Fireworks come to Tonga

It was December 31^st, 1999, the night of the New Millennium. I was thirteen and living in Tonga with my parents, Kiwi expats brought from New Zealand to run Taulua Press. The press was a joint venture between the Wesleyan and Catholic churches. To ensure fairness, they set out to hire an impartial third party. The first manager was an atheist and my father, the second, was a Baptist.

When we first arrived in Tonga, it was like stepping through a portal into an alien world. The air was so hot that it was hard to breathe and the mosquitos were huge, attacking like armies every night. Chickens and pigs ran freely, crossing the dirt roads with their young and enormous spiders hung from the powerlines. I was always afraid one would drop on top of me while I walked to school.

My brother and I attended Tonga Side School; a school still running like it was still the 1950s. Our classes were packed with students sitting at ancient wooden desks, gum plastered beneath them from decades ago. We learned by copying from the board or chanting in repetition after our teacher. After class, the girls were expected to sweep and mop our classrooms while the boys tended to the garden outside.

Tonga was a great place to live. The people were friendly and the beaches were like those you can only find on postcards. Coconut palm trees lined the horizon and the sunsets were breathtaking. It was safe and the children ran freely around the neighborhoods without fear of predators or people driving too fast. Even after all these years, some of my best friends still live there and a part of me longs to return.

We spent six years there. In our last year, we had the opportunity to be some of the people in the entire world to witness the New Millenium.

“What’s taking so long?” my brother asked, while we were waiting in the car with my father. It was hot and I was staring out the window, watching the people move about on the sidewalk.

“Mum’s just getting some pa’anga from the ATM, she won't be long,” replied my father. It was the only ATM in the entire country and brand new. Before that, we had to go into the bank and watch the tellers count the money.

"What are we doing after that?" asked my brother.

My father drummed his fingers along the steering wheel and looked back at us, “I thought after that we might go find some dinner. Are we doing hamburgers or Chinese?”

“The Emerald Palace,” my brother and I said in unison and my father grinned. It was his favorite place too.

Mum, came around the corner of the ANZ Bank and climbed into our white station wagon. She pulled out the envelope and counted the cash inside.

"All fine?" asked my father.

"Yes, let's go."

Dad pulled out of the parking spot and drove through town, past the new market, towering above the other buildings at two stories. Buildings over two stories were banned by the king; he feared his people would jump from them. We passed through town, by MH, the grocery store closed for the new year, and through many neighborhoods filled with roughly constructed fales, homes built with whatever construction materials the locals could find.

"I hope the computers will be alright," my father muttered, turning onto the road running along the waterfront. Boats passed by in the docks and drifted out on the ocean. An enormous barge drifted far off in the distance along the horizon. It had been there for weeks, awaiting this night. Professionals from all over the world had come to set up the display.

"It's fine, I updated all the systems," my mother said. As one of the first female programmers in New Zealand, she was familiar with the possible errors from Y2K and knew how to fix them. She often lamented not being in New Zealand to help reprogram them. The programmers who were made millions. Instead, she was in Tonga and was able to help several local businesses update their systems along with the design lab in Taulua Press and our computer at home.

Dad pulled into the parking lot of the Emerald Palace and we walked beneath the awning and into the restaurant. The scent of oil and ginger filled the air causing my mouth to water. The Chinese décor was done in greens to match the theme of the restaurant. Statues of Buddha and lucky cats were strewn about. The owner seated us at a large round table with a lazy Susan.

Dinner came out one dish at a time and placed before us on the table. A feast of Wontons, Spring Rolls, Chinese Noodles, Sweet and Sour Pork, and Chicken Cashew Nut rice. I loved the slices of bamboo and ginger and the way they crunch in your mouth releasing their unique flavors. To this day I have never come across another Chinese restaurant that adds them.

My brother and I finished our meal and escaped to a side room where the restaurant owner's son was watching The Lion King in Chinese. We did our best to follow, recalling the words from memory. We burst into laughter when Hakuna Matata played. It did not translate well from English. The words ran together, so packed in like sardines in a can that the poor voice actors couldn't follow the tune.

The owner's son grew bored. "Ha'u palangi," he said, begging us to come play with him. We left the couch and went outside, hunting through the bushes for the stray cats. We shuffled along the ground on all fours, scuffing our clothes with soil. The cats ran and we gave chase, yelling excitedly. When we couldn't catch them, we crouched on our knees and pleaded for the frightened animals to join us. No matter how much we pleaded and begged them, they never came.

After dinner, we made our way down towards the waterfront. It was growing dark and the horizon was lit up in oranges and pinks. The water was beginning to still and a cool salty breeze came from the ocean. Before the breakwater, the park in front of the Dateline Hotel was filled with people. Music echoed over the fence of the king’s palace beside it. A mix of Tongan folk music, choir music, and dance filled the air. A few of the people danced, while others sat about in groups speaking in a mixture of Tonga, English, and German.

My brother and I grew tired and rested our heads on our parent’s laps while the people moved about us. We were not used to being up late.

“Wake up,” my mother urged and I stirred, tired and longing for my bed. “It’s almost time,” she repeated, pushing me from her lap. I struggled to my feet, feeling damp from the ground; my muscles stiff from sleeping in an odd position. The people were moving out onto the breakwater and I followed them.

The choirs in the king’s palace broke into the New Millennium song:

'Eiki ko e 'ofa 'a'au ko e moana loloto

Pea ngalo hifo ki ai, 'eku ngaahi angahia

Pea kuo 'ufi'ufi 'eku kovi kotoa pē

'Eku kovi kotoa pē

'I he vaivai hoku jino pea vaivai mo e loto

'E poupou 'e he taulani hoku laumālie

They filled the air with their sweet voices in elaborate harmonies. Those outside the palace joined them, adding their voices to the mix. I joined in, inspired by the beauty and struggling to keep the words straight. Caught up in the moment, tears welled up in the corners of my eyes. I quickly wiped them away. Thirteen-year-old girls never cried.

Midnight came, and everything went silent but the waves crashing into the breakwater. Hundreds of people stared out at the water and not one of them said a word.

I remember standing on the shore and waiting. From far out in the still water, the fireworks squealed up from barges, exploding in an array of vibrant colours. First one, then a second, and then hundreds. The images of the brightly-coloured blooms reflected off the ocean beneath them making the world before me like a sky filled with stars. A warm breeze flowed around the people staring at what remained of the fireworks, a cloud of smoke falling towards the ocean like water. The New Millennium had arrived.