-in, it was quite a spectacle. The attendant motioned for Blair to corral her dog inside the large plastic doggy cage on the scale. Papi’s stubborn refusal to comply to Blair’s repeated commands caught the attention of the plane’s other passengers, both Tongan and palangi, bringing wide eyes and laughs. The Tongans probably wondered why she would be silly enough to take her dog with her to America; the palangis probably thought it was cute. Either way, everyone watched. That was fine, Blair had her laugh at the Brazilian contingent that waved their passports around as if anyone needed photo ID to get a seat on a domestic flight in Tonga.

Forty minutes later, the plane soared into the air. The airport became all but deserted except for one lonely camera-holding PCV and his dog. And so the exodus continues.

Blair will fly to the states on Wednesday. Todd is in Fiji and will be home shortly. Juleigh is already back, along with a couple others from our original Peace Corps Tonga Group 75. Their Facebook statuses talk of pizza, iPhones, and hot showers. That could have been me, but instead I’ll be waiting another 20-something days. So here’s your obvious question:

So what the hell are you still doing here?

There are many reasons.

I do miss my family, but I also have a reliable “high speed” internet connection with Skype that lets me communicate with them more frequently than most other volunteers. I also visited the states for 5 weeks last Christmas whereas Todd and Juleigh haven’t been home once. Being home was a great rejuvenator that transformed me into an over-achiever in my second year, and I don’t know if I would have been as happy without that visit.

I was also the most consistently happy volunteer in Ha’apai, aided by having a very flexible work schedule, an encouraging principal, secondary project successes, that internet connection, and, later, that hot water shower (I’m still dreaming about that first hot bath at my layover hotel in Auckland, though less so than if I was still taking daily cold showers). I receive frequent positive reinforcement through carepackages and an ever-increasing number of Blog followers. (The blog especially has helped me because I could turn every defeating frustration into an interesting or relatable story. My popular “you know you’re in Peace Corps Tonga when” list can just as easily make one laugh as make one cringe). My supervisors are happy with me, my neighbors appreciate me, and almost no one has stolen from me. I truly like living here. Never in my life have I been happier.

Now that my school year and my health projects are over, I can relax, read, write, and go fishing. It’s winter doldrums in America but summer vacation Tonga.

It won’t be such a relaxing break, however, because there is still one very big reason why I’m still here. As soon as I return home I’ll become… unemployed!

By staying in Tonga, I get one more month of free healthcare, a comfortable salary, and time to apply for jobs online. I don’t need to be in the states to apply for jobs, and being here keeps me closer to the Peace Corps staff network helpful for finding job openings within the Peace Corps organization. It’s scary; Economist articles sometimes read like battlefield updates in a grueling war to find jobs. Juleigh has a job waiting for her, Blair has law school coming up, Todd has some future volunteer plans. I have student loans.

But Sione, don’t your parents miss you? Wouldn’t they rather you be home for Thanksgiving? Aunt Alice and cousin Adam will even be in town!

The best Christmas gift I can imagine for my greatly supportive parents is getting out of their house as soon as possible. That requires getting a job. We’ll all be much happier and I’ll be much more free spending in the Chicago social scene if, by the time my final flight out of Ha’apai comes around, I have a job locked down.

A Thank You

2011-11-21T20:23:00.000Z

I had just placed three Advil Liqui-gels on the table in front of Petu, who while weaving another mat was complaining about a toothache. Her doctor-prescribed panadol (known as “baby aspirin” in the States) was ineffectual. Since ibuprofen is to panadol as vicodin is to ibubrofin, she had just finished thanking me profusely. That’s when the school’s secretary called to me from across the field: “Sione! Phone!”

There are only three reasons people try to reach me through the school land line: (1) the Peace Corps couldn’t get a hold of me, (2) the police station has a paper jam, or (3) I have a box for me at the post office. Fortunately it was the latter. Kalane’s curt message said only, “Hi Sione, there’s mail, you have a box.” I was on my bicycle less than a minute.

Every box is special, but this one had special meaning, so I brought along my camera. This would be my last carepackage in Tonga.

It was 1pm, so the Post Office should have been closed for lunch. Slipping them M&Ms now and then has helped lubricate the machine, so I was invited in right away; that they call me when boxes arrive is due also to this minor, yet delicious form of corruption. And there the box was on the counter waiting for me.

I signed my name on the customs form, had a fellow employee snap my picture, and was on my way. And look at what I got:

A delightful couple I met while whale watching had sent me the box from New Zealand. We had bonded over some vino and I think they felt guilty living in wine utopia while I’m in a wine desert. A glass of wine on a hot afternoon is all it takes sometimes to relive the stress, so the gifts were very much appreciated.

As my service comes to a close, I find myself thinking about and writing about my own deeds and accomplishments, but I’d like to take this post to thank everyone who has sent carepackages to me and my fellow volunteers. Getting a box could be the highlight of a day or even a week. I remember one box last year that had me quite literally as giddy as a little kid on Christmas. As the island chef, Todd would usually receive gourmet meats, Juleigh usually got food and school supplies, and I usually got tools, wine, and candy – all of which was shared between us.

Simple and common things in America became in magical presents capable of conjuring euphoria. Each bottle of ranch dressing, a bag of M&Ms, a packet of pens, or a bottle of olive oil, was worth many times its value in Tonga than what was shown on that price label at the grocery store. Try making your vinaigrette with palm oil and white vinegar and you’ll understand.

Most importantly, besides allowing construction projects and blissful wine-infused culinary spectacles, these boxes were a sign of support and encouragement that helped us through the hard times.

Thank You.

Outer Island Tour, part 4: Adventureland

2011-11-19T20:18:00.001Z

View Ha'apai Outer Island Tour in a larger map

Fotuha’a

150 people. 3 churches. 29 homes. Solar electricity.

Never before has getting off a boat been so much fun. As a high island, Fotuha’a has no beaches or (as far as I can tell) no shallow reefs, so denizens rely on docking next to a slanted and slippery rock. Our temperamental seas then brought a challenge. Helpful locals were there catching our boxes and backpacks and extending arms as our team jumped off. This wasn’t easy for our heavier, less nimble members, who accidentally yanked one of the locals into the water. I placed my electronics in my dry bag, tightened my backpack straps, and leapt unassisted.

The hike to the village is uphill but aided by recently laid concrete steps. By the number of breaks people took heading up, you’d think it was strenuous, but I think that was more a combination of trip exhaustion and people needing more regularly exercise. I found the change in terrain invigorating, especially with the view overlooking Ha’apai’s two volcanoes (this was the closest I’d ever get). Pineapples, as rare in Pangai as they are in Illinois, bountifully lined the path inland. This island was refreshingly different.

It was also unusually satisfying socially. While playing our routine waiting game for people to congregate for our health presentation in the Wesleyan hall, the family planning nurse called to me.

“Sione, there’s two girls outside who want to talk with you.”

I snapped up, eager to converse with someone my age. The room perked with silently gossiping smirks and eyebrows. Let’s all watch the palangi flirt!

They were a little shy at first, but the two sisters opened up with typical Tongan small talk. How are you? Are you eating well? Are your parents dead? Are you already married? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you interested? We’re available. As cute as they were, and as much as I enjoyed conversing with people my own age, I’m at a point in my life where I’m looking for someone with a full set of teeth (scratch one) and without a child (scratch the other). I declined. The peeping eyes from the hall behind me were disappointed.

On the eastern side of the island above the cliffs is a precariously leaning boulder the health inspector described as Fotuha’a’s must-see attraction, so our whole group trekked to see it. The porous sheets of rock around us and the unbeatable vista recalled my earlier rock climbing days, so I scaled the boulder and gave myself a few moments to admire Ha’apai.

Getting back on our boat was much an adventure as was getting off.

Kotu

42 homes. 273 people. 6 churches. 1 store.

The upside of a weak turnout is the ability to observe outer islanders in their average, everyday lives. A decent 20 people came to our Kotu health talk and talatala, but most people stayed home or continued doing what things they do in a place where there isn’t much to do.

In my wanderings through town, I came across a mother sitting on her front step with her little kids, old women weaving, young men playing guitar, two boys playing chess on a veranda, another two boys playing in a wheelbarrow, a little girl playing in the dirt, and various neighbors chatting from the road. Kotu was a sea of smiles. Some invited me into their homes, and for some I accepted. I might have caught island fever if I was stationed here, but the locals appear completely satisfied.

Ha’afeva

For four consecutive days we fell asleep late and arose early from inhospitable crowded concrete floors. Then we came to Ha’afeva, where the surprisingly equipped health clinic offered us separate rooms and foam pads. The assistant clinician even gave me his bed for two nights. Though thin and unevenly supported, it was a godsend.

I was sick and exhausted. I had slept so little for so many days and the constant film of either sunblock or mosquito cream was causing skin breakouts. The frequently loading and unloading of the boat at each new island burned so many calories. I had soaked in many hours of direct sunlight while cruising atop the boat. I was nauseous, my head ached, and diarrhea was setting in.

So when I found that bed in Ha’afeva after arriving from Matuku, and after taking a brisk swim and bucket bath, I crashed.

My first night’s slumber was short because another full day out in Fotuha’a and Kotu beckoned an early rise. I therefore spent much of the long day dreaming about laying down again on the mattress. I had a nauseating hour-long ride from Kotu to Ha’afeva during rough seas, but I don’t think it was seasickness. I laid next to a hitchhiking older lady who tried unsuccessfully to mask her cloud of B.O. with a cloud of perfume. With her on board there wasn’t enough room in the covered compartment to lay down, so I reclined with my knees bent up and feet flat on the floor. Tongans aren’t supposed to sit like that, and one of the nurses laughed that the older lady didn’t like my position. I turned over and tried napping on my pillow of Paracetamol boxes.

Back again in Ha’afeva, I rinsed in another bucket bath and was in bed before 7pm. Eleven hours later I emerged energized, though still aching and afflicted with diarrhea. We still had one more health talk to go.

The Wesleyans wouldn’t give us their hall without payment, so we waited for patients to congregate in the clinic waiting room. As we were preparing to begin, a 7-month pregnant mother appeared complaining of birthing pains. Our team raced her into an exam room and an hour later a premature baby was born. The mother was healthy and walking around soon after. The baby, at 1-kilo, was alive but not expected to survive even the 2.5 hour boat trip to the hospital. It was a sad success because although the baby would die, without our team visiting Ha’afeva that day who knows what would have happened to the mother.

The final health talk went smoothly, we distributed our last brushes, posters, and pamphlets, and after feasting on roasted pig we made our final boat segment back to Pangai. I was homesick (in that I was literally sick and wanted to go home) and so both Sefa and Banjo were fortunately outside my house to welcome me home. I love how Banjo explodes in excitement when first seeing me after a long absence. If only my gas-powered shower heater hadn’t broken in my absence, I would have been in bliss.

Hello Everyone

2011-11-19T02:20:00.000Z

Thanks for following. I count the cultural expose that is my blog as one of my biggest Peace Corps accomplishments, and I wouldn’t have written nearly 300 posts since arriving in Tonga two years ago unless I knew people would appreciate reading it. Last month brought the largest viewership yet, at 2147 pageviews. Blogger is insisting that makes me popular enough to host ads and make some money. That won’t happen, however, because things are coming to an end. In one month I’ll be back home in boring Chicago, where I’m pretty sure there’s no way to make Mom’s casserole sound interesting.

I don’t plan on being home long. My dream is to work for the State Department as a Foreign Service Officer, but now I’m just hoping to find an international job. Until my life gets interesting again, and either I continue with this blog or establish a new one, I don’t expect many pageviews.

So before you abandon me, I have a favor to ask. I’d like to hear some feedback, positive or negative, happy or sad, encouraging or discouraging, about JohnOutSideTheLines.blogspot.com. Why did you visit? What did you think? Was I funny? Or too whiny? What were your favorite posts? Your least favorites?

I would really love to hear from you. I am happy to have already heard from some former volunteers, friends and family of PCVs, and a surprise contingent of Missourians, but I’d like to meet the rest. If any of you are in Chicago while I’m home, or are still following me in my next country and are visiting the area, give me a shout and I’ll buy you a drink.

I mean it, send me an email:

JJOMalley.3@gmail.com

Things Fall Apart

2011-11-18T19:13:00.000Z

The first hour of a seven-day-long outer island trip is a bad time to lose your wide angle lens’s autofocussing capability. I had to shoot the rest of it on manual. But I wasn’t upset; it breaking was no surprise. The lens had been with me to more than twenty countries, it had been dropped on the floor and tossed around a handbag, and it had spent two years in what the camera shop guy described to me as camera hell: our ultra high humidity is rusting my camera’s rust-resistant screws, and sand has crept into the gears. I could have kept it off the beach, but then I would have lost so many great photo opportunities. We live here in the acceptance that Tonga is just the place where electronics go to die.

I had the choice of editing my outer island photos on one of two screens: (1) my attached old, desaturated CRT monitor purloined from the school computer lab that replaced my dead flat screen sent from the states and (2) my laptop screen that has a growing half-dollar sized disc of dead pixels at the bottom of the screen, streaks of green pixels in the upper left of the screen, and, depending on the position of Venus in the night sky or something, a haze of green across the entire screen. If the haze is gone, I edit on the laptop.

My SD card reader doesn’t like to give back the card. My disc drive is dead. ITunes pops to the front window at random times and won’t autofill my IPod shuffle.

I could only hear high frequency noises on my headphones on my outer island trip until I used a pocket knife to scrape off the dirt that had plugged the holes (along with lots of plastic).

My fourth electric teapot broke recently, so Juleigh has provided me hers. It leaks.

My wall-mounted gas shower heater broke the day I returned from my outer island trip, and it took removing all the safety mechanisms and bypassing thermocouples to get it working again. It’s dangerous – it removed some of my wrist hair — but a hot shower is so worth it.

I’d be surprised if my bicycle survives the next 20 days.

None of these inconveniences are anything to get upset over. It’s just Tonga (and additionally for the teapot, the bicycle, and the shower heater, it’s just China). Of all my things, however, I hope the computer and camera body return to the states fully functioning. Fingers crossed.

Outer Island Tour, part 3: Where's Juleigh?

2011-11-17T11:01:00.001Z

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O’ua

22 homes. Solar electricity. 4 churches. 3 stores.

WELCOME TO O’UA. Enjoy your visit. Let O’ua’s youth show you the true Ha’apai. Join us for: kava night, dancing, weaving, church on Sundays or any day (we ask that you please dress modestly and respect our culture). For Salle Food & Crafts! LAUNDRY SERVICE AVAILABLE.

Having read the welcome sign posted above the wharf, I first mistook O’ua for a Tongan amusement park. Kava night sounded exciting. What type of dancing do they do? Can I weave a mat? Having just crested the halfway hump of the trip, some quick laundry service would be wonderful. Even the walking across floating barge at their wharf, a necessity because O’ua is a high island without surrounding shallow sand or reefs, felt like one of those inflatable bouncy houses to walk across. This place could be awesome!

My gut told me otherwise. The AusAID logo in the bottom corner warned me that this conspicuous attempt to draw tourism to Ha’apai’s isolated middle was someone else’s idea and perhaps not very reflective of the mood or capabilities of the inhabitants. Over the three hours I spent there I did not enquire about any of these features, and I might just be cynical, but I suspect kava men and weaving women would be utterly shocked to find a tourist wanting to join them. They would probably give you food and crafts and do your laundry without asking for any money.

I could very well be wrong. The Wesleyan minister, the highest ranking denizen since the village officer was away, came across as astute, well-spoken, and capable. Like so many of the other islands, O’ua did not expect us – someone there told me they heard on the radio that we were supposed to have been there the week before—so we needed to round up the community. Without the town officer around, I hoped for support from the minister, but he was a bit intransigent.

In a slow, contemplative tone from a comfortably recline chair, he said, “I think what has happened is a failure of communication.” He was certainly right. One of our team members was supposed to have contacted each village officer and have sent a radio broadcast, but it seems that either didn’t happen or it wasn’t done thoroughly. I apologized and tried moving past the mistake by enlisting him to collect villagers, but he wanted no responsibility in our activity. I couldn’t really blame him – how would you feel if a team of people showed up suddenly outside your house and told you to gather in the town hall to listed to a health presentation? – but if not only for the pharmacy, the doctor, the dental therapist, the diabetes testing, and the family planning, this was a great opportunity for health promotion.

Thankfully the health inspector took charge and helped gather 44 people into the church hall. The talks went smoothly. Afterwards, I distributed brushes and read the tooth brushing children’s book as the dental therapist prepared her station for exams. Once the syringe appeared, cute and smiley kids suddenly became crying terrors. Their teeth were awful and many needed pulling. One kid transformed into a bawling knight, defending himself with his new toothbrush-sword, though the dental dragon eventually overcame him. One aching boy ran away, meaning he’ll be living with a painful cavity for at least another year when the next tour arrives (or he’ll have to pull it himself without anesthesia).

Tungua

Scientists recently predicted sea level increases of 1 meter over the course of this century. Tungua will be the first island in Tonga to disappear. It is very flat, and at least where its people live, already barren. The topography seems to dip past the crest of upper beach so that the town is barely above water level. Without many trees, it seemed desolate. I felt instantly glad I was not stationed there.

Tungua was also the most difficult health talk to manage. We set up in a dreary hall near the beach, and while we waited for the now routine slow gathering of villagers, I went for a walk down the beach. After only two hundred yards I began hearing the high frequency noise of Tongan koneseti (or “concert”) music. Trotting through a row of hedges and coconut trees, I emerged on the other side to find sixty villagers barbecuing, playing volleyball, dancing, and relaxing on the grass. It was a national holiday, so the village threw a party.

Expectedly, my presence stopped the volleyball game. Unexpectedly, their first words were, “His Sione! Where’s Juleigh?” An extremely rare Tongan-speaking white person had just appeared literally out of nowhere on one of the most isolated inhabited islands in all of Tonga, and all they wanted to know was where Juleigh was. I was flabbergasted.

Apparently the young man speaking to me was a student at Ha’apai High School, which explained how he knew us, but did not explain why he wasn’t in school, it being a testing week. A mid-thirties man then approached me with the familiarity of a close friend and started asking me how certain students were in my science class. I didn’t recognize him at all.

As we conversed and I calmed down, I began thinking about how to play my health talk. There were two ways to react to the scene: (1) oh my God this is perfect! They’re already in one place! If we just bring over the hospital team we’ll have a great turnout! (2) Oh well. There’s no way a health talk will beat out volleyball for entertainment so we’ll just take whoever shows up at the hall by the beach. You can’t win ‘em all.

I returned to our beach hall to champion option number 1 but found a team of number 2’s. The difference between 1 and 2 was a 4 minute walk, but they were tired. I understood that, I was too, and none of us had slept well in days, but this was our golden opportunity.

The eventual compromise, brought only by promises of free sunblock, bug spray, and ibuprofen, was to return to the picnic only with the family planning nurse, who all along had been delivering the healthy eating and diabetes prevention portion of the presentation. The rest of the team would also conduct a presentation at the hall for whoever arrived.

At the picnic we easily herded children under a shady tarp for the talk, but the young adults playing volleyball were less interested. That’s when I emphatically interrupted their game, declared free toothbrushes for whoever came, and won over another dozen people. We gathered 49 in total. The doctors said they had 35 people at the hall. Splitting up the thereby reached 84 people.

Matuku

132 people. 38 families. 22 solar-powered homes. 3 churches.

If Ha’apai held an island pride competition then Matuku would win in a landslide. The dirt paths are clean, raked, lined with colorful flags, and adorned with welcoming banners. As in every Tongan village reached on our tour, the people were overwhelmingly friendly. Matuku was unique, however, in being the only village to make our health talk contingent us taking a tour of the town before we leave. After a decent community turnout in the hall, our group of nine happily paraded the short distance up and down the village, posing at each banner for photos.

The village officer asked that I use my camera and English skills to make Matuku famous. This post is the best I can do.

Completing the longest day of my life, our troop continued on to nearby Ha’afeva Island. There we slept for our final two nights…

Outer Island Tour, part 2: The Banana Chicken

2011-11-17T00:34:00.000Z

Juleigh was thrown off by receiving the longest incoming telephone number she had ever seen, and the spotty quality made us constantly repeat ourselves, but I was just thankful that I could still place a call from the southern fringes of Ha'apai. I called to announce that my project had turned around.

It was premature to consider the whole project a success – Fonoi was only the first of three islands that day and one of nine remaining on our tour – but I was sanguine. My hospital team listened to my concerns about the lack of community attendance and the lack of team focus on conducting health talks. The health inspector fixed both issues. Immediately after we arrived at what might have been the smallest village on the tour, he contacted the town officer and prodded him into rounding up Fonoi denizens for our presentation. It meant waiting for at least an hour for people to trickle in, but the payoff of 15 adults was worth it. Then the health inspector emceed the presentation, during which the clinical nurse, the dental therapist, and the health promotion officer spoke. It was exactly what I wanted, and this became the model for every other village on the tour.

Thirty-six hours later, after also visiting Mango and having spent our first of two nights at our weekend base in Nomuka, I had even more to be happy about. Another 15 adults attended in Mango and I was able to read the children’s tooth brushing book. Seventy-seven people attended the Sunday afternoon Nomuka presentation due to the local health officer using her strong community contacts to call together all of the church congregations.

The dental therapist found more work to do on these outer islands, which was good for our project numbers but a bad sign for outer island oral hygiene. She would set her tool box on the sand and use fallen coconut trees for exam chairs (and the waiting area). In the following picture you can see her yanking out a tooth from locally anesthetize patient in her ocean-view dentist office. Prime real estate.

The hospital team and I were getting along much better. The horse joke from ‘Uiha was still killing and the ladies had plenty of new material after catching me talking with a girl my age in Fonoi. She asked for my number and gave me some parting Bananas, so we were one step from getting married, or so the hospital ladies made it sound. Throughout the rest of the trip they’d spontaneously ask about my moa siaine, (literally translated as “banana chicken”, but meaning “banana girlfriend”). As long as we were all joking I didn’t mind the teasing. Better than sitting in anxious silence.

We ate well and, depending on one’s personal choices, healthfully. Each village would send us off with a basket of cooked root crop, Tongan chicken, fish, and sometimes fruit. I concentrated on the fruit, enjoying what is difficult to find at the market in Pangai, and shirked the fried dough balls that the health presentations reinforced were teeming with calories. Not everyone ate so healthfully; as the health inspector pointed out, after specifically lecturing the people of Nomuka about how they should eat more papaya, not a single member of the team touched the papaya that was served to us that night for dinner. All of the ice cream and corned beef disappeared quickly.

I am usually cautious when Tongans serve me pork, chicken, or fish because one often doesn’t know how long the food had been sitting out before and after it was cooked. Since most of these outer villages didn’t expect us, however, each chicken must have been killed, skinned, and cooked during that short window we were there. Without refrigerators, all of the fish must have been caught the day before or have been salted and dried. As put by the village officer of Mango, outer islanders are usually healthier than townies because they don’t have stores to sell salty, fatty, sugary canned and bottled goods, and they rely more on locally grown or raised calories.

Things weren’t all dandy for the southern leg of the island tour, as sleep deprivation continued in earnest. I slept solo Saturday night on a hard floor in the corner near pile of smelly shoes, until the male horses returned drunk from their kava session at 3am. There was no electricity (as on Blair’s island, the generators only run from dusk until 1am) so they fumbled around noisily. I rolled over and just hoped that the urination I was hearing was aimed out the door.

I blew my chance to sleep in by assuming we were all going to morning church service, as they had told me they would the day before. But as the final church bells rang I was the only one showered and dressed. It was clear that no one else was going, but I wanted to know why they had apparently changed their collective minds or had fibbed to me the day before. Unfortunately they mistook my questions to imply I was deeply religious and feared for my soul unless I attended church that morning. The doctor volunteer to be my chaperone. I would have paid good money just to sleep for another hour on the floor so I tried turning him down. But it was too late. We went to Wesleyan mass, on communion day, the one marathon-length service of the month. Immediately after the service I fell back asleep. Monday, the longest day of the trip, demanded we once again rise before 5am.

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Fonoi

77 people. Solar electricity.

Mango

14 families. 1 church. Solar electricity. Primary School.

Nomuka

Coasting

2011-11-16T02:20:00.003Z

My body needed a vacation from my week-long outer island exercise in sleep deprivation. All it wanted to do was surf the internet, take hot showers, eat, sleep, read, and watch marathons of television comedies. I wanted time to coast, and thankfully, that’s exactly what my school was doing.

Lessons ended as testing began, and testing ended the week I left for the islands. To fill the void between then and the graduation ceremony next week, there is morning singing practice, afternoon recess, and, for those desperate for entertainment, my house.

That my school spends so much time (five weeks now) practicing the same few songs that I recall from last year, and are likely recycled every year, is curious. They say they are practicing for the graduation ceremony, but I wonder if we could use the time for other more productive things, like learning.

Afternoons I think are optional. Some students leave after lunch and others remain to toss around a rugby ball, play ping-pong, or play throw-the-broken-broomstick. The form 5 boys, who are graduating from high school next week, are getting drunk with ministers in what I think is some sort of ritual initiation into manhood. I don’t care what the ministers say – a seventeen-year-old former student slurring his Tongan to beg for chocolate while he needs two hands on my door frame to keep from falling over is not a man.

Teachers are getting into the spirits too. One of my favourite socialites came over while I was writing this blog and found the lit tea lights flanking my computer utterly fascinating and in her blissful stupor decided it would be fun to use them to light computer paper on fire. I politely ushered her and her inebriated friends out of my house before they burned it down.

I tried enjoying an afternoon glass of wine with two other more mature teachers, but they, like many Tongans, drink wine like it's Gatorade after a marathon, so I decided to put away my box of Franzia.

I mostly enjoy the visits from the cute form 3 boys and girls since they’re still too innocent for alcohol and are easily entertained by my episodes of Community and Parks and Recreation, though that episode of Parks and Rec where they visit a strip club, made things very awkward (as an NBC comedy, it was broadcast TV friendly without any nudity, but it was still too much for Tonga). I provide them tea or water and I gave many of them the pictures from my wall. Their constant coming and going gets distracting during my writing, but it’s difficult to get frustrated with their smiling faces.

All this free time has fully rehabilitated me, and I’m thankful that I have the opportunity to bond with my favourite students and teachers before I depart for America. Maybe this isn’t a bad way to end a school year.

Transitions

2011-11-15T23:27:00.000Z

Once upon a time, on a warm July afternoon in a dirt parking lot of a Boy Scout camp in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, immediately after completing a 5 and a half hour haul from Chicago, I abandoned my father. I grabbed my duffel bags from the trunk of our exhausted Toyota Previa, gave a curt goodbye, and left for the counselor bunks down the trail. It was as though I had absolutely no emotional hesitations in leaving my parents and throwing myself into what would become one of my life’s greatest adventures.

Well, that’s the way my father tells the story. I don’t quite remember the episode myself, it happening a decade ago while I was a high school sophomore, but it sounds possible. I tend not to realize the emotional import of a life transition until weeks, months, or even years afterwards. The lessons of three-week barely chaperoned immersion in Russia didn’t hit until Senior year of College. Both college and my four-month backpacking excursion in Eastern Europe didn’t feel an accomplishment until I was in the Peace Corps.

I don’t want it to take this long. Peace Corps service is a big deal. I want to feel it while I’m speaking at a Tongan feast in my honor, as I’m saying my final goodbyes, and as I’m boarding my final flight off Ha’apai. I wanted to feel sadness yesterday when Todd and Juleigh boarded their final flight, rather than a year from now when a tear falls into my beer at some Bar in Bulgaria (my current job prospect).

With a recent series of goodbye Todd and Juleigh events, there have been so many great excuses for catharses. Each of their high schools presented them gifts and had them speak at in front of the entire school bodies. Sosefo dedicated Sports day to Juleigh and took her on a picnic. Kepu, the governor’s secretary, hosted a beach picnic for Ha’apai’s leaving volunteers, both American and Japanese. He brought his wife, the bank manager, and a few other Tongans we’ve grown to know over two years. There were passionate thank you speeches, lobsters, fresh pineapple, and a roasted pig, but it felt no different from similar tributes we’ve experienced before.

My house’s last social night brought our closest Tongan friends, the Japanese, the hard to find PCV Connor Moore, and even a overly intoxicated local restaurant owner. Fueled by loud non-Tongan dance music, our remaining stashes of alcohol, and barbecued burgers gloriously accompanied by onion rings and French fries, we kept things lively until midnight struck and Sabbath laws applied. It was the party to remember, but not even the alcohol could make me emotional.

For our last night as a the Pangai Trio, Tupou, our favourite guest house operator, invited us over for general merriment, rounds of thank-you’s, and a sampling of delicious chicken dishes. You can’t show up to a dinner party in Glenview, IL with a ¾ empty bottle of Jose Cuervo for the host and be thanked warmly, but she was happy to try a completely new flavour of alcohol. While Tupou sipped tequila, Todd drank his beer, and Juleigh and I shared our passion for wine, we made one last “this is it” toast. It felt like a dozen other “this is it” toasts.

And that’s why I found myself the next morning at the airport double fisting full glasses of wine. Todd and Juleigh were hugging contingents of students, teachers, and neighbors, trying hard to stay composed. It didn’t work; the community support was overwhelming. Most of the crowd left after a plane delay, so in less chaos I handed my wine buddy a final glass for a final toast (Todd declined). Between Banjo demanding his final petting and Juleigh’s young neighbor Paane using her like a jungle gym, we enjoyed our final glass of Franzia. It was such a happy moment that, with the added lubrication of alcohol, I should have been in tears. I wanted to cry; my two best friends were leaving me. But I didn’t.

My strongest feelings of the day went towards someone else -- the evil airport attendant. Banjo followed me just outside the “gate,” which is a porous as a sieve, from where I snapped pictures of the final takeoff. The attendant decided the best thing to do to with this egregiously placid dog was to pelt his leg with a baseball-sized rock. This sent Banjo limp-sprinting onto the runway and away from the man, who had now found an even bigger rock and was going for a second pitch. There was now a dog on the runway and a man chasing him as the plane was preparing to taxi. Banjo next chose to hide under the tire of Juleigh and Todd’s DC-3. He returned to me only reluctantly after repeatedly shouting his name and spewing insults at the attendant. This was the first time I had every publically insulted a Tongan, but I felt that this situation warranted the phrases “you are showing bad behavior!” and “you are foolish!” Why didn’t I get this emotional during Todd’s last hug?*

I spent my hitchhike home thinking about my remaining month. Would I be sad without Todd and Juleigh? How would I react at my farewell feasts and airport sendoff? Would I cry like Juleigh did at her school function? Would I choke like Todd at my last school assembly?

That afternoon, I commenced preparing my things to leave. A month might be a bit early to start giving things away, but I wanted to distribute my myriad wall photos to favourite teachers and students before next week’s graduation ceremony and never see each other again. My landscapes and photos of Tongans made great gifts, especially with happy personalized messages on the backs.

By the end of the exercise, however, my walls were not happy. They were incomplete, unbalanced, and dotted with sticky tack and black construction paper. The only photos remaining were those I didn’t think Tongans would enjoy – those of me, Todd, Juleigh, and Blair. The wall was originally designed more for aesthetics than nostalgia since we were all still together, but this evening my wall was depressing. This time those photos of Todd and Juleigh didn’t just look nice -- they called to me. They said “remember when?” and “those were good times.”

There weren’t any tears, but I was sad.

To ameliorate what I worried would be a dreary evening, I invited two of my best Tongan friends over for pizza. They came an hour and a half late, said little, ate little, gulped down their full glasses of wine, and left quickly to give the majority of the pizza to their parents. They had never had pizza this good and wanted their families to experience it too. If I was looking for culture sharing points, I would have felt accomplished, but I was looking for friendship and conversation. I wish pictures could talk. Or that my best friends were still here.

*I wasn’t the only one insulting him. The assistant manager also recognized that the man had transformed what wasn’t a problem into what could delay the takeoff, and said similar things. A truck load of Todd’s students felt sorry for Banjo and helped me track him down -- by the time I had finished taking pictures of the plane Banjo had already run, limping, halfway back to Pangai.

Outer Island Tour, part 1: Starry Night

2011-11-12T04:14:00.000Z

In the faint beam of someone’s helpful flashlight, I lifted my backpack from the truck bed and carried it the eight flat feet to the mound of luggage, prescription pills, and medical supplies that would sustain the next four nights of our joint Ha’apai Healthy Eating and Oral Health Peace Corps Partnership Program (PCPP) and Tonga Ministry of Health outer island tour. While our team waited for the driver to bring his boat to shore, I made an ass-first controlled fall into a groove in the sand next to a leave-less tree. I formed my hands into a pillow and gazed at the stars and branches above.

I was exhausted both physically and mentally. This was our third consecutive rise before 5am. My Tongan counterpart had bailed, the dental therapist spent most of our trip upset with me, and so far each of the six villages had low turnouts for our health presentations. The trip was not going well.

Half of the USD $3500 donated by generous donors went to hire this boat for a seven day tour to the thirteen inhabited outer islands of Ha’apai excluding Lifuka and Foa. My goal was to have both the dental therapist and the new health promotion officer, who had been jointly running our project’s health presentations on the main Lifuka and Foa islands, conduct similar presentations on each outer island. Rather than spend all that money to send just three of us around Ha’apai, we joined with the Ministry of Health to form a 10-person hospital team: a doctor, a clinical nurse, a dispenser (of prescription drugs), a family planning nurse, a secretary, a health and sanitation inspector, and an assistant/heavy lifter, in addition to our dental therapist and health promotion officer and me. It was great to share costs – I paid for the boat and the Ministry paid each team member a substantial per diem for the tour.

Minus our health presentations, these health tours are nothing new. In the 1990s, they happened four times a year, according to the health inspector, who has been stationed in Ha’apai for more than twenty years. By the end of the decade, budgets cuts dropped the number of outer island tours to only twice a year. The last few years have seen only one such tour each year, and if it wasn’t for our PCPP, there would not have been none in 2011. For the majority of the population of Ha’apai, then, this tour was the only chance this year to see a doctor or a dental therapist, or receive medication or family planning advice. This PCPP, then, allowed invaluable secondary benefits.

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Kauvai

The problems began in our first village, Fakakakai, on Kauvai Island, as the project’s primary and secondary goals were flipped. We arrived at our base at the small village clinic not long after 6am. Over two long hours, a meager fifteen villagers came and went, each meeting only with the health specialist they needed, a format called a talatala. It was no venue to conduct a presentation. The health promotion officer and the dental therapist met with a few people, but it was not the village congregation I had hoped for. Most frustrating was that none of my other team members seemed to care. It didn’t surprise me, as they were only continuing the talatala routine that every outer island trip has followed for at least the last twenty years. I was trying to drastically change the program.

I made my concerns known to the group, and they kindly offered hope that maybe the next town would be better. I wasn’t so sanguine; if this was the program for the remaining 6 days, then my project would be a disaster.

By late morning our team arrived by pickup-up truck in Ha’ano. While the hospital team arranged the Wesleyan hall for another talatala, I ambled to the primary school to see Blair, Ha’apai’s outer island PCV. Dejected and sleep-deprived, I found charged and motivating friend. Instead of “oh, that sounds terrible, I’m sorry, Too bad,” she offered, “Well what can you do about it? Can you talk to the doctor in Pangai? Can you call ahead to the different villages to gather more people?” Still sleep deprived, but less dejected, I returned to the hall to get fix my project.

What I found there surprised me. About fifteen village adults had congregated on the floor and were waiting for the health presentation to begin. With a better venue, the health promotion officer told the attendees to wait to see their health specialists until after they listened to a presentation about healthy eating, exercise, diabetes prevention, family planning, and oral health. I was elated.

The health promotion officer, the clinical nurse, the doctor, and the health inspector all spoke over a fifteen minute-long presentation before continuing with their talatala. The dental therapist, however, refused to speak. Her petulance confounded me, though I was able to convince her to visit the primary school give a short talk there. Following the model of our malimali routine (she and I often visit Lifuka and Foa primary schools to lead tooth brushing sessions), she gave a short tooth brushing lecture and I lead them in song. Blair was key in getting obtaining the student’s students’ attention and pushing the dental therapist into giving a bruising demonstration.

While the dental therapist inspected juvenile mouths, I brought Blair to see our team’s health inspector, whose job was to inspect village stores and water supplies. Something rang false when I overheard earlier the town officer of Pukotala (where all water for the island is pumped out of the ground) insist to him that the water was always running. Blair’s water had been off for weeks and only turned on the night before, we suspect because the town officer knew the health inspector was coming.

In an unusually direct and persistent exchange, Blair pressed the health inspector for information about the rules for sanitation and store maintenance, and what sorts of consequences are brought by violations. She teased out that violators are allowed seven days to comply with regulations, except that since outer island tours happen so infrequently, it may be more than a year before he returns to re-inspect for compliance.

Mo’onga’one

I emerged from below the low ceiling of our boat’s compartment slightly sea sick. The sea had turned angry as we approached the beach of our tour’s second island. Our driver’s helper and the hospital heavy lifting assistant tried stabilizing the back of the boat as we each jumped off into three feet of water. I tripped on the landing and nearly summer-saulted forwards. My front was soaked but I had saved my backpack.

Mo’onga’one is a small, lonely island in the north of Ha’apai. If I recall the town officer’s conversation correctly, they have no electricity and only a few dozen families. They do have a primary school.

Again we used the Wesleyan hall as a base. Too few people came to engage in a concerted health presentation, however, so the health promotion officer engaged a small group of only five women. The dental therapist visited the primary school without me, perhaps to avoid having to conduct the talk. I was once again dejected. This wasn’t what I had paid for.

Lifuka

And so, at 10:00 that night, I found myself at the home of the island group’s chief doctor, Tevita, who had been helping me plan this project all along (who was not the same doctor joining the outer island tour). I should have been in my bed, utilizing my last chance to sleep comfortably before we continued the rest of the island tour the next morning, but I had many concerns about the trip, the worst of which being that the health promotion officer had just backed out of the tour and would not be joining us in the morning. At the last minute, her husband, a Wesleyan minister, was called to attend a low-level meeting in the capital. It didn’t matter that our outer island trip had been planned for weeks, religion takes priority.

Tevita invited me and his friend Jack Daniels to his living room table. For an hour, the three of us discussed my multitude of concerns until they were mostly alleviated and I was too tired to continue.

Lofanga

Tevita said something to the outer island team that next morning before we all met at the wharf at 5am, because the team was much more supportive at the next island. The health inspector became a charged organizer and emcee. The family planning nurse took over the absent health promotion officer’s job, which was appropriate because she had been to many of our presentations on Foa island and knew the program. There were still, however, only about 15 village attendees.

The dental therapist also spoke, our relationship having improved over a healthy exchange of feelings after I had learned from Tevita the reason for her previous negativity. She was displeased with her picture being printed in the dental health pamphlets my PCPP had paid for and that we were distributing on the tour. She had helped me design the pamphlet, had seen it many times before approving the final draft, and had never mentioned anything about not wanting her picture in it. But Tongans, Tevita said, are shy and don’t like sticking out. It’s not humble to advertize your face like that.

After the health talk, the dental therapist and I moved on to the primary schools, where about twenty students listened to me read our PCPP sponsored children’s book, Fakaveve a Miutani (the translation doesn’t quite work, but means “the poop of Miutani,” Miutani being plaque and his poop being the acid he leaves on teeth). Following the story, the dental therapist checked their comprehension with questions, gave a short lecture, and then inspected their teeth. Lofanga kids have good teeth.

While the hospital team engaged their individual patients, I meandered through town snapping photos and interviewing the town officer. They have three churches, no electricity, and 236 people.

‘Uiha

Everyone except for the dental therapist and I leapt off the boat at Felemea village on the southern end of ‘Uiha island; the boat dropped the two of us off at the primary school located on the beach halfway between Felemea and ‘Uiha village to the north. We did our dental presentation, I read the book to the kids, and we waited to catch the rest of the team on their walk from Felemea to ‘Uiha. They told me they gave the health presentation to 25 people in Felemea.

‘Uiha village was a complete bust. The town gave us a house that was inappropriately small for conducting a health presentation, and then barely ten people arrived over the course of three hours to see us. The only solace came from the doctor, “I’m sorry Sione, tomorrow we’ll try very hard to gather villagers for your health talk.”

The next morning, the clinical nurse awoke me from a poor-quality slumber sometime around 4am with the question, “Sione, what are you doing our here?” I sat up in my thin fleece sleeping bag and took a few seconds to remember why I was on the concrete floor of a veranda and not inside the house next door where everyone else slept.

“I don’t know who invited the horse to sleep with us last night, but it was very loud,” I said.

The snoring was worse than any I had ever experienced before, so I moved outside in the middle of the night. It was perhaps the best Tongan joke I’ve ever told, inducing side-splitting laughter in most of the group. I heard about it for days and someone repeated it every night before we slept.

We packed our bags, waited half an hour for a truck to transport us to the beach. There we unloaded and waited for the boat to come in from its nearby anchorage. I soon found myself on my back in the comfortable sand groove under the leave-less tree looking up at the early morning sky.

As the branches parted to show the entirety of Orion, a shooting star sped past his right shoulder, and I smiled – not because of the serene sky, nor for the shooting star, but because I suddenly remembered the comforting words of our doctor the evening before. Something in what he said made me think day three would go very well.

Solved: The Cake Mystery (or at least half of it)

2011-11-08T11:01:00.001Z

Show encrypted text

Password: come on windy city: not the sox, the other one

Shirley Baker is Actually a Person You Should Know

2011-11-07T11:01:00.000Z

For over a year and a half, the Shirley Baker Memorial was just a cheap property on our Ha’apai Monopoly board. I didn't even know where the memorial was. None of us took enough interest in Tongan history to have learned about him, so it wasn’t until I picked up a Tongan history book that I realized that Shirley Baker was a fascinating historical figure (and actually a man instead of a woman -- isn't Shirley a girl's name?). The truly masculine Shirley Baker was in fact a British Wesleyan missionary and prime minister of Tonga during the reign of Tonga’s first modern king, Taufa’ahau Tupou I.

The memorial below his monument

Baker arrived in Tonga in 1860 as a missionary-medical practitioner. He grew to know King Taufa’ahau as he treated the monarch’s ailing wife, and by 1862 he was asked for advice on a proposal of reforms for the country. Baker kept the interests of the king and country above those of the missionaries, who sought to increase foreign control over Tonga. This earned Taufa’ahau’s trust. By 1864 he was helping to write laws, and by 1875 he wrote the Tongan constitution that designed the form of government, explicitly stated rights and duties, disempowered Tonga’s powerful nobility, and set the commoners free from their pseudo-slavery.

Baker’s independence from the Wesleyan missionaries got him expelled back to Tonga, against the wishes of the king. He returned a few years later on his own, no longer a missionary, and was quickly appointed Premier, Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Minister of Land Affairs.

In 1885 Taufa’ahau and Baker created the Free Wesleyan Church of Tonga, to be completely independent of the Australian Wesleyan Commission. Priestly Tongans resented both the (1) amount of locally raised church funds leaving their country to the Wesleyan headquarters and (2) their inability to appoint their own ministers. Not everyone was happy about the change, however, and after an assassination attempt on Baker’s life, the new Free Wesleyans commenced a brutal forced conversion of the population to the new faith, having instructed marauding mobs to “flog and torture the Wesleyans until they turned over to the so called Free Church.”

Tonga’s foreign policy became increasingly antagonistic towards the foreign High Commission, and with fiscal issues resulting from a drop in copra prices, the British High Commissioner convinced Taufa’ahau to remove Baker from his high positions in 1890. He retired to Hihifo, Ha’apai, and is now buried under his monument on the northern outskirts of Pangai.

Tonga is often known as one of the few South Pacific nations to resist European colonialism, and much of that is due to Shirley Baker’s stubborn independence from foreign missionaries and commissioners. His monument is not spectacular, but it is worth talking a short walk north to see the former Premier’s cast-metal pose in the European Cemetery. Across the street is also a colorful Tongan cemetery.

Casualties

2011-11-06T11:01:00.001Z

I slept poorly in a tent the night before, biked seven miles home at 6:30 in the morning, exercised, and showered in cold water (the gas can was empty). All I wanted was to eat a tomato and cucumber salad with special spicy mustard, olive oil, and balsamic vinaigrette (all specially imported ingredients) and watch a television episode.

But my sharp serrated knife was missing.

I had to use my fish filet knife instead. It’s my only other cutting utensil sharp enough to slice a tomato. (That ultra sharp steak knife my parents sent me a few months ago lasted less than a month before disappearing). I prepared the salad and poured the dressing.

But I had no forks.

I changed out of my towel, walked outside, and was fortunate to find my principal’s kitchen door open. I picked one of my forks out of his dirty sink water, returned home, ate my salad, and watched twenty-two minutes of How I Met Your Mother.

After cleaning the dishes, I paused to reflect on my kitchen’s inventory over the past two years. It’s had many casualties and only a few survivors. More than a dozen cups and mugs are gone, as well as all but one plate and a few knives. I started borrowing chemistry equipment to replace cups.

It’s that season again, when Tailulu College Ha’apai hosts VIP school evaluators. They usually live for a few days in the home economics room next to me, are treated to lavish meals, and receive every luxury my school can provide. I often get invited to dine with them, which can be a treat, but I’m also expected to help with the hospitality by providing them things. A year ago this lost me half of my tea cups and a half dozen utensils.

Our first visitor this year was Toka, the principal of nearby Ha’apai High School. He and an associate spent two hours reading through our books and listening to my principal’s presentations about school performance. Toka is often asked to judge events in Ha’apai, I think because he is friendly and generous with his praise. Asking Toka to evaluate your school is like asking your grandparents to critique your performance as Robin Hood in the 5^th grade play – you know they’re going to say you were absolutely perfect and that you should be on Broadway (but I’m pretty sure the music teacher took away all my singing parts for a reason). Toka and his associate gave us a flattering grade, and my school thanked them both for their praise by gifting them each a lot of money.

The visit culminated in a fancy lunch, which they invited me to. When I sat down with my principal and the two VIPs, however, I found my place setting consisting of my own plate, fork, and sharp serrated knife. Sefa must have raided my kitchen while I was fixing the office computer. It’s not something he would usually do, but these were VIPs that needed the best dishes and utensils (meaning Sione’s dishes and utensils).

I made the mistake of not collecting back my things immediately after the meal, because now they’re mostly all gone. The next morning, when I wanted my salad, I didn’t have a knife or fork and I was down to one last plate.

There were originally five of them, all of heavy ceramic with a light green glaze. I bought the plates in Nuku’alofa two years ago because I liked the concentric ridge pattern and I was excited to have an aesthetically pleasing complete set to dine on with company. I know, a Peace Corps Volunteer shouldn’t worry about complete sets of plates and be happy to have anything to eat from, but I thought it would be one thing to feel American about.

The excitement didn’t last long, as my first plate casualty came only a few weeks after settling into my new site at Tailulu College Ha’apai. I made my principal dinner and served it to him in his home on one of my new green plates. When I came back to collect the plate the next day, he had already given it to a faifekau, or “minister,” so there was no chance of ever getting it back. I didn’t know that the time, so I continued nagging Sefa for weeks until my Peace Corps Volunteer Leader explained that no Tongan is going to ask a faifekau for a plate back. It was my first lesson in Tongan borrowing.

From then on I lost at least one plate every few months. The four additional flower-pattern plates I bought last year are all gone too.

Less than twenty four hours after being politely robbed of kitchen supplies to feed Toka and his associate, I visited my principal in his kitchen to get the things back. Of course I was too late. The knife was already given to a faifekau (which I instantly recognized was a lost cause), and they said they think they gave the plate to the deputy principal. Since I was complaining though, they returned two of my cups and that ultra-sharp steak knife of mine they had been “borrowing” for months.

The VIP season continued and the next VIP arrived four days later. This time it was a financial officer. When my principal, leading a team of last-minute room preparers, asked me for my broom, I told him I first wanted my knife back. His facial expression was, “God Damn-it Sione. This is no time to be selfish! He’s almost here from the airport!” But he didn’t get my broom.

It was only a small victory. I will be culturally required to give this VIP anything he asks me for, and since we share a door and he’ll expect to use my bathroom, I know he’s going to take/require things. There’s solace in having less than two months left and therefore I will not be long inconvenienced. I also remind myself that I was going to give these things away to these same people anyway when I leave.

There are still things to be happy about. I still have these four bowls. I bought them as a set to go with the green ceramic plates as they have concentric ridges too. I have lost many things, but somehow I managed to keep this set of four aesthetically pleasing, very often used bowls intact over two years. Happiness comes from heavily weighing your little successes over your many failures.

Dear Mother, I know you asked me to bring home any sharp knives, but I hope you understand from this post that there aren’t likely to be any sharp knives (even this newly returned steak knife) when I return. I’ll do my best, but no promises.

And speaking of casualties, my tomato plants are withering away and my watermelon didn't survive. It's getting hotter every day and the plants are getting too thirsty. Even watering twice a day couldn't save them, so we're about to see the end of the garden. It was a good run, and it provided me with myriad tomatoes over the past two months. It was definitely worth the effort.

A Sad Watermelon

Drying Up

Lea a e Tohi -- The Reading of the Book

2011-11-05T11:01:00.000Z

Right now, just by reading this blog, you are engaging in witchcraft. That was the opinion, anyway, of Tongan warlord Finau Ulukalala II in the early 1800s when he encountered writing for the first time. William Mariner, Finau’s stranded captive from the captured Port Au Prince, documented the fascinating event in his book Tonga Islands. I think about it every time I pass our town’s sports field, called Lea a e Tohi, or “the reading of the book.” If oral tradition is correct, then my house is within shouting distance of where the following passage happened:

[Finau had just come across his first ever letter and someone had attempted to explain to him the mysterious script pp.92-93]

This mode of communicating sentiments was an inexplicable puzzle to Finow; he took the letter again and examined it, but it afforded him no information. He considered the matter a little within himself; but his thoughts reflected no light upon the subject. At length he sent for Mr. Mariner, and desired him to write down something: the latter asked what he would choose to have written; he replied, put down me: he accordingly wrote “Feenow” (spelling it after the strict English orthography)” the chief then sent for another Englishman who had not been present, and commanded Mr. Mariner to turn his back and look another way, he gave the man the paper, and desired him to tell what that was: be accordingly pronounced aloud the name of the king, upon which Finow snatched the paper from his hand, and, with astonishment, looked at it, turned it round and examined it in all directions; at length he exclaimed “This is neither like myself, nor anybody else! Where are my legs? How do you know it to be I?” and then, without stopping for an attempt at an explanation, he impatiently ordered Mr. Mariner to write something else, and thus employed him for three or four hours in putting down the names of different person, places, and things, and making the other man repeat them. This afforded extraordinary diversion to Finow, and to all the men and women present, particularly as he now and then whispered a little love anecdote, which was strictly written down, and audibly read by the other, not a little to the confusion of one or other of the ladies present. It was all taken in good humour however, for curiosity and astonishment were the prevailing passions. How their names and circumstances could be communicated through so mysterious a channel, was altogether past their comprehension. Finow had long ago formed his opinion of books and paper, and this as much resembled witchcraft as anything he had ever seen or heard of. Mr Mariner in vain attempted to explain. He had yet too slender a knowledge of their language to make himself clearly understood: and, indeed, it would not have been an easy matter to have explained the composition of elementary sounds, and of arbitrary signs expressive of them, to a people whose minds were already formed to other modes of thinking, and whose language had few expressions but what concerned the ordinary affairs of life. Finow, at length, thought he had got a notion of it, and explained to those about him that it was very possible to put down a mark or sign of something that had been seen both by the writer and reader, and which should be mutually understood by them; but Mr Mariner immediately informed him, that he could write down anything that he had never seen. The king directly whispered to him to put Toogoo Ahoo (the king of Tonga, whom he and Toobo Nuha had assassinated many years before Mr Mariner’s arrival). This was accordingly done, and the other read it; when Finow was yet more astonished. He then desired him to write “Tarky,” (the chief of the garrison of Bea, whom Mr Mariner and his companions had not yet seen; this chief was blind in one eye). When “Tarky” was read, Finow inquired whether he was blind or not. This was putting writing to an unfair test! And Mr. Mariner told him, that he had only written down the sign standing for the sound of his name, and not for the description of his person. He was then ordered in a whisper to write, “Tarky, blind in his left eye,” which was down, and read by the other man to the increased astonishment of everybody. Mr Mariner then told him that, in several parts f the world, messages were sent to great distances through the same medium, and , being folded and fastened up, the bearer could know nothing of the contents; and that the histories of whole nations were thus handed down to posterity, without spoiling by being kept (as he chose to express himself). Finow acknowledged this to be a most noble invention, but added, that it would not at all do for the Tonga Islands; that there would be nothing but disturbances and conspiracies, and he should not be sure of his life, perhaps, another month. He said, however, jocularly, that he should like to know it himself, and for all the women to know it, that he might make love with less risk of discovery, and not so much chance of incurring the vengeance of their husbands.

The Happiest Necropoleis You’ll Ever See

2011-11-04T11:01:00.001Z

A Tongan funeral is a solemn, tearful, monochromatic affair. The place they put the bodies, however, is the happiest monument to death that you’ll ever see.

The dead are not buried under ground as is common the States. Instead they are covered by mounds of earth that are often braced with short stone walls. Atop the grave is a thick layer of clean beach sand (the removal of which contributes to beach erosion). Adorning the sand are fake yet vibrant flowers, and perhaps woven mats, signs, and traditional Western tombstones.

They feel more like places to celebrate life than to mourn the dead.

This Is It

2011-11-03T11:01:00.000Z

Our bottle of Saint Claire Pinot Gris was sadly dry, honorably discarded next to a beach towel and a brand new copy of David McCullough’s 1776 . It was only the only litter interrupting a vista of pristine white beach sand, and our first taste of non-boxed wine in months. The sun was low enough in the west to color the landscape with a strong sheen of yellow but high enough to illuminate the sea’s seven shades of blue. Only the occasional cloud punctuated an otherwise perfectly deep blue sky, and so, in blissful inebriation, we gazed.

A shady palm only postponed the eventual sweat, but perspiration caused no complaint. It was another excuse to return to the cool ocean. It might have been the day’s fourth such visit. We waded confidently, knowing that between the merely mellow waves, a cushion of pure fine sand under our feet, and five layers of sunblock, that the only thing mother nature could do to us was cool us down, rock us like babies, and add to our tans.

We were barely waist deep before Banjo reacquired his contradicting desires to both follow us everywhere and yet avoid venturing above his head in water. He began his adorably beach display of pony-hopping and front-legs-down-while-back-legs-raised anticipation and this time was successfully baby-talked into joining us. He became a confused torpedo, constantly acquiring and abandoning one of his three human targets, making pathetic circles until he found my outstretched arms.

I held him like a dinner tray, with two paws on each arm. It wasn’t comfortable for either of us, but it made him happy to rejoin the group and I enjoy every opportunity to bond with a friend I will probably soon never see again. He grew cold and I grew tired, so I let him return to shore, again making confused circles all the way back. Now much too clean, Banjo took his first opportunity on dry land to rub sand into as much fur as possible, creating in the process a groove from where to watch the three of us wallow in the euphoria of yet another trip to ‘Uoleva Island.

Minutes passed while the slight current tugged us a few degrees around the corner of Tiana’s resort, placing us just deep enough so the gentle bobbling forced us into a listless tap dance with the sand. We were content to silently enjoy the omni-directional vista, but in that moment I found the perfect thing to say.

“This Is It.”

This Is It -- our social group’s catch-phrase born of a boxed-wine induced stupor from my love nest’s floor late last year. At the time, It was all of us, an exceptionally bonded crew of four PCVs who declared life on our isolated islands was more complete together than apart. It came to mean Anything we wanted to celebrate, and would be typically declared in a slightly intoxicated toast. It was ___ days left. It was a delicious pizza. It was another workplace failure. It was a pleasant boat ride, a walk through town, or Sunday Lu.

But this time, It was Everything.

It was the speed and fortune with which the excursion came together. The idea originated from an off-hand pipe dream Todd mentioned as he left my house less than twenty-four hours before we three set off from Lifuka to our vacation escape of choice. Low tide came late enough for Todd to finish his exams and for Juleigh to give some time at the governor’s office, but early enough to hike across ‘Uoleva in afternoon sunlight. We forded the straight safely. Banjo struggled only once with a deep coral pocket, and he paddled to safety without the assistance of my Ethernet-cable dog leash (because I had no rope). Juleigh had the only casualty of the weekend, finding early in the walk that her left sandal lasted just three weeks shy of 26 months. She struggled half-barefoot half the distance across until we reached a midline sandbar where we crossed paths with three Tongan fisherman. One was a thirteen-year-old boy from Juleigh’s form 3 English class who, just as she knew he would, offered his Croc-knockoff sandals so she could continue the journey. “I’ll give them back to you on Monday!” She called back to him as we parted. “I think I’ll bake him a cake,” she said smilingly as we left the sandbar.

It was the ease and inexpense with which we three could enjoy a vacation that antipodean friends and family would willingly spend fortunes on. We arrived unannounced to a smiling Tiana who had become so familiar with us over two years that she didn’t bother to do anything but wave as we began setting up our tents and cluttering her kitchen.

It was the refreshing half-hour beach walk we made over to Serenity Beach Resort, where Whale Discoveries operators Dave and Trish and their two children were maintaining Patty’s property while she visited family in the states. Over heavily-discounted cold beer we refreshingly watched two parents lovingly bond with their children through art and music and then effectively discipline rambunctiousness without corporal punishment. For one hour we heard intriguing travel stories, Flamenco guitar, a booming didgeridoo, and a short serenade of hot-cross-buns from an eleven-year-old’s violin. It was Banjo being afraid of joining us inside the fale because he remembered his previous journey to Serenity Beach when Yoda chomped on his genitals, and It as Banjo’s lonely retreat back to Tiana’s without us.

It was the perfect weather, the perfect water, the perfect beach, and the perfect bottle of wine. It was the beach that was better than you’ve ever seen in any commercial, brochure, or website, and the sadness that comes from knowing no future vacation beach will ever be as special, even with room service.

It was even the turbulent sleeping we shared from a tent with two broken poles, a futilely deflated Thermarest, and an invasion of fire ants that reminded us we were only paying USD $12 a night.

But most importantly, It was the realization that this was our last group trip to ‘Uoleva. Two weeks from now, Ha’apai will remain only a memory for Juleigh and Todd. I might make another trip there before I leave a month later, but by then Team Pangai will be separated by thousands of miles. With my outer island trip consuming most of our remaining time together, this was our last Hurrah, the end of a truly fantastic journey.

Juleigh knew exactly what It was too, and said nothing beyond repeating back, “This Is It.”

We continued drifting. A bird might have jetted between two coconut trees, the sun may have peaked between clouds, or a small boat may have passed us while ferrying between islands. Besides a wave not-unpleasantly splashing my face I can’t remember anything until we returned to our beach towel perches to continue absorbing the unchanging vista while sharing “remember when?”s as we had all day. After some time, the sweat returned. So did the ocean.

The Final Adventure

2011-11-02T21:00:00.007Z

I am now on a boat somewhere south or east of my home in Lifuka. I am traveling with my Ha’apai Healthy Eating and Oral Health Peace Corps Partnership Program (PCPP) Project team to almost every inhabited island in Ha’apai, professing the importance of healthy eating and oral hygiene like traveling salesmen. And I am very tired; they told me to be ready to leave somewhere between 4 and 9am.

It’s the trip I’ve been excitedly waiting on for months, and the final portion of my immensely successful health project.

I will be out of internet contact for the next week, but I pre-written posts scheduled to appear every day I am gone. If you are interested in following my hypothetical track, it is as follows:

Day 1: Mo’unga’one, Kauvai. Sleep in Lifuka.

Day 2: Lofanga, Felemea, ‘Uiha. Sleep in ‘Uiha.

Day 3: Fonoi, Mango, Nomuka. Sleep in Nomuka.

Day 4: Nomuka.

Day 5: ‘Oua, Tunga, Matuku. Sleep in Ha’afeva.

Day 6: Fotuha’a, Kotu. Sleep in Ha’afeva.

Day 7: Ha’afeva, return to Lifuka.

There is always some risk when traveling by boat, but do not fret. I will be carrying a Peace Corps mandated satellite phone, GPS emergency locator beacon, life jacket, military-grade infirmary, and I will drape myself in a sumo-sized cocoon of bubble wrap. I will be texting my location as I go, and will be lathering in sunblock. I’ll be fine.

Posts and pictures coming in a week...

Michael Jackson, Jack-O-Melons, & Jell-O: A Ha’apai Halloween Extravaganza

2011-11-02T10:06:00.000Z

Halloween is not yet celebrated in Tonga outside of a small clique of expats, so I was surprised my principal knew at knew enough about the silliest of all American holidays to call it that ‘aho tufa lole”, or “day to distribute candy.” Anyone with a cursory understanding of Tongan culture would recognize instantly that the candy aspect alone makes Halloween the perfect Tongan holiday, so Juleigh and I had no trouble gathering enthusiasm for our own cross-cultural Halloween extravaganza.

It became the biggest party my home had ever hosted. It was no Halloween any American has seen before, and our guests would be pardoned for leaving with the understanding that Halloween is a strange day when Americans eat mounds of watermelon, carve faces in fruit, consume alcohol-infused Jell-O, drink Bourbon, shower each other candy, and when men wear women’s lipstick. They wouldn’t be far off from a true American Halloween party.

We couldn’t have known it would happen so well. As our 8pm start time flew by without any visitors, Juleigh remarked that perhaps Ha’apai Halloween 2011 would consist of two PCVs and seven watermelons watching a scary movie and slurping raspberry Jell-O shots. It wouldn’t have been the first party failure. Countless previous no-shows and the enormously expensive cultural burden of forcing the host to provide absolutely everything for the party made these sorts of parties rare. We hoped the promise of candy would motivate.

The late wave of Tongan and Japanese guests crashed into my home all at once; with the music, activities, and alcohol keeping the spirit pulsing until midnight when the wave suddenly receded. It started with watermelon carving, which is far easier, faster, and more delicious than pumpkin carving. There was no apprehension. Based on a few images from my computer our twelve guests began slicing open, gutting, eating, and carving faces as though they also had been doing this since childhood. It was in fact every non-white attendee’s first fruit-face carving. Having filled a large bucket with bloody watermelon guts, I was naïve enough to assume that we’d be drinking ‘Otai for days. Instead, it became second dinner for the guests and for the students studying in the science room next door. It was all gone within an hour.

The orange-vodka-infused raspberry Jell-O tray emerged from the refrigerator to ravaging spoons. I couldn’t determine if the rave reviews were due to it being almost everyone’s first encounter with gelatin, or that we had shown Tongans that there was indeed a way one could eat alcohol. Like the watermelon, it didn’t last long.

With Juleigh’s bottle of bourbon flowing into cups of coke, candle-lit blood-red Jack-O-Melons sneering from the table, and Michael Jackson’s Thriller blasting from my speakers, a dance-party ensured. I had been begging for a non-Tongan music dance party for months, and I was thrilled that our guests were all familiar with my favourite dance anthems. Juleigh began offering a bowl of M&Ms for anyone who said, “trick or treat,” and Latu and Loa whisked me into my bathroom to decorate my face in baby powder and lipstick (I have only ever worn lipstick twice in my life; both times here in Tonga). With dramatic flair, I emerged as some sort of creature of the night to showcase my best Thriller dance to uproarious applause.

You know you’re having a good time in Tonga when a troop of neighbors and strangers has congregated outside your house to watch your festivities and listen to your thumping music. If I hadn’t seen it occur so many times before I would have found it creepy and discomforting, though I did chase off two peeping boys standing just outside my windows. There’s no privacy.

No one should be concerned about our festivities at all interfering with the Form 5 study session happening next door – our principal attended my party too, and he was by far its most enthusiastic participant. It was his idea to replace pumpkins (which don’t exist in Ha’apai) with watermelons, and it was his idea to take the Jack-O-Melons outside for a photo-op (though it was my idea to move everyone away from my air-drying underwear for the photo.) I placated those supposedly studying students too by promising them candy after their session as long as they knocked on my door and said the words, “trick or treat.” And indeed they later repeated those words with atypically perfect pronunciation after assaulting my door with their eager fists. Everyone was happy that night.

The happiest two were Juleigh and me. Of course we enjoyed carving watermelon;, indulging in chocolate; eating alcoholic Jell-O; and dancing to music that was not in the soundtrack of Grease, the Musical, but we were euphoric over having gloriously happy guests experience America’s craziest holiday. It wasn’t the Halloween any of them would see if they ever visit America, and they may now consider Palangis to be quirkier than ever, but they experience something completely new in Ha’apai. And that’s one of the three reasons Peace Corps is here.

Lewd is Relative

2011-10-31T19:15:00.000Z

Scene: Juleigh and I walk into the vegetable market in the late morning. The two regular female helpers are in their chairs gossiping as usual, and they greet us kindly. While selecting cucumbers and carrots, we see, Kalisi, the market manager lying on a thin mat on the concrete floor.

The following conversation proceeds in Tongan.

Me: Hello Kalisi, I’m hungry for vegetables.

Kalisi: Good, we have lots of them for you.

Me: Hey Kalisi, how’s your bed?

Kalisi (with a strong smirk): Oh, it’s very hard. I love sleeping with hard things.

The thee ladies roar in laugher.

Kalisi: What about you Sione?

Me: Me? Oh I’m hard all the time.

The ladies are convulsing in pain from laughing so hard. Juleigh facepalms in despair.

End Scene.

You can’t be this salacious while talking to employees in the vegetable section of your local Jewel-Osco; someone might slap you. But in Tonga this type of conversation is the key to winning friends and a fun reputation. Both men and women absolutely love it when you load your conversation with sexual innuendo. It’s a bit surprising given how culturally conservative they are.

Both men and women speak this way. It’s how I participate in kava circles with the boys; it’s how I joke with the nurses at the hospital and the ladies at the market; with Tevita, Sela, and Line at the bank; with Sione the Chinese storekeeper; most of my teachers; and with the employees at Mariner’s Café.

Just to be sure of my appropriateness, I usually wait for Tongans to begin the innuendo. Last week a surprise sunshower hit while I was biking the seven-mile trip to Matafonua on the northern tip of Foa so I pulled my bike over at a women’s weaving hall to keep dry. What might have been an awkward fifteen minutes with me cross-legged on the floor with three strange Tongans became jovial once they started talking about dating in Tonga. The things they said nearly made me blush, but I did my best to keep up with them. They were disappointed when I left to continue my bike ride.

Juleigh said recently she’s nervous she’ll do something inappropriate in America that is completely appropriate and perhaps even encouraged in Tonga, like show up consistently late for work, become lax with deadlines, or procrastinate. I share her anxiety, though I’m more worried that I’ll be so accustomed to lewd conversation that I’ll easily offend someone. Though that might end with the first slap to the face.

Fear+Of-God+Is/TheXBeginning+Of=Knowledge

2011-10-30T11:01:00.000Z

With Form 5 students all taking their exams this week in the science room, my Form 4 students moved into the Form 5 classroom. It makes them feel one step closer to being the ruling seniors of Tailulu Ha’apai. Too bad graduating to the grown up table doesn’t motivate them to answer more of my questions. The conspicuous quote plastered above the new room’s blackboard doesn’t seem that motivational either:

Fear+Of-God+Is/TheXBeginning+Of=Knowledge

It is one of many quotes plastered around the school, and, like last year, a few are motivational gems.

Speaking English All Da Time

I Want You To Please Be Quiet (with a stern and accusatory Uncle Sam pointing his finger)

Farewell from Form 5 (it’s been up on the Form 5 wall in big letters all year)

A Reaction! An Equation! (but they don’t seem to reference either any reactions or equations)

Be fresh and honest
Be cool and truthful
Be strive and smile!!!

Happiness keep you sweet – trials keep you strong; sorrows keep you human – failures keep you humble; success keep you glowing – But God keeps you going.

Zombies!

2011-10-29T11:01:00.002Z

After earning only seven hours of sleep in one week, no amount of caffeine would wake me for a final exam. That’s just me. My form 5 students must be physiologically different, because they swear their new study schedule will lead them to pass all of their exams

Form 5 national exams are only a week away so my principal is personally conducting night classes for any interested students. They start around 8pm, work until midnight, sleep on the science room floor for two hours, and then study again from 2am until 6am, when the day begins. They might get a nap in during the day, but maybe not. This schedule started last Sunday at midnight (since it is forbidden to study during the day on a Sunday, he says) and will continue throughout the exams next week.

I should not be the lecturing about study procrastination, having put off studying for too many organic chemistry exams until the last few days, but I at least tried explaining to the study group that this schedule can’t be good for their health or for their test scores. I even tried teaching them the English word “Zombie,” which is what they’ll certainly become before testing begins. Unfortunately, even with perfect hand motions and a killer zombie walk, they are still thoroughly confused about this mysterious simultaneously alive and dead “zombie.” Maybe I should be one for Halloween and then show them a scary movie.

I was wrong, they insisted. This was the "Tongan Way" of studying. It's how they do things here. But then without him even recognizing it, my principal proved my point. He said he did the same routine in college, though on his exams he sometimes found himself “almost asleep” in his chair and would suddenly realize his paper was blank well into the exam time. The zombie transformation was already apparent by the third night. My intense lucid dream of Halo-style alien vs human space war was interrupted by an obnoxious cell phone alarm at a quarter to three. I attempted to ignore the booming for twenty-five minutes but resolved eventually to end the noise. It lead me to the science room, where my principal and five students were sleeping on the floor, completely undisturbed. They could have slept through a realistic D-Day re-enactment. I uneasily woke them, they commenced "studying," and I went back to bed. By Sunday they'll be hunting for my brains.

My principal justifies this study method by explaining that because the exams are in English these mostly remedial students require extra studying. Palangis are don’t need to study as much because they already speak English. He’s halfway right. The difficulty a remedial form 5 student has passing a biology exam would be similar to you passing biology exam in that foreign language you took a few semesters of back in high school (French/Spanish?), assuming you haven’t taken a biology class for over a decade.

But language difficulty doesn’t justify an sleep-depriving study schedule. Our students don’t study throughout the year as my Palangi peers did in high school, and they don’t take good notes. That’s partly because they don’t have textbooks to take home. There are plenty textbooks, even class sets, but students aren't allowed to take them home.

It's not as outrageous as you might first think; teachers and students alike generally agree with the prohibitive policy. I've had both tell me that textbook pages would likely be used at home for firewood. Some students destroyed the science textbooks I distributed last year, and one of my biology students this year suddenly transferred schools and neglected to return our school's very expensive biology textbook. Even hardcover textbooks with protective book covers are unlikely to survive a Tongan household.

So now you see the series of interconnected problems: students are studying all night this week to pass their important form 5 exams because they didn’t study much throughout the year. They didn’t study much throughout the year because (1) school isn’t a priority until the week before exams and (2) they didn’t take good notes. They didn’t take good notes because (1) school work wasn’t a priority, (2) they didn't know how, and (3) they didn’t have textbooks. They don’t have textbooks because they destroy them.

It’s too late to fix any of these problems (even with candy) so I wish all of my students good luck with their studying and their difficult exams. If my biology student comes the night before the national exam next week to study (as he did last week for the school biology exam), I’ll help him until bed time but I’m not going to give him 6 of my 8 hours of sleep.