# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 37"
The turquoise lagoons of Tonga's main island sparkled under the South Pacific sun as Su Yao's boat glided through coral reefs, passing villages where thatched *fale* (houses) with open sides stood on stone platforms. On the shore, a group of women in floral *puletasi* dresses sat on woven mats, pounding strips of bark with wooden mallets, their movements synchronized like a dance. Their leader, a matriarch with graying hair and a *tonga* (waist sash) of red and yellow, stood as they approached. "You've come for the *ngatu*," she said, her Tongan language rolling like the waves, gesturing to the bark cloth spread across the mats.
The Polynesian people of Tonga have crafted *ngatu* (bark cloth) for over 1,000 years, a tradition central to their ceremonies and social hierarchy. Made from the inner bark of the *paper mulberry tree*, *ngatu* is pounded into thin sheets and decorated with geometric patterns using bamboo stamps. Each design, known as *tatau*, carries ancestral stories—*mana* (spiritual power) is woven into every pound and stamp. These cloths are used in weddings, funerals, and presentations to chiefs, Their value depends on the time spent on their production (often hundreds of hours) and the reputation of the making family.Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this sacred craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a textile that honored Tonga's maritime heritage while adding durability to the delicate bark cloth. But from the first greeting, it was clear that their understanding of "sacred" and "innovative" was as different as the island's volcanic soil and the deep ocean.
The matriarch, Maile, whose family had been *ngatu* makers for seven generations, unrolled a massive piece of bark cloth across the sand. Its surface was covered in bold black patterns: triangles for mountains, concentric circles for lagoons, and zigzags representing lightning (a symbol of the god Tangaloa). "This *ngatu* took 40 women three months to make," she said, her voice reverent. "We sang *siva* (songs) while pounding to call the ancestors. It will be presented to the *tu'i* (chief) at his daughter's wedding. You cannot rush this work, and you cannot alter the patterns—they belong to our family."
Su Yao's team had brought digital scanning equipment and laser-cutting tools, intending to replicate the *tatau* patterns on a larger scale and reinforce the *ngatu* with their seaweed-metal thread for commercial sale. When Lin displayed a digital mock-up of Maile's *ngatu* with added metal accents, the women stopped pounding, their mallets hanging limp. Maile's brother, Sione, a *toa* (warrior-chief) with traditional *tatau* tattoos covering his legs, stepped forward, his voice booming with anger. "You think you can copy our ancestors' stories with machines?" he shouted. "You think metal from the sea can replace our *mana*? This is not collaboration—it is desecration."
Cultural friction intensified over materials and rituals. The Tongans harvest paper mulberry bark during the full moon, when they believe the tree's *mana* is strongest. They soak the bark in lagoon water blessed by a *tohunga* (priest), then pound it on wooden anvils passed down through families. The stamping ink, made from burnt coconut shells and banana sap, is mixed with chants to ensure the patterns "stick to the spirit" of the cloth. The seaweed-metal blend, with its industrial origins, was viewed as spiritually barren. "Your thread has no ancestors," Maile said, after touching a sample with the back of her hand. "It cannot hold *mana*."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the banana sap ink, causing the black patterns to turn green and bleed. "It corrupts the *tatau*," Sione said, holding up a ruined swatch where the lightning symbols now looked like worms. "Our *ngatu* should last 100 years. This will fall apart in a year."
Then disaster struck: a tropical cyclone swept through the islands, followed by an infestation of *kui* (beetles) that devoured the paper mulberry trees. The village's stored bark, gathered for the chief's wedding *ngatu*, was also infested, leaving them without materials for the upcoming ceremony. The *tohunga*, an elderly man with a staff carved from *ironwood*, performed a ritual to banish the beetles, blaming the team for disturbing the balance of nature. "You brought something cold from distant seas," he chanted, sprinkling holy water on the damaged trees. "Now Tangaloa sends these insects to punish us."
That night, Su Yao sat with Maile in her *fale*, where a fire pit smoked with coconut husks, filling the air with the scent of roasted taro and *ota ika* (raw fish salad). Outside, the women sang healing *siva* to calm the wind. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, peeling a mango. "We came here thinking we could help preserve your traditions, but we've only shown disrespect."
Maile smiled, passing Su Yao a cup of *kava* (a ceremonial drink). "The cyclone and beetles are not your fault," she said. "Tangaloa tests us sometimes, to remind us that nature is in charge. My grandmother used to say that *ngatu* is not just cloth—it's a conversation with the gods. Maybe your thread is a new word in that conversation, if we learn to speak it."
Su Yao nodded, hope stirring. "What if we start over? We'll help you find new paper mulberry trees and clear the beetles. We'll learn to make *ngatu* the way you do—pounding by hand, stamping with your bamboo tools. We won't alter your family patterns. Instead, we'll create a new *tatau* together, one that tells the story of Tonga's lagoons and the open sea. And we'll treat our metal thread with your blessing rituals, so it carries *mana*."
Maile's daughter, Losa, a 24-year-old who taught *ngatu* making to village girls, leaned forward. "You'd really pound bark for hours under the sun? Your hands will blister."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll learn the *siva* songs too. Respect means more than words."
Over the next two months, the team immersed themselves in Tongan life. They helped dig trenches to protect new paper mulberry saplings from beetles, their hands raw from shoveling volcanic soil. They learned to harvest bark during the full moon, following Maile's instruction to offer a coconut to Tangaloa before cutting. They sat on the beach, pounding bark with wooden mallets until their arms ached, joining the women in *siva* chants that echoed across the lagoon. "The rhythm must match the waves," Maile said, demonstrating the proper cadence. "Too fast, and the cloth grows weak; too slow, and the ancestors lose interest."
They learned to mix ink from burnt coconut shells, their fingers stained black as the *tohunga* chanted over the mixture. They stamped patterns on practice cloths, their hands unsteady at first but growing surer as Losa corrected their alignment. "The circles must be perfect," she said, adjusting Su Yao's stamp. "They represent the unity of our people."
To solve the reaction between metal threads and banana sap, Lin experimented with coating the metal in a solution of *nonu* (noni fruit) juice, a substance the Tongans use to preserve *kava* bowls. The noni's natural enzymes neutralized the sap's acidity, allowing the ink to adhere without discoloration. "It's like giving the thread a Tongan soul," she said, showing Maile a swatch where the black patterns now stood crisp against the shimmering metal.
Fiona, inspired by Tonga's double-hulled canoes, designed a new *tatau* pattern called *vaka* (canoe), which merged traditional wave motifs with the seaweed-metal thread to represent the journey between islands. "It honors your navigators," she said, and the *tohunga* nodded, declaring it worthy of carrying *mana*.
As the beetle infestation subsided and new paper mulberry shoots grew, the village celebrated with a *lovo* (underground feast), where they roasted pig and taro while unveiling their collaborative *ngatu*. The cloth featured Maile's family lightning patterns alongside the new *vaka* design, with seaweed-metal threads adding a subtle glow that caught the sunlight during the presentation to the chief.
The *tu'i* ran his hand over the cloth, his eyes widening. "This *ngatu* has the strength of the old ways and the wonder of new ones," he said. "Tangaloa smiles on this collaboration."
As the team's boat pulled away from Tonga, Losa swam out to wave a small package. Su Yao leaned over the side to catch it: inside was a piece of hand-pounded bark cloth stamped with a tiny *vaka* design, tied with a strand of seaweed-metal. "To remember us by," read a note in Tongan. "Remember that the ocean connects all islands."
Su Yao clutched the package as the lagoons faded into the distance, their waters blending with the deep blue of the Pacific. She thought of the hours spent pounding bark under the sun, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to hold the *tatau* patterns, of Maile's laughter as they fumbled through the *siva* songs. The Tongans had taught her that tradition wasn't about rigidity—it was about rootedness, a way to stay connected to ancestors while still reaching toward the horizon.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Ashanti team: photos of Ama displaying their collaborative *kente* cloth at a cultural festival in Accra. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new *tatau*—Tongan lagoons and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a pod of humpback whales breached, their spouts catching the sun. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to learn from, countless threads to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with humility, listening more than speaking, the tapestry would only grow more vibrant—a testament to the beauty of human connection across oceans and time.