What a Day

I had a leisurely morning today.  Since school is starting later and I was caught up on laundry (which I do five mornings a week) I dawdled.  I tried to send an email to our Country Director with some info he requested but the internet was not my friend today.  No matter.

I toddled off to school, dancing along the way.  My family had Michael Jackson’s Thriller pumping on the stereo so I did my best MJ dance imitation.  It was horrible but the kids buying snacks before school were amused.  Except for the two new kids from Australia who apparently aren’t used to seeing palagis dance like fools.  I’m sure they’ll get used to it.  Heaven’s knows, they’ll have plenty of chances to see me dance and act the fool.

I discovered that there was a district principal’s meeting at our school so had to stop by to say hey.  Also to explain that it seemed the funeral wouldn’t be until later in the week, which was why I was there. 

Ten minutes later I had done some errands the principal had requested and joined all the kids in assembly.  The Infant Supervisor asked why I was there.  The relationship between us is sort of like the US and Cuba.  We’re in close proximity all the time but have significant philosophical differences, that go back a way.  I think she was looking forward to a palagi-free day.

She told me that she’d seen on the news the night before that the funeral I’m supposed to attend is this morning.  And, she saw the vans from the funeral home taking the bodies pass on their way to take the bodies to their village for burial.

Crap.  I was wearing a skirt and blouse, not suitable attire.  I had to interrupt the principal’s meeting to explain to my pule (boss) that I needed to leave.  He was sympathetic.  Then his boss, who’d heard me explain it to my boss, wanted me to explain it to her.  It’s a status thing.  Then, I had to explain to the teachers why I was leaving suddenly. 

I hurried home to change into my best puletasi and grab the floral wreath.  Swell.  It’s 9:05 a.m. and I’m sweaty already.  Doesn’t really matter, since it’s also raining so I’m destined to be damp for the day.   I headed to the bus fale at the school where a group of mothers had been sitting since dropping their kids off.  They’d seen me go by twice and now reappear in different clothes, with a wreath.  I used the newly learned term for funeral and told them the village and they understood, since apparently it’s been all over the news.

I took the bus to the market in Salelologa so I could change to an Itu o Tane bus that goes to the district where the funeral was to be.  Luckily, there was a bus there.  In my best Samoan (that I’d been rehearsing in my head) I told the driver I wanted to go to the funeral in a certain village, please.  He said he could get me there, so the wreath and I climbed aboard, out of the rain.

Then we sat.  I hopped on the Itu O Tane bus at about 10:00 a.m.  After half an hour of listening to loud Samoan pop tunes and breathing in both the cigarette smoke of the driver and the fumes from the many other buses, we took off.  To circle the market and park in the same place.  For another 20 minutes.  While we waited I took advantage of the food service provided.  That consists of the vendors strolling by with laundry baskets or Styrofoam coolers full of stuff.  I went for the $1 tala keke pua’a, which is a steamed bun with pork soaked in soy sauce in the middle.  I’ve been here long enough to know the kid who sells the one with the least fat and gristle and got one from him.  You have Big Macs, we have keke pua’a.  You win.

Shortly before 11:00 a.m., we hit the road.  My excitement at being on our way was short lived.  We stopped at the hardware store so two guys could buy a gallon of paint.  While they did that, another guy got off to head next door to buy some fried chicken so we had to wait for him, too.

Then we stopped at the bank so a guy could buy cash power credit, which is how we pay for electricity here.  You have to pay in advance and when it runs out, you’re in the dark, literally.  It’s happened to my family and I many times.

After a few more stops to pick up people, including at the hospital which is 1 ½ miles from where I started this journey, we were on our way.  As we approached the village, the bus stopped.  I looked around to see who was getting off.  Then heard the driver telling someone to hand me the wreath.  Seems this was my stop, but it was not in the village and not at the church.  The driver assured me that this was where I should be.  It was the fale of the couple who had died.

That’s when I first got an inkling that something was amiss.  I was at a house where there were a lot of people milling around.  In the main open fale there were a number of men, sitting in the formal positions of a matai meeting.  But there were also women.  I just walked toward them and hoped for the best.

Imagine a gunfight at the OK Corral, where steely eyed gunslingers approach each other warily.  It was sort of like that, but all sides here looked more confused than grim and there were flowers not weapons.  I was invited inside and used the extremely little formal Samoan I know (yes, isn’t it fun – there’s a whole separate language for formal occasions!) to greet the guy that seemed to be in charge.

A girl immediately ran and brought a chair for me, but I just kicked off my shoes (I wasn’t raised in a palagi barn) and sat on the floor, near where I’d come in, as is proper.  At least I think/hope it is.  No one seemed offended.

I quietly explained to the young woman who’d brought in the chair that I was the Pisi Koa from Faga and was here for Rachel.  She then went across to whisper to the man I’d addressed earlier.  He then explained that he was a brother from California and thanked me for coming.  Thank God.  English. 

He also explained that I was a bit early.  Tomorrow (Wed.) they’ll be bringing the bodies of the husband and wife and they’ll be buried on Thursday.  I told them I thought the funeral was today and apologized for intruding.

We went on to have a brief conversation about the deaths of the couple and the love they showed for their family, village and Peace Corps.  They accepted the flower wreath and thanked me profusely.  I explained that it was from the PCV who’d left recently and was very upset that she couldn’t return in person.

The family spokesman then explained that it is fa’asamoa to exchange tokens of respect.  I’d brought the floral wreath.  In return I was given a fine mat, a case of tinned corned beef and $100.  I accepted them on behalf of Rachel and thanked their family for the generosity. 

Then the man said “Thanks for coming by.”

I have a tough time deciphering social cues in my own culture.  In Samoa it’s a whole different kettle of fish.  To me, “Thanks for coming by.” is a very polite way of saying “hit the door.”  But I now had 2 hours until the next and last bus back to Salelologa.  I was thinking I could just grab the huge fine mat, case of meat and head up the street to wait inconspicuously for the bus but the logistics of that seemed problematic.  You may never have seen a fine mat.  This one is typical – about ten feet wide and twenty feet long.  I’ve lived in apartments with less floor space.

And at the same time he was saying “Thanks for coming by” one of the family was bringing me a tray of crackers with butter and tea.  It is imperative that when someone visits your home, even if unexpectedly, even if for a few minutes, you offer them food and drink. 

I asked the young woman who brought me the tea about the next bus.  That generated a buzz of discussion.  “You’re taking the bus back?  But you should not ride the bus.”  Yeah, I hear you, but try telling Peace Corps that. 

The family then went into a huddle to discuss what to do.  I was told I might be able to get a ride with a member of the family.  I offered that I hated to inconvenience anyone and could take the bus.  They countered with “Someone is driving back and forth to Salelologa all the time and the next time someone goes, they can take you.”

While this exchange was taking place, a young man was collecting my fine mat and carton of meat.  I asked (duh) if I should go with him.  Yes, he would take me home.

We exchanged final thanks and words of respect as I got into the car.  The whole interaction felt awkward to me but believe that at least they know that Rachel, the palagi/Pisi Koa daughter of the couple for the last two years, wanted to show her respect and sense of loss.  The local family, along with family from abroad seemed to appreciate the sentiments as they shared their grief and shock that someone who lived so close to a dangerous road crossing could have been killed there.

During the ride home, I discovered that my driver was the nephew of the couple and also a teacher.  He’d taught at the college my family’s kids attended and knew them.  He’s actually staying with a family in my village this week since he’s moved to Upolu.  When he dropped me off at my house, he was hugging the kids he’d taught while they unloaded not only the fine mat, case of pisupo but also a plate of food (chicken legs, sausages and chop suey).  That’s fa’asamoa.

School was still in session when I got back so I headed over after giving my family the case of corned beef and the plate of food. 

I spent the next hour listening to a discussion of how to provide lunch for the 100 or so teachers who are coming to a district wide teachers meeting at our school on Thursday.  My sole contribution was to suggest we have salati vi (a salad made from a local fruit, with peanuts and coconut cream)  I was voted down and then ignored.  Until they realized they needed some money up front.  I was asked for $100 which they will repay on Thursday when the teachers chip in for their lunches.

I gave them the money (which was the money the family of the deceased couple had given me)  but explained to the teacher asking (who’s one of my best friends) that her daughter was the collateral for the loan.  If I don’t get my $100 tala on Thursday, her adorable four year old daughter will be coming home with me.   I think I’ll get my money.

First Week of School, Year 2

School started this week.  Some things are the same as last year, others are different.  Last year, I was nervous as a cat and wore my best puletasi.  This year, I wore a skirt and t-shirt (which was dressier than what several other teachers wore) and left so late for school that my host dad stopped by to ask if I was going to school.  Yes, I was, but I was not going to be the first/only one there.  Instead, I arrived 45 minutes late and was the third teacher there out of 11.

Only about ¼ of the kids showed for school, most not in uniform.  The new Year 1 kids are so tiny and scared.  One was hitting his classmates and I called him to me (sheer terror, for him) and explained, in Samoan, that we don’t hit.  He followed me like a puppy for the rest of the day.

I get the language barrier, so I was very empathetic to a new Year 4 kid whose only English is “My name is John.”  Ask him anything and that’s the answer you get.  I totally get it.  I’m looking forward to working with him, since his smile is radiant each time he says the one phrase he knows in English.

Like last year there was no teaching today.  We had assembly.  The kids cleaned the classrooms while the teachers gossiped. I was the only teacher to go to my room, where I pulled out some books and magazines and kids read for half an hour.   We had interval for the kids while the teachers continued to gossip.  We had ending assembly.  We left.  I know that 2 teachers won’t be here for the first few months.  I don’t know if I’ll get to keep my classroom.  I guess I will until the last teacher arrives in April.  Imagine a school system where your kids have no teacher for the first three months.  That will either mean I’m a substitute for Year 7 (I’d be a stellar teacher of the Samoan language, don’t you think?) or there will be classes of over 70.  Not good in either case.

Tragically, a couple was killed in an accident recently when their car was swept off the road at a river crossing.  They tried to follow a bus, which had crossed successfully, but were killed.  They were the host parents of a Group 82 RPCV who left a month ago.  They also hosted a previous PCV.  The Group 82 volunteer asked if I would attend the funeral and take a floral arrangement.  I was saddened at the reason, but happy to do my best to represent her. 

After school on Monday I went to Salelologa to buy the arrangement.  Artificial flowers in the forms of wreaths or arrangements are the norm here.  Fresh flowers are used for many special events but people buy and treasure artificial arrangements for funerals.  I selected a large wreath, with many cheerful colors as requested.  The volunteer said they were a bright and happy couple so it seemed that vivid colors would be most suitable.

I took the wreath with me to the grocery store, where I needed to pick up a few things.  There was very little surprise at the palagi with the wreath.  They all know me now and just asked how much it cost and who it was for.   (Yes, I teach English and yes, that sentence was grammatically incorrect.)

I got onto a crowded bus to come home with my backpack of canned goods and the wreath.  Again, no looks of surprise, except from the 8 month old who gawked the whole 45 minute ride.  She would have been staring with or without the giant wreath.

I’ve been in my fale for the last couple of hours.  Working on a Peace Corps report and making dinner, mostly.  There are a bunch of kids next door.  Their fascination with me has not dimmed.  There are 12 kids who live on either side of my fale.  I teach all but the toddlers.  They saw me all day.  Yet they’re still standing out there hollering “Hi, Nancy.  How are you?”  Still fine, thanks.

Typical Tuesday Morning

I discovered someone or something was in my bathroom last night.  Sometime between 3-7 a.m.  Something large enough to pull down half the curtain (ripped off the wall), drag my bathmat across the room and knock my razor off the shelf.  I’d assume a big rat but the soap in my dish wasn’t touched nor was he lured by the soap in the live trap.  Before that’s gotten their attention immediately.  There also was no rat poop or pee, which is a dead give away.

I’m thinking it was one of my family’s cats.  They like to climb up the outside of my house and crawl into the space between my ceiling and the roof, where the rats live.  That’s fine with me.  They’ve fallen out before because I don’t have ceilings throughout the house and they apparently don’t pay attention to where they’re going.  It will be interesting to see what happens tonight.

Dead bug count this morning was 2 large roaches, 1 large spider and 2 little roly-poly bugs.  I sweep them out every morning which is why you’d see the chickens lurking outside my front door if you were here.

I heard my 7 year old sister singing quietly as she walked from the outdoor faucet where she brushes her teeth each morning.  I listened closer and realized she was singing “Good morning, Nancy, good morning, Nancy” over and over.  I said hello through the window and she smiled.  Nice way to start the morning.

I’m listening to very loud Samoan music (specifically, “Sau i, sau i” for Samoan music fan) my Samoan cousin, 16, is singing along at the top of his lungs.  It’s a happy place here on the compound.

It’s 8:25 and I need to throw on some clothes and head to school.  I found out yesterday that we’ll now have school from 9 – 3.  That means classes in the hottest time of the day.  And no time after school to hit the store.  Bummer.

Have to run – to the sounds of “The Sloop John B”, an old folk song…this time revised a bit and done in Samoan.  They love a good remix.

Mid Service Conference is "Uma" - Over!

This terrific photo was taken by another volunteer but is exactly what I see in church each Sunday.  I also wear a white puletasi and a white hat.  This week a toddler was being led into the church by his big brother when he saw me.  My Samoan garb didn't fool him.  He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me.  As he was dragged forward, he gave me a wide berth, much as you would do a dangerous wild animal.

I’m back home after five days in Apia, attending our last training until Close of Service Conference, which will be held in September.  

The training was good and most of the group were in good spirits.  The highlight of the week for me was dinner at our Country Director’s house.  Lusi, his wife, is an awesome cook and made a feast of Thai, Indonesian and other Asian dishes.  Spicy and flavorful, something I can’t say about Samoan food.  For dessert she made a tiramisu that was incredibly rich along with an orange cake, still warm from the oven.  I enjoyed meeting Lusi and eating her food so much that I asked if she’d teach me to cook Asian (she’s Indonesian) and she agreed.  I’ll be going back to Apia in a couple of weeks to join 2 other volunteers in Lusi’s kitchen.  I’m hoping this is the start of a cooking club where we can rotate kitchens and learn new dishes.

PC gave me a ride to the wharf to head back to Savaii.  The reason for that was that since all of us were coming back at one time, it was deemed safer to just haul us all in the PC van.  But, since everyone else from my island decided to stay in Apia for the weekend, I got a lift from the PC driver in the PC truck.  It was a good opportunity for me to spend an hour chatting with a middle-aged Samoan man.   I know a lot of Samoan men but it isn’t appropriate for me to have lengthy conversations with them.  If I’m seen talking to a man there are immediately rumors and speculation that I’m either sleeping with him, planning to marry him, or both, so I just steer clear. 

I’ve tried chatting with the driver before but he’s usually reluctant to talk.  On Friday, he was a chatty Cathy and it was interesting to hear his perspectives on life in Samoa vs. New Zealand (where he lived for four years); family and what is important in life.  That included children, church and sex.    I also enjoyed not being squashed into the bus in a torrential downpour which means all the windows would be up.  Imagine full-body contact with a room full of damp strangers in a sauna. 

The ferry ride home was wet but much smoother than my ride to Upolu on Monday.  That was the first time I’ve gotten sea sick on the ferry.  Didn’t urp on the boat but after the hot bus ride, lost my cookies when I got to the hotel.

My bags weighed a ton going home but I was doing fine rolling them toward the ferry until I encountered a huge puddle.  As I was shifting my backpack and trying to put down the handle of my roll-aboard, a young Samoan man offered to help.  He grabbed my big bag and carried it on board to the luggage storage space.  When I was getting off the ferry, he made a point of waiting for me by the luggage so he could carry the bag off the boat for me.  That’s the friendly, helpful fa’asamoa that I love.

I splurged and took a taxi home from the wharf in Salelologa.  When I arrived there was much yelling and waving.  One brother, who didn’t make eye contact with me for the first six months I lived here, let alone talk to me, came over to say he missed me.  The ice has thawed and I am part of the family.  Sort of like the odd old aunty who lives in the guest house out back.

I went to the market with one of my brothers on Saturday.  He was my Sherpa and carried everything I bought, which was a lot.  To give you an idea of what I eat, here’s what I bought on Saturday:

carrots, cabbage, a pineapple, avocados, mangos, oranges, potatoes, onions, lobster and a whole tuna.  For a PCV, lobster is expensive ($25 tala for 1 large/1 small lobster).  But since it would have cost me about $50 USD for the same amount of lobster in the States, I figure I might as well enjoy it now.  The tuna was a small one and cost $20 tala.  That’s $10 USD for a whole tuna.  It was a gift for my family.  They ate it raw and didn’t share.  A small piece would have been nice, since there are few things tastier than raw tuna with soy and wasabi.

The bus was crowded with back-to-school shoppers as we headed home from the market but my brother wanted to go for a ride so we passed our compound and stayed on the bus for another 45 minutes as we drove on to Pua Pua before turning around and heading back to Faga.  The last 45 minutes of the ride was stellar since the bus was almost empty and the views are spectacular.  I am still awed every time I enjoy the views of the lagoon.  From my village, all the way to Pua Pua there are houses on one side of the road and beaches, palm trees and gorgeous views of the turquoise lagoon on the other side. 

This morning I went to church for the first time in almost two months.  Between vacation and time in Apia I haven’t been around on Sundays.  Except for one and it was rainy and cool and I was lazy so I slept in.   It was my first time in the new church (up until now we’d been having services in the open fale that serves as a fellowship hall.)  The church is the most beautiful I’ve seen in Samoa.  Very large with crystal chandeliers and a built in sound system.  Nice pews made of what looks like pine. 

As I walked to church this morning my celebrity status was confirmed.  One family of kids went crazy.  about 8 pre-schoolers  yelled my name and ran along-side the road to catch up with me.   What could be more exciting than seeing the Pisi Koa go by than to have her actually wave and say hello?  I arrived at 8:55 a.m. for the 9:00 a.m. service.  We actually started about 9:20.  While waiting a nice middle-aged man came over to chat and keep me company.  He’s a matai (chief) in the village and I’ve run into him at several events.  Others watched us chat.  I’m sure I’ll hear speculation about our marriage plans tomorrow at school.

I walked home with a friend my age.  She filled me in on the gossip.  Many of her relatives from Australia were visiting.  I had to laugh when one of the teenagers from Australia asked to take my picture.  Yup, being a palagi in a puletasi in a Samoan village is photo worthy.

This weekend is ending on both sweet and sad notes.  When I said goodbye to my Year 8 kids after church I wished them well.  They’re now Year 9 and will be attending college, starting tomorrow.  I’ll miss them a lot.  Also, my favorite brother is heading off to University in Apia tomorrow.  I’ll miss him, too.   I plan to savor the next months.  I suspect they’ll fly by. 

It’s now Sunday night and I’m watching a very Samoan tradition – hair cutting.  Boys are required to have hair short enough that you can’t grab any.  During vacation, boys in my family grew out their hair and many bleached some or all of it.  Tonight, they’re getting ready for the first day of school.  Buzz cuts all around.  I offered to do the cutting but for some reason they declined.  Perhaps it was my maniacal laugh.