I watch a millipede walk severally across the wall. Apparently they’re harmless, and, so long as they’re not in my clothes, I find them kind of cute – in a caterpillar kind of way.
It is eight o’clock in the morning, and free breakfast succeeds in luring me from bed.
It’s served with tea and coffee, hot buttered toast, papaya marmalade, and a beautiful plate of local fresh fruit – coconut, watermelon, banana, pineapple, and mango. Unsurprisingly, there’s a flower on my tray and I put it in my hair.
In the back garden, we see a young Tongan man harvesting coconuts. He’s approached by an interested, retired American named Alice, who pets two equally interested dogs.
Today, the plan is to go to town, withdraw Tongan money, and buy groceries.
* * * * *
The coconut man gives us a ride.
The roads are paved, but so dirty that at first I thought they weren’t.
A young black pig grazes joyfully on the side of the road, wagging its tail. As we pass, it looks at me, flashing a pink snout, eyes smiling. I’ve never seen a happy pig before.
A young boy has his elbows on the counter of the corner store, maybe trying to decide what kind of candy to buy (or maybe trying to remember what his mother sent him for).
In Tonga, all of the dairies (corner stores) have three walls and a counter which faces the road, but you don’t go in. The merchandise is on two or three long shelves facing the road, and you order from the guy behind the counter, who stays cooler without windows.
The houses are generally made of plywood, with corrugated roofs. The yards are full of tropical fruit trees, chickens, pigs, long grasses, and tilled earth. There are lots of dogs running wild. There are not many cars, but we do see several men weaving their bicycles around potholes, and everyone waves to the bus as we pass. There is the occasional smell of smoke or bat guano, and the occasional abandoned building, school, or sign.
Children sit on front porches, watching their grandmothers weave or hang laundry. Women walk together with long skirts, parasols for shade, and spade-shaped fans. The men often wear skirts too – not sarongs, but stiff, stately cloths wrapped high around their ribs, sometimes decorated with an intricate belt.
We roll into town along the ocean. First stop: the bank.
* * * * *
John spots a man wearing a Canucks jersey, sitting in a car in the parking lot.
“Canucks!” he cries, pointing. “That’s my team!” The man looks at him for a long moment before giving a slow smile and murmuring, “Thank you.”
We’re not really sure whether the man speaks English, but John still feels disappointed by the reception.
“Maybe he doesn’t know the team,” I suggest.
Across from the bank is the Women’s Handicraft Collective, so we wander inside and finger woven fans, bags, and masks, as well as paintings and carvings. I’m on the lookout for something for my sister, but we leave without buying anything.
Almost immediately, we’re flagged down by a man in a truck who wants to know where John got his necklace. (It’s an enormous whale bone carved into a traditional Maori design, with the details embossed in Pawa shell, and it was a gift that most Maories would envy.) John seems wary, answering the man’s questions politely enough while remaining reserved.
When the man discovers that we’ve lived in Blenheim (it’s where John got the necklace), he asks if we know his brother John, a grape contractor.
Well… it turns out that my first boss in Blenheim – the good one – was a man from Tonga called John.
But come on. It’s a common name. What are the chances, right?
We bat a couple of names back and forth, and it turns out that yes, it’s the same John – and this is his brother, David. He’s ecstatic to meet us, and immediately insists that we stay at his place for free.
At first I’m still wary – maybe this is some kind of trick. So I ask about John’s wife and children, to see if he knows their names. He does. He even knows that Amelia is getting chubby, and that Johnny plays rugby but has recently taken up smoking. He knows about Hong, the homosexual Malaysian supervisor who works for John, and he knows the street John lives on.
It turns out that this is the real thing. It’s a small world.
David noticed John’s necklace because he’s a bone carver himself, and he shows us his latest carvings from the cabin of his truck. We decide to buy a couple, and at first he’s pretty pushy, inviting us to choose as many as we want, but we keep asking about the price.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re family! I’ll give you the best price.”
I feel skeptical.
“This one is five dollars,” he says of a little sea turtle I’ve picked out.
Only five dollars, huh? I cast my eyes around a little greedily, and find a few more that I like. John does too.
In the end, we settle on five, and ask again about the price. We’re hoping for maybe $30.
It’s my first experience at bartering. I have no idea what to say. At first he tells us $75 – we gasp – we put them back. We say maybe we should just take one – we don’t have much money. He lowers the price to $65 – as a favour. Still too high, we say, sorry – we’ll just put a few back.
Okay, he says, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll drop the price to $50, and I’ll give you a couple more as gifts, for being part of the family. That’s seven carvings, for seven dollars each! I am a fair man. That’s a good price. I give you the best price, you’re my family!
I feel distinctly uncomfortable. Is it worth it? Would it be really rude to refuse? It’s a fair price I think, but it’s still $20 more than I wanted to pay. On the other hand, it’s also $25 less than he asked for at first. And he’s right – they would make great gifts. And he’s very, very talented.
In the end, we agree to the $50 and he seems very pleased.
I wonder if he would have offered a lower price, if we had held out longer.
He says that if we ever need anything or want to hang out, we should take down his phone number. We are welcome to stay with him, he reminds us, and he says he’ll feed us too – he even has internet! Free, he reminds us, and he lives not far from town. Well, you think about it, he says. We have an extra bedroom. You’ll love it. We’ll eat real Tongan food. You call me, okay?
He honks as he pulls away, and I think we both feel a sense of astonishment, looking down at the carvings in John’s cupped hands. What a small world it is.
* * * * *
All day we wander through town, trying to memorize where things are: the post office, the bakery, the butcher, the dry goods store. I notice a lot of people staring at me. John laughs and says I’m the whitest person he’s seen all day. But, he says, it’s good for me, to know what it feels like, to be unusual.
I guess he’s right.
The most impressive thing we see all day is definitely the vegetable market.
I don’t suppose they import fruits and vegetables to Tonga, since this is the only market in town, and everything that’s displayed is being sold by the farmer who grew it. We see huge bundles of bananas; tarot, yams, tapiocas, and turnips; things we can’t recognize; cabbages, eggplants, green beans, and strange fruits – but we can’t carry much.
We buy: a kilo each of potatoes, onions, carrots, and cucumbers, which cost three Tongan dollars each, or maybe one Canadian dollar; bundles of capsicums, lettuce and spinach; a kilo of rice, and 350 mg of cooking oil. In the butcher we buy two whole chicken legs and two rump steaks, and in the bakery, we buy a loaf of bread and a small tub of margarine.
We figure that all of this will tide us over for the next few days.
The second most impressive thing we see all day is the bus.
There’s no bus schedule, so people wait in the shade by the ocean somewhat aimlessly, fanning themselves and talking, until their bus arrives – every half-hour, give or take fifteen minutes. The Tongan language sounds beautiful to my ears. It cools down as we wait, and even begins to rain a little, to our immense refreshment.
When the bus comes it’s crowded – standing room only – and we are the last two to get on.
Of all people, I make eye contact with the beautiful server from the beach restaurant; she greets me warmly and offers to take my bags on her lap. Before I can say anything, the boy beside her takes them from me and smiles.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She tells me that her name is Hundred, and introduces her brother. The boy doesn’t talk to me – Hundred says that his English is broken. She asks to take my picture.
The crowded, rickety bus careens over rough terrain, avoiding potholes and cyclists. The people ask us where we’re from, talk about the weather, and welcome us to the Friendly Island. They tease Hundred’s brother for having a crush on me. He looks at the ground, and I act dumb. When the locals find out that my “husband” isn’t even jealous, they tease John instead.
We tell Hundred we might see her on Friday, when there’s live music at the restaurant.
I’m starting to think this really is the friendly island, after all.
* * * * *
We manage to cook up a delicious meal in the communal kitchen, which is basic – a fridge, a sink, a few dishes, and two gas burners, as well as a bench for preparing and eating food. We rub the chicken with salt, pepper, and herbs, and grill it on one side. John makes rice, and I cut up potatoes, carrots, and capsicum to stir-fry with onion and garlic.
We talk to an older couple from Picton, who have been sailing around the Pacific, off and on, for years. They recommend that, if we’re interested, we head to the northern port and offer to help crew a yacht to Fiji. Apparently they leave all the time, and always need deck hands.
I say I can’t sail.
“Well,” the man laughs. “You can cook!”
Hmm.
Definitely food for thought.
