Twisted Timeline

Unraveling history's alternate timelines

Field Notes

The Turtle Emissaries

Locals speak highly of turtles as sacred creatures representing diplomatic fairness. A notable ceremony involves presenting an elder sea turtle with a ceremonial yam tied with pandanus leaf—an act meant to "petition the ocean." I watched as a delegation proudly carried out the ritual, insisting it curtails bad fishing quotas. Strangely, immigration officers have been nicknamed "Toko Honu," or "Turtle Lords," due to their slow, deliberative processes.

Bureaucracy as an Art Form

Every occupation here contains a bureaucratic twist. Fishermen must keep logs of each day’s catch in rhyming couplets to ensure compliance with laws on sea harvests. Carpenters spend as much time carving their wares as they do obtaining wood permits, which involve multiple approval stages. Professions feel more like performance art underpinned by documentation, and locals embrace it with bored resignation.

Ever-Expanding Yam Fields

The empire’s yam fields dominate the landscape, stretching to the edge of visibility. Locals claim the fields are sacred and shared equally among villages, though farming is highly regulated. The soil composition is so unique that certain patches are guarded by priests claiming 'spiritual contracts' with the land. There's almost no untouched forest left; all flat land seems to have turned into yam reserves.

The Infinite Hall of Faces

Near the central council building stands a hall lined with thousands of carved wooden masks honoring past petitioners. Each mask represents someone who succeeded in 'changing empire law.' The carvings vary in style, showing influences from visitors who once lived here legally. I attempted to examine a mask up close but was rushed along by a guide murmuring something about 'unauthorized inspection.'

Paperwork-Driven Humor

Daily life in Mu‘a is punctuated by dark humor centering on bureaucracy. Common jokes mention travelers who are 'still in line from the last century.' Locals celebrate ‘Document Day,’ an annual festivity where the best-decorated scroll wins a prize yam. I laughed aloud at one family’s paper-scroll kite shaped like a turtle—until I realized they were submitting it for genuine visa approval.

My trek through Mu‘a in 1357 CE as documented on Dec 24, 2024

The Empire of Endless Queues and Yam Fueled Bureaucracy

It appears I’ve stepped into a well-oiled bureaucratic utopia—if one’s definition of "utopia" includes endless queues, obsessive paperwork, and a faint yet omnipresent scent of pandanus ink. This version of the Tuʻi Tonga Empire, while geographically and architecturally similar to what I've seen before, has implemented an immigration and population control system so robust, it’d make 21st-century border security blush. Here, no person—be they a visiting fisherman from Samoa or even the chieftain’s third cousin twice removed—may set foot on the empire’s islands without a stamped and approved *Laulaufono Visa.*

I arrived midmorning to the sight of no fewer than two hundred people gathered on the white-sand shores, queued neatly beneath the sweltering sun, each clutching straw scrolls filled with their personal lineage and stated purpose of visit. Tongans, it seems, have poured their cultural zeal for record-keeping into a labyrinthine immigration system. A sign staked into the shoreline (complete with artistic black pearls arranged to spell out "WELCOME TO BEAUTIFUL MUʻA") informed newcomers that visa wait times were expected to range anywhere between “seven moons” and “a single lifetime.”

It’s no small wonder then that the modern cultural expression of this timeline revolves around patience as a virtue. Their heroic myths, for instance, feature far fewer bouts of oceanic conquest and far more harrowing episodes where legendary navigators are granted audience with the immigration council only after three decades of fasting and impeccable document storage. Local carvings depict great migratory canoes… suspiciously docked on shore while passengers hold what I suspect are scrolls full of legal arguments.

"Tagaloa’s Law of Limited Breathing."

The major driving catalyst for this obsession with population control seems to stem from a mythic decree issued in the 12th century by the eighth Tuʻi Tonga, Tagaloa Ikamaʻamaʻa, whose name charmingly translates to “Tagaloa, He of Abundant Forms.” Following a catastrophic population boom in which Mu‘a allegedly ran out of both yam fields and dance floor space (per native accounts), the ruler set forth "Tagaloa’s Law of Limited Breathing." In short: Inhabitants of the empire were not to surpass five heads per fishing canoe, and all outsiders required vetting to ensure they didn’t bring unacceptable burdens to the yam economy. (Yes, yams are the yardstick of this society. Try not to laugh. Here, a man’s wealth is measured in tubers and his bureaucratic aptitude.)

The cultural ripples of this legalistic obsession are… fascinating. For one, poetry here has evolved as an art form largely focused on presenting one’s eligibility to enter the empire. I was treated to a stunning recital this afternoon by a young bard whose verses extolled both his excellent carpentry skills and his lack of infectious diseases (*yes, these lines rhymed*). Meanwhile, Mu‘a itself features a peculiar lack of diversity—the empire stretches across multiple islands, yet, paradoxically, every person I’ve met insists they’ve never actually visited the others. Apparently, obtaining inter-island travel approval involves at least three laments for your cause, a recommendation from a high priest, and—most bafflingly—certification from an expert yam appraiser.

Speaking of yams, even the daily diet bears the marks of this relentless population restriction. While in my home timeline the Tuʻi Tonga imports various delicacies thanks to a vibrant trade network, here the culinary options are starkly… consistent. Immigration officers are known to reject anyone whose dietary preferences could “threaten the cultural balance,” meaning the only dishes available are local to the point of absurdity. Have I mentioned I’ve had five meals of boiled yam today? Five. One more, and I may indeed become a yam.

What I find most ironic, of course, is that this tightly walled empire seems to have no problem allowing *ideas* to waft ashore, unregulated and totally free of the bureaucratic shackles in which their people flounder. While visitors may need thirty signatures to enter, their rationing system ("strict yet fair!" according to locals) incorporates innovations from neighboring regions. Even their ceremonial dances, while sacred, include influences from once-restricted foreigners who somehow persuaded council members with well-rhymed petitions.

Reflecting on it, I’m half-convinced that this timeline’s obsessive regulation has done less to preserve the integrity of their culture and more to breed creativity through loopholes. I heard one sailor bragging about entering under a rarely used justification clause by simply posing as “a really large bird.” Perhaps the true genius of this bureaucratic empire lies not in its rules but in how its citizens subvert them.

And yet, there’s a sad undertone amid the satire. The islands feel stiflingly static, trapped beneath their own desire to maintain a balance that may well be impossible. As I wade through reams of genealogy proving my right to stand here (the Council of Coconut Clerks remains unconvinced that I am "not a spy"), I can’t help but wonder if their true fear isn’t the yam shortage—but a loss of control.

I’ll leave tomorrow, assuming I’m granted clearance. If not, well… I’ve already drafted a 14-verse petition and hand-carved yam effigy to sweeten my case.