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.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Another Update: I'm Alive
Sorry. Internet on 'Eua is faka-inconsistent (faka in Tongan is 'like'). We had a torrential pissing storm for a week--the effects of the cyclone that went to New Zealand. It felt totally appropriate because I had a poopy two weeks. I felt like poo, my school was... faka-frustrating, I almost passed out in class, I am still veggie-starved, migraines are becoming more prevalent, and some students are faka-ridiculous.
But I'm now in the capital for a workshop, and will have an awesome break.
Anyway, this is boring. Any news? Not much.
1. My friend Kim got shouldered by a van today on the road. I guess she wasn't walking fast enough, which is ridiculous because she could blow away those old women who speed walk around big malls, so the van "nudged" her forward. Stupid.
2. My Creative Writing Class will start after break! I'm so excited! I have the introduction to my 'curriculum' typed. Also related, I'm becoming involved in "Children Writing for Children." It's a contest where children (also aroudn the world) write stories here in Tonga, there's a competition, and then the best stories get published. In a book. It'll be awesome!
3. I've had coffee. It was wonderful.
4. I have veggies! And wheat bread! And fruit! Also wonderful.
5. Did I tell you I'm going home for Christmas? I am. And I'm pretty faka-pumped up.
6. I made a bracelet. It's a bit shoddy, but it's totally cool.
7. My hair feels as rough as a corn husk. I miss American shampoo. :(
8. Face breakouts make me feel like I'm 14 again. Uggghhh faka-frustration.
9. I think I'm dehydrated all the time. Thus the migraines and nearly-fainting episode.
10. I'm happy to be in Nuku'alofa, but I totally miss the 'Eua hills. A lot.
I promise to have a more interesting and mind-blowing blogpost soon. This is faka 'ofa (sad), but you'll get your fill soon.
But I am alive.
But I'm now in the capital for a workshop, and will have an awesome break.
Anyway, this is boring. Any news? Not much.
1. My friend Kim got shouldered by a van today on the road. I guess she wasn't walking fast enough, which is ridiculous because she could blow away those old women who speed walk around big malls, so the van "nudged" her forward. Stupid.
2. My Creative Writing Class will start after break! I'm so excited! I have the introduction to my 'curriculum' typed. Also related, I'm becoming involved in "Children Writing for Children." It's a contest where children (also aroudn the world) write stories here in Tonga, there's a competition, and then the best stories get published. In a book. It'll be awesome!
3. I've had coffee. It was wonderful.
4. I have veggies! And wheat bread! And fruit! Also wonderful.
5. Did I tell you I'm going home for Christmas? I am. And I'm pretty faka-pumped up.
6. I made a bracelet. It's a bit shoddy, but it's totally cool.
7. My hair feels as rough as a corn husk. I miss American shampoo. :(
8. Face breakouts make me feel like I'm 14 again. Uggghhh faka-frustration.
9. I think I'm dehydrated all the time. Thus the migraines and nearly-fainting episode.
10. I'm happy to be in Nuku'alofa, but I totally miss the 'Eua hills. A lot.
I promise to have a more interesting and mind-blowing blogpost soon. This is faka 'ofa (sad), but you'll get your fill soon.
But I am alive.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Toe Hold Kava Circle
Yes, friends, there's another.
There's a pattern to my being a tou'a. If you're new to the blog and/or unfamiliar, you should either Google 'tou'a' or look back in my blog posts for "Baby Pig Foot Kava Circle" or "Pickle Tickle Handshake Kava Circle. Then you'll understand.
So I've figured out that I"m asked to be a tou'a for a faikava (Kava circle/meeting) by my adopted Tongan town officer father when his wife is in Tongatapu. she hates that people ask me to tou'a, as most Tongan girls NEVER tou'a. They know better, I suppose. My Tongan mother is aweosme--she's independent, hilarious, and insists on speaking only Tongan to me. And she would be flabbergasted to know I've been a tou'a four times already in my village.
To be honest, I didn't think I'd tou'a 4 times in my entire service here. It's not exactly a fun experience. I sat 2 1/2 hours again, and by the end, I thanked God that I received a phone call from another PCV that gave me a reason to leave. (Unfortunately, that reason was a warning about a tsunami caused by the terrible earthquake in Japan.)
On my walk home after 10 that Friday night, it took me nearly 5 minutes before I stopped limping. Tou'as are supposed to sit on one side, with both legs tucked to the other side beneath the butt. However, since that isn't the most comfortable or practical position, I always sit cross-legged. For this reason, I always wear my longest skirts to kava circles. But my ankles feel permanently etched into the concrete floor, and my feet are numb, the ligaments in my knees feel ready to spring from their joints, and my hip bones/groin muscles SCREAM to be stretched. It's kind of miserable, actually, which is why no girl actually enjoys being a tou'a.
This time, however, was my best circle so far. Most of the men were older--the one to my left was old and hilarious.
This time I had an old married man to my left, and Fedora Hat Guy (from PTHS Kava Circle), so I was in great company. I finally let loose a little, probably from my exhaustion, and joked a lot with the men. Especially with the man to my left became very kona, or drunk. Kava-drunk isn't like alcohol drunk. I mean...it is but it's not. Men will say silly things not heard in normal conversation, but the drunk is more lethargic. They get super sleepy--especially if I pour them a cup (aka coconut shell) full of kava. Kava circles generally last from around 7:30 or 8 to well after midnight. Men come and go as they please, and tou'a's can leave at any time, too.
Anyway, I digress.
So this faikava was fun. I felt like these men were my friends, and I actually felt amused and not so bored. We were at the Wesleyan Hall, where I was the tou'a the last time before a feast. And in this hall, in the mix of crowds from Baby Pig Foot Kava Circle and Pickle Tickle Handshake Kava Circle, I noticed something quite...spectacular, really.
It's about feet. Have I ever mentioned Tongan feet before? Surely I have. A Tongan's feet are HUGE. HUGE, I tell you.
My mom has always complained about her thick, wide hands and feet. Well, darlin', you got nothin' on these people. You could boil one of these feet and nearly have the equivalent to a Christmas ham. Only maybe a bit tougher, more sinewy. And I'm sure toenails aren't pleasant.
Anyway, so a Tongan's feet are thick and flat. Many of them walk barefoot nearly everywhere, so the soles are tougher than my tennis shoes, and they have muscles EVERYWHERE in their feet. Tongans--especially/mostly the boys and men--climb a lot. Mainly coconut trees. They use their feet a lot, thus the massive size, just like their bodies. PS, a Tongan's body mass is the first or second in the world, I think. Their bone density is outrageously amazing. It's from all that stinkin' root crop they eat!
And the toes.
I want you to do an exercise. I had my sister do this while talking on the phone, just for the effect. Hold your hand out, palm down. Now stretch your fingers apart, as wide as you possibly can. Strain those fingers. Strain! As you're straining, I want you to imagine your hand is a foot, the fingers are toes. Those toes are Tongan toes. If a Tongan ever got a pedicure, she wouldn't need those foam toe separator thingies. It's from the toe muscles that I never knew existed. It's trippy.
Anyway. So I'm at the kava circle, I'm looking around, noticing all the men smoking their usual--tobacco wrapped in newspaper or leftover school paper. There's no telling what toxins they're inhaling. Some men bring matches, others bring lighters.
This is my point, people.
I suddenly noticed colorful things, slender, smooth things between Tongan toes. Aside from boils and scars from boils, there's not much else other than dirt that occupies a Tongan's foot.
Except for cigarette lighters. These men stick the cigarette lighters between their toes like you would store a cereal box on a shelf, or like you would stick a book back in its place in the library. The cigarette lighters are just chillin, stuck between two dirty Tongan toes--toes in which suffer no strain from such unusual bearings. It was as natural as sliding glasses on your face or slinging a purse over your shoulder.
Thus another inspiration for my new favorite pastime. (Nicknaming, of course.)
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present:
The Toe-Hold Kava Circle.
There's a pattern to my being a tou'a. If you're new to the blog and/or unfamiliar, you should either Google 'tou'a' or look back in my blog posts for "Baby Pig Foot Kava Circle" or "Pickle Tickle Handshake Kava Circle. Then you'll understand.
So I've figured out that I"m asked to be a tou'a for a faikava (Kava circle/meeting) by my adopted Tongan town officer father when his wife is in Tongatapu. she hates that people ask me to tou'a, as most Tongan girls NEVER tou'a. They know better, I suppose. My Tongan mother is aweosme--she's independent, hilarious, and insists on speaking only Tongan to me. And she would be flabbergasted to know I've been a tou'a four times already in my village.
To be honest, I didn't think I'd tou'a 4 times in my entire service here. It's not exactly a fun experience. I sat 2 1/2 hours again, and by the end, I thanked God that I received a phone call from another PCV that gave me a reason to leave. (Unfortunately, that reason was a warning about a tsunami caused by the terrible earthquake in Japan.)
On my walk home after 10 that Friday night, it took me nearly 5 minutes before I stopped limping. Tou'as are supposed to sit on one side, with both legs tucked to the other side beneath the butt. However, since that isn't the most comfortable or practical position, I always sit cross-legged. For this reason, I always wear my longest skirts to kava circles. But my ankles feel permanently etched into the concrete floor, and my feet are numb, the ligaments in my knees feel ready to spring from their joints, and my hip bones/groin muscles SCREAM to be stretched. It's kind of miserable, actually, which is why no girl actually enjoys being a tou'a.
This time, however, was my best circle so far. Most of the men were older--the one to my left was old and hilarious.
This time I had an old married man to my left, and Fedora Hat Guy (from PTHS Kava Circle), so I was in great company. I finally let loose a little, probably from my exhaustion, and joked a lot with the men. Especially with the man to my left became very kona, or drunk. Kava-drunk isn't like alcohol drunk. I mean...it is but it's not. Men will say silly things not heard in normal conversation, but the drunk is more lethargic. They get super sleepy--especially if I pour them a cup (aka coconut shell) full of kava. Kava circles generally last from around 7:30 or 8 to well after midnight. Men come and go as they please, and tou'a's can leave at any time, too.
Anyway, I digress.
So this faikava was fun. I felt like these men were my friends, and I actually felt amused and not so bored. We were at the Wesleyan Hall, where I was the tou'a the last time before a feast. And in this hall, in the mix of crowds from Baby Pig Foot Kava Circle and Pickle Tickle Handshake Kava Circle, I noticed something quite...spectacular, really.
It's about feet. Have I ever mentioned Tongan feet before? Surely I have. A Tongan's feet are HUGE. HUGE, I tell you.
My mom has always complained about her thick, wide hands and feet. Well, darlin', you got nothin' on these people. You could boil one of these feet and nearly have the equivalent to a Christmas ham. Only maybe a bit tougher, more sinewy. And I'm sure toenails aren't pleasant.
Anyway, so a Tongan's feet are thick and flat. Many of them walk barefoot nearly everywhere, so the soles are tougher than my tennis shoes, and they have muscles EVERYWHERE in their feet. Tongans--especially/mostly the boys and men--climb a lot. Mainly coconut trees. They use their feet a lot, thus the massive size, just like their bodies. PS, a Tongan's body mass is the first or second in the world, I think. Their bone density is outrageously amazing. It's from all that stinkin' root crop they eat!
And the toes.
I want you to do an exercise. I had my sister do this while talking on the phone, just for the effect. Hold your hand out, palm down. Now stretch your fingers apart, as wide as you possibly can. Strain those fingers. Strain! As you're straining, I want you to imagine your hand is a foot, the fingers are toes. Those toes are Tongan toes. If a Tongan ever got a pedicure, she wouldn't need those foam toe separator thingies. It's from the toe muscles that I never knew existed. It's trippy.
Anyway. So I'm at the kava circle, I'm looking around, noticing all the men smoking their usual--tobacco wrapped in newspaper or leftover school paper. There's no telling what toxins they're inhaling. Some men bring matches, others bring lighters.
This is my point, people.
I suddenly noticed colorful things, slender, smooth things between Tongan toes. Aside from boils and scars from boils, there's not much else other than dirt that occupies a Tongan's foot.
Except for cigarette lighters. These men stick the cigarette lighters between their toes like you would store a cereal box on a shelf, or like you would stick a book back in its place in the library. The cigarette lighters are just chillin, stuck between two dirty Tongan toes--toes in which suffer no strain from such unusual bearings. It was as natural as sliding glasses on your face or slinging a purse over your shoulder.
Thus another inspiration for my new favorite pastime. (Nicknaming, of course.)
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present:
The Toe-Hold Kava Circle.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Sorry for the Delay
Internet sucks here, and I'm so angry because I cannot upload the video I just put together.
Frustration!
Anyway, I've overcome my traumatic rat experience (in the library,) I'm now teaching about 3 hours a day, my Creative Writing class will start soon (!), I had an excellent birthday....hmm, what else?
People are still trying to marry me off.
I get up every morning at 6 to walk. Mom and Dad, I know you're proud.
We celebrated National Woman's Day at a college here in 'Eua... we had tons of food, played games, and just had fun. It was nice!
I just learned how to make Swedish pancakes. They're pretty awesome.
I had a Red Velvet Cake for my birthday. It's my favorite :)
I listen to music A LOT now that my computer is here! Mumford & Sons= my new favorite band.
I miss concerts.
I feel hungry a lot.
A wonderful friend from Tongatapu sent me a bottle of wine for my birthday, and I was really happy. :)
My birthday hike was amazing! See my facebook profile picture--that's in a place called Fangatave, right on the cliffs overlooking the beach.
At the end of the month, I"ll go to Nuku'alofa for TEFL training one week, and the next week is In-Service Training (IST). Gosh, it's been nearly 6 months! Holy fast time, batman!
Onion Rings. Mmmmm. I may make those tonight. I have the ingredients!
No vegetables. STILL. ARG.
My lesson planning is getting better.
I LOVE decorating for the library. It's still grody looking, so no decorations are up, but man, my school is gonna LOVE me when it all goes up! I'll be a hero.
The first thing I'll buy in Nuku'alofa: a cup of coffee. I cannot wait.
The first thing I'll buy in America: either a pair of shorts, a scandalous tank top, or a Milky Way. No, no. Make that Starbucks. I'm buying Starbucks first. Then Chick-Fil-A.
The first thing I'll buy when I go back to Belgium: Fries. Then Leonidas (the best chocolate in the world.)
That's all for now. I'm running terribly late and I still have to meet an important person, do some shopping in town, and catch the bus back to my village. Then... malolo. (Rest). Gosh, I think I need to take a second shower. I'm a sweaty mess.
Frustration!
Anyway, I've overcome my traumatic rat experience (in the library,) I'm now teaching about 3 hours a day, my Creative Writing class will start soon (!), I had an excellent birthday....hmm, what else?
People are still trying to marry me off.
I get up every morning at 6 to walk. Mom and Dad, I know you're proud.
We celebrated National Woman's Day at a college here in 'Eua... we had tons of food, played games, and just had fun. It was nice!
I just learned how to make Swedish pancakes. They're pretty awesome.
I had a Red Velvet Cake for my birthday. It's my favorite :)
I listen to music A LOT now that my computer is here! Mumford & Sons= my new favorite band.
I miss concerts.
I feel hungry a lot.
A wonderful friend from Tongatapu sent me a bottle of wine for my birthday, and I was really happy. :)
My birthday hike was amazing! See my facebook profile picture--that's in a place called Fangatave, right on the cliffs overlooking the beach.
At the end of the month, I"ll go to Nuku'alofa for TEFL training one week, and the next week is In-Service Training (IST). Gosh, it's been nearly 6 months! Holy fast time, batman!
Onion Rings. Mmmmm. I may make those tonight. I have the ingredients!
No vegetables. STILL. ARG.
My lesson planning is getting better.
I LOVE decorating for the library. It's still grody looking, so no decorations are up, but man, my school is gonna LOVE me when it all goes up! I'll be a hero.
The first thing I'll buy in Nuku'alofa: a cup of coffee. I cannot wait.
The first thing I'll buy in America: either a pair of shorts, a scandalous tank top, or a Milky Way. No, no. Make that Starbucks. I'm buying Starbucks first. Then Chick-Fil-A.
The first thing I'll buy when I go back to Belgium: Fries. Then Leonidas (the best chocolate in the world.)
That's all for now. I'm running terribly late and I still have to meet an important person, do some shopping in town, and catch the bus back to my village. Then... malolo. (Rest). Gosh, I think I need to take a second shower. I'm a sweaty mess.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)