Mourning an Aunt Through Tongan Putu

Article Appeared in the Courier-Express and Main Line Times...

My aunt, Venetia “Nini” Manfredo, passed this September. Most reading this piece knew or at least met Nini, who was very active in the DuBois community as a parishioner at St. Joseph’s church and a dedicated volunteer at Central Catholic High School. I feel safe in assuming that many of you were in attendance as the family viewed and laid her to rest. Unfortunately, I wasn’t.

More than just an aunt, Nini was my godmother and confirmation sponsor. Yet, as a new Peace Corps Volunteer in the South Pacific’s Kingdom of Tonga, nearly 6,000 miles of ocean kept me from returning home. Being so far removed, strangely and frustratingly, I found it difficult to mourn.

Soon after Nini’s death, I completed Peace Corps training and departed for Makave, a village of 600, in the northern island group of Vava’u. My attention quickly turned to jettisoning my ‘palangi’ (the Tongan word for Caucasian) ways and adapting to this Polynesian culture.
The only Pacific nation never to have been occupied by a foreign power, Tongan culture remains virtually intact. Each day: women compress and paint tapa cloth, an inner tree bark fabric that is a decorative sign of wealth; children learn to lalanga, or weave dried pandanus leaves into waist mats called ta’ovalas that individuals wear to formal occasions; and men gather to drink kava, a pepper-root that is ground into powder and mixed with water.

Traditions live strong, but conveniences like electricity, running water and even television have reached even the most isolated of Tonga’s nearly 40 inhabited islands. With these conveniences comes cost, which is troublesome for the majority of Tongan families who work as sustenance farmers. Many rely on remittances from family living abroad to make ends meet. Therein lies the goal of our Peace Corps program: to develop within Tongan youth the concept of self-sufficiency through the practice of business skills.

One night—just as the youth were warming up to a foray into business—everything...just...stopped. Tu’i ‘Afitu—one of 33 hereditary nobles in the Kingdom—who governed Makave and two other Tongan villages, passed away and a month-long mourning period ensued.

The next morning, a sea of large Tongan men, uniformly dressed in black and large ta’ovalas that began at the ribs and ended below the knees, descended on Makave to prepare for the funeral.

As some dug the 20 X 6 foot underground oven (umu), truckloads came and went carrying hundreds of pounds of Tongan root crops, sheep and chicken meat and fresh cow and pig carcasses. Machetes in hand, the men sliced the meat into serving sizes while others delicately peeled the skin from the root crops. Showing me the ropes, members of my youth group instructed my virginal palangi hands in the art of butchery.

As we prepared for the upcoming feast, the women of the village were hard at work frying pastries and brewing coffee in a huge oil drum container that would keep us nourished and energetic through the day. Church choirs from villages throughout the island rotated duties, singing hymns outside of the noble’s home through the day and night.

We too worked into the night. At midnight, the umu was loaded with firewood and topped with coral rocks. We lit the fire and watched as over the course of two hours, the rocks turned from white to black and back to white. After removing the wood, we layered the umu with root crops, beef, sheep and then chicken, finally covering the nearly overflowing pit with an aluminum plank, palm tree leaves, tarp and then a two-foot layer of earth.

Now 3 am, I looked around the village and saw sleeping men, women and children forming a barrier around the noble’s home, out of respect for the deceased. Following suit, I found a palm tree leaf and rested with its base as my pillow.

At five, the first shovels hit the dirt, clearing the path for smoke to come pouring from the corners of the pit. Taking my turn with the shovel, a wall of beef-scented steam ran up my body—akin to the feeling of opening an oven...times 20—as I stood in the cool early morning air. We moved the food from the oven and into hundreds of individual baggies that would be handed out to mourners later in the day.

Once preparations were complete, school children, in their red and white uniforms, lined the roads as the funeral procession, lead by the chief of police began. The Vava’u High School Marching Band, the preachers of the Wesleyan Church and the noble’s family were followed by the Vava’u police, who served as pall bearers, carrying the casket, which was draped in black and purple cloth.

After the funeral mass, the body was laid to rest, those in attendance feasted and returned home. For the next 10 days, all work, meetings and games were banned in Makave. Each morning, we arose to cook, socialize and eat. Everything stopped and was concentrated on the noble.

Having never met the noble, I viewed my observance of the Tongan funeral ritual as a tribute to my Aunt Nini. During the quiet nights, I found time to reflect. Isn’t it funny how you never really evaluate your relationship with someone until something life-altering occurs? A smile came to my face when I remembered her unique laugh—the “haha”s came at a ratio of at least five per second—and how she always called me kiddo. Our conversations always went beyond just ‘family talk.’ She treated me like an adult, even when I certainly wasn’t, in age or actions! During nightly masses, I thought of Nini, the parishioner and the sponsor who hugged me as I was confirmed into the Catholic Church.

The general duty of a Tongan noble is to be caretaker of the well-being of his villagers. In his death, Tu'i ‘Afitu came to the aid of his newest constituent, helping this “kiddo” to say goodbye to his aunt.