Due to several inconveniences and requests of the main Peace Corps Office, packages and mail should be sent to the post office in 'Eua. Here's the address:
Jamie Ogles
Peace Corps Volunteer
PO Box 24
Ohonua, 'Eua,
Tonga
South Pacific
Thank you! Sorry for any inconveniences!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
When Not Having Testicles in a Patriarchy is a Good Thing
The Easter weekend was buh-rill-iant. Good Friday, no school. Saturday and Sunday, obviously, no school. Monday is ANZAC Day (British maybe?), so no school.
After a long-arse hike to the cliffs and DOWN (literally rock climbing in some parts) to a beach "near" where I live this past Friday, then a 2-weeks-early Cinco de Mayo feast on Saturday, and two Tongan feasts on Sunday, my weekend was well-balanced with exercise and food. (Yay endorphins!)
On Monday, I had my backpack full (with my hiking boots and other random things needed for hiking), my chacos on, my lava-lava over my pants, and I walked through the pig-hole-ridden field known as my school campus. As I do most mornings for my morning walk, I walked to upper-rib-level fence that I climb and jump over every morning. No big deal.
As I neared the fence, I realized I needed to call Kim to tell her I'm on my way. I would meet her in her village, we would hike the ravine into town, then we would try to suto down to the next-to-last village on the island, then proceed to a hiking destination we've not yet encountered.
So the phone is ringing, and I am climbing the gate with one hand. My left foot is on the high bar of one side, my right foot is pushing off the low bar on the other side, and I'm straddling the fence when my lava lava gets caught under my Chaco, my left foot collapses to the grown, and
BAM!
my girly parts are suddenly on fire as I'm in an acrobatic position, with my right leg hiking much above the fence, and my left leg is bent with trying to keep my butt from hitting the ground.
"Hello, Big Nuts," says Kim. (We have pet names for each other. She's Boo-Boo. That's another blog entry altogether."
I hop-hop-hop to my left side, trying to avoid the sharp wire my va-jay-jay barely missed, and I decide to play it cool and not make a big deal.
"Hey, Kim..." (I'm trying not to sound exasperated with pain, "I'm uhh... I'm onnnnn my--oh God--I'm on my way."
Now before that quote sounds like a racy O-moment from a Nora Roberts novel, picture me leaning over as though I'm heaving, with one hand holding the phone and the other hand holding the part of my body that is SCREAMING with ouchies. My eyes are watering, not because I want to cry, but because my nerves were going CRAZY and my eyes just reacted.
"Uhhh...are you okay, Jamie?"
"Ummm??? Y--no. No, I'm nooooot....Oh God, I just---uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-- my girly parts are on fire!"
At this point, my voice-pitch is reaching a Mariah Carey falsetto, but the kind where she's actually screaming.
"Ohhh no, are you okay?! What happened?" Of course, Kim is laughing. I'm kind of laughing myself, only I think it's because it's my body's only way to handle stress sometimes. Crush your ovaries? Oh, just laugh it off.
Anyway, I ended up walking to Kim's village Granny-style, only after Granny has ridden a horse.
Then we walked down the slippery valley, but without injury. Then we walked for a lonnnnng time before a truck finally picked us up. My parts were not too happy.
We get to Bre and Paul's village, where Bre's mother is visiting (and is tee-totally awesome), and start our hike. They welcomed my story with lots of laughter and empathy, but nonetheless, our hiking began.
And ended...5 hours later.
We saw beautiful things, of course, but the throb was nearly unbearable. My hiking boots wear heavy as bricks, my ankles hurt, my knees were aching, my hip flexers felt ready to spring out like a Jack in the Box, and of course, my girly parts were the source of all pain that made all the other pain seem bush-league.
On the way home, Kim and I soon got a suto (hitch-hiking) (praise Sisu!)to the capital, then walked to her house. It was 6:20 and getting dark fast. So, not wanting to walk home in the dark alone, I ran most of the way from her village to mine, despite what my body and ovaries were pleading.
Luckily, it didn't hurt to pee. In a hesitant attempt to analyze the situation, I found that all parts are intact, and, in fact, the pain came from my upper thigh where the tendons around the bikini line are located. Ohhhh, if you could see the bruise. I would estimate it to be 5-6 inches long and about 2-3 inches thick. It's intense!
But I go back to that moment. The moment where gravity laughed at my one-handed antics, where my parts tried to flee to my belly button, and when I swung my leg over the gate choked back a million curses (okay, I didn't choke them all back...what would you do?!), and tried to communicate to Kim in coherent sentences.
All I can say is thank God there are no testicles. Even a big, strong, coconut-tree-climbin', machete-whackin' man would've crumbled to his knees and wished for girly parts instead.
After a long-arse hike to the cliffs and DOWN (literally rock climbing in some parts) to a beach "near" where I live this past Friday, then a 2-weeks-early Cinco de Mayo feast on Saturday, and two Tongan feasts on Sunday, my weekend was well-balanced with exercise and food. (Yay endorphins!)
On Monday, I had my backpack full (with my hiking boots and other random things needed for hiking), my chacos on, my lava-lava over my pants, and I walked through the pig-hole-ridden field known as my school campus. As I do most mornings for my morning walk, I walked to upper-rib-level fence that I climb and jump over every morning. No big deal.
As I neared the fence, I realized I needed to call Kim to tell her I'm on my way. I would meet her in her village, we would hike the ravine into town, then we would try to suto down to the next-to-last village on the island, then proceed to a hiking destination we've not yet encountered.
So the phone is ringing, and I am climbing the gate with one hand. My left foot is on the high bar of one side, my right foot is pushing off the low bar on the other side, and I'm straddling the fence when my lava lava gets caught under my Chaco, my left foot collapses to the grown, and
BAM!
my girly parts are suddenly on fire as I'm in an acrobatic position, with my right leg hiking much above the fence, and my left leg is bent with trying to keep my butt from hitting the ground.
"Hello, Big Nuts," says Kim. (We have pet names for each other. She's Boo-Boo. That's another blog entry altogether."
I hop-hop-hop to my left side, trying to avoid the sharp wire my va-jay-jay barely missed, and I decide to play it cool and not make a big deal.
"Hey, Kim..." (I'm trying not to sound exasperated with pain, "I'm uhh... I'm onnnnn my--oh God--I'm on my way."
Now before that quote sounds like a racy O-moment from a Nora Roberts novel, picture me leaning over as though I'm heaving, with one hand holding the phone and the other hand holding the part of my body that is SCREAMING with ouchies. My eyes are watering, not because I want to cry, but because my nerves were going CRAZY and my eyes just reacted.
"Uhhh...are you okay, Jamie?"
"Ummm??? Y--no. No, I'm nooooot....Oh God, I just---uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-- my girly parts are on fire!"
At this point, my voice-pitch is reaching a Mariah Carey falsetto, but the kind where she's actually screaming.
"Ohhh no, are you okay?! What happened?" Of course, Kim is laughing. I'm kind of laughing myself, only I think it's because it's my body's only way to handle stress sometimes. Crush your ovaries? Oh, just laugh it off.
Anyway, I ended up walking to Kim's village Granny-style, only after Granny has ridden a horse.
Then we walked down the slippery valley, but without injury. Then we walked for a lonnnnng time before a truck finally picked us up. My parts were not too happy.
We get to Bre and Paul's village, where Bre's mother is visiting (and is tee-totally awesome), and start our hike. They welcomed my story with lots of laughter and empathy, but nonetheless, our hiking began.
And ended...5 hours later.
We saw beautiful things, of course, but the throb was nearly unbearable. My hiking boots wear heavy as bricks, my ankles hurt, my knees were aching, my hip flexers felt ready to spring out like a Jack in the Box, and of course, my girly parts were the source of all pain that made all the other pain seem bush-league.
On the way home, Kim and I soon got a suto (hitch-hiking) (praise Sisu!)to the capital, then walked to her house. It was 6:20 and getting dark fast. So, not wanting to walk home in the dark alone, I ran most of the way from her village to mine, despite what my body and ovaries were pleading.
Luckily, it didn't hurt to pee. In a hesitant attempt to analyze the situation, I found that all parts are intact, and, in fact, the pain came from my upper thigh where the tendons around the bikini line are located. Ohhhh, if you could see the bruise. I would estimate it to be 5-6 inches long and about 2-3 inches thick. It's intense!
But I go back to that moment. The moment where gravity laughed at my one-handed antics, where my parts tried to flee to my belly button, and when I swung my leg over the gate choked back a million curses (okay, I didn't choke them all back...what would you do?!), and tried to communicate to Kim in coherent sentences.
All I can say is thank God there are no testicles. Even a big, strong, coconut-tree-climbin', machete-whackin' man would've crumbled to his knees and wished for girly parts instead.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Oh... So They DO Bite
I'm not sure how obvious last month's entries were, but to say the least, it wasn't the best month of my life. Despite my birthday and other lovely things that happened, March was slightly faka-sucky. (Remember, in Tongan, faka is a prefix for 'like'). So after spending two weeks in the capital with all my PC buddies, I felt rejuvenated, motivated, and more focused on teaching, my village, secondary projects, and life as a PCV. It felt nice, having goals and an organized mindset. So I got home on Saturday morning, slept all day, ate, slept all night, and woke up with the feeling of a new day.
Accompanied by 20 bed bug bites around my waist.
I know. Bed bugs?! What the hey?
I thought my body reacted poorly to mosquito bites... the welts are just now going away along with the titanic itch it brought. During the day when I would get sweaty and hot, the bites would swell up to big itchy puffs and just tease me. I hated even wearing a skirt--the fabric just teased all those bites, and I was miserable.
On Sunday night, I guess the bed bugs were full of my waist-flesh, so they didn't come out to play, but between Monday and Tuesday night, I killed nearly 30 of them between my thumb and pointer finger. I was not a happy girl. I would wake up in the middle of the night, paranoia coming out my ears, and would shine my torch (flashlight... I've picked up other English lingo and it's fun!) all over my bed until I felt settled enough to go back to sleep.
On TuesdayI asked the PC Medical Officer what I could do because I was freaking out and wanted to be rid of the bugs. Clearly it's obvious to wash your sheets and hang them out to dry in the sun, because the sun bleaches the sheets and kills the bed bugs. It sounds simple in Clean Life, but in Tongan life, not so.
1. My other pair of sheets are also dirty, and I have no washing machine.
2. We haven't had running water since I've been back, so a neighbor's washing machine is pointless.
3. Hand washing (which I did yesterday) was impossible the first half of the week because I worked during the day, ate, prepared for lessons, taught night classes, went to church... AND it rained off and on Mon. and Tues, so they would never dry. Then what?
So Tuesday night the PCMO suggested I spray my bed with Mortein, the insect remover/Pesticide, to kill the bugs. I was hesitant. Pesticide? On my bed? That has to be not...good, right? So I sprayed the bed frame with the red mortein, which kills bugs on-the-spot but has no long term effects. More bugs came out. Freak-out mode increases. I text the PCMO back again and she says, "Black Mortein, spray your bedding."
The black Mortein, if you recall, is what killed the molokau, many cockroaches, etc. in my "Molokau Massacre" entry. And she wants me to spray this shenanigans on my bed? Well, I did. I sprayed my mattress, the comforter (which I sleep on top of, with sheets over it for extra padding), and my sheet. I did not spray my pillows, thank God, but I doused my entire sleeping area with super-strong Pesticide that left my throat raw, my nose burning, and my eyes fearing for their sight. Bad idea.
Luckily, I didn't die, and I don't think I got Pesticide poisoning. My friends Paul and Bre nearly died out of shock and unbelief...they were slightly afraid for my life and doubted the advise given to me. However, I only woke up with what I call a "Pesticide hangover", i.e. a killer headache. I slept with the fan directly on my face and pretty much didn't move an inch the whole night. I slept on top of my sheet with a fresh blanket wrapped around me.
Yesterday, it was sunny and windy, so I washed everything (sans the comforter b/c it's huge), hung it to dry, and then put it back on my bed. Fresh, clean, bed bug-free sheets.
Still no running water yet, but hopefully on Saturday I can do a massive load of laundry. I totally need too--most of my skirts have mold spots on them, and I'm running out of undies. And I'm totally tired of bucket baths.
Accompanied by 20 bed bug bites around my waist.
I know. Bed bugs?! What the hey?
I thought my body reacted poorly to mosquito bites... the welts are just now going away along with the titanic itch it brought. During the day when I would get sweaty and hot, the bites would swell up to big itchy puffs and just tease me. I hated even wearing a skirt--the fabric just teased all those bites, and I was miserable.
On Sunday night, I guess the bed bugs were full of my waist-flesh, so they didn't come out to play, but between Monday and Tuesday night, I killed nearly 30 of them between my thumb and pointer finger. I was not a happy girl. I would wake up in the middle of the night, paranoia coming out my ears, and would shine my torch (flashlight... I've picked up other English lingo and it's fun!) all over my bed until I felt settled enough to go back to sleep.
On TuesdayI asked the PC Medical Officer what I could do because I was freaking out and wanted to be rid of the bugs. Clearly it's obvious to wash your sheets and hang them out to dry in the sun, because the sun bleaches the sheets and kills the bed bugs. It sounds simple in Clean Life, but in Tongan life, not so.
1. My other pair of sheets are also dirty, and I have no washing machine.
2. We haven't had running water since I've been back, so a neighbor's washing machine is pointless.
3. Hand washing (which I did yesterday) was impossible the first half of the week because I worked during the day, ate, prepared for lessons, taught night classes, went to church... AND it rained off and on Mon. and Tues, so they would never dry. Then what?
So Tuesday night the PCMO suggested I spray my bed with Mortein, the insect remover/Pesticide, to kill the bugs. I was hesitant. Pesticide? On my bed? That has to be not...good, right? So I sprayed the bed frame with the red mortein, which kills bugs on-the-spot but has no long term effects. More bugs came out. Freak-out mode increases. I text the PCMO back again and she says, "Black Mortein, spray your bedding."
The black Mortein, if you recall, is what killed the molokau, many cockroaches, etc. in my "Molokau Massacre" entry. And she wants me to spray this shenanigans on my bed? Well, I did. I sprayed my mattress, the comforter (which I sleep on top of, with sheets over it for extra padding), and my sheet. I did not spray my pillows, thank God, but I doused my entire sleeping area with super-strong Pesticide that left my throat raw, my nose burning, and my eyes fearing for their sight. Bad idea.
Luckily, I didn't die, and I don't think I got Pesticide poisoning. My friends Paul and Bre nearly died out of shock and unbelief...they were slightly afraid for my life and doubted the advise given to me. However, I only woke up with what I call a "Pesticide hangover", i.e. a killer headache. I slept with the fan directly on my face and pretty much didn't move an inch the whole night. I slept on top of my sheet with a fresh blanket wrapped around me.
Yesterday, it was sunny and windy, so I washed everything (sans the comforter b/c it's huge), hung it to dry, and then put it back on my bed. Fresh, clean, bed bug-free sheets.
Still no running water yet, but hopefully on Saturday I can do a massive load of laundry. I totally need too--most of my skirts have mold spots on them, and I'm running out of undies. And I'm totally tired of bucket baths.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Little Reminders that I'm Not in America Anymore
We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
I went on a spending spree today because I need lots of things for my house--'Eua is not good with having useful things other than rice, soy sauce, and other such normalities, but I load up in Tongatapu.
I spent who knows how much within 2 hours, but at one store, I'll recant my grocery list. You can do the math and be shocked and awed at the difference in products in America and in a third-world, island country.
2 boxes of milk
2 boxes of Weet Bix cereal (Berry mix and Apricot! woot woot!)
3 oranges
3 pears
1 pack of stickers
How much? (In Tonga, this is "'oku fiha'?"
$53.80
Yikes.
I went on a spending spree today because I need lots of things for my house--'Eua is not good with having useful things other than rice, soy sauce, and other such normalities, but I load up in Tongatapu.
I spent who knows how much within 2 hours, but at one store, I'll recant my grocery list. You can do the math and be shocked and awed at the difference in products in America and in a third-world, island country.
2 boxes of milk
2 boxes of Weet Bix cereal (Berry mix and Apricot! woot woot!)
3 oranges
3 pears
1 pack of stickers
How much? (In Tonga, this is "'oku fiha'?"
$53.80
Yikes.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Tales of a Fakaleiti Friend
Tales of a Fakaleiti Friend
This is a tale because I have no fakaleiti friends.
Do you remember Fedora Hat Guy? At first, I thought he would be a fakaleiti friend. But no. He’s not. My village thinks we’ll get married and have lots of babies. So much for my effort in having a Tongan male friend.
If you know me fairly well, I’ve had a huge goal of having a gay best friend. I do have one back at home, but I never see him—obviously.
Why am I so adamant about having a GBF? After all, I want friends no matter if they’re gay, straight, tall, short, Asian, Tongan, conservative, democrat…
I think it’s a comfort thing. I’d love to have a male BF in whom I can trust with my deep secrets. Someone who will listen and respond with honesty, someone who can help me shop, someone who knows my habits, my strengths and weaknesses. A normal friend. But I love having guys around, and I would love even more to have a prominent guy in my life where the whole sex thing will never be an issue. Comfort. Stability. Friendship.
But it’s impossible in Tonga.
Fedora Hat Guy is not a fakaleiti.
I did dance with a fakaleiti once. She was adorable and had an awesome outfit on. I told her how I loved her shoes and her yellow jacket, and she hugged me and said, “Oh, thaaaaannnkkk yoooouuuuu!”
So what is a fakaleiti?
Basically, the literal translation is “like a lady”. Fakaleitis are the third gender in Tonga, and though homosexuality is illegal, if a man has sex with a fakaleiti, it’s totally fine, because the fakaleiti (a male dressed as a female), holds the pronoun ‘she’, acts like a ‘she’, and is a ‘she’ during intercourse, even if the plumbing isn’t so she-ish.
Fakaleitis were very prominent and more common up until a few years ago, probably because of Western influence. Many parents raised their youngest sons up as fakaleitis if the family had no female children. The mother would dress the boy as a girl, and he/she would do female chores and help manage the household.
Eventually, the fakaleiti would “grow out” of the state and was normally expected to marry (a woman). It wasn’t unusual if the fakeleiti didn’t marry, but it was totally common if he did.
Anymore, Tongans I have spoken with tease men or young boys about being fakaleitis if they are either very smart, have feminine mannerisms, or if they often do things or jobs associated with women, such as sewing, dancing, cleaning, cooking, etc.
Now, of course, “gay” is evolving into the vocabulary, although lesbians aren’t spoken or heard of.
This is a tale because I have no fakaleiti friends.
Do you remember Fedora Hat Guy? At first, I thought he would be a fakaleiti friend. But no. He’s not. My village thinks we’ll get married and have lots of babies. So much for my effort in having a Tongan male friend.
If you know me fairly well, I’ve had a huge goal of having a gay best friend. I do have one back at home, but I never see him—obviously.
Why am I so adamant about having a GBF? After all, I want friends no matter if they’re gay, straight, tall, short, Asian, Tongan, conservative, democrat…
I think it’s a comfort thing. I’d love to have a male BF in whom I can trust with my deep secrets. Someone who will listen and respond with honesty, someone who can help me shop, someone who knows my habits, my strengths and weaknesses. A normal friend. But I love having guys around, and I would love even more to have a prominent guy in my life where the whole sex thing will never be an issue. Comfort. Stability. Friendship.
But it’s impossible in Tonga.
Fedora Hat Guy is not a fakaleiti.
I did dance with a fakaleiti once. She was adorable and had an awesome outfit on. I told her how I loved her shoes and her yellow jacket, and she hugged me and said, “Oh, thaaaaannnkkk yoooouuuuu!”
So what is a fakaleiti?
Basically, the literal translation is “like a lady”. Fakaleitis are the third gender in Tonga, and though homosexuality is illegal, if a man has sex with a fakaleiti, it’s totally fine, because the fakaleiti (a male dressed as a female), holds the pronoun ‘she’, acts like a ‘she’, and is a ‘she’ during intercourse, even if the plumbing isn’t so she-ish.
Fakaleitis were very prominent and more common up until a few years ago, probably because of Western influence. Many parents raised their youngest sons up as fakaleitis if the family had no female children. The mother would dress the boy as a girl, and he/she would do female chores and help manage the household.
Eventually, the fakaleiti would “grow out” of the state and was normally expected to marry (a woman). It wasn’t unusual if the fakeleiti didn’t marry, but it was totally common if he did.
Anymore, Tongans I have spoken with tease men or young boys about being fakaleitis if they are either very smart, have feminine mannerisms, or if they often do things or jobs associated with women, such as sewing, dancing, cleaning, cooking, etc.
Now, of course, “gay” is evolving into the vocabulary, although lesbians aren’t spoken or heard of.
Clustermuck
March 18, 2011. I’ve hit a low point.
Kim and I are calling it the trifecta, where the combination of culture shock (or overwhelmedness at this culture), homesickness and island fever mesh together to form a near-deadly, tightly-formed cornsack that’s creeping its way over my head and has nearly covered my face. Tightly.
This week started off pretty nice, since I think I’ll get to head home for Christmas. This made me cry over the weekend—unexpected tears of happiness. I love my family, let’s leave it at that.
But that family high didn’t stay long. If anything, the pooeyness of the week made me miss my family more. It made me miss tubs of medicinal ice cream (it’s the cure for everything,) movie marathons, Dairy Queen runs (what is it with ice cream ?), and my billowy, comfortable, back-aiding Queen sized bed with my satiny olive green comforter. And I miss hugs and kisses, jokes and fun stories, long talks and contemplations.
I had all these memories and all this Christmas expectations to juxtapose the untimely, unorganized mess I call my school.
I don’t want to misrepresent my school, and I don’t want to misrepresent myself or the PC by talking about bad things. I love my site, I love the people here, I love my students. But I had a week in which I would’ve eaten a tub of ice cream (the big kind like Southern Bell makes) out of mourning, not celebration. (After all, there are many occasions to eat ice cream. If I celebrate, I eat it out of a wine glass. It makes me happy.)
Anyway, so I’m in mourning mode. My teachers are late every day, my students (particularly one—my friends call him “Grade A” for reasons I cannot tell you), the internet has been at the pace I would imagine a turtle may go if he climbed a glacier.
Also, 2 girls barged their way into my house, rudely interrupted a much-welcomed phone call from one of my PC friends in Vava’u, one of these girls called me fat, and I wasted $10 of phone credit just to hear 3 friends’ voicemails over and over.
1. The last paragraph happened in one day.
2. Calling someone fat here is like saying, “Hey, you have brown hair.”
3. I think she called me fat because I was wearing a tighter skirt around my house, and Tongans aren’t used to seeing me in clothes that aren’t billowy and loose. And I have a big ass.
4. It’s hard enough to supply enough phone credit every month—it’s not a huge financial strain, but it’s annoying because half the time, the falekoloas (stores) in my village are empty or not open, so I have to yell the name of the shopkeeper until he/she comes out and sells me phone cards. OR I have to go to town. Which takes hours. I’m now sucking it up and biking most of the way to town, stopping at my friend’s house, and walking to town, because the bus is too expensive and I now apparently need the exercise for my fat ass.
5. When I do have phone credit and call friends I haven’t talked to in months, and they don’t answer, I understand. I get it. They have lives. And like me, many of my friends are quite unreliable at answering their phones. However, when the voicemails kick on, the phone kicks on the conversation minutes, so when I hang up after 3 seconds of listening to the Voicemail, it counts as 1 minute of credit. A whole minute! That’s over .50 cents, people! And…I’m calling from Tonga. Give me a break.
I nearly broke down on Thursday, especially after I read my first Christian Inspirational novels (I had my doubts, I won’t lie,) but when I read it threw it down because I was so pissed off at the anti-gay statements embedded in the text and the unreasonable models-of-faith characters, I couldn’t handle it anymore.
So I had a God-talk.
God and I talked about my bitterness. I have a lot of it. I do, and it’s been harboring for about 3 years now. It’s part of life, I suppose, and I feel that the bitterness is leaking out and is almost gone. But when it becomes larger than a leak, it’s like one of the various leaks I had in poor Fiona, my white 99 Oldsmobile Alero. Poor girl, she was nearly a POS, but I took terrible care of her, and there was always something wrong. I’m not one to pay great attention to things in general, so I’d go months before I’d realize the rattling crunchy noise wasn’t normal, or that the random ‘ding’ wasn’t a cowbell or xylophone to compliment the music in my CDs.
That’s my bitterness. I’m not much of an angry person, but when it rains it pours, and I’ve had a bit of an emotional clustermuck (please accept my word substitution). Friday was the last straw. My always-late counterpart teacher, who usually shows up between 45 mins and an hour late, came at 11. School starts at 8:30. Do the math.
I was furious. FURIOUS. Seething and tonguing poisonous words I so badly wanted to chuck at my principal, who asked me to give an extra English lesson, and at my student Grade A, who I sent to my principal’s Class 1 class, the 5 year olds, because he was acting like one.
My students, God bless them, were actually encouraging. They could read me. I hate being that readable with my emotions, but sorry—I can’t hide frustration very well, and I can’t help when my eyes get really watery. What do you do.
Once, I went outside and took deep breaths after I gave them an assignment. I needed air. It sucks to be frustrated and sweaty.
When I had nothing else to do, when my voice was hoarse from talking and singing, I went to my principal’s classroom to find the other teacher lounging on a makeshift futon made of boards and old desks. I told him I was finished and would be in my house, and I left.
I ate lunch, finished the rest of the terrible Inspirational novel (because the only book I’ve ever not finished is Wuthering Heights, and that’s another long story.) And I slept. I don’t nap. I’m not good at it unless I’m dripping with sickness or exhaustion. Well, I was sick with exhaustion, so I slept over an hour. I woke up sweaty and groggy, as I always do from naps, but my emotional state felt not so Maleficent-like. (Sleeping Beauty’s villain. This week just isn’t appropriate for Disney heroines. Villains only.)
Luckily Kim is a wonderful friend who lives close and just made homemade Oreo ice cream. She shared with me, let me borrow her phone, and I called my mom, who answered. It’s amazing what a mama’s voice can do. We talked it out, and I explained what was possibly contributing to my emotional clustermuck.
I felt better after that. I shaved my legs after over 2 weeks…don’t judge. I live on a tropical island in a third world country with no male prospects. Shaving isn’t important. Except for the pits. I shave those regularly. I cooked a nice supper, and as I threw out carrot scraps the two girls from the previous night (the obnoxious ones who barged in and called me fat) were sitting at the school and immediately walked over. I didn’t have a free hand to shut the door, so they waltzed in and sat in the doorway. They watched me cook, we made conversation, and I asked them to leave so I could eat and clean my house. They seemed shocked by this—probably because I didn’t feed them. Kids come to my house a lot looking for food. Tongans don’t suffer from starvation, and often have lots of food for dinner, so I don’t offer food anymore. They would eat me out of house and home. Plus they have a whole bush to pick through. I have falekoloas, canned food, and a market vegetable selection that would resemble that of the planet Mars.
I didn’t feel bad about asking them to leave. It’s exhausting, entertaining kids every day. Yes, I am here to integrate and get to know everyone. But in a week like this, it is essential to just seek inward. Find an inward glow, work out the bitter pus from my emotional boil, and just be happy with myself. Ass and all.
Kim and I are calling it the trifecta, where the combination of culture shock (or overwhelmedness at this culture), homesickness and island fever mesh together to form a near-deadly, tightly-formed cornsack that’s creeping its way over my head and has nearly covered my face. Tightly.
This week started off pretty nice, since I think I’ll get to head home for Christmas. This made me cry over the weekend—unexpected tears of happiness. I love my family, let’s leave it at that.
But that family high didn’t stay long. If anything, the pooeyness of the week made me miss my family more. It made me miss tubs of medicinal ice cream (it’s the cure for everything,) movie marathons, Dairy Queen runs (what is it with ice cream ?), and my billowy, comfortable, back-aiding Queen sized bed with my satiny olive green comforter. And I miss hugs and kisses, jokes and fun stories, long talks and contemplations.
I had all these memories and all this Christmas expectations to juxtapose the untimely, unorganized mess I call my school.
I don’t want to misrepresent my school, and I don’t want to misrepresent myself or the PC by talking about bad things. I love my site, I love the people here, I love my students. But I had a week in which I would’ve eaten a tub of ice cream (the big kind like Southern Bell makes) out of mourning, not celebration. (After all, there are many occasions to eat ice cream. If I celebrate, I eat it out of a wine glass. It makes me happy.)
Anyway, so I’m in mourning mode. My teachers are late every day, my students (particularly one—my friends call him “Grade A” for reasons I cannot tell you), the internet has been at the pace I would imagine a turtle may go if he climbed a glacier.
Also, 2 girls barged their way into my house, rudely interrupted a much-welcomed phone call from one of my PC friends in Vava’u, one of these girls called me fat, and I wasted $10 of phone credit just to hear 3 friends’ voicemails over and over.
1. The last paragraph happened in one day.
2. Calling someone fat here is like saying, “Hey, you have brown hair.”
3. I think she called me fat because I was wearing a tighter skirt around my house, and Tongans aren’t used to seeing me in clothes that aren’t billowy and loose. And I have a big ass.
4. It’s hard enough to supply enough phone credit every month—it’s not a huge financial strain, but it’s annoying because half the time, the falekoloas (stores) in my village are empty or not open, so I have to yell the name of the shopkeeper until he/she comes out and sells me phone cards. OR I have to go to town. Which takes hours. I’m now sucking it up and biking most of the way to town, stopping at my friend’s house, and walking to town, because the bus is too expensive and I now apparently need the exercise for my fat ass.
5. When I do have phone credit and call friends I haven’t talked to in months, and they don’t answer, I understand. I get it. They have lives. And like me, many of my friends are quite unreliable at answering their phones. However, when the voicemails kick on, the phone kicks on the conversation minutes, so when I hang up after 3 seconds of listening to the Voicemail, it counts as 1 minute of credit. A whole minute! That’s over .50 cents, people! And…I’m calling from Tonga. Give me a break.
I nearly broke down on Thursday, especially after I read my first Christian Inspirational novels (I had my doubts, I won’t lie,) but when I read it threw it down because I was so pissed off at the anti-gay statements embedded in the text and the unreasonable models-of-faith characters, I couldn’t handle it anymore.
So I had a God-talk.
God and I talked about my bitterness. I have a lot of it. I do, and it’s been harboring for about 3 years now. It’s part of life, I suppose, and I feel that the bitterness is leaking out and is almost gone. But when it becomes larger than a leak, it’s like one of the various leaks I had in poor Fiona, my white 99 Oldsmobile Alero. Poor girl, she was nearly a POS, but I took terrible care of her, and there was always something wrong. I’m not one to pay great attention to things in general, so I’d go months before I’d realize the rattling crunchy noise wasn’t normal, or that the random ‘ding’ wasn’t a cowbell or xylophone to compliment the music in my CDs.
That’s my bitterness. I’m not much of an angry person, but when it rains it pours, and I’ve had a bit of an emotional clustermuck (please accept my word substitution). Friday was the last straw. My always-late counterpart teacher, who usually shows up between 45 mins and an hour late, came at 11. School starts at 8:30. Do the math.
I was furious. FURIOUS. Seething and tonguing poisonous words I so badly wanted to chuck at my principal, who asked me to give an extra English lesson, and at my student Grade A, who I sent to my principal’s Class 1 class, the 5 year olds, because he was acting like one.
My students, God bless them, were actually encouraging. They could read me. I hate being that readable with my emotions, but sorry—I can’t hide frustration very well, and I can’t help when my eyes get really watery. What do you do.
Once, I went outside and took deep breaths after I gave them an assignment. I needed air. It sucks to be frustrated and sweaty.
When I had nothing else to do, when my voice was hoarse from talking and singing, I went to my principal’s classroom to find the other teacher lounging on a makeshift futon made of boards and old desks. I told him I was finished and would be in my house, and I left.
I ate lunch, finished the rest of the terrible Inspirational novel (because the only book I’ve ever not finished is Wuthering Heights, and that’s another long story.) And I slept. I don’t nap. I’m not good at it unless I’m dripping with sickness or exhaustion. Well, I was sick with exhaustion, so I slept over an hour. I woke up sweaty and groggy, as I always do from naps, but my emotional state felt not so Maleficent-like. (Sleeping Beauty’s villain. This week just isn’t appropriate for Disney heroines. Villains only.)
Luckily Kim is a wonderful friend who lives close and just made homemade Oreo ice cream. She shared with me, let me borrow her phone, and I called my mom, who answered. It’s amazing what a mama’s voice can do. We talked it out, and I explained what was possibly contributing to my emotional clustermuck.
I felt better after that. I shaved my legs after over 2 weeks…don’t judge. I live on a tropical island in a third world country with no male prospects. Shaving isn’t important. Except for the pits. I shave those regularly. I cooked a nice supper, and as I threw out carrot scraps the two girls from the previous night (the obnoxious ones who barged in and called me fat) were sitting at the school and immediately walked over. I didn’t have a free hand to shut the door, so they waltzed in and sat in the doorway. They watched me cook, we made conversation, and I asked them to leave so I could eat and clean my house. They seemed shocked by this—probably because I didn’t feed them. Kids come to my house a lot looking for food. Tongans don’t suffer from starvation, and often have lots of food for dinner, so I don’t offer food anymore. They would eat me out of house and home. Plus they have a whole bush to pick through. I have falekoloas, canned food, and a market vegetable selection that would resemble that of the planet Mars.
I didn’t feel bad about asking them to leave. It’s exhausting, entertaining kids every day. Yes, I am here to integrate and get to know everyone. But in a week like this, it is essential to just seek inward. Find an inward glow, work out the bitter pus from my emotional boil, and just be happy with myself. Ass and all.
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