A Day at the Market
Saturday, October 1st, 2005
Weather: Black, starry skies and cool, fresh breeze.
The first thing the Picton Castle crew saw when they stepped from the dock at Neiafu, Tonga, were rows and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables. In the open-air market, oranges, watermelons, lemons, limes, coconuts, pumpkins and leafy greens crowd the table tops. Vendors sit near their crop, promising to “give you best price,” while a torn piece of cardboard attached to a dowel sticks up like a flag above the produce advertising the suggested price. There is not much room for bartering in Tonga, but they will often quote too high a price and let you believe you have dickered the price down, while they really have all control over the cost. At any rate, a crate of oranges for the equivalent of US$3 is a steal, so just pay the man his money.
Attached to the outdoor market is a large concrete building with a high ceiling and oversized cut-out doors and windows that are covered with chain link and tarpaulins rather than panes of glass or wooden panels. Inside the building is the artisans’ market. Only natural sunlight through the doors and windows lights the entire building. With the overcast skies and the endless rows of unfinished wooden carvings and earth-hued woven crafts, everything appears cast in shadow.
Absentmindedly, I pick up and examine a woven leaf-shaped fan that is in a large basket of woven crafts, including a breadbasket and wine-bottle holder that looks a little too small to hold wine. A pleasantly plump older woman leaps up from her stool when she sees me and asks if I like the fan I am looking at. I tell her that I think it is very nice and I ask her how long it took her to make. She tells me it took her five to seven days and seems pleased that I am interested in her labour. I start to put it down and she presses it into my hands. “You like? I give you special price.” I tell her I have just stepped through the door and am not prepared to make a decision and thank her for her time. She grabs my hand and leads me around her table to show me the other crafts she weaves to sell at the market. There are large, flat platters with geometric shapes woven in complementary hues and bowls of all different sizes made of the same materials. She promises me the best prices, and as I walk away, I thank her for showing me her crafts and promise to keep her in mind when I decide to buy something.
I purposefully walk down the next row, which does not have a vendor sitting in it. I examine the racks of carved necklaces made mainly of cow bone and mother of pearl shell. They are not nearly as nice a quality as those our crew have purchased along the way from Pitcairn to Rarotonga. I pause from time to time to examine the wooden carvings stacked high off the tabletops. There are many carvings of humpback whales and dolphins—creatures of great importance to Tongans. There are carvings of what look like a wooden troll doll wearing a tribal mask. These odd little men with gruesome faces represent the different gods that play a large role in Tongan religion and culture, such as Maui, Tangaloa, and the gods of War, Peace, and Love.
Something on the next table over catches my eye. It is shiny and looks like old, cracked leather. Is that a turtle shell? I walk over to the object and pick it up for a closer look. It is the shell of a sea turtle, about the size of my chest, and is chipped and decaying. Right next to the turtle shell is a carving of two humpback whales breaching, but rather than being carved out of wood, it is carved out of what looks like a very porous grey stone. Is that whale bone? As if reading my mind, a vendor steps up alongside me and smiles. Pointing to the carving, he says, “Made of whale bone.” I am a bit taken aback that I am actually looking at whalebone because hunting whales was banned in Tonga in 1978. Rather than ask their origins, I inquire as to whether tourists have any trouble taking whalebone and turtle shell souvenirs out of Tonga and back into their own countries. “No trouble,” I am told. “One can get a permit from Immigration,” he says, gesturing to the white building next door to the market. (Editor’s note: Much old whalebone has been lying around for years and it is very unlikely to be recent; more likely it is at least 50 years old.)
I thank the gentleman for answering my questions and shuffle away, pretending to eyeball something across the room before he tries to sell me something made from the bones of a poached whale. There is something specific that I am looking for that is not available at the market that day—I am in search for Tapa cloth. I have been told I will know the real deal when I found it.