If you can't beat 'em...

“Omai e inu.” Give the drink. Her brown claw flexed, reaching at the soda that I now instinctively clutched to my chest.

I had just spent my last pa’anga of the day on one soda and two ears of corn: my entire dinner. Unable to afford both, I had bought the soda in lieu of eggs, the luxury of a Dr. Pepper (the first I had seen in a year) too hard to resist. In my excitement, I had forgotten to immediately put my purchases in my back-pack. Thus, I had committed a very foolish error: in Tonga, don’t have anything visible if you aren’t willing to part with it.

Her hand, like a hideously overgrown toddler’s, continued to grab at nothing. I hesitated, my “culturally sensitive” angel battling against my “I’m American and this is mine” devil. I tried to evade the situation with humor: “I’m sick. I wouldn’t want you to catch a palangi disease.” The other Tongans from my village laughed, but the woman would not relent.
“You lie. Give me the drink.”
I tried a different approach. “Give me some change and I’ll go get you a drink.”
She pulled a Charlie Chaplin frown, displaying her hands palms out. “I’m poor. I’m not rich like you. You make lots of money. You buy it for me.”
I explained to her that I’m a volunteer, and thus, not paid.
“But you are a rich American,” she insisted. “Give me money.”
I really wanted to give her something else, but since my job description includes “spreading world peace”, I figured physical violence wouldn’t go over well back in Washington.

Defeated, I poured half of the drink into my water bottle and relinquished the rest of the can to her. She gulped it down, then threw the desiccated remains on the ground. She then eyed the thin plastic bag protecting my corn. Circumventing any irksome debate, she reached into the bag and snatched out an ear. She started to strip back the husk.
“You can’t it eat it yet; it hasn’t been boiled!” I protested. She continued to denude my corn, only stopping when the white flesh was exposed. She paused, then stuck it in her bag. “I’ll eat it tonight,” she shrugged.

I walked away with the little I had left: one ear of corn, half a Dr. Pepper, and a shred of composure. Turning down the road back home, a car stopped to ask if I needed a lift. I politely declined, seeing the car was already full. but the family insisted. They commenced to shift: some bags and groceries were thrown in the trunk, one child went to sit on its mother’s lap (where a baby was already nestled),while another child crouched between the two front seats. There it appeared: a seat for me. I squeezed in, thanking them profusely.

As we drove, we exchanged the usual pleasantries: where I lived, where I was from, how long I would be staying, and did I want to marry their son? Half an hour later, they dropped me off in front of my home. When I saw the car turn back the way it came, I was confused. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“Makave!” they replied.

Makave is a village two minutes outside of town.

The next day, I sat in my home, deep in thought. “Well!” I said aloud, throwing a shirt on over my tank-top. “As the saying goes…”

I went over to the woman’s house. She was sitting by a cooking fire, preparing dinner. “Mind if I join you?” I asked. She smiled, then set an extra plate for me.