In the course of my efforts to curtail gang violence in Seattle I worked with several organizations of Pacific Islanders. Until then I didn’t realize they have fairly large populations in Seattle, and that their kids are all considered youth at risk. The Samoans, for example, were known for having particularly tough gangs. And the leader of a community organization for people of Fijian descent became a friend and an ally in our work to keep teenagers alive.

After a successful rally we had worked on together, my friend invited me attend a Fijian feast that was being given to honor recent high school graduates. He said the Princess of Tonga would be in attendance as the special guest of honor for their Royal Feast. When I tried to wave him off because my mother was visiting from the Midwest, he graciously invited me to bring her along. “Be there at 6 promptly,” he said, “no later than 6:30. And dress nice.” As I nodded OK and shook his hand, I unwittingly committed my mother, my girlfriend and myself to the most extraordinary experience we ever shared together. 

Arriving promptly at the High School gymnasium where the event was being held, we were ushered to seats in the already bustling hall. Banquet tables were placed together in pairs, and arranged in several flanks in a U shaped formation around the room, so every seat had a good view of the raised dais where the Princess and other notables would sit. The walls and part of the floor were covered in traditional Fijian bark cloth with colorful paintings. To one side were a number of tables piled high with bolts of cloth and pillows and wrapped gifts. In front of them was a cake the size of a Volkswagen, shaped like an ocean liner, and covered with twinkling lights.

At the center of each side and the back were musical performers who took turns playing. Nearest to us, a traditional drum circle, where bare-chested burly men in bark cloth skirts thumped and chanted and hollered. Opposite them was a brass band, in Victorian military dress uniforms, which played martial airs and marches from the colonial era. At the back was an electric lounge band, in sequined tuxedos, which played jitterbugs and cha-chas and all the other hot numbers.  

 Behind the lounge band was a rank of serving tables, where women in cocktail dresses with traditional bark cloth skirts over them (like this photo of H.M.Queen Halaevalu Mata’aho of Tonga) scurried to fill every inch with large roasting pans of food. Curious what sumptuous pleasures awaited us, I took a stroll to the back of the room and found mountains of… macaroni and cheese! Macaroni salad. Potato salad. Mashed potatoes. Baked potatoes. Rice. Roast… what is it?... oh, taro root. Of course. Cassava. Fried bananas. Islanders do love their starches, don't they? Jello salad. And tray after tray of fried slices of Spam. A royal feast of epic proportions and humble details. Oh boy.  

But the serving line wasn’t open and I had to wait, as we all did, for the arrival of the Princess. Which would be any minute now, we were assured. And we were assured repeatedly it would be any minute now… at 8:30, 9, 9:30. We got to hear a LOT of music. Mom was nodding off in her chair as we approached 11, and my girlfriend looked like she was going to pass out. Suddenly the air became electric, and everyone skittered off to their chairs as the doors flew open and in swept the Princess and her entourage. Preceded and followed by attentive men in sharp suits and dark sunglasses, the princess was tall and slender, attractive, and dressed in a designer suit and hat right out of a 60s Vogue. So now we eat. Yes?

Now we eat, no. First we had to go through the formalities, with the presenting of the traditional gifts of bolts of cloth to royalty, and the fine speeches, and toasts, and lots of adulation. Then the Fijian youths who had graduated high school, the ones being celebrated, were called to the front and given bolts of cloth and blankets and pillows and toasters and all kinds of other household goods. All three of them. That’s right, this entire shivaree with all the hoopla was being given in honor of 3 kids who had managed to make it all the way through high school, against the odds, in a city where islander kids were as low on the social scale as one could get.

Finally, the ceremonies complete, the double doors at the back of the gym swung open, and to the sound of the drum circle beat, in marched four men carrying an entire roast pig on their shoulders. OK. All right, now we’re going to do some eating! And they circled the room and placed it on the table in front of the Princess. And behind them came another 4 men, with another pig. Wow, two roast pigs at the same feast, I’ve never seen this before! Then another four with another pig, and another four with another pig, and another. What the…??? And another four, and another four. Soon one of those roast pigs was placed on the table right in front of us. Mom finally snapped awake, while my vegetarian girlfriend stared at the pig bug eyed, and it stared back. 

 Once every group of 12 had a roast pig in front of it, more than 30 in all, and one last invocation was given, the room erupted in a blitz of eating. Some used the large carving knives to saw off large slabs of pig, others just tore off hunks with their hands. And it was tender and juicy and delicious. Even my vegetarian girlfriend tried some and called it good. And for nearly an hour people just ate and laughed and made trips to the tables in back for side dishes.

As folks began filling up, and sitting back in their chairs, and the ocean liner was being carved up, some kind of silent signal went around the room. Almost in unison, all the mature women in the room popped open their large purses and pulled out handfuls of gallon size ziploc bags, which they proceeded to fill with the uneaten pork. It was amazing to watch how quickly those large carcasses were stripped bare of meat, which went into the cloth shopping bags also contained in those purses. As the old saying goes, nothing was wasted but the squeal. The large Auntie seated next to me offered me a bag for myself, in a friendly gesture I politely declined.

Waddling out the door sometime after 1am, I heard the brass band fire up again, because the party wasn’t over yet. But Mom and my sweetie and I were obviously lightweights, out of our league completely, and looking forward to a long repose. What a feast!

I didn’t even need to count pigs that night to fall asleep.

Love, David

© 2010 David Kinne