Ako 'a e 'Ulungaanga Faka-Tonga: 'Aho Faiva (Swearing-In Ceremony)

Promptly at 8 a.m. on Friday, Oct. 31, a horde of fearsome Tongan women armed with bobby pins, freshly ironed puletaha, flowered hair accents, and kahoa stormed into Sela’s Guest House. The mothers and several daughters from our host families got right to work preparing us for our Swearing-In ceremony, which was scheduled for 10 o’clock later that morning.

Milise and I at Sela's Guest House before the Ceremony.

“I don’t think so,” Milise said, taking one look at my hair. She abruptly grabbed another woman walking past, said a couple of quick sentences to her in Tongan—too fast for me to understand—and firmly pushed me into a nearby chair. The other woman returned after just a minute or so and, without a word, started undoing the braided bun at the back of my neck. Her deft fingers twisted and tucked thick strands of my hair into an up-do, all while Milise looked on with a fiercely critical eye.

When the other woman finished, Milise appraised her work, then beamed her big, gold-toothed smile, her eyes crinkling into slits. She laid the final touches: a white flower for my hair, and a pearl necklace draped over my collarbones.

A view of my up-do from the back, in the van on our way to Swearing-In.

The fifteen PCTs of Group 79 all piled into vans to head to Ita’s Guest House, where the ceremony was held. Our host families waved as we drove away, and then climbed into their own vehicles to follow closely behind.

Ita’s had been transformed since the rehearsal on the day before. Bolts of red and blue cloth covered the ground of the open-air pavilion that looked out onto the shining water of the inlet. White drapes were fastened to the poles with blue and red ribbon, and a Peace Corps banner hung in the center of the display, above a podium draped in white cloth and a decorative mat woven of pandanus leaves. To the right of the podium, the Tongan flag waved proudly in a cool Tongan breeze.

The decorated pavilion for the ceremony at Ita's Guest House.

The Swearing-In ceremony featured several speeches from our Country Director, Eddie Stice, Tonga Ministry of education and Training (MET)’s Director of Education, ‘Emeli Pouvalu, our Director of Programming and Training, Paul Jurmo, and our Program Manager and Training Manager, Lavinia Palei and Elenoa Kauvaka. We swore an oath of loyalty to the United States Government, followed by a brief introduction of each PCT, stating our individual locations of service, followed by the presentation of laminated certificates officially recognizing us as Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs).

Me receiving my certificate from DPT Paul Jurmo, as an official PCV.

After we received our certificates, Bailey and Kelsey stood up to read a letter written to our host families in both English and Tongan, thanking them—on all of our behalf—for all that they had done to house us, feed us and love us over the past two months.

Our cultural performances were up next. We had all spent several hours a night, several nights a week over the past month learning each of the dances and songs that we performed. By Tongan standards, they were probably all mediocre at best, but that didn’t stop us from performing them, or the audience from enjoying them, with reckless abandon.

PCVs Bailey Bollinger and Kelsey Smith reading the thank you letter.

While Kevin and Abrham performed their kailao (traditionally male dance done with spears), Liz, Kelsey, Alex and I were whisked outside to get ready for our hula. After the hula came a Tongan song, sung by Carrie Lee and Sammy, accompanied by Harry and Renee on guitar and ukulele.

The tau’olunga was the grand finale.

Under the pavilion, music played during a five-minute intermission to give us time to change into our faiva (show) outfits. Our host monsters dragged us out into the parking lot, stripped us down, and wrapped us in painted tapa cloth. Each design and outfit was different. Some had feathered hairpieces reaching more than a foot into the air; some had kafa ropes with shells intricately braided into them; some had flowered kahoa tied around their necks while others wore thin black chokers adorned with a single bleached shell.

PCV Chiara Razzino's hairpiece for the faiva.

Our host moms were a terrifying force to reckon with as they dressed us, yanking us here and there as they tugged and folded the cloth around us, and forced the hairpieces, wristlets and anklets into place.

They showed none of that shame or modesty we were told so adamantly that Tongans have. I still don’t know who did it, but one woman gave me a sharp little spank on my half-naked booty while Milise wrapped a tapa skirt around my hips; another woman reached her hands all the way up that same skirt as she lathered my legs in oil, then quickly moved on without missing a beat to my bare chest, shoulders and arms.

When we were finally ready, we all filed into our positions on the stage. As soon as the music started, the chaos began. Tongans and palangis alike cheered, whooped, clapped and danced their way up to the stage to shove one-, two- and five-dollar bills down the front of our outfits and slap them onto our sticky, oiled limbs.

They danced beside and behind us to show their support for us as we officially began our two-year service as PCVs in the South Pacific Island Kingdom of Tonga.