Photos

I met a very nice Australian couple today at church and we chatted for a bit afterward.  This was their second trip to Samoa.  We talked about traveling in general and in particular about their current vacation.  They said it was the day-to-day stuff that the locals (and I) take for granted.  Seeing someone weave the palm baskets that are used here instead of large plastic baskets.  Seeing someone climb a palm tree and open a fresh coconut.

I'll try to take more photos of the stuff that I've become used to.  In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these photos.

I just spent almost two hours on-line trying to upload photos.  Just as they were almost done, they disappeared.  I hope someone in cyber space is enjoying them.  Rats!

Bored!

Written on a hot afternoon on May 4,2012

It’s 4:37 p.m. on Friday afternoon.  I’ve been swatting flies and trying to kill the mosquitoes that for some reason decided to descend during daylight hours today.  I’m bored.  I’m listening to two of my “cousins” next door sing while they make the fire for dinner.  I’m also listening to my brother sing as he makes the fire to cook dinner for my family.  They are each 20 feet away from me and singing different songs.  At the top of their lungs.  I’m considering chiming in with a third song.  Because I’m bored.

My day started as usual, at school at 7 a.m. but I left school at 9:00 a.m. to come home and heat up the chicken rice soup I’d made for the teachers.   I arranged to have two Year 8 boys come to take the giant pot of hot soup back to the school.  I offered them each a bowl, which they cheerfully accepted.  One was poking through my food, asking who it was for.  Yes, it is all for me.  He wanted the cookies.  I gave each boy a small packet of cookies before they left.  One tore his open with his teeth and spit the pieces of paper on the floor.  I suggested he throw them away. 

I have nothing to do at school.  Yes, I could substitute for the Year 3 teacher who is on maternity leave.  Or the Year 8 teacher who didn’t come to school today.  Or the Year 7 teacher who came an hour after school started and left an hour before it was over.  But I’m here to teach English, not to be a substitute teacher.    I did hold detention for some Year 8 students and gave an assignment for the Year 7 students before I left to heat the soup.  I planned to take them for the day if their teacher didn’t show.  Surprising to the Samoan teachers, they really prefer to be busy.  And this particular class is considered “at risk”.  They are slower learners and love the educational games I play with them.  Relay race to write the alphabet?  What could be more fun?

I also did some lesson planning for next term and gave copies to the Year 7 teachers.  They couldn’t understand why I was planning for next term.

As is typical on Friday’s, we dismissed school early, after an hour long recess.  I lingered at school but was still home by 12:30.  I was accompanied by 7 boys.  Some were carrying my stuff, others were just hanging around.  One of the boys used the “sh**” word.  That’s the third time I’ve heard it in a week.  They clearly know it is swearing.  I plan to raise the issue with my boss next week.  I mentioned to him this morning that a girl from another school flipped me off when she saw me on the bus.  Isn’t it fun what America teaches kids by way of movies and music videos?

I planned to go swimming after school but it was rainy.  Then sunny, which means steamy.  Then rainy.  Now, it is clear and hot, with no breeze.  Every time I turn on my fan I am grateful I have it.  It is the best $75 USD investment I’ve ever made and if/when it breaks, I will be at the store to buy another ASAP.  I didn’t have a fan (no electricity) for my first 8 months.  What a difference it makes.

I asked my 19 year old sister how her day was.  “Boring.”  Yeah, I get it.  Imagine living in a town of a few hundred.  No television.  No restaurants.  No car.  Just work, chores and napping.  At least I read.  If I didn’t have books I would go crazy.  Samoan women weed for entertainment.  They do it in groups so they can gossip as they weed.  I just can’t get into it. 

I was looking forward to watching dance practice but then realized they don’t have it on Friday nights.  Bummer.  I will miss the evening live entertainment.

I took a walk.  That burned some time.  But when I walk people want to know why.  Where am I going?  The concept of just walking for pleasure and exercise is lost on most Samoans.  Admittedly I was right there with them when I lived in the land of air conditioning and cars.  Now, walking is not only necessary, it’s a break from boredom. 

Soon, it will be late enough to make dinner – what a surprise, chicken and carrots again!  Thank God I like chicken and carrots.  It will also be time for my evening shower. 

I think part of my boredom is because I’m anticipating vacation.  A week from tomorrow I leave for Upolu.  After a night there, I fly to Auckland for three glorious weeks.  I plan to shop (not buying, just shopping), eat salads, cheese and mussels and go to movies.  With any luck I’ll also get a ticket to see Jersey Boys.  No one will be watching me.   Everyone will speak English.  There will be hot showers and clean sheets.  There won’t be rats on my bed or bugs everywhere.  I can’t wait.

Photos!

I've been very bad about including photos and I apologize.  With dial up it's an exercise in frustration.  But if you go to this link you can see where I swim often.  The photos say Faga Beach, which is technically true.  But Faga has five sub-villages and this is in Lu'ua.  It's about a five minute walk from my house. 

Tomorrow I'll try to put up some photos I've taken recently.  In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the view of the lagoon as much as I do.  I swam there today and laughed as a car full of palagis drove by, videotaping the beach as they went by. 

Siva!

One of the perks of living in the village is the chance to see “authentic” singing and dancing.  Sure, you can see a cool culture show at a resort but I prefer it local.

As I was typing the last post I was listening to the traditional drums.  I know from having watched it that the youth group was doing a “sasa” dance to the beat of the drums.  It is dancers sitting in rows, cross-legged,  playing a very advanced form of group patty cake to the beat of the drums.  It’s fun to watch and requires rhythm and a great memory.  The dance is over five minutes long of intricate slapping and hand motions.

I’m currently listening to a “hymn” and watching the kids dance.  I put hymn in quotes because I don’t know of any church in the States that has hymns this up tempo.    If they did, attendance might improve.  The Samoan hymns make Reggae sound a bit dirge-like.  Every once in awhile the emcee (also known as the pastor) yells “Siva!”  which means “Dance!”

All the youth break from the choreographed dance to go free form.  Last night I was watching rehearsal from the small bus fale at the school.  A bunch of kids had joined me and when the pastor yelled “Siva”, the youngest ones went crazy, dancing themselves silly.  Since I’m so darned young at heart, I busted out a few moves of my own.  That made the dancers stare in amazement and the older kids laugh like hyenas.

The big church event for which they’ve been practicing for months starts in a couple of weeks.  The same time I’ll be leaving for New Zealand.  I’ll miss the evening musical entertainment.

Sex

Sex is a hot topic of conversation in Samoa.  Among other volunteers and Samoans of all ages. We live on an island with only 2 television channels.  And it’s hot here.  Lots of bare chests and amazing abs.  Shapely young women wearing nothing but wet, almost sheer cotton.  Gauguin did not just fall in love with the tropics for the colors.

I may have told you the story of when I asked my fellow teachers how they had sex.  One woman, my age, immediately began to give me graphic, step-by-step instructions.  What with me never having married, surely I’m a virgin and unaware.  I quickly told her I’d read a book and had the general idea.

What I wanted to know was where.  How do you have sex when you sleep in a house surrounded by relatives of all ages?   “Quietly”, was one answer.   “Under a mat” was another.  “In the plantations, under a banana plant” was one of the most popular.

I hung out for awhile with some other volunteers recently and the subject of sex came up.  I asked them about the “where”.  Hotels, obviously.   But that’s expensive and not convenient to take a local to another town to a hotel.  Especially since you will both be recognized and reputations impugned.  Plantations and the beach were other answers. 

Plantations or beach means choosing between mosquitoes or sand.  Perhaps my libido isn’t what I think it is when the thought of walking a mile up a dark road to do it on the ground in the bushes accompanied by millions of biting insects is such a turn off.  And I confess.  I’ve lived out my “From Here To Eternity” fantasy and I recommend it remain only a fantasy.  Beaches mean sand and sand fleas.  Sand is a lot like sand paper.  Need I go further with this?

A couple of us talked about where we live.  My house is in the back of the compound.  You come here and everyone knows it.  Plus, it is almost all windows.  “Fine mats.  Cover the windows with fine mats.”  Ok, that would give privacy but wouldn’t it be a bit obvious to all 20 or so family members in the compound that I’ve got a guy in my house and all the windows sealed?  To say nothing of the possibility of heat stroke?

Given health issues here, combined with the age factor, I’d have to not only worry about STD’s and heart attacks but heat stroke?  Not a turn on.

Ups and Downs

I’m not sure why I think things are going to stop surprising me here or that suddenly I’ll feel and exhibit such amazing patience that the Pope will call to discuss canonization.  Warped optimism, I guess.

When I left for work today, I jammed a piece of cardboard in the door to keep it shut.  When I got to school I looked back toward my house and saw it swinging open.  An invitation in a culture where everything belongs to everyone.  Stuff is good.  Palagi stuff is the best.  I tried not to think about my stuff sitting there, available.

The other teachers love the end of term.  I hate the end of term.  Weeks are spent doing very little of anything with educational value.  We, kids and teachers alike, go to school.  The children take tests then run wild.  Teachers eat and gossip.  That’s this week.  Next week, kids will run wild all week while teachers eat, gossip and do report cards.

 I’ve become a renegade.  Since I don’t have a classroom of my own, I’ve taken over the office, where the computer is housed.  I show movies, mostly Disney, although I found out today that the kids are WILD about Mr. Bean.  I show phonics music videos and the kids sing along.   We do flash cards.   This morning, while all the other adults were enjoying breakfast, I did an impromptu math game to get the kids ready for their maths test.  By the way, they call it maths here, not math.

I also join the kids on the playground for the hour long recess.  Duck, duck, goose continues to be the crowd favorite.   They’ll make a circle of 100 kids from ages 5 to 15 and patiently wait, hoping to be the goose.  I’ve tried making multiple circles so more kids are actually playing but the problem is that I’m the big draw.  The kids only seem to think it’s fun if I’m playing in their circle.  Giant circle it is.

I was on the phone with PC for part of the recess.  I was walking across the playground, trying to seek a bit of quiet, which was impossible.  I was surrounded by my fan club of Years 1 – 3.  As I talked, I’d lunge at the kids and they’d run, screaming and laughing.  They could have played that game all day.  I would have had heat stroke, besides, my phone call and patience were done. 

Cultural differences aside, I totally get why the other teachers don’t play with the kids.  It is the tropics.  It is hot and humid.  We are close to the equator and the sun is brutal.  Add a tight, floor length polyester puletasi to that and the patience to do much running fades quickly.

My low point of the day came when I overheard another teacher ridiculing some of my students because of their poor answers on the English test I’d given them.  Here’s an example.  One of the questions for the older slower learners was “Where do you live?”  The correct response was “I live in Faga.”  Theoretically, they learned this 6 years ago in Year 1.  But the problem is, the kids can’t read well, if at all.  Some put no answer at all.  Some copied the question in the space for the answer.  Some wrote something in a language that is neither English nor Samoan.

The teacher was calling individual students and reading their incorrect responses, saying things (in Samoan) like, “What, do you live in a toilet?  You are so stupid you don’t know where you live?”  He did this in front of not just their class but another class.  Everyone thought it was very funny.  Except, of course, for the students being humiliated.

It is part of the culture to shame people into better behavior.  That means teachers “encourage” by hitting and humiliation.  I’ve been ridiculed for my poor Samoan language, among other things, since I arrived.  I’ve called a couple of people on it, and they seemed hurt. 

“I’m just trying to encourage you!”

 “Telling me I’m stupid just makes me want to stop trying.”

 “No, it should make you want to try harder so I’ll quit telling you you’re stupid.”

 “No, it makes me want to hit you with a big stick.  While yelling at you in English.”

That was a conversation I had one day with a dear friend.

Between the unlocked house and humiliated kids it wasn’t a stellar day.  But I talked to a friend and after school took a bus ride the long way home.  About 45 minutes of incredible scenery.  I happened to be alone on the bus with the driver for about 10 minutes.  As has happened before, he offered to be my boyfriend.   I laughed and said I wanted a husband.  He said that would be fine.  Then a woman got on.  A teacher from another school who knows me.  The bus driver involved her in the discussion of our pending nuptials.  She informed me (big surprise) that he’s a liar and is both much younger and more married than he said he was.

More women got on and they all knew me and were very friendly.  They seemed impressed that the driver stopped at my fale without me having to ask.  I rule the busses here.

When I got home I saw my 7 year old sister standing in my house.  I was not happy.  But wait, she’s standing in the front door that wasn’t able to be opened previously.  Yes, they were working on the locks.  They were currently taking a break, so I put on my shorts, t-shirt and lava lava and went for a swim.  I’m also tired of swimming fully clothed, but the water was cool, it was cloudy and it was lovely.

I walked home with a fresh attitude to find locked doors.   My brother also fixed the problem that caused my shower not to drain.  And the baby laughed, giggled and continuously planted his face in the mattress in glee when he saw me. 

All’s well that ends well.