Manu Samoa vs. Scotland

I knew nothing about rugby before coming to Samoa.  Now I know a little bit.  I know enough to know I really enjoy watching it.  Watching Manu Samoa with thousands in the stadium on a sunny afternoon was excellent.  There are a number of distinct differences between attending a Manu Samoa game vs. attending a pro NFL game in the U.S.

Getting in, for example.  We paid $1.50 USD to take a taxi to the stadium.  He dropped us off at the entrance and we walked 20 yards to the entrance gate.  We waited less than five minutes before going in.

The price is much better.  We had general admission tickets.  $2.50 USD.  Nice, eh?  Ok, we sat on the grass behind the goal post but it was comfortable and we had a great view.  The priciest ticket, for VIP seating in the shade were $25 USD.

There's no beer.  I'd hoped for a cold Vailima, but understand why no liquor is sold in the stadium.  That didn't stop some folks from bringing their own vodka in.  One group of guys sitting near us would have been less conspicuous if they hadn't also brought real glass glasses to use to chug the booze. 

Lots of arrests.  I believe they were drink related.  I saw 5 guys being arrested in separate incidents (except two who were arrested for fighting). 

Fan participation.  Samoans love it when someone plays the clown.  A few guys would randomly stand up and start shouting stupid stuff or dancing or whatever and the crowd would hoot and holler.  It's a big stadium so each section had their own impromptu clowns.  During half time (or whatever it's called in rugby) Digicell, a cell phone company who is a major sponsor, had one of those contests like we have in the States.  You know the kind - kick a field goal, make a basket, whatever.  Usually with a million dollar prize.  These prizes were two tickets to the next Manu game and a t-shirt.  Oooooh.  They selected people by their phone numbers.  But the clowns started heading to the competition.  Totally unplanned and the police helped some of the guys find their seats again.  One clown totally missed the goal so threw his shoe over the goal and then ran to pick it up, kissing it as if it was the winning ball.  The clown from our section was so popular, the Digicell guys actually let him try and gave him a t-shirt.

Refreshments.  I love that entrepreneurs wandered through the packed crowd, selling sodas (sorta cold, in cans) and popcorn (surprisingly good and cheap). What I didn't realize until we were leaving was that behind the stadium was food vendor row, with barbequed chicken, keke pua'a and all the typical Samoan fast foods available.  Man, I could have been eating bar-b-que chicken while watching hot guys try to kill each other.

Danger.  It was a very jovial crowd.  Nobody searching bags.  No metal detectors.  But I'm a belt and suspenders kinda gal.  Which is why I had a Samoan flag temporarily tattooed on my face and a Samoan flag in my hand.  I wanted the big Samoan crowd to know where my loyalty lies.  But then a palagi couple showed up and sat right behind my friends and I.  Geez.  What are we, palagi magnets?  My worst fears were realized when the Scottish team took the field and started warming up.  The palagi couple started yelling greetings to one of their friends on the team.  That did not go over well with the Samoan fans.  And, of course, they assumed all the palagi's were together.  I waved my flag and the palagi couple were clever enough to start yelling "We love Samoa!  We love Manu Samoa!  Go, Manu!"  Good move.

Excitement.  We were right behind the goal.  Unlike US football, the game doesn't stop when a player gets hit and falls.  No downs, here.  So the teams were on what would be the 1 yard line for a good fifteen minutes.  Scotland was trying to score.  Manu were doing their best on defense.  It was awesome.  Sadly, they finally scored the winning goal (or, whatever it's called).

All in all, it was a great time.  People were friendly and there to have fun.  Lots of laughing, lots of yelling, lots of food and entertainment.  Plus, I finally got to see Manu Samoa do the haka, in person.  If anyone reading this is trying to figure out the most effective way to seduce me, doing a haka would work. 

After the game, the family of the Peace Corps friends I was with gave me a ride to the pizza place.  Then I caught a cab back to the hotel for a hot shower, followed by pizza and beer.  Not a girly kind of day but a great day.

Here are some photos of the day:

It was hot.  This was over an hour before the game started.  By kickoff, it was SRO.  Bummer that my face tattoo is covered by the lavalava.

Where the rich people sit - in the shade.  It, too, was packed.  Notice the guys in the foreground also keeping away sunburn with a lavalava.

Manu number 13 was carried off on a stretcher after hurting his knee.

Before the stretcher arrived, he was helped off the field.  Play continued while he was carried off.  No fancy golf carts in Samoa for multimillionaire wimps. 

Hippity Hop

Today, as usual, had its ups and downs.  One teacher is still on maternity leave and I’m teaching her class after interval every day.  Another teacher called in sick, which she has been doing frequently.  And one teacher left for a few hours to take care of personal business.  Several of the other teachers seemed more interested in relaxing than teaching.  A typical day.

Except that I went to the bank straight from school.  I’d checked my walled just before I went to school.  I had two 5’s, one 50 and some change.  When I checked my wallet at the bank I had two 5’s.  The 50 was gone.  This is the third time money has gone missing from my purse at school.  The other two times I couldn’t swear that the money disappeared at school but this time there is no doubt in my mind.  It’s not so much the money as the principle of the thing.  These are people I either work with or teach.  It could have been a child or a teacher.  I’ll never know.  But I’m putting them on notice tomorrow that I know someone has been taking my money and I’m not happy about it.

When I got home from the bank I stopped to say hello to the family, especially my tiny buddy Julius.  He was in rare form.  Laughing and smiling non-stop and doing his best to crawl toward me.  I chatted with the family for awhile then went out by the road to make a phone call.

While I was on the phone, the kids from next door converged, as usual.  But today was different.  They each had a rice, sugar or flour sack and were using them to do sack races.  It was very funny to watch.

After awhile, I said goodbye to them and was walking back toward my house when I realized they were following me.  In their sacks.  At first there were four of them, hopping gamely along after me.  As I got closer to my house only the two year old, Richard was still hopping along behind me, smiling all the way and yelling my name.  I adore that boy.

What I’ve described is so typical of my time in Samoa.  Frustration and anger butted right up against hilarity and joy.

Be Careful What You Wish For

You know the joke about the guy who walks into the bar with a foot tall companion who starts playing a tiny grand piano on the bar.  The bartender says “Wow, that’s amazing!  How did you find him?” 

The guy says he found a magic lamp and after he rubbed it a genie appeared and offered to grant him one wish.  “Wow!” the bartender says again. “You’re a lucky guy!”

“Really?  You think I wished for a twelve inch pianist?” 

Today I was reminded, yet again, to be very careful what I wish for.  Another lesson I have yet to learn.  I wished to live in the South Pacific and I do.  Rats, pigs, chickens and all.  I forgot to specify the type of living here I was wishing for, apparently.  I was kind of envisioning more of a resort lifestyle.  Ah, well.  The view is the same.

Most recently, I wished that we’d get a really good turnout at the recently started reading center.  The first night we had 26.  Second night 50+.  Tonight, the second week, we had over 100.  According to the high school girl I asked to count we had 174.  Ages ranged from 3 to 17.I don’t think it was that many but I was a little busy with the 60 or so kids I had who are at the level of figuring out what the alphabet is. 

There were three of us.  The minister’s wife.  The minister’s daughter.  And me.  I did this by choice.  The minister’s wife has acknowledged that when her husband got the call she was not an immediate convert.  I don’t know their daughter well enough but I’m guessing this wasn’t her idea of the ideal way to spend a Wednesday evening.  She was a trooper, though.

We re-grouped after the 2 hour session to discuss how to do crowd control on Friday.  We’ve enlisted the high school kids to help with the little kids and I’ll spend time with them after the session to make up for it.  More time for me, but only fair.

There are few books and little reading in the homes.  The same is true in the school.  The kids are hungry for it and let’s face it, I’m a rock star.  This is triple the number of kids they’ve ever attracted before.  Now I’m wishing to get more English-speaking, literate helpers from the village to join the effort.  How could that go wrong?

The Sweet and the Bittersweet

First, the sweet.  I was enjoying a cup of 3-in-1 (instant coffee that comes in a packet mixed with sugar and creamer) and some cookies.  Nothing like a little late evening caffeine and sugar to ensure a good night’s sleep.  And I wonder why I had a nagging headache all day today.

Anyway, I’d just finished all but the last cookie in the box and was down to the dregs of the sweet coffee when a gust of wind came up.  It blew in the curtains over my bed, which in turn knocked over my mug, spilling the remnants of sugary coffee onto the rug next to my bed.  The other curtain blew the cookie box over my bed, leaving a trail of fine crumbs over the entire bed.

I’ve read stories of ancient warriors covering their enemies with honey before tying them down spread-eagled on an ant hill.  I believe I have just done pretty much the same thing to myself.

About the bittersweet – my sister came over when she got home from high school to listen to some of my music.  She loves to sing and has a great voice.  I thought I might introduce her to some artists she may not have heard before.  Not surprisingly, she asked if I had some Samoan music.  I did.  We listened to a couple of my favorite Christmas carols, including my all time favorite, the Christmas Polka, done in Samoan.  How can you not love that?  We also listened to one of my personal favorite songs, “Fa’amamalosi”.  It’s a beautiful song and our group of PCV’s did a choreographed dance to it at our televised swearing-in ceremony in December, 2010.

I got a bit verklempt while listening, thinking that I won’t be here to hear the Christmas Polka blasting on the bus this Christmas.  And thinking of all I’ve experienced since swearing in.  Then I shook it off, realizing I’m still in Samoa and will be for months to come.  Anticipating the loss I’ll feel when I leave does me no good now.

We also listened to some moldy oldy stuff.  Linda Ronstadt, Judy Collins, Judy Holiday, Sarah Brightman, etc.  After my sister left (believing, I’m sure, that Beyonce is still WAY better than any of the music from my youth) I listened to more old tunes.  White Snake.  Iron Butterfly.  Jimi Hendrix.  Pete Seeger.  And many more.  Each song brought back a flood of memories.  Once again, I started getting emotional.  This time, for what was in the past and now gone.

I’m not sure why this is such a hard lesson for me to learn.  Life is for living now.  Not thinking about what was or could have been or might be in the future.  Now.  In this moment.

I’m still working on learning the lesson but also enjoying all the memories the music brought.  And anticipating new adventures.  Like what might happen tonight when word in the insect world spreads that I’ve covered my bed in sugar.

I Couldn't Make This Stuff Up If I Tried

I see the newspaper infrequently.  Lately they’ve been stocking it in the Tuisivi store, though, so I’ve glanced at the headlines.  I swear, I could not make up these stories.  They would be perfect fodder for a sitcom.

Because I’m too cheap to actually buy the paper, I’m going to be paraphrasing, but trust me, while the quotes aren’t exact, the meaning is the same.

One headline recently was something along the lines of “Prime Minister Threatens to Hire Palagis”  Palagis are foreigners.   Usually considered to be white, but pretty much any foreigner seems to be considered a palagi.  It still annoys me, by the way, to be referred to by people who know me as “palagi” rather than my name.

Anyway, the story was about allegations of corruption and incompetence among employees in the various Ministries (Health, Education, Finance, etc.)  The Prime Minister seemed to be acknowledging that the allegations were true and that if staff didn’t “shape up”, he’d start hiring palagi to “get the job done."

Imagine Obama going to the press to say that if the IRS didn’t shape up, he’d hire Canadians to do their jobs.

Another recent headline was about another comment from the Prime Minister.  I’ve never seen, let alone met, the man but based on speeches I’ve heard him make, he’s a pip.  In this speech he requested that members of Parliament not show up drunk for sessions.

There are more.  Check out the website for the Samoan Observer.  Like I said, I couldn’t make this stuff up.

Full Moon?

I haven’t been outside at night lately.  Is there a full moon?  It seems like it, based on my day today.

The day started at 5:44 a.m. when I heard Lionel Ritchey singing.  Apparently one of my brothers needed to use the facilities and didn’t want to be alone.  I was up for the day.

My school day started with 26 children being beaten by two male teachers.  They were being punished for not coming to school last week.  Most of last week was spent having the children landscape and clean.  I did not witness the beatings but was in assembly when the perps were pulled aside and told to stay behind so they could be hit.  Two of the boys in Year 7 came into class holding what would soon be bruises and crying.   Not a great way to start off our first class together since the break started five weeks ago.

In that class I noticed that the kids were different.  The Year 7 class has 42 students so was divided into two classes.  Initially the division was based on alphabetical order.  I talked to the two Year 7 teachers I work with and we agreed it would be good to divide the classes by ability, instead.  It worked great last term.  One group of 21 was advanced and doing the same work in English as Year 8.  The other group was slower and doing the same work as Year 3.

Today, they’d been switched back.  I asked my boss why, wondering why we were doing things the hard way, which is a disservice to both the advanced and slower kids.  I didn’t tell him that, I just asked why.  It seems that because the classes were originally divided alphabetically and that’s what’s been handwritten in ink in the formal roll call book, they must stay that way.  It makes zero sense to me and I’m hoping we can still change it.  All three of us involved in teaching those two classes are in agreement it worked much better the other way.

After school, I realized the kid who is in charge of locking the Year 8 room had locked it with my purse inside.  The key to my house was in my purse.  The kid had gone home.  I asked some of the teachers about it and they were not particularly concerned because they were trying to figure out who had and hadn’t signed out in the sign in book.  It has come to our attention that we have been lax in signing in and out and must be more diligent.  We will have to pay a $1 fine if we do not do it both morning and afternoon.  I admit, I always signed out the following morning, since I have the key to the room where the book is kept and no one saw it before I’d signed out.  That is no longer allowed.

Anyway, people were in such a tizzy about the sign in book they didn’t seem to grasp the problem I had if I couldn’t get my key.  Until I started yelling and threatened to sleep at another teacher’s house, which got their attention.  The one person who had a ride picking her up had the driver take her up the road to the kid’s house and they brought back both the kid and the key.  Life was good again.  And, everyone signed out but I’m not happy with the new routine because it means I have to wait for every teacher to wander upstairs (and they don’t like to climb stairs) to sign out so that I can lock the room.  It is my job.  I plan to tell them tomorrow that when the last bell is rung they have five minutes and then I’m locking the room.  They should sign out first, then grade papers or whatever.

While all of this was going on, I was trying to give away a plastic container of leftover spaghetti.  I’d brought it for tea, but because two teachers had returned from maternity/sick leave they brought snacks.  Butter and cracker sandwiches, masa Sieni, which is thick, dry crackers made with a layer of soy sauce in the middle (sounds yummy doesn’t it?) and donuts.  I considered it a meal but knew that Samoans were on their way home for lunch.

There was no interest in my palagi spaghetti.  I’m guessing they have never seen anything but canned spaghetti.  What I had wasn’t my best, a bit sweet because of the Kiwi tomato sauce, but was decent.  The palagis ate it happily Saturday night.  Even the kids turned up their noses and they’re kind of like junk yard dogs and will eat anything.  I took it home and gave it to my brother.  I told him if he didn’t like it he could feed it to the pigs.  Later I asked if he liked it.  “Well, I ate it because I knew it was healthy but I didn’t really like it.  I let my brothers and sisters taste it and they didn’t like it.  They said it was too bland.”

Really?  Bland????  It had beaucoup spices.  Garlic.  Onions.  It was a savory sensation.  Bland????  Not salty enough or sweet enough, according to my brother.  This assessment from a family who happily devours plain, boiled bananas.  Talk about bland.

After the spaghetti fiasco, my brother explained he was very tired of babysitting.  “I couldn’t sleep all day!” he complained.  “Really?  Me either and I’m 44 years older than you.”

He then went on to explain that we had no power but he was hopeful it would be on again soon.  This has happened a few times recently because the family forgets to buy Cash Power.  You have to buy credit in advance for electricity.  When the credit runs out, so does your power.  If it happens on a Saturday afternoon you will have no power until places open on Monday morning.  Swell system.

The power came on a few hours later, just after most of the meat in my freezer thawed.  That’s ok, though, because I didn’t have a lot.  Since the same thing happened recently, I haven’t had time to restock.  Yes, I’ll be eating the frozen, thawed, frozen meat.  I can’t afford to keep throwing meat out and buying more.

I’d forgotten to buy toilet paper at my last trip to the store so headed to Tuisivi.  One of my kids was on the bus, on his way to sell Koko Samoa outside the store.  I bought some from him to take to the teachers.  That made him very happy.

I went across the street from the store where one group of women sells fish and another group sells ufi (like a giant taro) cooked in coconut cream and a few vegetables.  I bought alili from the fish ladies.  It’s a tasty shellfish and I figured I’d either have it for dinner or give it to my family if they wanted it.  They did.

I bought my t.p. and a few other items and waited about 30 minutes for a bus.  When I got home I dumped my groceries then talked to a friend in the States for an hour.  For only $5 USD.  Way to go Blue Sky!  Afterwards I stopped to chat with my host mom, who was holding Julius, my 7 month old crush.  While we were talking I noticed two roosters fighting.

Have you ever seen a cock fight, up close and personal?  It is not a pretty thing.  They were trying to kill each other.  I saw every bloody detail because, inexplicably, one of the roosters ran for me and was standing under my skirt as the fight continued.  I never believed I’d have a reason to say “I have two cocks under my skirt.”  But, I did.  My mother called one of the boys over, who grabbed the younger rooster by the neck.  She said “Kill him.  We’ll have him for dinner.”

The other rooster is Koki.  He was raised by hand by the family.  He’s over 13 years old now.  He slept on their pillows with them and ate from their plates as a chick.  He’s not afraid of people and now that he’s a senior citizen, he runs to people for protection when attacked by a younger rooster.  That explains him taking refuge under my skirt.  The younger rooster became dinner because he did not show Koki the respect he deserved, as an elder.  They consider Koki a poultry Matai.

I’m checking the moon tonight.  I bet it’s full.