Part 1
Just a few weeks before jetting off to Tonga, walking along Carlisle Street with my friends Gemma and Carole, we chat about the year ahead. We are a pretty intuitive bunch. I’d rate myself as having progressed to about an undergrad level over the years, Carole is definitely post grad and well Gemma, she just blows everyone out of the ballpark. She is the real deal, truly ‘connected’. I comment to Carole, “You’ve always had a good feeling about Tonga for me”. Gemma asks, “What do you think?”, “Tonga is going to be the place where I just am, do some work while I await the ‘what next’, nothing more really is how I feeling”. Then Gemma blurts out her unfiltered guidance, “That’s if you even go”. I stop dead in the street. Hold on, I am flying to Tongatapua in 3 weeks. “What do you mean? Of course I’m going”, I retort. Gemma replies “Sorry, it just came, I had to say it”. The thought, the intuition, the guidance. Gemma is a true gem. Strolling along the Brisbane River a couple of weeks after those comments I listen to news updates on COVID 19, not for a minute do I consider that the bug causing the shut down of an entire Chinese province will impact me in anyway.
It’s a few weeks after Gemma’s comment. I am settling into my apartment in ‘Usumí, about 5 kilometres from the centre of Nuku’alofa beginning to develop a morning routine. Daily doses of ABC Australia news and the ABC listen live app keep me informed. Remaining sceptical of the fear mongering clogging up the internet I instead focus on creating a life in this little piece of land that punctuates the pacific ocean. At 7 am pink tufts on grey clouds morph into apricot, the sky yellows and on a dead calm morning the sun rises over the Fanga Kakau. Even at this early hour I need to pull blinds to shield my living room from the intense heat. Other mornings I am greeted with gentle ripples on the opaque green lagoon, ripples that hold promise of a breeze, of some relief. Some mornings a steel grey sky lurks behind the curtain of heavy rain that will descend for hours.
Unrolling my pink yoga mat I complete a few salutes to the sun and face yoga (yeh the years are creeping up on me). A shower, strong and hot now that Isi the caretaker has arranged a replacement element and shower head, ends with a burst of cold water readying me for the hot humid day. Donning my loose flowing pants and unglamorous MTC polo shirt, I blend a papaya, banana, oats and UHT milk smoothie while the aroma of Tupu’anga coffee percolating on the stove fills my home. I hang out my undies, (not sure if Isi minds doing my smalls but I don’t have enough to wait for a weekly wash), pack my lunch, fill my water bottle from the 15 litre flagon (hmm must get a pump, sure to get an back injury if not), wander down the stairs past the litter of bugs that have accumulated overnight, call out over the fence to Ngalu our security guard who happens to live next door, greet Isi who laughs at my attempts at Tongan then drive the 950m to MTC. I say hi to the resident cow tied across from my driveway as he munches on meter high grass and turn right and navigate potholes that rival those in Zimbabwe. Unforgivable to drive such a short distance I know but don’t forget to factor in THE HEAT and THE DOGS. Even in a car the local dogs take me on, other than the sleepy old fella who lays in the middle of the road. Pot holes prohibit progressing beyond 5 -10 kph as approaching him I must come to a complete stop. Only then does he rally and amble away.
It’s the rainy season. March. And it rains, front yards, school ovals and roads all transformed into lakes. Some yards drain quickly while others unable to cope with the relentlessness rain remaining islands within the island. Workers and school kids wander along the grassy verge en route to their daily occupations. The boys, all ages, walk elegantly in their school uniform — either a tupenu, the wrap around cloth or the taʻovala, a woven mat worn as a skirt. An enormous pig crosses the road with a string of piglets scurrying behind, roosters and hens meander, cats, an occasional cyclist and a slow vehicle (we are talking 20 kph here in a country where 40 kph is common and 60 kph feels treacherous, breakneck fast) complete the road hazards of Tongatapua.
The other reason to drive the short distance is the freedom it offers at lunchtime, a quicker commute to swim after work and most importantly a brief opportunity for aircon. Cranked up to maximum cool my glasses fog every time I alight from the car, momentarily obscuring the world. As I gather my bits and pieces from the boot, walk past Choco a guard dog chained up near the front door, the other dogs bark ferociously from behind a gate. It took me a few weeks to notice Choco but he soon becomes part of my MTC world and enjoys a morning chat and scratch. His is typically quiet, lying on the concrete hot and bored until the end of the day when all have departed and the dogs become proprietors of the yard. At least they are not dinner, for now.
Jenny’s bike stands by the front door. She emerges fresh from a shower after her sweaty 20 minute commute. Tammy, Mark, Lofi, Seini and Aki are seated at the table ready for the morning meeting. We begin with a prayer.
While not unknown to each other, it’s been awhile since the bible and I were acquainted. I was somewhat alarmed in the interview process when asked if I was willing to participate in ‘divinatory meetings and prayers’. After seeking clarification from a previous volunteer I decided I could cope. Wary of heavy Christian ‘hellfire and damnation’ preaching I am pleasantly surprised by the gentle prayers each morning. And Friday morning sharing our ‘blessings’ of the week is an uplifting time for reflection, positive psychology remastered as faith, or is it the other way round?
Seini and Lofi set off to collect children and their caregivers from all around the island. Aki and Tammy set up the room. Jenny and I muddle our way through the lack of any system of note to create a service of some sort.
Two small fans oscillate on the floor fighting valiantly against the humidity. The kettle is boiled for a cup of tea. Jenny and I sit across each other at a large table maximising moments of wifi. In its absence a usb transfers documents from laptop to computer to colour printer. Laminator sits at the ready, guillotine on the table. We can’t load Boardmaker so my ShowMeImages are recruited, even my old team back home send some pcitures through, doing their bit to contribute to communication skills in Tonga.
The vans arrive. Somedays there are ten children and an assortment of carers. Other days there are just 3. Weather. Illness. Commitments. A daily reminder of the challenges these caregivers face that may be at odds with my ‘developed world’ goals. Jenny and I wander over for the 10 am start of prayers, songs, and therapy.
The first week is confronting as I discover how disabled many of the children are. Most of the children have cerebral palsy but it’s the broader global delay I am confronted by. With no communicative intent, functioning akin to a newborn or infant, I wonder, what were the previous speechies’ goals? There was a long gap between projects. What can I offer?
So child after child, I reassess. Caregiver after caregiver overestimates each child’s capacity. Disability remains a stigma in Tonga and while gains are being made within the community I am told some families do not feed their child, to be rid of the reminder of God’s punishment. Others clearly love their child. A gentle father who, trying to emigrate to NZ, a futile exercise with a disabled child, wanders and plays with his son or lovingly helps the severely disabled boy who arrives a few days a week without a carer. I ponder how the nature of the Pacific ocean, named for its calmness, is reflected in its people, a people who truly embody the designation ‘pacific’ — peaceful in character or intent.
I am torn. What do I say? Do I shatter a father’s understanding of his child? Do I take away hope? Or does he, deep down, already know? The culture, the language, the landscape, all novel and unfamiliar. I tread carefully. Child after child, my recommendations repeat and reverberate throughout the room. Talk to your child. Tell him what is about to happen to him. Can she use her eyes to make a choice? Play with her. The very basics of language stimulation. In this first week I wonder what I can actually achieve, what will I do for a whole year?
But there are exceptions. The boy hungry for sign language. The mother who needs coaching in NZ sign language and how to give her son language. With minimal guidance in a mere two weeks the mum surpasses my signing skills. A small proud smile is etched across her face as her eager son plays and communicates with me, signs to her and his brother.
The boy whose mum didn’t really understand the picture communication system her son had flatly refused when asked if she was interested in learning how to use it. Seini’s private retort, “Ah these people (Tongans) are fakapikopiko”. Something many Tongan’s say about their countryman -“they are lazy”. I love the sound of the word, fakapikopiko. Says it all. Luckily Seini’s passionate arguments sway the mother. Within 2 weeks the mum is using some of the pictures in real communication. Back in Australia I receive an update from Seini: “I bring ball, blocks and toys inside the water for water play and I gave him all the pictures and ‘I want’, when I ask him he point…. I WANT TO WATERPLAY after that I ask him again he point I WANT BLOCKS and I’m so happy. After that I gave him bowl of weetbix and cup of milk…he was so good..and his mum was so good on doing it..I’m not doing it for him, his mum do it so that I see it. Lisa I went and get my phone but it’s battery low I told his mum I want Lisa to see this, hhhhhh” (hhhhhh is Tongan for hahahaha, h is pronounced ‘ha).
Then there is the stroke group. Other than a few clients in Zim 25 years ago and some general advice in eSwatini last year, I have not seen a neuro patient for 35 years. I somehow passed my neuro clinics at Uni, but it scares me. I wonder what I can offer. So I sit with 6 adults and explain what a speechie can do, the sorts of communication problems that can arise after a stroke, playing at the expert. All things are relative aren’t they. About 4 identify that they need support. Chatting with each individually it is comforting to discover that all but one is doing well enough. The one, a woman who comes with her skilled Fijian carer, describes what might be dysarthria. The following week I am all set to explore dysarthria but I quickly discover she is dyspraxic. Help! I message Leora, my friend from Uni days who went as decidedly down the ‘adult’ neuro road as I strode along the paediatric path. I look at the screener she sends. Looks familiar. Yep sure enough, it’s the same one we used at Uni.
Ok I know enough Tongan to sort out the vowels and consonants, greetings, numbers. Don’t know the weekdays yet. So I recruit Seini to translate the instructions. Though the patient understands and speaks English we need to assess in her mother tongue. As the woman gropes for sounds and words some of her automatic speech pops out clear and intelligible. OK, I am confident in my diagnosis. I notice Seini’s eyes welling. Excusing ourselves Seini and I withdraw as I worry what is happening in her life. Seini says with tears streaming down her beautiful face “She is trying so hard, it is so hard for her”. My heart aches for Seini as her empathy spills over. I try to contain her emotion, “Seini, what I love about you is your heart. It is so big. But our clients need us to be strong and do our job. And I wonder how it might make her feel to see you cry for her”. I recount a visit with my dying aunt 33 years ago. As I sat crying in front of Aunty Pauline she calmly and clearly said, “Don’t do that to me Lisa”. It stopped me in my tracks. I’ve never forgotten that lesson. “Seini, I know this is all new to you. You will learn to manage your feelings, don’t worry” I add as her remorse is apparent. We return to the client and Seini professionally assists me for the rest of the session and I am filled with joy that I get to work with this loving soul for the coming year. She is a true gem.
Maybe there will be a lot to do in a whole year after all.
