In Mobile, Alabama, described as a New Orleans without the tourists, we came across our first real Republicans – Daughters of the American Revolution: two delightful elderly southern belles, immaculately dressed and powdered, running an old colonial house as a museum. finding that we were English, the one showing us round dimpled with pleasure, somewhat embarrassingly deferring to what she assumed was our greater understanding of what is old, and served us with tea in bone china and home made cookies. She said she had been to London and loved it. Having sensed her racist tendencies, I said mischievously that I loved its cultural diversity and richness.
“Oh, yes, I saw so many Japanese.”
I was thinking of Afro-Caribbeans, Bangladeshis, Indians, dozens of ethnic residents; she was obviously thinking of the tourists.
“Oh, you must have stayed in Kensington.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
Everywhere we went intense patriotism was in evidence: many porches boasted a US flag; some, the flyer “Proud to be American”. fine, but how do they feel about those who are not?
In Arizona, desperate for some wilderness, we decided to spend a night under the stars. We drove down a dirt track in the midst of scrub desert, our main fear being that the owner might turn up in the middle of the night with a shotgun. He did arrive, but early in the evening, before we had bedded down for the night. With a horse box, not a shotgun, he stopped to pass the time of day. When he heard we were English, he was delighted and said:
“Oh, I’m English. My mother’s Scots and my father’s Welsh. That makes me English, doesn’t it?” Shaking us by the hand, he drove off the 20 further miles across his land to his home.
Kindly people, and easy to make fun of, but with a frightening ignorance of the rest of the world and what is being done in their name. There are no national newspapers in the States – the New York Times and the Washington Post not being representative of the parochial press in most provincial towns, which do not have foreign correspondents and rely on government-biased agency reports for their news. And the vast majority of Americans do not travel, have never left their own country. Only 20%, I understand, own a passport. Without that education, that contact with others, how are we to understand people of different countries and faiths?
On September 11th itself we were just over the border in British Columbia, Canada. Woken by early phone calls in the wooded house in which we were staying, I stumbled out of bed to those stultifying images on the television in the study. After hours of sitting with our hosts, transfixed and in shock, Stephen and I walked up onto the local hill overlooking the harbour, and sat on a rock, feeling numb.
A few days later I wrote in my journal:
I tried to explain to [some friends] and to myself the numbness I feel about the American attack. Partly we are away from home and on the move; I do not see or hear much detailed news, but partly this feels like a climax of a confrontation that has thus far been below the surface. A confrontation between the foreign policy of the USA and its recipients; the distance between the goals of other nations and other faiths and the possibility of its achievement. I feel as if the world is in suspension, awaiting the outcome. But what outcome can there be except further bloodiness. We can only pray for peace and spread peaceful thoughts among others.
The opportunity to do so came very soon afterwards. When we left British Columbia to visit Stephen’s cousin Marion, we took a ferry for 15 hours up the Inland Passage from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert – with the reputation of being one of the most beautiful of all sea passages. In the event the much-heralded trip was marred by ill temper and – after two weeks of sunshine – the descent of cloud and rain. A terrible disappointment except for the glorious sight – my first – of frolicking humpback whales, flipping their tails and blowing.
On the boat I got into conversation with a thin-lipped woman from Minneapolis, desperately upset at the events of September 11th. She had not wanted to leave her country, but her daughter had paid for her ticket and she didn’t want to let her down.
With tears in her eyes, she said: “The Bible tells us there will be war.”
I tried gently to remind her about forgiving our enemies, said that we should pray for peace, try to show a better way. I was aware that I was spouting platitudes, but was trying to meet her on her own ground, where I might be understood. She was a Lutheran and worked with Ghanaian refugees, but veered uncomfortably from the charitable to the punitive, sure that the military option was not only inevitable but right in the eyes of the Lord. It was a surprisingly moving encounter and we parted with seriousness and sadness. I was grateful to have met someone whose views, if reported to me, would have seemed another reinforcement of a stereotype.
Ten days later, on our way out of British Columbia, Stephen stopped to buy a newspaper in Prince George. There was none to be had. The newsagent had received nothing since before September 11th. The only papers on the racks, ironically, were old copies of Newsweek, with a cover story voicing the kind of criticism of President Bush that was by now an unpatriotic impossibility. In Vancouver, on a bus from the airport into the city for the few hours that we had there, a Macedonian woman told us very forcibly that she did not like the English, a salutary reminder of attitudes that we prefer not to hear. If we align ourselves with the Americans we will draw to ourselves the same kind of unpopularity abroad as they have experienced for years.
As we made our way round the world the events of that day reverberated in many encounters. We went back into the USA when we arrived in Hawaii on September 22nd. I was struck by the diverse population, with haulis (whites) very much in the minority, and many Chinese and Japanese as well as Polynesian. Although the US flag was very much in evidence, there was too quite an anti-white sentiment. We stayed in the Quaker Meeting House, and with a few members of the Meeting, attended a forum about September 11th organised by an East/West society at the university. The panel was high-powered and largely hawkish, chaired by a Supreme Court judge; the audience, spilling out into adjoining rooms with many of us standing in the doorways, fired at them a reassuringly critical battery of questions. The bombing of Afghanistan had not yet started but was evidently on the cards. The resistance to any such possibility among the varied audience – students and local residents alike – was cheering.
By the time we reached Auckland, New Zealand, the bombing, supported by the British, was well underway. We joined a group of Quakers in a large demonstration. As the procession made its way through the city, we stopped, to my shame, not only outside the US Consulate, but the British one too. It was the first time I had been in a demonstration abroad which had in its critical sights my own country. I felt deeply upset: torn between a sense of belonging and a sense of shame. I tried to hand a note in to the British Consulate but was told by one of the policemen that everyone was out of town.
In Canada we had been in the privileged position of being able to access news both from Canada and from the States. The US, of course, was the country under attack: not surprising, really that its news coverage was, for a while, utterly vengeful, whereas the Canadians from the beginning were asking “Why?” “Why are the Americans so disliked?” It wasn’t until we saw a copy of the New York Times a little later that we realised that there were voices in America, however much in the minority, that were asking questions too. Everywhere we went from then on, those questions were being asked. Only in Tonga, where we first heard of the bombing of Afghanistan, were there voices of support.
In Thailand we were reminded of a chilling American export that has been a powerfully evil influence in the world: the training given to Latin American soldiers by the notorious US Army School of Americas, based in Fort Benning, Georgia. Our friend, Karol, told us the story of a South American woman who had been abused and tortured by soldiers trained at the “school”. She had brought her story to the attention of the press in the States and lobbied government, but to no avail. No one wanted to listen. I have since heard that the US has changed
the name of this “school”. Not surprisingly.
In India the ramifications of September 11th could be felt in the intensification of ongoing tensions between Hindus and Muslims, notably over the demolition of a mosque and the subsequent plans to build a temple on the site of Lord Rama’s birthplace. When the Parliament Building in Delhi was attacked on December 11th, links with the attacks in America were made, as they were, of course, when the American Center in Kolkata was attacked – on the day we arrived there. This was the only occasion on which we felt drawn in. The project in Orissa that we were due to visit suffered some disruption in the usually harmonious relations between the Hindu and Muslim staff, and we were asked to delay our visit.
Otherwise, as in the States, we felt strangely removed. On December 23rd I wrote:
Strangely, altho very aware of world events, and the tensions in India itself, we don’t feel drawn in. It’s a bit like visiting in Ireland when everyone outside is reading about bombings in the North. Life goes on as normal for most people. Perhaps we are able to achieve some balance and distance; perhaps we are numbed by distance from home and the practicalities of moving around.
When we left India in March, people asked “Isn’t it dangerous? I’m surprised you went.” Such is the distance between external views and how it feels on the ground away from the actual trouble spots. After we left, the risk of war became greater, but I imagine that lives went on as usual in most parts of that vast country. On the day it was announced that British residents and visitors were being asked to leave India and Pakistan, my photos of India arrived. As I looked through pictures of that richly varied and beautiful landscape and the smiling faces of its inhabitants, I prayed that the leaders would draw back from the brink.
It was a strange year in which to travel: a time in which the relation of one country to another, and particularly between those in the developed world and those which are developing, were more acutely focused. I had not wanted to spend time in developed countries, but, on looking back, I can see that it was valuable to experience views from different countries and to carry messages from one to another. We are one world, and we all have responsibilities towards each other.
Chapter 8
The Simple Life
Live simply that others may simply live
Gandhi
The really abundant life is not to be found in the clutter of material complexity but in simplicity
L. Hugh Doncaster, 1976
On our flight from Hawaii to Tonga, we crossed both the Equator and the date line, so a day was crossed out of our diaries. It was an appropriate demarcation, for our three weeks in Tonga were quite unlike our time in the countries before and after it: an oasis between chunks of First World travel. For once it was an experience – in this case of a South Sea island – that conformed to the image. It was Paradise. As we looked down from the plane to the first of the islands, tears came to my eyes at the sheer beauty of the atolls: turquoise strips, ovals, circles in a blue sea.
The Kingdom of Tonga comprises 171 islands, of which 40 are inhabited, spread over an area of nearly 700 square kilometres. Though his country is a constitutional monarchy based on the British system of parliamentary democracy, the King is one of the most powerful monarchs in the world. He appoints the cabinet ministers for life and, of the forty-two parliamentary representatives, only nine are elected by commoners. The power of the monarchy and ruling class is matched by a veneration for religion which has played a major part in the development of the country from the Wesleyan missionaries in the early nineteenth century to the more recent inroads of the Methodists and Mormons.
The strength of the monarchy and the churches mean that, despite a wish to bring the country into the modern economic world, there is an equal wish to keep traditional customs and values. Although its foreign affairs came under British protection from 1893 until 1970, Tonga is the only country in the region not to have been colonised by a European power, which is perhaps why it has had relatively few tourists and has kept its identity.
When we landed, it was raining, and the capital, Nuku’alofa, was somewhat of a disappointment. Our first impression was of many young people on the streets, macho in a rather unfriendly way. We had been told how friendly Tongans were, but in fact that was not the case: they are a dignified, reserved, somewhat impassive people, though apparently they are more guarded in front of superiors or foreigners. Tongan men and women are large and statuesque, the men wearing skirts called tupenu, both sexes wearing ta’ovala, fraying woven mats or fronds round their waists, as a sign of respect – the older the mat, the more prestigious it is.
On the main island, Tongatapu, we stayed at Toni’s guest house, long renowned among backpackers and a mine of information. Toni was the name of the lugubrious, knowledgeable and sexist Lancastrian – sixtyish with a long grey ponytail – who owned the guest house. It was also the name of the precocious five-year-old son of the Tongan couple who looked after the place. Young Toni spent all his time with his namesake and spoke fluent English, unlike his father. To the confusion of outsiders, he called both men “Dad”.
We went to a Tongan feast, attended not only by tourists but by Tongans as well, including a local couple who owned an office equipment shop in the town. He was Tongan, she Fijian, and it became clear, on talking to her alone, that she thought Tongans were distinctly inferior – she as a Fijian was much more sophisticated.
Toni’s tours of the island are famous. The lovely empty roads were lined with palm trees, caro and squash on either side, small box bungalows, people in their Sunday best. Most of all, in one spot, vivid turquoise parrot fish seen from a cliff, down in the clear blue and turquoise depths; a long-tailed tropic bird – elegant streamlined white, then a kingfisher in blue and white. We also had the extraordinary experience of swimming in a cave in the dark. Holding our torches, we undressed on the steep rocks beside the freshwater pool then, turning off the torches, we gingerly lowered ourselves into the water. I was one of the last in and did not venture far, fearful of scraping myself on the edge of an unseen rock.
We had to give up the idea of sailing. Chartering was prohibitively expensive and opportunities for crewing unlikely unless we wanted to sail to New Zealand. So we decided to head for tranquillity instead. Of the groups of islands near by, Ha’apai was recommended as the quietest and, of that group, ’Uiha looked the most attractive. I had been adamant that I wanted to travel there by ferry, not fly to Pangai, the capital of Ha’apai. Everybody said I was mad and gave graphic descriptions of how terrible the ferry was, how rough the sea, how the decks were awash with vomit. Very reluctantly, finding that the ferry on the day we could go was even slower and more uncomfortable than the others, I gave in to the universal pressure, only to find that the ferry had in any case been cancelled because of strong winds!
The eight-seater plane to Pangai felt hairy enough, though my fears were dissipated by the obvious competence of the young woman pilot. But it was nothing compared to the trip that followed it: an hour in a small motor boat over tumultuous seas. Despite the equal competence of Assa, our captain, I was not only exhilarated but terrified as the boat rode up the sides of massive dark blue waves. The boat was full of people, including our hostess Kanoli and assorted family, all of whom were quite relaxed. None spoke English. Why had our guidebook said that one did not need to learn Tongan? There was only one lifebelt, and all insisted I wore it. I was resistant – why should I as a woman and a foreigner take precedence? – but eventually gave in.
The “resort” or hotel was made up of a compound on the beach containing four huts or fales. Behind it were the village hall, village phone and the “village green”: a large patch of uneven grass, overrun with chickens, dogs and pigs. Both here and in South America I took a quite different view of pigs. Unlike those in England, those here were small and brown, running wild: attractive self-possessed little animals. The main activity on the green was tennis, played every afternoon by the young men of the village, with
whoops and laughter. It took a week before they asked if I would like to play, which I did, in a long skirt. I felt I’d been accepted.
Our fale was simply lovely, with matting on the floor, and the walls and ceiling covered in strongly patterned tapa, the beaten bark of candlenut and mangrove, which all the women made locally. A shower room and lavatory were in separate grass huts outside. Torches, as usual, were essential.
After our first meal of delicious unicorn fish and breadfruit chips, we realised that we would have to cook for ourselves – the dinners were simply too expensive. But it was easier said than done. Everyone grew their own fresh food and the two local shops, open only on request, stocked very few items, such as tinned corned beef, condensed milk and toilet paper. It was hard to scrape together enough food to make a decent meal, and we ate rather repetitively while we were there.
There were some two hundred people in our village, Felemea, rather more in the village at the other end of the island. For a while we were the only visitors on ’Uiha, though a few others came and went. The indigenous way of life was mostly money-free – ours seemed the only money to exchange hands. The islanders lived off the fish they caught and the fruit and vegetables they grew in little plots in the interior of the island. Our hostess Kanoli was having a difficult time. Since her husband was ill and recuperating on another island, she had to look after her daughter, handle the resort and go to her smallholding to tend the crops. But it was very much a family affair, with her brother-in-law, Assa, taking charge of the fishing, the boat and ferrying of passengers from Pangai. In Tonga all is shared within the extended family. There’s no real sense of possession even of children who are essentially brought up by the broader family.
Call of the Bell Bird Page 9