tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32621401473614952722024-03-12T22:09:41.786-07:00Live in the Sunshine, Swim in the Sea, Drink the Wild Air: Surviving SamoaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-89124256492434599032013-11-17T08:52:00.002-08:002013-11-17T08:57:42.504-08:00They say you can't do it, but I did it. I went home again. Twice. <span class="usercontent">
</span><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">A hot cup of apple cider. A white afghan. Blueberry muffins
just out of the oven. These are the things that surround me as I write.</span></span><br />
<span class="usercontent"><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">A year ago at this moment, I was sleeping in my American bed
for the first time in quite some time. My time in the Peace Corps came to end
an exactly one year ago. However, my time in Samoa did not. Oh that’s right,
dear reader, I went back. Back to the place that haunted my dreams. The best
thing that came from going back? Closure. Closure that wouldn’t have come
without it.
<br />
<br />
When I realized it had almost been a year, I couldn’t help
but think of what I was doing last year. Who I was with. What I had already
done. And who had already left my life. How it all actually feels so distant.
<br />
<br />
I couldn’t help but read some of my blogs from that last
year. I couldn’t help but see how confused I was about who I was. A year later,
I again have found myself. And once again, I feel like a year has changed who I
am.
<br />
<br />
</span></span><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">This is the first thing I wrote in my journal when I went back to Samoa
last June: "Third day in Samoa and I don't know how I'll be able to go
home again. My heart is so full. It feels like I could have just been here last
weekend and simultaneously I know I might never come back. This might be the
most bittersweet moment of my life. This place is my home. It's like all of
this isn't real; like it's just another one of my dreams, but it's also like,
'Of course you're here. You never really left. Everything in between was the
dream.' And maybe that's the truth."<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">
<br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">In the year in between I was accepted to a few grad school programs and
decided to go to American University in Washington, DC, for International Peace
and Conflict Resolution. However, with things as they stood in July, there was
no way I could financially make grad school happen this year. So I deferred my
admission and will begin grad school next year. It’s nice to cool my jets for
the first time in my life. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
<br />
</span></span><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I worked a year of odd jobs. I answered angry calls from angry people in a
call center. I changed poopy diapers on poopy toddlers at a daycare. And fell
in love with some of those little boogers in the process. I worked a second job
as a cashier in the town I grew up in. (Who knew my local celebrity status
wouldn’t change so much after leaving Samoa?) And now, a year later, I’m a
reporter. So finally, writing is my career and I’m learning all the time. For
the first time in my life, I have a big girl job. Not even a job, but a career.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">
<br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">If I hadn’t gone back to Samoa in June, it would have always been on my
mind. A dream that seemed too far in the future. But going back allows you to
move on. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
<br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Moving backward to move forward. <o:p></o:p></span></span>
</span></span><br />
<span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span class="usercontent"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">And now all that’s ahead of me is the future. </span></span><span class="ufiblingboxtimeline"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes?id=756976955480" title="See who likes this"></a></span></span>
</span> </span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-35749133813843786482013-01-10T13:52:00.003-08:002013-01-10T21:11:02.474-08:00Never-Forgotten GoodbyesNot everything can be documented with a picture. There are
two goodbyes I had in Samoa that fit that description. The first was with one
of my students, Josephine. After my last day at school, she, Toto’a and Ina
came over to my house to kafao (hang out). We chilled in my kitchen, watched a
short movie, looked at pictures on my camera, and talked a little. Eventually,
the girls gave me their last hugs and went home. However, every time Josephine
left, she’d come back for another goodbye. I’m not going to hide it, Josephine
was my favorite. She came back because her mom told her to come back “because
it’s the last time I’ll see you.” Here she started crying a little bit. So I
let her help me pack some of my stuff and I, of course, let her have a bag-full
of things. We said goodbye again, and she came back again. This time her face
was red and her eyes were full of tears. “I can’t say goodbye because I’ll
never see you again.” I knelt down and gave her a hug. I started tearing up
too. I wrote her a short note. It said that I had to write it because otherwise
I would start crying. It also said that she was my best friend in Falefa. Maybe
that’s sad for a twenty-five year old’s best friend to be a thirteen year old
girl, but she was and I’m not embarrassed by that. I gave her the letter and we
both cried and hugged. She went home, came back again. She said her parents
wanted me to come over for dinner. That was an invitation I shouldn’t have
declined, but I did, mostly because I felt we’d already said our goodbye and I
couldn’t do it again. Josephine went home again, and came back again, this time
with other students to say goodbye. Eventually I told her she could come back
tomorrow, but that it was late and she should go home. That was the hardest
goodbye I had while in Samoa. I miss a lot of people now, but that goodbye was
tough. It’s even harder to think about now because of what happened the next
day. Josephine came over the next day to spend time with me, but I needed to
work on things that she couldn’t help with, I had things going on with my host
family, and I honestly didn’t want to have to say goodbye to her again.
Eventually, after trying to explain that she couldn’t help me, that I wasn’t
packing anymore, I raised my voice and just told her to go home. It makes me
sad even thinking about this now and I’m ashamed that I couldn’t just go
outside and hug her one last time. I hope she doesn’t hate me for this.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
A few days later I was headed out to Taufua for what would
be my last few days in paradise. I took the bus from Apia, which meant I would
be going through Falefa one last time. The bus stopped three times in Falefa
and each time students saw me in the window and ran up to the bus to talk to
me. I loved this! Toward the end of my village two students got on the bus to
go visit family out near Taufua. Palepa saw me and pushed her way through the
standing passengers to get back to me so she could sit on my lap. It was fun to
talk to her and to see her make fun of men who were looking at me. Eventually
she and her brother Saumani got off the bus. Saumani hadn’t seen me yet, but
Palepa jumped up and down and made sure he saw me before the bus went on its
way. When we all left Taufua a few days later, our cab didn’t go through
Falefa, which really disappointed me since I wanted to see it one last time.
But I am so glad that my last moment in Falefa was my students running up to
the bus window to talk to me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
I am dying to go back to Samoa. That adventure was the most
amazing thing of my life. It’s really hard to not live that life anymore. If I
went back, I don’t know if I could say goodbye all over again. Misia oe Samoa! <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-1898043303723839712013-01-10T13:27:00.002-08:002013-01-10T13:29:06.137-08:00When Do You Take a Stand?When a boy comes to school with a black eye and a cut on his
cheek, what would you, as a teacher, do? When a man is physically assaulting
his wife outside of a night club, what would you, as a bystander, do? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
These are two situations I found myself in while in Samoa.
I’ll say it again: Samoa tested everything I had in me. Sometimes I acted
nobly, like when I stepped between that drunken man and his wife and tried to
get her in a cab. Other times, I listened to the powers that be, and did
nothing, like when one of my students came to school with bruises from his
father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snap decisions one makes in
these situations cannot be controlled by society; it is completely up to the
person in that moment. I can’t say how I acted in these situations was the
smart thing to do or the right thing, but I would like to offer them for you to
think about what you would do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>(Also, these situations should in no way be taken to
represent Samoa as a whole.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Outside of Club X can be quite the drunken scene late on a
Friday or Saturday night. Well, on one of these nights, I decided, for better
or worse, to wait for a friend outside the club. This one hour was quite
eventful. I decided not to stand by my friend Sio, the bouncer, but to stand
over to the side. This resulted in my getting harassed, which wasn’t unusual in
Samoa. What was unusual was that I stopped holding my tongue. As readers of my
blog know, corporal punishment is widely practiced in Samoa and Peace Corps’
response (unofficial and not worldwide, I’m sure) is to ‘lead by example,’
meaning we shouldn’t tell teachers or parents that beating kids is wrong, but
that we should just not hit kids ourselves, and hopefully, through some sort of
passive magic, people would do the same. I hope you too, reader, see the fault
in that logic. Anyway, after nearly two years of rarely addressing corporal punishment
directly (such as when I told one of my teachers not to hit kids with a stick
or lecturing some of my students about why I don’t hit them) I was tired of
ignoring these types of things. Well, standing alone outside of a club:
probably not the best decision anywhere in the world. However, I felt like I
could handle it. Besides, Sio was mere feet away. That did not stop one Samoan
man from rolling a large rock at me to get my attention. Of course, after this
he proceeded to harass me with catcalls. Another man saw what was going on and
came over to talk to me. He was very polite. “Please, I know you’re a
volunteer. Please forgive him. Don’t go back to your country with bad feelings
about Samoa. Please forgive him.” My response was that I shouldn’t have to
forgive a man for hitting me with a rock and sexually harassing me. He should
learn to be respectful in the first place and forgiveness wouldn’t be necessary.
This man, as good as his intentions probably were, wouldn’t leave me alone
after that. He went on to quote Martin Luther King, which was comical when I
asked him if he knew who King was. “I know he was African American.” But that
was all. Finally, I was left alone to stand in “peace.” However, my moment of
solitude was swept away when I noticed an older man harassing his younger wife.
He was yelling at her, pushing her, grabbing her. He tore the strap on her
dress leaving one of her breasts hanging out briefly before she realized her
dress was ruined. I watched while no one did anything. Ahem, Sio, isn’t it your
job to get that under control? As the man continued to abuse his wife, I
couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I walked up to him. “Hey! Hey! Stop.” I put
myself between him and his wife and tried to tell him, in Samoan, to stop. I
said, “Is this how Samoan men treat their women?” “Yes!” the wife firmly
replied. Once I stepped in, it got the attention of other bystanders and some
white guys even stepped in and starting speaking to the man in Samoan too. This
gave me the opportunity to put my arm around the woman, flag down a cab, and
try to get her away from him. “Are you OK to go home? You know where you’re
going? OK, I’m putting you in this cab and you’re going home without him.”
After the door opened, though, her husband was right there. Sio, finally taking
action himself, came over and pulled me away from them. “Sam, let it be. They
always fight like this.” A US Navy man from Columbia who had talked to me
earlier in the night came over too. “You need to be careful! If he had hit you,
I would have had to hit him.” Shortly after, the man and his wife, meekly
trying to keep her dress up with the broken strap, go into the club. I was
visibly upset by all this. Sio came over to try to console me. “I’m sorry Sam.
I know this doesn’t happen in America.” “No, it happens there too. But I
wouldn’t have had to stop it. Somebody else would have stepped in too.” After
that moment of excitement I walked back to the same spot I was standing before.
And again, my presence drew a lot of attention. Eventually another man came
over to ask if I was OK. Samoa has this saying about sisters being the pearl in
their brothers’ eye. This man told me that and said, “Don’t take this the wrong
way. But you’re my sister right now and so I’m going to stay here to make sure
no one bothers you.” Which he did. He told me I just shouldn’t stand where I
was standing. “But is it really a matter of where I’m standing? Don’t I have a
right to stand wherever I want?” Eventually he was going to leave, but Sio had
gone inside and since he seemed to be the only other person who would protect
me if need be, I asked this man to wait at least until Sio came back so no one
else would bother me. When Sio came back, he told me to go sit with Sio.
Finally I listened. It was a night of standing up for others and having others
stand up for me. I can’t say I tried to help that woman because I thought it
was the right thing to do. I just knew that nobody else was helping, so I had
too. I also thought that since I was a young white girl that the man would
stop, out of shame or who knows. That was probably stupid; I could have taken a
punch. But that didn’t cross my mind at all. But I ask, why was my involvement
in that situation the only thing that got anyone else involved?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p>Club X was the scene of a lot of drama. Don’t get me wrong;
I love that place. This blog is not meant to glorify my actions; it’s also to
say thanks to people who helped me. Another night outside of Club X I was
extremely upset and crying, about what is no longer important. Who knows what I
looked like or what people thought, but one woman came over to me to console me
and to make sure I was alright. She stood with me for a while until other
people I knew came over to me. There’s nothing wrong with asking if someone is
OK when you see that they are visibly upset. Sometime just seeing that another
person, whether or not you even know them, is helpful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
What do you do when a student comes to school with a black
eye and a swollen face? I asked my other students what happened. “His dad hit
him.” Later in the day I found out that not only did his father beat him, but
that he used a thick stick to do it, a stick that the Samoan teachers and students
cringed to hear was used. This was one of those situations where Peace Corps
instructed us to stay out of it, for our own safety. But even back home, you do
something about this. I didn’t know what to do, so I asked our Peace Corps
nurse. She told me, of course, to stay out of it, but to keep an eye on the
situation. My getting involved could make the situation worse. She also said to
talk to my principal about doing something. I didn’t have to. Mesepa publicly
asked the boy what happened. When he mentioned the stick, the students gasped.
Mesepa said if it ever happened again, she would report the boy’s father to
Samoa Victim Support and he would go to jail. Good for Mesepa; I have no doubt
that she would do this since she reported a student’s family member the year
before for sexual abuse. However, why wait until the next time for the boy to
get beaten before doing anything? That being said, why didn’t I just report him
to Victim Support? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p>Around </o:p>the same time this happened, one of my best students
came to me during morning assembly when all the students are outside marching
and praying. She had been sweeping the cement floor, so she sort of had a pass.
She came to me to tell me she might not be in school next term. She started
crying. “My parents were fighting last night and my dad kicked my mom out of
the house. We might move to Savaii after this term.” Samoan students never cry
to their teachers about things like this. I was honored in a way that she felt
comfortable enough to come to me with this. I told her that parents fight
sometimes; all parents. “I bet after a few days your mom and dad will miss each
other and you’ll go back to your house and it will be OK. Maybe you’ll go to
Savaii for a while too, but I think you’ll be here for school next term.” I
tried to console her the best I could. She said her dad was really drunk. I
guess I didn’t really know what to say. Her and her mom did move back to their
house and she finished the school year at Falefa. However, a week later, some
of the students came to me with reports that other students were drinking
behind the school that morning. I did some detective work to find out who it
was and what they were drinking. Apparently it was two year-eight boys who were
notorious troublemakers and my year-seven girl who had cried to me a week
earlier. I called them in to talk to me too. Eventually they all lowered their
eyes and nodded that yes, they were drinking. Unfortunately, my Samoan wasn’t
good enough to give them a proper talking to, so I told Mesepa about what had happened.
And luckily, that year-seven girl had good enough English that I could talk to
her about why she shouldn’t drink. Two weeks later she was one of the five
students I brought to Girls Leading Our World. Moral of the story: parents,
don’t think your kids don’t see what you do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
For some reason, I have this notion that my presence alone
can deflect problem situations. I was like this as a kid too. There was a night
in Samoa when I was at a neighbor’s house vising the mother and kids. The father
came home drunk, more drunk than I’d ever seen him. He started verbally
harassing the mother and even asked if I knew if she’d been visiting any other
men that day. He started putting lotion on his hands and then rubbed some on
his kids’ arms. My thought here was, “He better not touch me with that.” He
did. I pulled away and said, “Don’t touch me.” He backed off. Even though I
knew I shouldn’t be there, I stuck around, worried that if I left that the kids
might be in danger. I wanted to stay either until the kids went to bed or he
went to bed. After maybe forty-five minutes more, it was clear that nobody felt
like sleeping and the thought that my safety might be in danger wouldn’t leave
my head, so I left their house. After that night I decided not to put myself in
situations like that one anymore. I didn’t want to be the Peace Corps volunteer
you hear about that gets kidnapped, or raped. My safety would come first. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Again, I want to say that these vignettes in no way stand
for all of Samoa. As a matter of fact, one of the most physically imposing
moments I encountered with a drunk male was with a tourist from New Zealand.
After successfully welcoming the new group of volunteers with a fiafia party,
we took them out to a nearby bar. Here, we all quickly realized there were two drunken
New Zealanders who had had way more to drink than anyone else. Eventually one
of these guys made his way into our group. He stood next to me and towered over
me. I turned to him. “You need to get out of my space. You’re in my space and
you need to go stand somewhere else. See, we’re all in a group here and you’re
kind of ruining it.” He backed off. Kiri, one of the new girls said, “That was
better than any skit we could have had in training.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When a girl on a bus is being verbally harassed by another
drunk passenger, what would you do? When your teacher is being embarrassed by a
drunk man, what would you do? What if you are that girl and you are that
teacher? And no one stands up for you?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yes, you need to pick your battles. I think I tried to point
that out with the previous stories. But what about when you’re on a bus and a
girl, your Peace Corps volunteer, is being harassed by drunk men? Well, no one
ever stood up for me in these moments and it would have been really nice if
someone had. There was one time when I was the last person to get on a packed
bus. A drunk old man sat across from me, near the bus driver. He even had a
bottle of vodka in hand. “You’re pretty.” He wasn’t speaking quietly, and other
people were even giggling. I just nodded and tried to focus elsewhere. “Pisikoa
oe?” (“You’re a Peace Corps volunteer?”) “I love you. Nice body.” More giggles.
Then when he realized I was ignoring him, he became more vocal. “Hey! Palagi!”
His calls subsided for a while. But eventually he remembered I was there. He
yelled at the top of his lungs, “Palagi! I love you!” Embarrassing as this was,
and disrespectful too, no one said anything to him. On a different bus once I
sat toward the back of the bus because a man got up to give me his seat. I
usually never sat near the back of the bus because usually it was full of men
and it was kind of like Peace Corps Samoa 101 to not, as a female, sit in the
back of the bus. But this time I did. It resulted in me being harassed by yet another
drunken man. It started with just him asking if I was OK, but the more this
questioned is asked, the more annoyed you get with it. I just kept saying,
“Yes, I’m fine.” He escalated, eventually trying to grab me, and making kissing
noises toward me. Two of my students were in the seat across from me, which
only made me more embarrassed. This guy was relentless though, and I eventually
said, “You are being really disrespectful now and you need to stop.” A friend
of mine from the village was standing next to me and wrote me messages on his
phone, “Sorry about that guy. U OK?” After I again told the drunken man he
needed to stop, he pretended to cry, which got a loud laugh from everyone on
the bus. Only when he started grabbing another woman’s arm, did anyone finally
say anything. She told him to stop too. But that was it. No one told him to
leave me alone or be more respectful, which was really disappointing to me
since it was one of my village busses and people knew who I was. And I was
being disrespected in front of a few of my students. Maybe that’s why I was
more vocal with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The point of this post is in no way to make Samoa or its
people look bad. I would go back to Samoa tomorrow if I could. The point is to
make you think about what you would do in a situation where a young girl is
being harassed, or someone who doesn’t look like you, who isn’t “from around
here” is visibly upset. Do you stand up for them? Ask if they’re ok, if they
need help? Do you put your safety first? And when should you do that? Or do you
turn a blind eye of purposeful ignorance? <o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-37154948329288630412012-12-19T13:04:00.003-08:002012-12-19T13:54:03.745-08:00Breaking Up with Evan<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
On September 29, 2009, Samoa was devastated
by a tsunami that killed many. On December 13, 2012, Samoa was rocked by
Hurricane Evan which has killed three and left eight more missing. I moved to
Samoa in October of 2010, a year after the tsunami. I left Samoa on November
17, 2012, almost a month to the day before my very own beachfront fale was
damaged by Evan. I escaped both Samoan tragedies unscathed. However, it seems I
may have left my heart in that eternal Samoan summer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since I’ve
returned to Minnesota I’ve done a little research about the tsunami that hit
the south side of Upolu. Little did I know the damage it caused. I didn’t know
how many people (including tourists vacationing in paradise) were killed. I
didn’t know that one of my closest friends, Tele, saved a woman’s life or that
he almost died himself. I didn’t know that one of my favorite places in the
world, Taufua Beach Fales, was literally washed away. Then just a few weeks
after I said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tofa soifua</i> to Samoa,
nature decided to hit Samoa again. This post is about what it’s like to not be
where you want to be, to not be with people you care about, to check Facebook
too many times a day for updates, pictures, anything letting you know that your
November goodbye wasn’t officially the last goodbye you would ever have with
that place and those people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Un-eloquently,
it’s hard to be here and not there. Readjustment is hard. Being in cold, boring
Minnesota is hard. Give me hot, boring, everyday Samoa. That boredom now doesn’t
seem so boring. There was something about the adventure that was the Peace
Corps that I miss every day. I see group 84’s (the newest group of Peace Corps
volunteers) pictures online and I’m jealous. I’m jealous that they are just
starting this adventure and that my life is utterly unexciting now with no
solid plans for the future and the feeling that I’m not living a life anymore,
the feeling that I’m just biding my time. The feeling that I’m not doing
anything with my life anymore. It’s tough and I’m sure it’s what a lot of
Returned Peace Corps volunteers feel. Perhaps my feelings are all the more
poignant because I evolved from being a person who hated Samoa to someone who
just wants to get back there. I think my fellow volunteers and some close
friends back home who kept in touch over the last two years would be surprised
about my feelings. Even as of last September I was still pondering whether or
not going to Samoa might have been the worst decision I ever made. It wasn’t. I
can say that now with 95% certainty. With all the drama, pain, and tears I
experienced, I wouldn’t trade it for a happier, vanilla experience. Pieces of
my heart still seem to be scattered throughout Samoa. Thankfully, those places
and those people all seem to have fared well throughout Cyclone Evan. Everyone
is alive, even though it seems that every fale has been damaged (including my
own). <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Moving on
and readjustment will happen once I’m finally distracted again by my own life. After
washing my clothes in my Samoan host family’s washing machine, I would hang up
my laundry on my clothesline mere feet from the South Pacific. Leaving Samoa is
sort of like breaking up with someone. Cheesy, right? But true. These next few
lines from a break-up poem fit so poignantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I give up my clothes which are walls that
blow in the wind<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I give up the ghost that lives
in them.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 3.75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mark
Strand, “Giving Myself Up<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Evan, you did not make the ‘moving-on’ process any easier. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most of the
following pictures come from Seti Afoa’s Facebook page, a man who has done an
incredible job keeping Samoans abroad updated through photos. And yes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ou a’u teine Samoa taimi nei. </i>(I am a
Samoan girl now.) You can’t live in a place for two years and experience some
of the most extreme emotions without becoming attached to a place. A few photos I took myself. Other photos
come from everyone’s friend, Google. <br />
<br />
This is a link to a video taken by Kyle Kincaid, an RPCV currently living in Samoa. His village was Sauano, just up the mountian past Falefa. The video starts about 1/4 of the way into Falefa and goes over the bridge at Falefa Falls. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajFOaLuoeB0">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajFOaLuoeB0</a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXW3IEKkSDIDwiZ1vjWx5vTbL1t4q__t0edKch86roT8mOm9GLFtTRNZj-5Ta-bLuQoJVQ69_07nQ7an8mQG06MF_aj-NnVHBuQq8CnSgpxxKx3_QCBHYnlCqFksCr-cuo19hCNx9pbMw/s1600/6.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXW3IEKkSDIDwiZ1vjWx5vTbL1t4q__t0edKch86roT8mOm9GLFtTRNZj-5Ta-bLuQoJVQ69_07nQ7an8mQG06MF_aj-NnVHBuQq8CnSgpxxKx3_QCBHYnlCqFksCr-cuo19hCNx9pbMw/s320/6.2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Apia from Central Bank--Before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81KJiMGA8AVy4wdcwCNBHHnHSmVpwsLaCoIa-fWTwUZxk6-kqi36E9x6I5ONAS_96f7ItY4WidtRLinDA8IVnCnVm37PYFgQy7o9HTjerClEDglOoYjdTVbhpqMt4NvUvN1fWSF_pvIo/s1600/8+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81KJiMGA8AVy4wdcwCNBHHnHSmVpwsLaCoIa-fWTwUZxk6-kqi36E9x6I5ONAS_96f7ItY4WidtRLinDA8IVnCnVm37PYFgQy7o9HTjerClEDglOoYjdTVbhpqMt4NvUvN1fWSF_pvIo/s320/8+.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After--The pulu trees in front of Central Bank</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5xqF0FXQitODs3XoIvlSjYXMSvpFTOno2MML1vZtBsYBrQVP4gFP_oudmu7jf3YL8d2yJ9eE86W8Y5GN7vOMG8L25y39NdHlxD5jBzQTJt7Vp6BCSN8V_hFerDfsiJ7ufoNGO7dxlKI/s1600/9.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5xqF0FXQitODs3XoIvlSjYXMSvpFTOno2MML1vZtBsYBrQVP4gFP_oudmu7jf3YL8d2yJ9eE86W8Y5GN7vOMG8L25y39NdHlxD5jBzQTJt7Vp6BCSN8V_hFerDfsiJ7ufoNGO7dxlKI/s320/9.01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Central Bank</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAeeXNYX3bctS9Or5PNzFSTuHa2KSDzP_ALDJ95nQyfD7sqKEY-3fPew4owuE4ZNd6WjIHK1oWQagTgjIiaP76BJ5Ti1l4euFDzhZ3G6x5h4FZX4yqvV4sWtOMVawQaw9Twa5sjiJYO4/s1600/20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAeeXNYX3bctS9Or5PNzFSTuHa2KSDzP_ALDJ95nQyfD7sqKEY-3fPew4owuE4ZNd6WjIHK1oWQagTgjIiaP76BJ5Ti1l4euFDzhZ3G6x5h4FZX4yqvV4sWtOMVawQaw9Twa5sjiJYO4/s320/20.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridge near the Peace Corps office and Aggie Grey's Hotel<br />
Log Jam from the River<br />
This river is the reason for the deaths</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPptBaPIL8iR2YhskWtmgmiMTbU4c2Vx3q9bhazmvm7hlAZ-g1_dcWYtMr9b9beFbWZYg7zRch3WKAorvJq_WwuMnfV2xE1VI33miVlnAZF-Ypjdw1uzwCFE8S4tWbTg_25lihtcNNp0/s1600/25.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPptBaPIL8iR2YhskWtmgmiMTbU4c2Vx3q9bhazmvm7hlAZ-g1_dcWYtMr9b9beFbWZYg7zRch3WKAorvJq_WwuMnfV2xE1VI33miVlnAZF-Ypjdw1uzwCFE8S4tWbTg_25lihtcNNp0/s320/25.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burst it's Banks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMyliOfjWUSRfme2nqpiTJ-t_6g_TWzUmBha0lP3_3dDq3gAngzA0U1maPRloH6BxPeAryl15J-U4CGKZ0xsH3G3b-fpkdbaVg8VJAu3PCpMmUGcwW-EWon6Pzoik74-5QbLjYNXLpAs/s1600/25.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMyliOfjWUSRfme2nqpiTJ-t_6g_TWzUmBha0lP3_3dDq3gAngzA0U1maPRloH6BxPeAryl15J-U4CGKZ0xsH3G3b-fpkdbaVg8VJAu3PCpMmUGcwW-EWon6Pzoik74-5QbLjYNXLpAs/s320/25.2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The same river as seen from Pasefika Inn--Before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Lcv2jn9q9Ihx_8g87N5Oi8ir9oxpgKk1ve3_uAeYZNj3aJPLzH7H5FxkSsUTsz7UHlFzrTxlMbvdJYSS1CRr4D5akxH5wWYFVwrwOyQcPRaZeFPYux3FVvEzjogt_uCHqCQDb6Q5oHk/s1600/26.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Lcv2jn9q9Ihx_8g87N5Oi8ir9oxpgKk1ve3_uAeYZNj3aJPLzH7H5FxkSsUTsz7UHlFzrTxlMbvdJYSS1CRr4D5akxH5wWYFVwrwOyQcPRaZeFPYux3FVvEzjogt_uCHqCQDb6Q5oHk/s320/26.1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pool behind Pasefika Inn--Before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPQvkYnGP3X3rw88aTfb2j8Zs3p8JCXxWLcz9PJqv0JB03bp_aQLGIPe0okz0Dr9AMoDzdTnLS6KuiwNkkloYIAUMNvlK02sKBo4148GgZjnu5B6ChCWsVvxLRAsm74skVt_yow87gig/s1600/26+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPQvkYnGP3X3rw88aTfb2j8Zs3p8JCXxWLcz9PJqv0JB03bp_aQLGIPe0okz0Dr9AMoDzdTnLS6KuiwNkkloYIAUMNvlK02sKBo4148GgZjnu5B6ChCWsVvxLRAsm74skVt_yow87gig/s320/26+.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDqRtjHJbDvW_924YZ1eYn38TJoyoM5BeOv16tlFa1NRJTfUiYQkS47Kev8kvEgs5cSYwGKq5LI-PAFhXsh8m6hg_R-9uMx3LX3sIpbRAPsrTsZyL2-o3MK6WtUJ-kTbwJeX3iaJvsyE/s1600/26.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUDqRtjHJbDvW_924YZ1eYn38TJoyoM5BeOv16tlFa1NRJTfUiYQkS47Kev8kvEgs5cSYwGKq5LI-PAFhXsh8m6hg_R-9uMx3LX3sIpbRAPsrTsZyL2-o3MK6WtUJ-kTbwJeX3iaJvsyE/s320/26.3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the Flood Drained</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGYTYbiucSckcivT9ZA08-_DvH-ptPZJGKf33BUnt7QCgHMPp2MjHffpaGP9iuDzThpL0708sha7EVgW08wYEYoyXatFNY2dozQqtsVcvdoOEIvtzkp7VNBbhFDV2bBEg_RLfLnZ92rQ/s1600/27.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGYTYbiucSckcivT9ZA08-_DvH-ptPZJGKf33BUnt7QCgHMPp2MjHffpaGP9iuDzThpL0708sha7EVgW08wYEYoyXatFNY2dozQqtsVcvdoOEIvtzkp7VNBbhFDV2bBEg_RLfLnZ92rQ/s320/27.3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pasefika Inn and the Peace Corps Office next to KK Mart--Before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpT8tgJ8edg5HTYJ4lj9h9ahHSXbuP1N3HC2cikVC-2QNNCjiu96asZerjV3mj5KMRjsdRcnOf_d6fSR58zdO1wdC8TMRrZH7otIdtmYsu3huInx6t7BNFCTQqXpFOsxn6LeBuverkrU/s1600/27.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpT8tgJ8edg5HTYJ4lj9h9ahHSXbuP1N3HC2cikVC-2QNNCjiu96asZerjV3mj5KMRjsdRcnOf_d6fSR58zdO1wdC8TMRrZH7otIdtmYsu3huInx6t7BNFCTQqXpFOsxn6LeBuverkrU/s320/27.2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleaning Up--After</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWp-NMo3JujNpfzjqOCD8d32F4aSrw0IrqGaFIzuQAzm0Er893kOV0OmyCs120dx7juHUG84Cv6JCprQTkCKt4jOmnXqML2-T7fQQGgFpVoF9b0MqQLMCNKsEB3_IlsHG9AKZw0VZN9rM/s1600/27.7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWp-NMo3JujNpfzjqOCD8d32F4aSrw0IrqGaFIzuQAzm0Er893kOV0OmyCs120dx7juHUG84Cv6JCprQTkCKt4jOmnXqML2-T7fQQGgFpVoF9b0MqQLMCNKsEB3_IlsHG9AKZw0VZN9rM/s320/27.7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleaning Out the Peace Corps Office</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDo8O6ZmrpfX7RgdxDIedL49hrUu3PfdgVIuJ8-TkWfEOb57vOAZv-Fyp74VqBBOwuP3G9Qwo2awElRKXedJzCI0VqrqZvqeN69M-h9sYoWtJPqgPDFevbp6U1TCg_fiA67KQsbIaIt20/s1600/36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDo8O6ZmrpfX7RgdxDIedL49hrUu3PfdgVIuJ8-TkWfEOb57vOAZv-Fyp74VqBBOwuP3G9Qwo2awElRKXedJzCI0VqrqZvqeN69M-h9sYoWtJPqgPDFevbp6U1TCg_fiA67KQsbIaIt20/s320/36.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The following pictures effectively create a map to my village of Falefa<br />
This picture comes from Lauli'i</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wssQZQ4NbIgXIWySrgaF6fUXIHGwcOHT8EIBc1PLXLXinx7qXusm6aXQHcb-1JsDL3ckHFl8ckg26KaesvV6Zgo3IYbt5ZqSQ_lXfKVd7tuuCcX2vtvBHDAf3LIrVIQlY5WIRLB02bo/s1600/38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wssQZQ4NbIgXIWySrgaF6fUXIHGwcOHT8EIBc1PLXLXinx7qXusm6aXQHcb-1JsDL3ckHFl8ckg26KaesvV6Zgo3IYbt5ZqSQ_lXfKVd7tuuCcX2vtvBHDAf3LIrVIQlY5WIRLB02bo/s320/38.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cone marking a downed power line</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKAK6XNI_DcUGaNLoXmiV_nhjk6KE1n7X9p8VyXE8JvAQBStopSKHw0Lqi7RkijZAZiorth1H536scznUH5cnMXKlOV0iDZlaP_hF8Zhp7UDw0vTUipLxUNDYWthC8qnjMIJ8J-zyr2oM/s1600/39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKAK6XNI_DcUGaNLoXmiV_nhjk6KE1n7X9p8VyXE8JvAQBStopSKHw0Lqi7RkijZAZiorth1H536scznUH5cnMXKlOV0iDZlaP_hF8Zhp7UDw0vTUipLxUNDYWthC8qnjMIJ8J-zyr2oM/s320/39.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ingenious use of hubcaps (Hubcaps?)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkpESY9uQJseVg_ej7eG5MQ7vNG4K06hWGVwEMtZPNnmsZ91TRJ_TaUzehvUYS_8kI1u2Vffyl-njC-qMy6oU8Fnb14r25nXbVyutrD_tc1gSEadgRBp9EZN4BeGJE62iyOmuuJG0oyM/s1600/42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkpESY9uQJseVg_ej7eG5MQ7vNG4K06hWGVwEMtZPNnmsZ91TRJ_TaUzehvUYS_8kI1u2Vffyl-njC-qMy6oU8Fnb14r25nXbVyutrD_tc1gSEadgRBp9EZN4BeGJE62iyOmuuJG0oyM/s320/42.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bridge in Luatuanu'u</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2uS1n4_cw8ABQyY8I21S8Czx7bQHqJINkTcGVWPPKX5PLy9zcSSH6t8Orq6OjJqV3AVHbcn1d9TrDmqSYjj9vq20EusBDR_rxf8uY_hgZTQjBSFV4FQ6ZGbUVTinfce0N6NUvKuXnQ0/s1600/44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB2uS1n4_cw8ABQyY8I21S8Czx7bQHqJINkTcGVWPPKX5PLy9zcSSH6t8Orq6OjJqV3AVHbcn1d9TrDmqSYjj9vq20EusBDR_rxf8uY_hgZTQjBSFV4FQ6ZGbUVTinfce0N6NUvKuXnQ0/s320/44.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYywsEs3ywCcaSY04nHhy3CdwXx-euZRTkSIkzzRWJsvXHv5E6zsGQHK7BH0pQ-JdNEo73XXgek-fuXVInWcG9dES-rjPT_kiQ1AU5NJlvA5lq8YPPA2aX6-Iq-LCahVd98uUXR7mr1MA/s1600/45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYywsEs3ywCcaSY04nHhy3CdwXx-euZRTkSIkzzRWJsvXHv5E6zsGQHK7BH0pQ-JdNEo73XXgek-fuXVInWcG9dES-rjPT_kiQ1AU5NJlvA5lq8YPPA2aX6-Iq-LCahVd98uUXR7mr1MA/s320/45.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Filling the Hole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTpLsS66BielJLE31dIzICcb1rFpodbhhr3vorydmynob0Ws30McxtbBnj0Yz9B19HFA6RwY9SMnfD2jwdgAtMDAqKE8SjDFleQWXj06W-ou-IL4CGCsALh3oQ0QqRU5X9OfviYCf68qM/s1600/49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTpLsS66BielJLE31dIzICcb1rFpodbhhr3vorydmynob0Ws30McxtbBnj0Yz9B19HFA6RwY9SMnfD2jwdgAtMDAqKE8SjDFleQWXj06W-ou-IL4CGCsALh3oQ0QqRU5X9OfviYCf68qM/s320/49.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This house was just built within the last few months<br />
It is directly across from the ocean</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieIt40yIeyGGoCMIZ9UULp3Zas7WSB7KcXOOr3VFINQ9SLMg3ipjA7_x3HNY8-SUmpZIjrUGK9hlpy2HVQfJ-VveeHiUMGR-QbAmkgrxmZBZEDjBiNmZeLWKl9kkmIDItTu-Pcg-WfptE/s1600/50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieIt40yIeyGGoCMIZ9UULp3Zas7WSB7KcXOOr3VFINQ9SLMg3ipjA7_x3HNY8-SUmpZIjrUGK9hlpy2HVQfJ-VveeHiUMGR-QbAmkgrxmZBZEDjBiNmZeLWKl9kkmIDItTu-Pcg-WfptE/s320/50.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Solosolo-another Peace Corps village<br />
The banana palms look chopped in half</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1h4AW8iKH4lemMvf7QpZ8pTNZJZUNe7yHKWHjwdiD3KQoMO_lbGV_N3LsLTy_rEZK4Ueu7jKpfaWbydZCVGF0ASlvkELeYWU0KZF4Fnp2Uz3lQUS_mVH3j0u5yQyZexddk-evQJcpLLk/s1600/54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1h4AW8iKH4lemMvf7QpZ8pTNZJZUNe7yHKWHjwdiD3KQoMO_lbGV_N3LsLTy_rEZK4Ueu7jKpfaWbydZCVGF0ASlvkELeYWU0KZF4Fnp2Uz3lQUS_mVH3j0u5yQyZexddk-evQJcpLLk/s320/54.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my home of Falefa<br />
This tree fell right on a faleoloa (shop) right next to one of my<br />
student's houses</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBp4DLY1X7ggkRX5N_OXGcl6yl6tOd1KYsSB82r24NDssqZIOYs_fBOfV1igGUDZ4pSQnCjOLMWhJdOHVLMWzK3S6iHi9OMRRXTrsovHG5TYODbvOUfCGg-j9vUAkq-567vzlYowcGgp4/s1600/56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBp4DLY1X7ggkRX5N_OXGcl6yl6tOd1KYsSB82r24NDssqZIOYs_fBOfV1igGUDZ4pSQnCjOLMWhJdOHVLMWzK3S6iHi9OMRRXTrsovHG5TYODbvOUfCGg-j9vUAkq-567vzlYowcGgp4/s320/56.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tree has been removed and it looks like only minor damage to the roof</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixTzgRw4nD7Q0L36vHDvj1mX-hdJUpNm889644iYUwGHdQDi8GaeeZxXy9rrACQxJa3PUnXmJzxFa1ovDOpjNK1P2pFOfKV9TuX3VHSmgQwZ9MZ6OdaGBjnzvSMk6i-uYeZMvHrTvweCU/s1600/58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixTzgRw4nD7Q0L36vHDvj1mX-hdJUpNm889644iYUwGHdQDi8GaeeZxXy9rrACQxJa3PUnXmJzxFa1ovDOpjNK1P2pFOfKV9TuX3VHSmgQwZ9MZ6OdaGBjnzvSMk6i-uYeZMvHrTvweCU/s320/58.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The vaita'ele (pool) and falefono (meeting house)<br />
across the street from where I usually waited for the bus<br />
after a day at school to go to town</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7cf5PMrFLY9CNpkUPc5FnFLzTQ57yCHZG539JdWIUGjmnTVGmUxSFSJWI_ZnM7zT-8X_Qk5wFeu-e26rE2BumZOnVZO_ag1MpxkIeS5Yb_CHw1Ij4kCx6FLF42J6RY9yb61aFV0pr5U/s1600/60.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7cf5PMrFLY9CNpkUPc5FnFLzTQ57yCHZG539JdWIUGjmnTVGmUxSFSJWI_ZnM7zT-8X_Qk5wFeu-e26rE2BumZOnVZO_ag1MpxkIeS5Yb_CHw1Ij4kCx6FLF42J6RY9yb61aFV0pr5U/s320/60.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My usual walk home after school</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnoSX6G4Aq8xtuPAncUXrwnmU8URV0hUBYfOQFIYep4_5f9_zc4Ibshyg0AWBmNameJAI8tWHckmtFvHX56Xb8CKH8ncOH0Z7nY-kdl09gEFhwWcPmZSPEQ1waY1pm46u3VdujFsMM1c/s1600/61.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnoSX6G4Aq8xtuPAncUXrwnmU8URV0hUBYfOQFIYep4_5f9_zc4Ibshyg0AWBmNameJAI8tWHckmtFvHX56Xb8CKH8ncOH0Z7nY-kdl09gEFhwWcPmZSPEQ1waY1pm46u3VdujFsMM1c/s320/61.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mose's Shop--where I did all my village shopping</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSHfc2PV7z8GeGuj-nL5y6uipJ1GAywfpW4RV0vLbvmVIrsZHW7mCfwqPWzRnZfSmdX-jiJPtKByA9RTQJO6AFf8C68Gh3HxmashCeW7vtT0iSN0yuQhORzDoItcHCEck24aN40Dv3VQ/s1600/62.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSHfc2PV7z8GeGuj-nL5y6uipJ1GAywfpW4RV0vLbvmVIrsZHW7mCfwqPWzRnZfSmdX-jiJPtKByA9RTQJO6AFf8C68Gh3HxmashCeW7vtT0iSN0yuQhORzDoItcHCEck24aN40Dv3VQ/s320/62.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Right in front of my family's church<br />
Atalani and Salote (two girls who lived at my host family's house) <br />
safe and sound, walking to the faleoloa<br />
My house is just past the car on the road</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBw3VHA-tYHIOHHb1Sr7Im3fVtEMD_oaWJT_1a6MmwjROPBhK1X6dfSq9nrrOtoVW0T5et3CnArRltk0aIXe3COwPkcHr8OEHt8IhBL4BL7pwV7iHgLVfX9TxP3_eibE71iXg-r5QVxCM/s1600/IMG_2807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBw3VHA-tYHIOHHb1Sr7Im3fVtEMD_oaWJT_1a6MmwjROPBhK1X6dfSq9nrrOtoVW0T5et3CnArRltk0aIXe3COwPkcHr8OEHt8IhBL4BL7pwV7iHgLVfX9TxP3_eibE71iXg-r5QVxCM/s320/IMG_2807.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Fale--Before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBYW-c1ye1nRxY7uKpqDfkSamQnNS0KLwwDFTZjgXcC5ZdKvCuvavvq06glWgqzIwIbowDybTZTYDCwfGBgedUCo2i5ct1E-sYcebU7ko_anEt-3sqoAW08CYclQxFf6YArE3IA7w4VI/s1600/65.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBYW-c1ye1nRxY7uKpqDfkSamQnNS0KLwwDFTZjgXcC5ZdKvCuvavvq06glWgqzIwIbowDybTZTYDCwfGBgedUCo2i5ct1E-sYcebU7ko_anEt-3sqoAW08CYclQxFf6YArE3IA7w4VI/s320/65.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_zKoN1gHd8zX6y_wro4xBnow7WlIDRfjkcqwQufkusQgfRyTuIdrj6NRblHjO5hQUAxCoLMpRpLqVdN4t9xoiHFodwqnnQ2lt6sj0INS9NiA7DN5ssrx63hnQXDMBB5uPIzp3cGSgH8/s1600/64.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_zKoN1gHd8zX6y_wro4xBnow7WlIDRfjkcqwQufkusQgfRyTuIdrj6NRblHjO5hQUAxCoLMpRpLqVdN4t9xoiHFodwqnnQ2lt6sj0INS9NiA7DN5ssrx63hnQXDMBB5uPIzp3cGSgH8/s320/64.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmzaj6lKk8GBRVyjJY2psMcd0V2o7Flo4fNeU-RE5Ng8NxkMN7RGDmv3plC8YpQfmMmsrIH6plkcKhwf-XF8Mz7ryGKcnOGk8T_eXbRvXEMXbGf4Kiy-NkpZ15wYicbubZBBWQ9SVoWk/s1600/66.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmzaj6lKk8GBRVyjJY2psMcd0V2o7Flo4fNeU-RE5Ng8NxkMN7RGDmv3plC8YpQfmMmsrIH6plkcKhwf-XF8Mz7ryGKcnOGk8T_eXbRvXEMXbGf4Kiy-NkpZ15wYicbubZBBWQ9SVoWk/s320/66.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After<br />
The big white thing toward the right of the picture--<br />
I think that is part of my kitchen that ripped from the house--<br />
waiting for more pictures of my fale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgL_Fn19xumJcrlRbeC2CtRKmnsrUYthJNdtWZgTOzWMDr8-U4aXztMZ2444xB2BtegyTP9Xc_nYsU1BKHeMg2j-8Rwtr0JQ6yAEWpT8E7nyT5VqX9Yq14pyPSMxwsqRK9VJz-1m4lXc/s1600/69.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgL_Fn19xumJcrlRbeC2CtRKmnsrUYthJNdtWZgTOzWMDr8-U4aXztMZ2444xB2BtegyTP9Xc_nYsU1BKHeMg2j-8Rwtr0JQ6yAEWpT8E7nyT5VqX9Yq14pyPSMxwsqRK9VJz-1m4lXc/s320/69.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go Da Manu House--Before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj70FpQYcKYFxrXNhVFUe5P63TyTXuCX-rRrq7t3ZL9LDaIncd0AYxGq75QrQqj-SMQS5IeHI6yFCEFY_0mkuJlcXeUSYBEn6Lk5dFA5CXA4dljIAW_VnfYawZr4rFmCYi0Upy_nxzO88/s1600/90.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj70FpQYcKYFxrXNhVFUe5P63TyTXuCX-rRrq7t3ZL9LDaIncd0AYxGq75QrQqj-SMQS5IeHI6yFCEFY_0mkuJlcXeUSYBEn6Lk5dFA5CXA4dljIAW_VnfYawZr4rFmCYi0Upy_nxzO88/s320/90.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnl6yZrdjCKHzlz3tnq3x5gj3OpujjHL4lnyNXX61yIrwKAiTxx6V4Kp0xRmM7Tv7E6el_JjT99uLjAHaIUDwtuPAuBhFZxFZz0b1KlH5Z8S_td3HdeBe9L52IM6dobjRHgoDL_7p1Qw/s1600/67.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnl6yZrdjCKHzlz3tnq3x5gj3OpujjHL4lnyNXX61yIrwKAiTxx6V4Kp0xRmM7Tv7E6el_JjT99uLjAHaIUDwtuPAuBhFZxFZz0b1KlH5Z8S_td3HdeBe9L52IM6dobjRHgoDL_7p1Qw/s320/67.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Falefa Falls--Perhaps During or Slightly Before</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRX1968PCLRHrWmMKC6eSRlAOkw9xmhXMmz9MZm8vZrFJMN8j1ioFRWjQc0A2hkq200cWhW1JkMQn3vA9dw6t95WgGYzvc84kYUvjKZ32xLBg9S_rM57cq__7F_fD7fhRTXvb6D-S-I8/s1600/93.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRX1968PCLRHrWmMKC6eSRlAOkw9xmhXMmz9MZm8vZrFJMN8j1ioFRWjQc0A2hkq200cWhW1JkMQn3vA9dw6t95WgGYzvc84kYUvjKZ32xLBg9S_rM57cq__7F_fD7fhRTXvb6D-S-I8/s320/93.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This woman said hi to me every morning on my way to school</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmyH8Fdn-Ih8PuKJt0ATcGJKAvkyjgxV2oGH-yZM7iNl_8NHOOVV2ZWCIGLBhirIr_TSHje2GFSMzUyMt-v1FCeHZo-tODDBgE7en7zf6kPiFcFFZoMicE76zBZbGp98VJkupoubv7Yc/s1600/94.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmyH8Fdn-Ih8PuKJt0ATcGJKAvkyjgxV2oGH-yZM7iNl_8NHOOVV2ZWCIGLBhirIr_TSHje2GFSMzUyMt-v1FCeHZo-tODDBgE7en7zf6kPiFcFFZoMicE76zBZbGp98VJkupoubv7Yc/s320/94.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the middle is my student Gabriel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUmF-5vCQ_oJDuEAfu73HGhFjUz_eXQjeeUhVFBt1Wd4JL2yhACMcFZwfLdZ5gJR6F6JUBqRnyIvqMcdWyVBXo4Lqtx-_vxUANIgIC7f9mbOfojYNlXTrWl1l7wj252ifEW-h7JHvY7g/s1600/95.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUmF-5vCQ_oJDuEAfu73HGhFjUz_eXQjeeUhVFBt1Wd4JL2yhACMcFZwfLdZ5gJR6F6JUBqRnyIvqMcdWyVBXo4Lqtx-_vxUANIgIC7f9mbOfojYNlXTrWl1l7wj252ifEW-h7JHvY7g/s320/95.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home of the Lady Ashleigh Bus--<br />
One of my favorite buses to take to town thanks to the nice bus driver</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UjKAzQOFaE8tW5Dff5SiEM0fr_qNWpfFdeehwlTztC9WjS6ur2YZ9xW1bhHV-PxtCInAinMoKrGyZolzPizL4CCAPOFY1qVFzuL9arJnvaesHotx49tack2al-O04J1qMjRkXkd86eY/s1600/96.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UjKAzQOFaE8tW5Dff5SiEM0fr_qNWpfFdeehwlTztC9WjS6ur2YZ9xW1bhHV-PxtCInAinMoKrGyZolzPizL4CCAPOFY1qVFzuL9arJnvaesHotx49tack2al-O04J1qMjRkXkd86eY/s320/96.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where Falefa turns into Falevao</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZqKgTj0REoNOhawE-q-IFkq5tBp4Bhco8HQUpqkR50cadE0cKriavEoGwVIxYm7A0S-VmCZa3izJUxnUKKPTS4Zwywn8I2cthajt3WGw_T0Wl4k0pCoGnC5wKJb4ttjoj6x-s5qSFJw/s1600/98.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZqKgTj0REoNOhawE-q-IFkq5tBp4Bhco8HQUpqkR50cadE0cKriavEoGwVIxYm7A0S-VmCZa3izJUxnUKKPTS4Zwywn8I2cthajt3WGw_T0Wl4k0pCoGnC5wKJb4ttjoj6x-s5qSFJw/s320/98.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Falefa from the mountain<br />
The biggest building is the Catholic Church<br />
Toward the right of the picture is the EFKS church (my family's church),<br />
the church hall, host-family's house, and my fale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdj-8Kz47ITe3VvVBOOqhUKDtuTAZpLMQCQAomIRXh0xqGT9LF02fWdI-SB_VkVzhaBNLISjglQH5oMDLl_KhwBYZwrxyWFkW7CpdUG-AJxr4cow-sUeQN8Yf_ccooUQK5DDUZTCF3FM/s1600/103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdj-8Kz47ITe3VvVBOOqhUKDtuTAZpLMQCQAomIRXh0xqGT9LF02fWdI-SB_VkVzhaBNLISjglQH5oMDLl_KhwBYZwrxyWFkW7CpdUG-AJxr4cow-sUeQN8Yf_ccooUQK5DDUZTCF3FM/s320/103.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Headed East <br />
The palms are decimated</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEecYWCuKH6ScAY9S_jcpHtZ0JzE1Sz13CmpX78fymFljyIjlPKOd8DYJ6klA1nUWL9t80rSQP9mDVzxQPyYk22qNmCwUjV2OpWoKmUHDYm9tTKdWIZICqFe2RSgberHEG1kGwI8BmLQ/s1600/106.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEecYWCuKH6ScAY9S_jcpHtZ0JzE1Sz13CmpX78fymFljyIjlPKOd8DYJ6klA1nUWL9t80rSQP9mDVzxQPyYk22qNmCwUjV2OpWoKmUHDYm9tTKdWIZICqFe2RSgberHEG1kGwI8BmLQ/s320/106.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lemafa Pass<br />
Land Slide</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWr29Q0qmfcaxLmO2lNu_FakKNkjOMfooWJg-2AbQzeNgIRbRV8O-kLj3A5kRTsPMBIUCkS55vvpFH_fN9hCVmAPm2LgmXHxrHsa3RtMfUMuqEtvklVqRdtdBCEwG2yh7yhiZ_5MGXM8/s1600/108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWr29Q0qmfcaxLmO2lNu_FakKNkjOMfooWJg-2AbQzeNgIRbRV8O-kLj3A5kRTsPMBIUCkS55vvpFH_fN9hCVmAPm2LgmXHxrHsa3RtMfUMuqEtvklVqRdtdBCEwG2yh7yhiZ_5MGXM8/s320/108.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Lalomanu<br />
The tree saved the faleoloa from the electicity pole </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5yYWWbLWbKrbeezJH0dX4UYhEAhyphenhyphen3AcqoPJlUVZptFJsyU0NGkTQOlYUwQHVwjv_y8zSqnKrDbbRpXZZlg8i4W61F2-ID0VeTj34FKQnX1YmhohNz1vXu9UqohNgfXJBr4QJF8n6La4/s1600/111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV5yYWWbLWbKrbeezJH0dX4UYhEAhyphenhyphen3AcqoPJlUVZptFJsyU0NGkTQOlYUwQHVwjv_y8zSqnKrDbbRpXZZlg8i4W61F2-ID0VeTj34FKQnX1YmhohNz1vXu9UqohNgfXJBr4QJF8n6La4/s320/111.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tis the Season<br />
to sell taro after a cyclone while wearing a Santa hat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGm8SacwpaFa_K3lZUJ1HJ2bn20hF7u-kQrwYRxsrNQJPMIcTiQIJKyQ3wo9kqBUpNOZH_Pov7VTsipBVXg0cVPEVd_W8IvzMq23vkI7ABTDo6y2CYXIJq1OsGmrKcyhy2rx-Hr3fP8c/s1600/113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIGm8SacwpaFa_K3lZUJ1HJ2bn20hF7u-kQrwYRxsrNQJPMIcTiQIJKyQ3wo9kqBUpNOZH_Pov7VTsipBVXg0cVPEVd_W8IvzMq23vkI7ABTDo6y2CYXIJq1OsGmrKcyhy2rx-Hr3fP8c/s320/113.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing voli (volleyball) in the road</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRRB_8OUQ6r89-OUFMDEcz8Q6sdPwysZo_D7o_tbMxXo9sxuNssKZxNfx4ddyFTOSknvJNp5JJutq2zR-7yp96FTW3mTfG5U2fDIS-sA8j3HVudSGo9RpTksLSHjnyQl7sdhIs34LPzi0/s1600/115.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRRB_8OUQ6r89-OUFMDEcz8Q6sdPwysZo_D7o_tbMxXo9sxuNssKZxNfx4ddyFTOSknvJNp5JJutq2zR-7yp96FTW3mTfG5U2fDIS-sA8j3HVudSGo9RpTksLSHjnyQl7sdhIs34LPzi0/s320/115.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Togitogiga Falls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPL3AbpJn6pLrX0U4J0nsQ7tSOR-b4eQASgiCMIIph09hvsaYRHQkm7n1PZeBn3mJw744eUzbYzzbgAg2drmHSgjwaW6Pqj8vjzwSn_iKhi43Tsas3mkNiyfT63qhfa3x5TJf28fosBE/s1600/115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidPL3AbpJn6pLrX0U4J0nsQ7tSOR-b4eQASgiCMIIph09hvsaYRHQkm7n1PZeBn3mJw744eUzbYzzbgAg2drmHSgjwaW6Pqj8vjzwSn_iKhi43Tsas3mkNiyfT63qhfa3x5TJf28fosBE/s320/115.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4qNQQx1nfhn4o5c3c4Vx-XdfuXl-97cuEY8z8bnHVVa_Q7de_Ayt0bxp2hyA2hNJLtt1psTSZUYfVIuNYHzMWj-haZv1xPyokV9L34wrFHiyiSJxuQnczobkAc6w1gY_-87xm4ICj8s/s1600/116.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4qNQQx1nfhn4o5c3c4Vx-XdfuXl-97cuEY8z8bnHVVa_Q7de_Ayt0bxp2hyA2hNJLtt1psTSZUYfVIuNYHzMWj-haZv1xPyokV9L34wrFHiyiSJxuQnczobkAc6w1gY_-87xm4ICj8s/s320/116.2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Church in Mulivai--another Peace Corps Village</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcYI5Xr8NiaYj43dN6nEVDIedB-CKMUhjUs7U97zw2yGlPHDH0vZipzAicHxFcvrNN6Tf-EQKGCInIA73pkFLuGyYmkcpFGBCnCqBptHNZhDtoQ2HxhYSxCI-dRUK7DrhEA4708i82jE/s1600/117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcYI5Xr8NiaYj43dN6nEVDIedB-CKMUhjUs7U97zw2yGlPHDH0vZipzAicHxFcvrNN6Tf-EQKGCInIA73pkFLuGyYmkcpFGBCnCqBptHNZhDtoQ2HxhYSxCI-dRUK7DrhEA4708i82jE/s320/117.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tafitoala--my training village</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigD6EHrcCK3u2NbJK4lsR394d3PZYAjZSWR-sGPh-N8aJ4dfJ52XPlZkJP7itKFGn4lsIU8akc5CEdAqyqQ5IqFS0aaWcCF_zo_WHTdCkDIvojJOzq6k_KyHhFgWTmjUGQ5vUOI_GAnd0/s1600/114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigD6EHrcCK3u2NbJK4lsR394d3PZYAjZSWR-sGPh-N8aJ4dfJ52XPlZkJP7itKFGn4lsIU8akc5CEdAqyqQ5IqFS0aaWcCF_zo_WHTdCkDIvojJOzq6k_KyHhFgWTmjUGQ5vUOI_GAnd0/s640/114.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ever-Smiling Samoan Children<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-75860022419177113812012-11-29T15:16:00.004-08:002012-11-29T15:19:33.932-08:00Raised By Wolves - PublishedUnfortunately, I must remove my original blog post entitled "Raised by Wolves."<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I'm removing it because a more polished version has been published with the online travel magazine <em>Hackwriters. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Check it out!<br />
<a href="http://www.hackwriters.com/WolvesS.htm">http://www.hackwriters.com/WolvesS.htm</a><br />
<br />
(Copy and pasted below is the comment the original blog post recieved.)<br />
<div class="comment-header" id="bc_0_0M" kind="m">
<cite class="user">Anonymous</cite><span class="icon user"></span><span class="datetime secondary-text"><a href="http://survivingsamoa.blogspot.com/2012/07/raised-by-wolves.html?showComment=1348110732975#c9200472287179029999" rel="nofollow"><span style="color: white;">September 19, 2012 8:12 PM</span></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="comment-content" id="bc_0_0MC">
(That was a really intriguing read Samantha.
As a Samoan born and raised in NZ, I can confirm that we live much the same way
as the Samoans described in your post: extended family, internal adoption,
multiple offspring, financial support for parents etc. Although it's easier in
NZ to have your own money and live separately, we are often obliged to still
support our parents. I can also confirm your perceptions are correct – those are
probably exactly the thoughts Samoans have when asking you those questions. But
perceptions are made to be broken. As a Samoan in NZ I can see the positives and
negatives of having only one child. The more they see you and your sharing
heart, the more likely they will change their perception of Western children
from a one-child family. Keep up the great work. Soifua!)</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-75009763173165781502012-10-08T16:54:00.003-07:002012-10-08T16:54:42.676-07:00Bridges are Burning<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Two years in and I now know how to tie my lavalava: just tuck the damn thing into your shorts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With only thirty-nine days left in Samoa, I think it’s time for a little waxing and waning. Not like I haven’t been doing that during this entire adventure, but now it’s time to put the last year (or two) in a nutshell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
First things first, it’s still really hard being here. Samoa did not stop testing and challenging me this second year. Second things second, I’m going to miss this place a lot when I go home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Where to start? Regrets? Not becoming fluent in Samoan; not being able to have a conversation about meaningful things in Samoan. I’ve got enough to get by, but one of the reasons I set out on this excursion was to become fluent in a third language. I regret not participating more in my village. I regret that I’m too serious and that that characteristic held me back from being an active participant in the village lifestyle. I regret that I put so much weight on the happiness derived from the wrong places. I regret that I let myself need one particular person so much; that I couldn’t completely do this on my own….maybe that last bit isn’t anything to regret—everybody wants someone rooting in their corner. I regret that I’m not sure of myself anymore…I think two years in a foreign culture might do that to anyone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
…as I try to nutshell the past year, nothing jumps forward and I find myself staring out my window at the ocean and the only thoughts that come are of what I will miss. I will miss that ocean, that ocean that is only feet from my house. I will miss the smell my clothes have after they’ve dried on the line just feet from a small cliff next to the ocean. I bet those ocean breeze candles won’t even come close. I’ll miss the stars on the south side. I’ll miss the silver blue of the ocean at Lusia’s. Walking on the beach at Lalomanu. I’ll miss dancing at Club X. I’ll miss sitting outside of Italiano’s sharing a pizza on random school days, looking at the harbor across the way. I’ll miss CCK finds. Hanging out at the pool at Hotel Elisa. The view of the ocean as I take a bus to Apia. Killing time at Aggie Grey’s. Certain people at certain places. Sun tans. Pseudo-celebrity status. Samoan smiles. My year seven girls. It was all for you. Talking in Samoan. Talking to people who know what I’m talking about—no offense anyone back home, but talking to you about this place, these last two years of my life, won’t be the same as talking to anyone who has been a part of it, anyone who knows these places, who can picture what this is. Maybe I’ll even miss the drama that seemed to surround me this last year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Or maybe I won’t miss the drama: falling in love, having my heart shattered, yelling at a New Zealand tourist, trying to break up a physical fight between a man and his wife outside of the club, meeting a boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, running into an ex-boyfriend’s current girlfriend, being harassed on the bus by drunk creepy men, dating a fire dancer and a bouncer and everything those relationships entailed, being told that my host-father was ashamed of me, other volunteers flirting with my boyfriends, being told by a random Samoan man that Samoa doesn’t need America’s help, basically any interaction with my principal, being continually let-down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Another volunteer once said to me, “Sam, you may think Samoa had a negative impact on you, and even if it did, you still had a positive impact on Samoa.” Because of me, twelve year five students who were illiterate last January can now read basic English. They were left behind and I am the only reason they can now read. That’s not me being arrogant; that’s just the truth. Yes, it’s taken almost a year for them to learn phonics that they should have mastered in year two, but now they have it. Hopefully they can take those tools and continue to teach themselves how to read after I leave. My year seven girls have asked me multiple times if Falefa will get a new pisikoa after I leave. No, Falefa will not have a pisikoa any time soon. The girls pout and say, “But who will teach us English? You are the only person who really taught us.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“When you go back to America, will you ever come back to Samoa?” This is the one question everyone asks: students, teachers, villagers, taxi drivers, friends. It seems to be the curse of a place filled with ephemeral people; people who come and go; people that Samoans are afraid to love or depend on because it’s all transient. I would like to come back, but my response is always, “Leiloa.” I don’t know. And that answer satisfies no one. And truth be told, I’m afraid to go back to what I’m supposed to know. I’m afraid to go home. There’s so much uncertainty there. Who will I be? Who I was? Who I am now? An amalgamation of both? It could be easier just to stay. But I know my life isn’t in Samoa. Now I’m not sure my life is back where home was either though. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Group 84 arrived in Samoa yesterday. I will meet them on Friday when we throw a welcome fiafia for them. It’s time to pass on the proverbial torch, or siva afi (fire dancing) stick, and while they are saying hello and getting acquainted with all things Samoa, it is time to say goodbye. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Because I’m not sure how to do that yet, I’ll end with some words already spoken that fit the tail-end of this adventure. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“And the traveler who looks back</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Runs the grave risk</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That his shadow will not follow him.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-From the poem “Letters from the Poet Who Sleeps in a Chair” by Nicanor Parra</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“…People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-Maya Angelou</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“The day is changed…when you take a swim. And that day is bound to be marked out from all the rest.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-Ian McEwan <u>Saturday<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-Yann Martel <u>Life of Pi</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“You can’t just sashay into the jungle aiming to change it all over…without expecting the jungle to change you right back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-Barbara Kingsolver <u>The Poisonwood Bible<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Fa’amalolosi. Strength. <br />Tofa soifua. The most respectful goodbye in Samoan. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Misi ia oe Samoa. Fei loa’i. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-12768279055309613002012-06-06T13:18:00.002-07:002012-06-06T13:18:26.519-07:00A Girl, a Ghost, and a Girdle<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What people consider normal or aberrant is defined by their culture; any anthropology 101 class teaches you that. And this typically leads to debates about universalism versus cultural relativism. And this historically leads to disagreements, war, and mass slaughter. However, this next story of defining “crazy” won’t go that far. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I asked a Samoan friend of mine the other day to tell me some Samoan ghost stories. Having lived through the tsunami that devastated his village in September 2009 and working at a resort in which seven guests were killed, he has now had plenty of spine-tingling moments. Nevertheless, the ghost story I want to share is one from when he was a child. Tele told me of a strange girl with whom he went to primary school. She didn’t have many friends and just didn’t fit in. There was one place where she always hung out after school: on a particular rock. Of course, this wasn’t just any rock (or this wouldn’t be a ghost story), it was someone’s gravestone. Well, after frequenting this location for some time, weird things started happening to her. All the villagers blamed it on her sitting on the grave. (Side note: sitting on people’s graves is not usually a strange thing in Samoa. People are often buried right on their family’s front porch and it becomes a seat or a bench.) Finally, one night all the students went on a field trip of sorts and the boys’ sleeping quarters were separated from the girls’. When the girl woke up in the morning<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>, her bra and panties were on backwards. Everyone swore they didn’t do it to her. There were also things written on her body; Tele didn’t tell me what. So at this point in the story I say, “That’s weird. Maybe she did it herself.” “No, Sam. We aren’t crazy like that. It was the ghost.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And that’s it. That’s all he had to say. What would be crazy was if the girl switched her underwear around and then lied about it. Clearly the logical explanation was that a ghost or spirit did it to her. Traditionally in Western culture, the most logical answer is the simplest answer; therefore of course I jumped to the conclusion that she did it herself. There is no proof of ghosts, and empirically it would follow that the girl had played the trick herself. But to Tele, a spirit was the most logical explanation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So what’s really crazy? Turning your underwear backwards in the night and making people believe it was a ghost, or that a spirit did, in fact, put your panties in a twist?</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-52145409684720201492012-06-03T14:06:00.000-07:002012-06-06T13:18:48.822-07:00Samoa Turns 50!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Nothing philosophical today, no waxing nor waning. This post is dedicated to independence and the activities that a Peace Corps volunteer may (or may not) participate in while in Samoa on its 50<sup>th</sup> anniversary of gaining its independence from New Zealand. Happy 50<sup>th</sup> Samoa!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Thursday:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I started festivities off with the faotasi race, a giant canoe-like race between villages. A few of us gathered on the sea wall in front of Aggie Grey’s hotel in Apia to cheer on our very own Danny as he raced with his village, Satitoa. Rumor has it Danny was the very first palagi to ever take part in the race. The boats are huge, there’s really no other word for it. These are big boats, seating around 45 buff Samoan men who have been training for about two months. There’s not a whole lot to see during the race; you really just see them take off and come in for the finish. Satitoa came in sixth out of seven boats, taking them out of the running for the finals that will take place on Monday. We were all super impressed with Danny anyway. After a diet of bread and water, Satitoa celebrated with Samoa’s own Chili-Chocs. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Not independence-related, but still part of the day, Book Club was next at Tifaimoana, an Indian restaurant in town. Highlight of this was when a boxer from Australia offered us four free tickets to that night’s boxing match! Needless to say, next on the agenda then became watching some guys punch each other in the face. Besides hoping for a knock-out, why does anyone go to a match? Well, we were not disappointed. Only thirty seconds into the first round, we had a man down for the count. Pun/cliché intended. Then it was off to bed as Friday promised to be a too-early morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Friday: Independence Day!!!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">5am. Wake up call. Night’s sleep? Not good. Breakfast: two hard boiled eggs. 6am: Peace Corps volunteers report for the official Independence Day “parade.” This is no American style parade. There are no floats. There’s no candy. No clowns or tractors. But there are definitely Too. Many. People. The idea is that all the secondary school students and various organizations around Samoa march, and by march I mean walk, in front of a grandstand of dignitaries. It’s basically hours and hours of standing in the Samoan sun for roughly fifteen minutes of walking. We get there around six after about a half an hour walk to even get to the location and the place is packed. The groups participating are smashed in like sardines and we have to find the American delegation made up of Peace Corps volunteers, a few dignitaries, and a dance crew called Step Africa. To put it bluntly, I was angry and whiny by 6 and trying to find our group was pissing me off. We finally spot the American flag up toward the front of the mosh of people and proceed to walk in front of everyone (keep in mind, nothing has started yet) and literally thirty or so feet from our flag, a female police officer stops us and tells us we can’t walk there and we need to go through all the people to get to our group. Angry, whiny Sam doesn’t like this and kind of argues with the police officer. I make no headway, and thus turned around we get only to embark on an ever-aggravating push through the thousands of people standing on the field. Some people say “turisi” and “palagi” as we walk by (tourist, white person) and this pisses me off too. I stop and say, “Leai, pisikoa. Le palagi.” (No. Peace Corps. Not palagi.) One secondary school boy even tried to hold my hand at one point (very Samoan of him) and he got a stern head shake and “Aua” (Don’t) from me. Finally, we make it to our group. As the speeches start, I all of a sudden get incredibly dizzy. Luckily, the Peace Corps nurse is next to me. “Put your head down. Down.” I almost pass out. I lose hearing for a few seconds. Color drains from my face. A cold sweat drenches my clothes. A fan is borrowed from a nearby Samoan and all I can take in is that someone is fanning me. The dizziness calms down and Teuila, our nurse, sends me closer to the front of the mess of people so I can get more air. I sit on the ground and Filia, a Peace Corps staff member, gives me something to eat along with a piece of candy to get my blood sugar back up. Eventually, my body figures itself out and I stand back up. However, standing for more than five minutes starts making my stomach spasm and contract in not altogether fun ways. Next thing I know, the tribe speaks and I’m voted off the island and will be back in Minnesota in a few days. (That’s a euphemism for Teuila lets me leave and go back to the Peace Corps office.) However, I was lucky; many other people did pass out and an ambulance was even called for some. So after three hours at the parade, I’m sent packing, which was a blessing because the Peace Corps group didn’t finish with the parade for about another three hours. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(Just a side note because it might provide some humor for you, even though it’s embarrassing for me: after walking the twenty minutes back to where I can finally find a taxi, I proceed to get in a car which, no Samantha, is not a taxi, which in my semi-sick phase I don’t realize. But the guy was nice enough to take me to the office anyway. Woops. You should laugh now so I don’t feel like I embarrassed myself for nothing.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After recouping at the office, Tele from Taufua meets up with me and we head to Italiano’s for lunch and then over to the government building to watch some of the day’s events and to traverse through the booths. This literally was like being at a fair back home! There were even snow cones. Step Africa was supposed to give a performance, but ended up only performing two dances due to the parade going late. However, I had already seen them perform a few days earlier and they were awesome! So enthusiastic and charismatic. Around 5pm Tele and I head over to good old Hotel Elisa to meet up with the other volunteers to get ready for the night’s UB40 concert. We head down to the hotel’s bar for a while and some little Samoan boy goes crazy taking pictures of all of us. So somewhere in Samoa is a little dude with tons of pictures of some random palagis. Yeah, explain those to Mom. We taught Tele some classic “American” dance moves, such as the sprinkler, the shopping cart, and the cabbage patch. He then taught the boys classic Samoan moves like a little bit of the slap dance. Then off we went to UB40. It was Samoa’s first big concert and it took place in Apia Park. It reminded me of being at a high school football game since it was on a track and tons of people were just milling about. Unfortunately, shortly into the concert, angry, whiny, been-awake-since-5am Sam makes an appearance again causing us not to stay until the end of the concert. Damn you angry, whiny, tired Sam. Damn you. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fireworks close out the night for the rest of Samoa.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Saturday:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I convince Tele to stay in town for another night, thus allowing me an excuse not to go back to the village also. We went out for dinner at the ever-popular Yacht Club where we ran into a little New Zealand kid that Tele knows. This kid was super funny, even giving Tele a wedgie at one point, thus winning himself a high-five from me. He does, however, need to work on his whispering skills; I’m not sure he wanted me to overhear him “whisper” to Tele, “Is this your girlfriend? She’s pretty.” Thanks kid. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After dinner, we head over to meet up with some of Tele’s friends from New Zealand. After deciding a plan of action for the night and telling the guys why I joined the Peace Corps (oh yeah, change the world, make a difference, give something back, all that cliché but true jazz) Tele whispers to me that one of the guys is the son of a Maori king. Yep, that’s right, I shared a two-strawed jug of some mystery beverage with royalty Saturday night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So we head down to the government building once again and find spots to sit on the grass near the stage. Immediately after I sit down some little kid throws a plastic bottle at me. I turn around and say “Aua” and he looks at me like, “Whoa. That palagi can speak Samoan,” and the smile falls right from his face. One of the groups does traditional Samoan dancing and it was the best I’ve ever seen; it was fast and with new moves. Then out came the fire dancers. At one point they had one stick in each hand. Super impressive. Tele can also fire dance and he was even impressed with these guys. Sadly, I didn’t bring my camera out that night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then we headed to Y Not for some drinks and then to Club X for dancing. At Club X we ran into Danny. Now, Danny and I are both from Minnesota and there just happened to be some Samoan guy with a MN Vikings hat on. Go figure. The night eventually comes to a close and as we’re heading out of Club X a random girl stops me. “How long have you been in Samoa?” “Over a year and a half. I live here.” “Oh, I thought you were American or something.” “I am American. I’m a Peace Corps volunteer.” Do I really ooze American that much? Another random girl came up to me after that and asked where I got the tattoo on my neck. Well, that would be America too. And the night came to a close at McDonalds. Definitely American. Ahem, happy birthday Samoa! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Festivities are still going for the next two days and school starts again on Wednesday. Back to the everyday of it all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(I thought about writing some of the Samoan national anthem here, but I probably can’t spell all the words correctly and would only further embarrass myself, so I’ll just say this: Manuia lou Aso Fanau Samoa!!!)<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="_GoBack"></a></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrpEUc14F92rWuxujSeCumr9I6-nnzCCkX4FgimfNogLPnXu4V0BzWXyXpVx80h6P5V2a3EvoamYml9I3YBqm0oUvm6jZoiQdO0nGJZV6T8ovxitUXtHlsBEry5uMONhz9Ki_Ti-kobk/s1600/IMG_3687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrpEUc14F92rWuxujSeCumr9I6-nnzCCkX4FgimfNogLPnXu4V0BzWXyXpVx80h6P5V2a3EvoamYml9I3YBqm0oUvm6jZoiQdO0nGJZV6T8ovxitUXtHlsBEry5uMONhz9Ki_Ti-kobk/s320/IMG_3687.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step Africa performing at NUS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTQWxln8vC71uR3ub_bWLaH3llBAW4Dq8gpuIc_mS8lp1fefVV5WphIgQ-Xp8iJAcWH2yXnzKAKPJFhHCfc3lpDVp-5Vfveq4iUJ8lWscmxHWK1F7LOZh41FdfQNb1HmO7ABU7vl1OP0/s1600/IMG_3693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTQWxln8vC71uR3ub_bWLaH3llBAW4Dq8gpuIc_mS8lp1fefVV5WphIgQ-Xp8iJAcWH2yXnzKAKPJFhHCfc3lpDVp-5Vfveq4iUJ8lWscmxHWK1F7LOZh41FdfQNb1HmO7ABU7vl1OP0/s320/IMG_3693.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeter, Mika, and Katie watching the Faotasi Race</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmWB7VmSI3a7YuqSNWAsb0ctRt7GRTwyW1FsUF4xI6tMoGNQOFZ4mdYEdAWORdFrOjiev_bwnBBX4euUFJGrwCOZeAd4kIQwjHRedkkpzDDImzCSUmkmUMRtKpo4VSfXzywH_mipY01k/s1600/IMG_3698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmWB7VmSI3a7YuqSNWAsb0ctRt7GRTwyW1FsUF4xI6tMoGNQOFZ4mdYEdAWORdFrOjiev_bwnBBX4euUFJGrwCOZeAd4kIQwjHRedkkpzDDImzCSUmkmUMRtKpo4VSfXzywH_mipY01k/s320/IMG_3698.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the Faotasi boats</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTBS7cHU_7QL0MpoDsvqh-jM46rWJsQehXPj6Svf5SVj4wjnJgSG8eWTU8gd_ngW2QGdg5dj17_V4-5IrpkYwNOAQ_GMmX2HlzhM54eVeW7CWJEk5klR8Cbf-8IHFi2ODI1B4qjNNu5A/s1600/IMG_3702.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPTBS7cHU_7QL0MpoDsvqh-jM46rWJsQehXPj6Svf5SVj4wjnJgSG8eWTU8gd_ngW2QGdg5dj17_V4-5IrpkYwNOAQ_GMmX2HlzhM54eVeW7CWJEk5klR8Cbf-8IHFi2ODI1B4qjNNu5A/s320/IMG_3702.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Danny celebrating with a chili-choc</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnGrawvt8E1bM6a8C74pAwxQSZH2Mw__zxxY45m7RcNlmi29GP7A50u0fxwSEAVp57DWXxxlXsAj2MTCjI88usqPe7uY62j6zGZROkAzWkQBIVnvgTS9l6oZq8N1mQQdkQoAEe37Epk0/s1600/IMG_3706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnGrawvt8E1bM6a8C74pAwxQSZH2Mw__zxxY45m7RcNlmi29GP7A50u0fxwSEAVp57DWXxxlXsAj2MTCjI88usqPe7uY62j6zGZROkAzWkQBIVnvgTS9l6oZq8N1mQQdkQoAEe37Epk0/s320/IMG_3706.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Down for the Count</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI76wYyK9E2tEGrAJIhqmBqMpkd6SrPpKzFBOB0FCwdUsu19HI5R_RalItX50bI_z__rWRqds6fN3Z5q9tf1QW9JQgpmvoU91WX3LQjhqeBSxqjw1GgghaeNLV123aWTIu1v1fYD-kYU0/s1600/IMG_3712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI76wYyK9E2tEGrAJIhqmBqMpkd6SrPpKzFBOB0FCwdUsu19HI5R_RalItX50bI_z__rWRqds6fN3Z5q9tf1QW9JQgpmvoU91WX3LQjhqeBSxqjw1GgghaeNLV123aWTIu1v1fYD-kYU0/s320/IMG_3712.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Katie, Teuila (our PC nurse,) and Dale (our country director)<br />
shortly before I almost passed out at the parade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyC_kLqj5GBHCUxPCcaNC3yYd-_cjN09dLp2890G-4gqEA3Z8X5Fuayd-QHfmV_P9BGyiGgW2-wHgqC3ZkJ8ZTXXLvCFjajdDT3pe9mC04kIaaS0aN8qRxGfOTgVJchFgVK-a39h-7mSc/s1600/IMG_3716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyC_kLqj5GBHCUxPCcaNC3yYd-_cjN09dLp2890G-4gqEA3Z8X5Fuayd-QHfmV_P9BGyiGgW2-wHgqC3ZkJ8ZTXXLvCFjajdDT3pe9mC04kIaaS0aN8qRxGfOTgVJchFgVK-a39h-7mSc/s320/IMG_3716.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In front of the government building<br />
...with a snowcone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFusyaILl4qIR4_-22eQLnPoXFS5-eJkKbvic1ShOdffB5SVH2YOERDU97GzHaRpk8FDcRCIx-CoUSe4VBQ9vTtSKyxBgEBkbyQzThUcCvNjuzmC_bgX6ZT1suODJ7lnwjt9nhKPXH3Gk/s1600/IMG_3721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFusyaILl4qIR4_-22eQLnPoXFS5-eJkKbvic1ShOdffB5SVH2YOERDU97GzHaRpk8FDcRCIx-CoUSe4VBQ9vTtSKyxBgEBkbyQzThUcCvNjuzmC_bgX6ZT1suODJ7lnwjt9nhKPXH3Gk/s320/IMG_3721.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tele and I before UB40</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXvRquCYbKzklIpHIK0E2e7fKiCPDROh8krvOluqEomEUjlo6EjYggxUwigGpuzQPpY4IwaXrhl7Tpoj3QmHRmBD5Ph2Xgglr9dqbFSCz-nNAPlZUdE3rg1zYplcBsMrq4O1FrZHXL6TY/s1600/IMG_3740.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXvRquCYbKzklIpHIK0E2e7fKiCPDROh8krvOluqEomEUjlo6EjYggxUwigGpuzQPpY4IwaXrhl7Tpoj3QmHRmBD5Ph2Xgglr9dqbFSCz-nNAPlZUdE3rg1zYplcBsMrq4O1FrZHXL6TY/s320/IMG_3740.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">UB40 Concert at Apia Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SwVsnvuVBfcPhMRG0qo5ShejWery0irQkGu_KGo0G4URBew_EbF4fM1C-Ml4nKqs_J3SraO0arW1CsPYOt4JOZ8qur6GOR5YrTzfMvyUCfCyUN7I8SGNIqamZWNuHGpxA_5enO4v1fU/s1600/IMG_3753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SwVsnvuVBfcPhMRG0qo5ShejWery0irQkGu_KGo0G4URBew_EbF4fM1C-Ml4nKqs_J3SraO0arW1CsPYOt4JOZ8qur6GOR5YrTzfMvyUCfCyUN7I8SGNIqamZWNuHGpxA_5enO4v1fU/s320/IMG_3753.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The concert looked like a high school football game</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCErSmN1jT8HcDES-exn9k2YIKyA3MUPuQP3jmzRt31ykwSuKJ5y0iK2EWQK30L_vknKgRDeXCc6MyqEr65r2TqAR9EkfpUGtPugrEoXHUJaK973IoTfGfRV8cTCS3Cm6tOebUA27pKzM/s1600/IMG_3736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCErSmN1jT8HcDES-exn9k2YIKyA3MUPuQP3jmzRt31ykwSuKJ5y0iK2EWQK30L_vknKgRDeXCc6MyqEr65r2TqAR9EkfpUGtPugrEoXHUJaK973IoTfGfRV8cTCS3Cm6tOebUA27pKzM/s320/IMG_3736.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tele, Jenny, Jeter, Danny, Me at UB40</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-77426916291403662132012-05-27T14:15:00.000-07:002012-05-27T15:24:58.264-07:00Tourists: Love 'Em or Hate 'Em<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It has been a while since I wrote a post for my blog. So Captain Obvious has told me. That doesn’t, however, mean that ideas hadn’t been swirling in my mind about topics. The main one was about resentment for tourists. The thesis went something like this: Real Samoa sucks, tourists suck because they get to live in paradise at the resorts and fall in love with Samoa and fall in love with my boyfriend at the same time. Most likely needless to say, the idea for this post came about after my (ex)boyfriend decided to disappear for two weeks with an old tourist fling of his while leaving me worrying that he was dead. While the major sentiment that tourists suck is probably a little harsh, other ideas I would have thrown into the post held more water, such as the fact that tourists who just lay on the beach at the resorts really don’t get any taste for what Samoa is really like. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="_GoBack"></a></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">However today, I would like to devote this post to a group of tourists who have made me rethink the whole tourists–suck notion. As my time in Samoa winds down, I’ve decided to enjoy this place as much as possible, and yes, that includes behaving like a tourist on the beach. Tossing aside an overrated segue or transition as us literary types like to say, I spent last weekend at Taufua Beach Fales in Lalomanu on the southeast side of my island. It was the third time I’ve gone there and the first in which the other tourists were really cool. (The first time we all went there was for our one year anniversary and at one point a group of tourists told some of the other volunteers that they were acting like college kids on spring break. The second time was our year and a half anniversary and Easter in which a snarky tourist scoffed not-so-quietly under her breath, “Americans” when one of us tried unsuccessfully to give a short goodbye speech to a departing volunteer.) However, third time is cliché-fully a charm. Rachael and I went to Taufua with Emily, her friend from home. Taufua does meals a little non-traditionally with everyone sitting at one long table thus forcing you to talk to other people. Our first night at dinner, we sat next to George and Mel, a Samoan woman with her palagi husband. Funny story about them, I had actually met them briefly in front of a bank in Apia once. It took a little jogging but eventually they remembered me too. Our next stereotype-breaking tourists were Alec and Fanny (pronounced Funny). Alec is from Boston, but lived in New Zealand and Fanny was from Germany. They had eloped fifteen years ago and are now staying at the National University of Samoa for a few months. George, Mel, Alec, Fanny, Rachael, Emily and I had much spirited debate over dinner. Next comes Yanir and Yanadan, two Israelis who had just finished their service in the military. They accompanied the three of us to the To-Sua Sea Trench where the current caused all of us to become quick friends as we were bashed into each other and hands were reached out to save someone from being pulled away, while Tele, our Samoan host/friend, just kept bypassing the ladder and jumping straight into the water. Thanks for the hand Tele. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After we recouped from the trench and after Tele saved a little girl from getting hit by a car, Mika, a fellow volunteer, arrived with his mom from America! Shout out to Emily and Mika’s mom; we love when family visits! Ahem, all of my friends and family: take note.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And finally it’s Gabriel and his parents. (How we didn’t find out their names I have no idea.) Gabriel was a little blonde haired, blue eyed cutie, maybe two or three years old. His mother had been an Australian volunteer in Samoa and she and her husband were married on the beach at Taufua. Gabriel stole everyone’s heart, whether it was playing with Yanir in the water, getting pushed in the kayak by Tele, or just camping out under our fale. This exchange is worthy of being blogged: “Gabriel, I’m going to put on my swimsuit now and then I’ll come out and swim. You just stay here,” Rachael. “I suppose this is really the last age at which this kind of thing is appropriate,” Gabe’s dad. A minute or so passes and Gabe is hunkered down under our beach fale and refuses to come out for anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His dad says, “This is rather a father/son moment, isn’t it? He is literally under a house.” …maybe you had to be there. </span><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Take note, Taufua is a cool place and if you are a tourist, go there and enjoy paradise. Just don’t mess around with the guy I’m dating. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And next time you’re in Samoa, don’t stare at the white girl in the puletasi walking down the street in a village. She’s probably just a Peace Corps volunteer and she won’t smile and wave to you like the little Samoan children. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMkNsuGomjyyDmabKSmIVsEu2iqS3uxCy1iMW4Z49eaf2qQOj3PjLwR8aGa3hktRbdztoe0uJbsoOB37idGjQrVeQ8vmhjoFrl6yHvB-DCjHL7qBxAXwdkyP8MG7oke5ILFMFBRcFG6k/s1600/IMG_3616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMkNsuGomjyyDmabKSmIVsEu2iqS3uxCy1iMW4Z49eaf2qQOj3PjLwR8aGa3hktRbdztoe0uJbsoOB37idGjQrVeQ8vmhjoFrl6yHvB-DCjHL7qBxAXwdkyP8MG7oke5ILFMFBRcFG6k/s640/IMG_3616.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">To-Sua Sea Trench. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
The boys jumped from the top of the ladder. </div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKDKXTsoCMNaJufaDFJvoiOgB9wl3Kb6LTd2csnH2Sh9noqFAomcwHIsH0cUYZUULvVZSOlyPpL9meObEzLmaR43v3e3u0-bAO5pZ4s-Y1r55zJ9HxjWTnZmUXh5aXNVRZdQV8rG7bYg/s1600/IMG_3619.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKDKXTsoCMNaJufaDFJvoiOgB9wl3Kb6LTd2csnH2Sh9noqFAomcwHIsH0cUYZUULvVZSOlyPpL9meObEzLmaR43v3e3u0-bAO5pZ4s-Y1r55zJ9HxjWTnZmUXh5aXNVRZdQV8rG7bYg/s320/IMG_3619.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yanir, Yanadan, Emily, Rachael and I hold on for dear life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3AIYxLM5m-toTj-P2E-zLUWbP_2GmPNFcJ0lxcSnikbOmv-KnH1ObOVCNI4BV5see4WW-n9GtGWSK1SXfW1R92dI7U_YmUfSP2_0Z8JbD_XlYoEE1EaLo5skmIDMZrt9WH4978b9BFw/s1600/IMG_3638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3AIYxLM5m-toTj-P2E-zLUWbP_2GmPNFcJ0lxcSnikbOmv-KnH1ObOVCNI4BV5see4WW-n9GtGWSK1SXfW1R92dI7U_YmUfSP2_0Z8JbD_XlYoEE1EaLo5skmIDMZrt9WH4978b9BFw/s200/IMG_3638.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mika and His Lovely Mother</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHI6PDy4ztOBtN2q6KwPqRYczU66JQ5WqnksS9E7oLzqJbSc6E8gZCSgQ8__I3RiJMUomC1n7NkvY72JeC1T7iMoPp0DlKLGnb382qOy8_rqcD_qbAXM4nSFRXxbHli7vbbpo1UC6t4o8/s1600/IMG_3636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHI6PDy4ztOBtN2q6KwPqRYczU66JQ5WqnksS9E7oLzqJbSc6E8gZCSgQ8__I3RiJMUomC1n7NkvY72JeC1T7iMoPp0DlKLGnb382qOy8_rqcD_qbAXM4nSFRXxbHli7vbbpo1UC6t4o8/s200/IMG_3636.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">Emily, Me, Mika's Mom, Rachael</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDSzneP4nci7aRzkpxvuX_eTqz2cLz5dABnPFFj1gqirH1aoG94P2bMzgo1AGsRKrXe4ARxFNOrnWiwb6Z4zRz-R2CZZdt2JMY5aC6Q0einGe1UwfPHoo40pOyz8Z489YLN2Y6l3xQsg/s1600/IMG_3640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDSzneP4nci7aRzkpxvuX_eTqz2cLz5dABnPFFj1gqirH1aoG94P2bMzgo1AGsRKrXe4ARxFNOrnWiwb6Z4zRz-R2CZZdt2JMY5aC6Q0einGe1UwfPHoo40pOyz8Z489YLN2Y6l3xQsg/s320/IMG_3640.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">Gabriel jamming on his guitar during the Fiafia show.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhl2wMe_UHduSEIhkwOO6ZP814aG1niNipoK0wZemWzJonFAfw020MUOpqyVAcExlRS09CnNuHu7UyX9yySQ1h6cGMwRJyk1VShTiOuuwMj3E-vC3SBWo9Sy9eKMWlEsuaKXH4xsZWeI/s1600/IMG_3645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhl2wMe_UHduSEIhkwOO6ZP814aG1niNipoK0wZemWzJonFAfw020MUOpqyVAcExlRS09CnNuHu7UyX9yySQ1h6cGMwRJyk1VShTiOuuwMj3E-vC3SBWo9Sy9eKMWlEsuaKXH4xsZWeI/s320/IMG_3645.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys take a go at Siva Samoa.<br />
Yanir and Yanadan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN-J-ZwYhkv260FEkySUYsJi8Mb5ANKwXBZk6Uz_iBywKtCdGwWCXX3spkPjVxct8saZwIUs6yVM8S4tZVMmZLibc8VrelHLiih-TQ9WGPdpGuMP8D2G_ZGExa0SazlUZ4SQ6uR6t-Js/s1600/IMG_3642.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN-J-ZwYhkv260FEkySUYsJi8Mb5ANKwXBZk6Uz_iBywKtCdGwWCXX3spkPjVxct8saZwIUs6yVM8S4tZVMmZLibc8VrelHLiih-TQ9WGPdpGuMP8D2G_ZGExa0SazlUZ4SQ6uR6t-Js/s400/IMG_3642.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gabe's mom is on the far left and Mel is on the far right. <br />
I'm in the middle with awesome hand position.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AzosDZOOyFKNJb-iD0X1y7nwn2uMH1Uwev82NN293TtnCNwDtxnJIXhoAKq59o_cR9m__2E7zIivaR8dQe44_8ZLvdR8xyGLqVsz_YMxT96cnVjgEBzxKsKthDp8O2drGilJGhlhb74/s1600/IMG_3646.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AzosDZOOyFKNJb-iD0X1y7nwn2uMH1Uwev82NN293TtnCNwDtxnJIXhoAKq59o_cR9m__2E7zIivaR8dQe44_8ZLvdR8xyGLqVsz_YMxT96cnVjgEBzxKsKthDp8O2drGilJGhlhb74/s320/IMG_3646.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
Yanadan and Alec</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-54737619494337168752012-05-27T13:40:00.001-07:002012-06-06T13:23:56.070-07:00Maybe You Really Can't Go Home Again<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Sitting around a long table, wearing a wet swim suit modestly covered by a lavalava after an early morning swim, while eating breakfast and discussing the pros and cons of Marmite, a Finnish couple, the man sporting long brown dreadlocks, the woman a meek Scandinavian blonde, laugh when Rachael and I, the two Peace Corps volunteers at the table, say that “we only have six months left.” They scoff, “Only?!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I write this, we now have less than six months left on this island, this island that has been both hell and paradise. I’m not sure Dante nor Milton ever visited Samoa, but I think I could add a little to their tales. However, with roughly a week left of the school break, I have already fallen into the don’t-take-this-for-granted stage of my Peace Corps service. Now, instead of marveling over how my ears are being assaulted by someone else’s too-loud music on the bus on the way to Apia, I stare at the ocean waves knowing that this will never happen again. In less than six months it will be November and I will be in Minnesota. Need I say more? Typing this now, sitting beneath my mosquito net, rain drips from my roof and waves crash literally twenty feet from my window. These are the moments. These ones, right now. These are the moments that I will look back on and miss. I have lived through Peace Corps purgatory and Peace Corps Hell and I dare say I have waged battle against Satan herself, but with mere months to go, I can’t let any of the beauty go unnoticed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">With the end bearing down, I can’t help think about after. After Samoa. Six different master’s programs at three different grad schools have my academic mind atwitter. Yet, the excitement that affords and the anticipation of a semi-return to my old life are not what I think about when I think about going home. When you join the Peace Corps you never fathom the goodbyes on the other end. You never expect the pain of saying goodbye here. Good riddance and peace out to some people, but how do you just leave other people who have so influenced your life???<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Since I came back to Samoa after Christmas my life has been a whirlwind. My host father told me I was a disappointment and he was ashamed of me. Why, I’m sure you all ask? Because I didn’t have relationships with people in the church congregation. Did I mention my host father is the pastor? I was also traveling to other places too much, Savaii in particular. This comment finally made me reveal to him that I was dating a boy, Samoan nonetheless, in Savaii. And cliché enough, he ended up breaking my heart. The details of which I’m sure would have made for great reality television. I was also told in a moment of anger by the person I cared about most in this country (ahem, it might have been that ex-boyfriend) that I was the worst Peace Corps volunteer he had ever known. That moment was perhaps the most ashamed I have ever felt in my life. Being told that you have done nothing for your village, you have had an impact on no one and that what you have done doesn’t matter is not something any Peace Corps volunteer ever wants or imagines of hearing. In a rousing display of her old self, my principal also told me I could only teach for a half an hour a day. Don’t tell her, but I didn’t listen to that. My worthlessness as a volunteer seemingly made clear to me, my year seven girls were there to prove all my skeptics wrong. Not a week goes by where these girls don’t tell me how much they love me, or write me letters, or tell me that they’ll never forget me. It’s for them that I stayed. And it’s for them that I came. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This all being said, blatantly, it will suck when I go home in the fall and the people I care about are here and the thought that I might never see them again and that they’ll be moving on with their lives and will I ever have so much adventure again and was I just another fling-type thing for Tele and maybe something special for a while to Tui but who he hurt anyway? And how will I ever forget either of them? These thoughts tumble in my mind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And how I don’t know how I’ll move on from Samoa.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How do you say goodbye to something that has had moments of paradise? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I haven’t done much, but I have played a part in some people’s lives. I don’t want to be forgotten either<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="_GoBack"></a>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What will my life be like when Samoa really is just a memory? When I can’t feel imaginary waves crashing against my legs after a day in the ocean? When I can’t make a sentence in Samoan (not that I'm fluent now)? When my tan lines have completely disappeared? When I don’t find hidden grains of sand in my water bottle? When I can’t text the other volunteers about weekend plans at the beach or at Lusia’s? When I can’t call Samoan friends? When we’ll all be reduced to good old fashioned Facebook stalking? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How do you go back to a life once lived?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-51969259571380506922012-02-07T17:21:00.000-08:002012-02-07T17:28:28.609-08:002012: The Year of Flash Mobs and Slip-n-Slides<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As my second and senior year of the Peace Corps starts, I have now experienced roughly fifteen months of Samoan culture. At this point, any good volunteer starts to think, How can I share American culture a little more? The answer comes like a lightning bolt when rain or a dance club is involved. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNRqsSbJN1IDioqi1AXg7MkVQjlCc7cEOIhbRqGwftmbZemqcGjUsRcLQHriyXFdXgJO9lJMyhVA4WvswZjNWIBopBx6W9QKM3yKgmxSmAQZaLXl08pReaw3GmodFWy7hQ7tpnLpv8k0/s1600/Blog+Pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNRqsSbJN1IDioqi1AXg7MkVQjlCc7cEOIhbRqGwftmbZemqcGjUsRcLQHriyXFdXgJO9lJMyhVA4WvswZjNWIBopBx6W9QKM3yKgmxSmAQZaLXl08pReaw3GmodFWy7hQ7tpnLpv8k0/s320/Blog+Pic.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Twenty mile per hour winds, a pounding rain, and an open porch can only lead to one thing at a Peace Corps volunteer’s house in Samoa. You guessed it: a makeshift, but ever-pleasing Slip-n-Slide**. A sudden and unrelenting rain forced three of my year seven students to take refuge under my porch yesterday afternoon. The fact that they were already soaked didn’t deter them from trying to prevent any further drenching. Ina, Lumepa, Josephine, and I quickly realized that the puddles forming around the edges of my porch were creating a river headed straight for my bedroom door. Most Samoan fales come equipped with stylish blue tarps that can be pulled down to block such river tributaries from forming. We decided to pull mine down. However, my blue Samoan tarp inexperience led to a slight malfunction. Instead of carefully unrolling the tarp which has a piece of lumber nailed to the bottom to hold it down, I just let the tarp drop, causing the wood to rip out of the tarp. The three girls looked at me for a second; their expressions said one of two things: “Wow, Sema, that was dumb,” or, “Oh no, we’re going to get sasa-ed [hit].” My laughter, while outwardly expressing bemusement, was really masking the universal thought for such situations: “Shit.” After jerry-rigging the tarp to stay down with large rocks, the girls discovered that they could run and slide on my soaked porch. You could call it Samoan ice skating. After slipping and sliding around on my plastic-wood ground covering (pisikoas, you know the fake flooring I’m talking about), the girls quickly realized that the falling that is inherent in such a game isn’t so conducive to non-bruised knees. And of course, that’s when the rain stopped and the wind ripped the tarps from under the rocks, which only led me to put the tarp up as quickly as I had taken it down, thus bringing to an end a moment of good ol’ dangerous fun. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I now implore shower-singers and dancers-in-the-dark the world over, what is a Peace Corps volunteer to do during breaks in our Mid-Service Conference except learn a dance called The Wobble? Part of this dance could be likened to a gorilla swinging its lanky arms behind its back. And why wouldn’t we want to do such an ungraceful move in front of numerous Samoans? The answer escapes me. Clearly the new Club X would be the perfect place to perform our monkey-like maneuver. Friday night came and Club X was calling. That’s right Samoa, well, those of you who caught a glimpse of choreography out of the corner of your alcohol-influenced eye and were entertained enough to watch, you just witnessed a flash mob danced by some very coordinated, sweaty white people. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Whether it’s at a night club with semi-inebriated Samoans, some of whom tried to join in with moves of their own, or on my flooded porch, we here at Peace Corps Samoa take every opportunity to share American culture. Any volunteer would now ask<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>, “Can I put this on my VRF?” <strong>**</strong></span></div><br />
*<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For the Slip-n-Slide deprived, this probably overpriced but cheaply manufactured toy is simply a glorified piece of plastic (or trash bag) that is laid on the ground and covered in water. Children, teens, and overzealous fathers then proceed to run onto and semi-gracefully slide the length of the garbage bag, ahem, Slip-n-Slide. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">**<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The VRF, or volunteer report form, is a universal fa’alavelave that every Peace Corps fills out to record what activities you have done in recent months. It also helps volunteers feel like they’re accomplishing something. </span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-33851458095306236642012-01-10T18:19:00.000-08:002012-01-10T18:40:15.487-08:00A Speck on the Map- The Postcard Project"A nun." <br />
<br />
This is the most original answer to the question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" that I've gotten from a Samoan student.<br />
<br />
When I've asked students what they want to be when they grow up, most of them don't really have an answer. "A job," is usually their reply. Their bland answers are not due to an English ineficiency. They're just never asked this question. Often one wonders what makes American culture and answers are usually hard to come by since our country is a mosaic of other cultures. However, asking children this question about their future is something very American (if not just very un-Samoan.) <br />
<br />
Not only are kids not asked this question, but they often lack the ability to imagine a creative answer because they simply aren't aware of the outside world. When asked if they would ever leave Samoa, a lot of my students say, "No. I want to stay here. In my village." They are also baffled when I tell them I don't know the people on "American Idol." <br />
<br />
"But, you live in the same country."<br />
"But it's such a big country!" Then I pull out the world map and try to explain how big the world is. (Poor grammar here, I know.) <br />
<br />
One way to give these kids an idea about the rest of the world is the Post Card project. So here's the pitch:<br />
If you read this blog regularly or if you just stumbled upon it, send us a postcard from where you live!!! Write a short message about whatever you want, speak to the students directly or talk about where you live, but make sure the picture on the front shows something about your neck of the woods, as we like to colloquially say here in Minnesota. Write the message in English, but a greeting in the language of your country would be wonderful. (Most likely, I'll use the postcards with my Year 7 class- roughly ages eleven to thirteen.) Address postcards to me:<br />
Samantha Maranell, PCV<br />
Peace Corps<br />
Private Mail Bag<br />
Apia, (Western) Samoa<br />
South Pacific<br />
<br />
As postcards come in, we'll put pins on a world map of the places we get postcards from. Let's make these kids a little more worldly.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-49906656429491470622012-01-10T18:01:00.000-08:002012-01-10T18:01:45.683-08:00Literary Recommendations from a Literary SnobI've been called the literary snob of Peace Corps Samoa and as I gear up to travel back to the island after a rejuvenating Christmas break at home in the USA, I once again find my suitcase with, perhaps, a few too many books. Over the past fifteen months, I've read many a book; here are what I think were the best and the five worst. <br />
<br />
The Best:<br />
-Stiff by Mary Roach<br />
-The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera<br />
-Columbine by Dave Cullen<br />
-The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the OED by Simon Winchester<br />
-Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer (You cannot go wrong with this book.)<br />
-The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins<br />
-The short story "Fantasy for Eleven Fingers" by Ben Fountain (Found in the book Brief Encounters with Che Guevara)<br />
-Life of Pi by Yann Martel (!!)<br />
-The Reader by Bernhard Schlink<br />
-Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card<br />
-The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possibly by AJ Jacobs<br />
-Ishmael by Daniel Quinn (!!)<br />
-The Help by Kathryn Stockett (The movie does not do justice to this amazing book; two thumbs down to the movie; two thumbs up to the book.)<br />
<br />
The Worst:<br />
-The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larson (Ok, so it was published posthumously, but wasn't the editor aware that the first and last one hundred pages of the book were completely unnecessary?)<br />
-Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen (The three person love triangle was genious in Sophie's Choice and this book was a sad attempt. Just rent the movie.)<br />
-The Romance Reader's Book Club by Julie L. Cannon (It's as bad as the title implies. You take what you can get when on an island in the middle of the ocean.)<br />
-The Other Side of Haight by James Fadiman (Ken Kesey, if you hadn't had a positive review on the book, I wouldn't have picked this up at all. Damn you Ken Kesey.)<br />
-Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay (Genocide and Holocaust studies fascinate me, but I really don't see how books that offer nothing new to literature in general or the genre in particular still get published.) <br />
<br />
For anyone considering the Peace Corps, here are a few recommendations from the 15 month book list:<br />
-The End of Poverty: Economic Possibilities for Our Time by Jeffrey Sachs (Aid is clearly the answer.)<br />
-The White Man's Burden: Why the West's Efforts to Aid the Rest Have Done So Much Ill and So Little Good by William Easterly (Aid is clearly not the answer.)<br />
-Dead Aid: Why Aid is Not Working and How There is a Better Way for Africa by Dambisa Moyo (Perhaps not the best book on the subject, but one of our Peace Corps staff members said this book "changed her life.")<br />
-American Taboo: A Murder in the Peace Corps by Philip Weiss (The true story of a 1970 murder of a volunteer by another volunteer on the nearby island of Tonga. Face it, it can be dangerous at times. -This book may never have been published; we have an editor's copy going around Samoa. I recommend looking up the case if really interested.)<br />
-Dear Exile: The True Story of Two Friends Separated (For a Year) by an Ocean by Hilary Liftin and Kate Montgomery (This epistolary Peace Corps book is a quick read with many relatable moments.)<br />
-Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal by Ayn Rand (Altruism vs Egoism. Personally, I consider both to be very legitimate reasons for joining the Peace Corps. In fact, if I didn't have egoistic, or selfish, reasons for joining, I might have quit long ago. The cliche is kind of true: I feel like I'm getting more out of it than those I'm supposed to be helping; if I had purely altruisic reasons, why would I have stayed?)<br />
-The forward, introduction, or whatever it was to the book Through Painted Deserts: Light, God, and Beauty on the Open Road by Donald Miller (For anyone who may be hesitant about leaving their pre-Peace Corps comfort zone, this book's forward will motivate you to get out there.)<br />
-Ishmael by Daniel Quinn (This book will make you question everything.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-7498533851985440862011-10-06T17:30:00.001-07:002011-10-06T17:30:38.708-07:00365 Days of a Samoan Summer<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I write this on the eve of our one year anniversary; when it’ll make it to blog form is unknown. I’m not sure I’m willing to offer any great abstract concepts at the current time about what one year stuck on an island in a foreign culture has taught me. I’ve learned things about myself as well as lost things (or perhaps they’re just dormant for the time being). I’ve wished I hadn’t come here while already knowing what I’ll miss, while already dreading a few goodbyes at the airport, already knowing there will be people I will never see again, but who I will miss for a lifetime.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been to four of Samoa’s ten islands (Upolu, Savaii, Manono, Namu’a). I’ve tipped a dug-out canoe…twice…by accident. I’ve swum under a freshwater waterfall. I’ve heard the ghosts of Samoa singing under moonlight. I’ve eaten palolo and sea urchin; I’ve declined fruit bat. I’ve been stung by one giant centipede and killed a dozen more. (As I write this, there is a dead giant spider on my windowsill.) My possessions have been gnawed on by rats. I’ve been to the national hospital and three different clinics. I have not gotten typhoid or ghiardia, two of the weight-loss programs Samoa offers. I’ve been to a circus and a hip hop dance competition. I have frequented YNot, VBar, On the Rocks, and EvaEva, but I have yet to step foot in Crabbers. I’ve been proposed to and I’ve climbed a coconut tree (just kidding, the coconut tree is a lie.) I’ve opened a coconut with a machete, strangled a chicken with my bare hand, and failed to weave a palm leaf basket. I’ve been to Samoan fa’alavelaves: weddings, funerals, riding the bus. I’ve been on a bus that broke down and another that blew a tire. I’ve been awoken in the middle of the night by a drunk guy wanting me to come outside (he was then fined $1000 tala by the village –nobody messes with the Peace Corps). I have “gone local,” dating two Samoan boys, one of whom has become my best Samoan friend. I’ve tried to impress people with my Spanish when my Samoan wasn’t good enough. I’ve marched in the Samoan Independence Day parade. I’ve performed the “Hungarian Pastoral Fantasy” by Franz Doppler on national television. I’ve met a Minnesotan who played under Dr. Nimmo. I led the flute section of the National Samoan Orchestra at the Fourth of July celebration at the ambassador’s house. I’ve been very rudely asked to leave the ambassador’s house (some people would call this being kicked out). I’ve learned the dance to “Thriller” with members of the orchestra. I’ve danced a Samoan taupo, a sasa, and a dance to the song “Fa’amalolosi.” I’ve lost a grandmother. I’ve said goodbye to another volunteer. I’ve missed the births of new family members, and the wedding of a cousin. I’ve watched children be hit with hands, rocks, sticks, and pipes. I’ve wanted to hit children. I haven’t hit any children. I’ve read sixty-four books, and watched almost two seasons of “Glee.” I thought I was going to be trampled at the wharf Easter weekend. I have run and jumped off a very high dock numerous times at the legendary Peace Corps hangout of Lucia’s (best stress reliever in Samoa). I requested a village transfer. I’ve been told “You are doing more harm than good.” I’ve been told how pretty I am, that I have cat eyes. I was among the last people on earth to say goodbye to 2010. I had my very first truly snowless Christmas, but my twenty-fourth birthday did not disappoint. I’ve gotten used to everything not going as you expect it to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Warm showers are a luxury. Bingo paper, no matter what some people do, will never be toilet paper. Ants can and will go everywhere. The mosquito net is your friend. Rain pounding on a tin roof is a sound of relief, of renewal. Brown-bottle Vailima is better than green. The rhyme “I love you, I love you, I love you, I do, but don’t get excited, I love monkeys too,” is always a hit. Teaching every subject in English when half the class doesn’t understand still doesn’t make sense to me. Taro will never be as good as a potato. Always wear blue when Manu Samoa plays. Always. Getting a package or a letter will make any day better. Always clean the leaves out of your yard. Always. McDonalds is a guilty pleasure and the Yacht Club is the best restaurant in the country. Fish and chips is its own food group. Cereal covered in ants is not to be thrown away. The Peace Corps medical manual and kit are saviors. You can never smell too good. You can never have too much phone credit, but don’t let anyone know that. CCK rocks. People you’ve never seen before will know your name and what you had for dinner last night. Everywhere you go there will be someone who knows you. The world is not small; this is just an island. Do whatever you want on Sundays (after you go to church), just don’t let anyone know you aren’t sleeping. People do not eat grubs, contrary to the episode of “Bizarre Foods.” The current season of “Survivor” was filmed on my island. As much and as often as you clean up those little effing millipedes, there will be more in the morning. Mortein will kill cockroaches in a blink and probably an entire country, but it still won’t kill those tiny brown ants. What’s up with that?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now for my very serious and honest one-year-in advice to Peace Corps prospective. You will not change the world in the Peace Corps. If you’re lucky you might make a difference. You will win no cultural battles; you won’t even be able to begin to fight them. But when it comes to your everyday life, you must never be a push-over. This is an experience unlike any other; it will throw every challenge at you that it can, and more. Survivor Samoa. Who knew?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One year in and I still can’t put my lavalava on right. </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-34956079599833047832011-08-03T19:47:00.000-07:002011-08-03T19:47:37.374-07:00"Sure Rains a Lot Here""Wars throughout history have been waged for conquest and plunder....And that is war in a nutshell. The master class has always declared the wars; the subject class has always fought the battles."<br />
<br />
On the eve of leaving the United States and setting out for Samoa with the Peace Corps, all of us wide-eyed frightened little trainees were in a hotel in LA. Also at the hotel was a group of men in one of the military corps. An old man walked up to one of the girls in our group.<br />
"What are you all here for?"<br />
"We're leaving for the Peace Corps."<br />
He offered his hand. "Well, thank you for your service."<br />
<br />
Let's face it, the Peace Corps was created by a president facing a war that was just around the corner. We'd all be naive to think Kennedy and Shriver created the Peace Corps just so some hippies could go plant some trees in Peru or teach English in Botswana. This is no Debbie-Do-Gooder mission. After being in the Peace Corps for almost ten months, I've certainly developed new ideas about this government Corps. We are in a battle. A preventative battle. One of the goals of the Peace Corps is to promote an understanding in America of other cultures and in other cultures of America. In short, we're in a subversive mind-battle. Of course, I'm not comparing the Peace Corps to being in war (however, I do think a lot of things soldiers and Peace Corps volunteers go through culturally are probably similar), but we are providing a service to our country not completely unlike the military corps. As a matter of fact, when we were sworn in, we too had to take the "I will protect the US against enemies foreign and domestic" oath. I think some of the theory in originally creating the Peace Corps was just to put Americans in foreign countries to sort of make friends. Perhaps one day a world leader would say, "Hold up guys. Maybe we shouldn't nuke the US. I had a teacher once who was a Peace Corps volunteer and she was the best teacher I ever had." Bam. War averted. OK, obviously it's not that easy, but you get the idea. <br />
<br />
The (perhaps correct) stereotype of Peace Corps volunteers is that we're all "Down with the man" and anti-war. But the joke's on us. The Peace Corps got the type of people who would never volunteer to fight in a war, to do just that. Let's travel back to the opening quote by Eugene Debs. It's no secret that the "elite" often get out of fighting in our wars and often lower-middle and lower class people end up dying in these wars that they can't so easily get out of. The easiest example is that if you were in college during the Vietnam War, you could not get drafted. Well, thinking about that master and subject class idea, where does that put Peace Corps volunteers? As far as I'm concerned we're serving our country too, nonviolently, and with a pen instead of a sword (ten tala to whoever can tell me who said that phrase because I can't remember right now). Unlike those who didn't go to Vietnam because they were getting a college education, one has to h ave a college degree to be in the Peace Corps. Are Peace Corps volunteers perhaps some third category? Not subject class because we had a choice and were not forced to do this out of some sort of necessity, but not master class either because if we were part of this category, we definitely wouldn't be here. But we've got the education of master and perhaps the wherewithal of subject. Maybe the secret is this isn't a subject class fighting a master class' war. Perhaps it is truly just a class of people who believes no class should have to declare or fight a war.<br />
<br />
There is a poem written by a soldier during the Vietnam War that I consistently come back to when considering my current Samoan experience:<br />
<h3>APO 96225 by Larry Rottmann</h3><i>A young man once went off to war in a far country,<br />
and when he had time, he wrote home and said,<br />
“Dear Mom, sure rains a lot here.”<br />
<br />
But his mother — reading between the lines as mothers<br />
always do — wrote back,<br />
“We’re quite concerned. Tell us what it’s really like.”<br />
<br />
And the young man responded,<br />
“Wow! You ought to see the funny monkeys.”<br />
<br />
To which the mother replied,<br />
“Don’t hold back. How is it there?”<br />
<br />
And the young man wrote,<br />
“The sunsets here are spectacular!”<br />
<br />
In her next letter, the mother pleaded,<br />
“Son, we want you to tell us everything. Everything!”<br />
<br />
So the next time he wrote, the young man said,<br />
“Today I killed a man. Yesterday, I helped drop napalm<br />
on women and children.”<br />
<br />
And the father wrote right back,<br />
“Please don’t write such depressing letters. You’re<br />
upsetting your mother.”<br />
<br />
So, after a while,<br />
the young man wrote,<br />
“Dear Mom, sure rains here a lot.”</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Imagine this next bit as a cute little footnote:<br />
Here is another tricky thing the Peace Corps accomplishes with us. It's no secret that a lot of volunteers meet their future spouse in their country of service. But here's something probably lesser well-known. If a volunteer gets pregnant by a host-country national during her two years of service and decides to keep the baby, she is sent back to the US where she will give birth; she also cannot finish her two years of service. (You can also not get married while in service.) So this half-American, half-host country baby has conveniently been born in the US, which grants it US citizenship, but not dual citizenship. So this baby can only legally have loyalty to the US. Now say a volunteer in Samoa goes back home to have her half-American, half-Samoan baby and sixteen or so years later, there's a war in American Samoa as Samoan warriors threaten their lives (think "Boy Meets World" when Cory, Shawn, and Topanga are no that quiz show and get speared by Samoans for every wrong answer). Well, naturally America w2ould step in and this little child has to fight with American Samoa and try to kill his half-brother who grew up in Samoa. (Like the Civil War, pitting brother against brother.) Oh, tricky, tricky Peace Corps. (If some of my logistics are wrong, at least this is only a footnote.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-41723990574444656042011-06-15T18:20:00.001-07:002011-06-15T18:30:45.040-07:00Red Sequined Flip Flops<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Bed Bugs, Giant Centipedes, and Rats. Oh My!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">If Dorothy had figured out within the first ten minutes of the film that the Wizard of Oz was never going to be what she expected, would she still have done the whole thing? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I once knew a place that was black, white, gray, and sometimes a tone of sepia would pop in there. Growing up, as we all know, steals that easy dichotomy of right and wrong, black and white. We’re thrown into a land of color, Technicolor, and as we try to figure out what we should be doing with our lives, how to make this all matter, we find ourselves following yellow brick roads. Well, throw me into a blue and white checkered smock because now that I’m in Samoa, my hair is often in braids like dear Dorothy (one braid and to the side, but trust me, the metaphor will work despite the lack of hair fidelity). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The witch’s hat has been replaced with a pair of sunglasses and a fake flower. She doesn’t have green skin, but the Wicked Witch of the West does strike fear into little short people. When my nemesis appears, children stop whatever they’re doing, laughter ceases, smiles fade, eyes lower, and voices quiet. Fear. The little munchkins are truly afraid of her. For the sake of ambiguity, I will not state who the Wicked Witch is, but if you have spoken with me in the last few months, trust your instinct. She is who you think she is. And if a house fell on her, a house we will call MESC, I wouldn’t be heartbroken. I would probably do a celebratory click of the heels with Toto. Toto, of course, would be my little brother from Tafitoala, Tala. I don’t think he’d be afraid to bite the heel of Mrs. Gulch, which he would immediately follow with a dance of his own. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I’m afraid I wasn’t able to imagine quite perfect metaphors for Dorothy’s three amigos. Rather, the three things they search for, I fear I have lost and am now trying to regain. Ironically, these three things, heart, intelligence, and courage, were the very things that made me travel to the fabled land of Oz. Facing a completely new culture, one has to compromise oneself. Don’t be frightened by that statement; it’s a fact of Oz, a fact that anyone hoping to be caught in that tornado and thrown into a foreign land needs to know before looking into that crystal ball. Vast generalizations are often made by us volunteers from observations we have made. These stereotypes may be wrong, possibly, but this is quite a small place and we have seen most of it and in so doing, we have unfortunately lost some of the tolerance, some of that hope that compelled us to come here in the first place. I, for one, have also realized that maybe, just maybe, grad school would have been the right decision immediately after college. I’m dying to learn more, but my legs are wobbly and the straw is falling out. Courage? Well, it got me here. I’m counting on it to help me stay. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I don’t know where those flying monkeys got their wings, or their little vests and fez hats, but if I did, I would surely purchase them in bulk and outfit the cheeky men of Samoa to match their Oz counterparts. Ever-annoying, and really just clueless, a lot of Samoan men, not all, but a lot have no idea what it means to be respectful to women. There is no place one can go without an annoying flying monkey saying, “Hey baby,” or grazing your leg as you walk down the sidewalk. Just as you are about to pick an apple from a tree, the tree turns on you, and a freakin’ flying monkey comes out of a nowhere to ruin any good mood that existed. Can’t the monkeys just take off the wings, lose the vest, forget pretensions and be respectful? Why they always gotta be harassing Dorothy? She’s just doing her best, trying to get home in one piece, and maybe along the way, saving those little munchkins from a tyrannical ruler. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Now, Glinda the Good Witch. I bet if one were to look up literary or film analyses of the Wiz, Glinda probably turns out to represent some sort of hallucinogen. Well, not much has changed. Glinda, with her feel-good vibe, is most likely Samoa’s own Vailima beer. Need I elaborate more?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Sadly, my Oz doesn’t have nearly as much singing or dancing. Unless we are all at VBar. And thanks to one volunteer, we can all do the hip-out-swivel-drink-in-the-air-eyes-to-the-sky choreographed number. Oddly enough, though, we do often find ourselves rocking out to the occasional Backstreet Boys jam. (Sorry NSYNC; I know, one of you brought sexy back and all, but “Bye, Bye, Bye” just hasn’t stood the test of time like “I Want it That Way.”)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">How does the story end? Well, we all know it. After Dorothy’s long trek, she finally meets the Wizard of Oz. She pulls back that curtain and realizes he was never what he was meant to be. Well, I’ve pulled back that curtain too and behind it is disillusionment and disappointment. That man behind the curtain is the whole Peace Corps experience, the whole bravado. The mythology.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Although the Wizard of Oz so succinctly tells us the moral of the endeavor, even though it may be true, I will not be so cliché, but I will end with a little T.S. Eliot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">We shall not cease from exploration</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And the end of all our exploring</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Will be to arrive where we started</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And know the place for the first time.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-17573506985576505892011-06-09T17:17:00.001-07:002011-06-09T17:49:42.936-07:00The Fa'alavelave of the Red PuletasiAccording to the Oxford English Dictionary, fa'alavelave is defined as "a huge pain in the ass." In short, anything that is immensely incomvenient or causes some sort of disturbance is a fa'alavelave. Funerals, weddings, going to Apia, strappy sandals in a country in which one must take off shoes before entering a home, trying to get something sewn on extremely short notice.<br />
<br />
To my great dismay and frustration, last Friday I discovered that I was supposed to have a brand new red puletasi for this Monday for training that was taking place at our school. As another pisikoa said the other day, "Knowing what's going on in your life is a luxury in Samoa." And let the fa'alavelave begin. <br />
<br />
Saturday after an early rehearsal with the National Samoan Orchestra, I ran to a store in Apia to buy the puletasi fabric, ventured back to my village, and quickly walked to a neighbor's house. Sina would accompany me to the suisui (seamstress) in my village in order to quickly get around any language or cultural barriers that would slow the puletasi process. (For those unfortunately unfamiliar with Samoan fashion, a puletasi is what teachers wear to school; it's basically a wrap-around skirt with a top. A puletasi immediately identifies anyone as a teacher. I now have ten, which I think is equivalent to having seventy pairs of shoes.) After arriving at the suisui's house and unceremoniously waking up one of the family members, Sina and I quickly realized after said family member monotonously tries to wake the suisui from her slumber in the Samoan way we have all still raise an eyebrow at, that we were out of luck. This lady ain't waking up to sew no puletasi today.<br />
<br />
Next option, a fa'afafine suisui in Lalomauga, the next village over. (Fa'afafine is the third gender in Samoa, also known as fifty-fifties. In a short generalization that does not do the subject justice, a fa'afafine is a man who was raised as a girl so that she can perform both male and female duties. Sometimes fa'afafines are homosexual, sometimes not. They usually always dress as a woman.) We get Sina's brother, Peni (pronounced Benny) to give us a ride there (which is a fa'alavelave in and of itself in a country where cars are not the norm). We arrive at the suisui's house, but she is not there. So we leave the fabric with the intention of coming back the next day before church to get my measurements taken. She'll then sew the puletasi and we will retrieve it Sunday night, just in time for school Monday.<br />
<br />
However. (Of course there's a 'however.' This wouldn't be a fa'alavelave without a 'however.') My pulea'oga (principal) came over Saturday night to inform me that I must take my fabric to a suisui in Solosolo, a village halfway between here and Apia, because she will put a pattern on the fabric and sew the puletasi so all the teachers are completely uniform. Is it possible, my ever-so-understanding pule wants to know, if I can get my fabric back from the suisui in Lalomauga? Why, of course. It's not like I've been going out of my way for this puletasi anyway.<br />
<br />
Sunday morning comes and I head to Sina's house. She thinks I've arrived to go get my measurements taken, but no. I have to inform her that we somehow have to culturally and politely get my fabric back. Turns out, this isn't so hard. My pule has informed me that she will come to my house sometime Sunday night to take me to Solosolo. What time, you ask. Well, who knows? That's really not important. Needless to say, my pule doesn't come. Luckily, the puletasi will be for Tuesday and not the very next day. One day of wiggle room.<br />
<br />
After a day of boring training that doesn't really apply to pisikoa, I head to Solosolo with the teacher who lives there. The suisui isn't home. Is she at bingo? Nope. She's in Apia. We'll just have to wait until she gets back. So, while my teacher, Lola, stays at bingo, I head to the nearby faleoloa (shop) where the pisikoa from Solosolo, Katie, hangs out. and we kafao. This word, kafao, learn it. Next time you are in Samoa, just say, "Kafao," and you won't have to do anything.<br />
<br />
After drinking two free Cokes from the store and chatting with the store owner and her daughter Jebra (that's kind of a sweet name) about some slang we recently learned in our own training (things like: "Aua le pesto," or "Sa pese agapo?", or what's good to know but never to say to someone: "Fai ska mea?") the little pepe (baby) Angelo toddles outside. This kid is adorable and makes me hardcore miss Tala from Tafitoala. Lo, as he's called (Samoan names get shortened to the last part), can hold up one finger when you ask how old he is, moos like a cow when you say, in Samoan, "cry cow", and when you say the Samoan word for 'tease,' he sticks out his tongue. What more can you ask for in a one year old?<br />
<br />
Well, bingo finishes and the suisui still hasn't shown. So Katie and I head to her 'house' on the school compound which is really a small classroom that has been renovated into a suitable living situation. She gives me the grand tour and shows me the whole in the fence from where, the previous night, someone got into the compound and...wait for it...stole four pairs of underwear which were hung out to dry, which, inevitably and undeniably becomes a huge joke in her village. And let's face it, it is pretty funny. Creepy, but here we like to say that it's funny and a good Peace Corps story to tell later. After sufficient kafao at her house, we head back to the faleoloa so we dont' get stuck at her place during sa, or curfew. And we just sit next to the faleoloa while the matai (high chiefs) patrol the roads to make sure no one is walking. this is the allotted daily time for prayer. Do it. If you don't do it, make everyone think you do it. Turn down the volume on your TVs, pray if you really want, sing if your ambitious (or just really want the village to know your undying devotion), maybe a little 'Fa'fetai i le Atua'. <br />
<br />
(At some point earlier, I really can't remember when, the suisui did show. We bring her my fabric, she takes my measurements, and then we wait, like everything in Samoa, we wait.) Back to curfew. It's uma (done). So we go to Lola's house and Katie and I depart ways so she can get back to her house before her water is turned off. Lola's family has just finished singing their evening prayer and I awkwardly sit next to the man of the house who is seventy-six. We talk about how old my parents are, if they're still alive (oddly enough, this is not a strange question here, the assumption being that if a palagi leaves their family it must be because they have no family), the shock that I'm an only child (something that always baffles Samoans) and that I'm a long way from home. I talk to Lola's daughter who is a year 6 at my school and watch while a few babies wander around. At one point, Lola's thirty year old son comes out of nowhere and chats with me. He gets a phone call and leaves and the man of the house asks, "Do you know him?" Nope, not at all. <br />
<br />
Eventually Lola and I head back to the suisui's house. Her husband has just arrived and he will do the print. Her name is Vailolo and his name is Toa. They are two of the nicest people I've met recently. While he rolls the print on the fabric and she dries the print with a blow-dryer, some neighborhood tamaiti (children) call out "PALAGI! PALAGI!" (White person! Non-Samoan! Foreigner! Take your pick.) I wave. They continue shouting as their giggles permeate the night. Eventually I yell back, "O fea le palagi? O fea? Oe?" (Where's the palagi? Where? You?") This gets huge laughs from the kids and from Lola and Vailolo. It might've scored me some brownie points with Lola too, and I will take anything to impress the teachers at my school. The kids keep coming around, sticking their faces around the corner, so I make faces at them, and they laugh, and run. every once in a while, a call of PALAGI will be heard again. I catch one of the kids before he runs away and reply, "SAMOAN!" Again, this cracks everyone up and I am immensely pleased with the reaction. This is the kind of politically incorrect joke that wins hearts here. But Vailolo and Toa are super cool and know that it isn't the coolest thing for their kids to be shouting out my skin color, so eventually they yell, "Soia. Sasa." (Stop, or I'll hit you.) the sewing machine continues, Vailolo's foot pushes the pedal, a pig is found under a bench in the kitchen, a cat with half a tail walks around. And rain pounds on the metal roofs. Rain here is like rain I've experienced nowhere else, perhaps because the sound of the drops echoes off the roofs and bounces between houses. <br />
<br />
I'm using Samoan when I can and Vailolo and Toa dont' care if I can't say everything in Samoan. The sewing is nearing its conclusion and as I try on the top piece and tie the bottom around my waist, Vailolo tells me that next time I need a puletasi made, she will do it for free. This is one of the nicest things someone has offered to do for me in a while, and I feel honored. Toa tells me I'm the first palagi he has hosted and as he and his nephew drive me back to Falefa around 10:30 with a finally-finished red puletasi, he invites me to toana'i (Sunday post-church lunch) any time I can come. As some of you readers may know, I've had a really, really difficult time lately, but Toa says possibly the one thing I've needed to hear for a while now: "You're volunteering here to help the children of Samoa. You're in a completely different country. A free puletasi is the least we can do for you. Thank you."<br />
<br />
I sit in the back seat, a slight smile on my face, maybe a tear or two appearing in the corner of my eye, as I look at the stars in the sky and the ocean waves crashing against the rocks next to the road, and the wind blows back my hair. <br />
<br />
And that red puletasi? It might be my favorite one.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-49708486714531538942011-03-23T19:09:00.000-07:002011-03-25T18:03:09.217-07:00What Am I Doing Here?Besides asking myself that question quite often, I'll tell you what I'm doing here. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Basically, every morning I wake up and go to school, which is roughly a ten minute walk from my house. As soon as school starts, the kids have assembly. They pray, sing, and practice marching drills. I'm not sure what for. And they aren't seriously marching; hardly any of them even march in beat. Two year 8 boys get the cool job of doing the drumming; one of them holds an old cracker tin while the other drums the beat with two sticks. I hope I get to be them when I'm a year 8 boy. The school also has prefects. Yep, like Harry Potter. And also like the magical wizard, we have houses. On sports day, every other Friday, the school divides into four houses, blue, red, yellow, and green, to play various games. I'm leader of the red house! I like to think of us as Gryffindor, but as our past performances in the games might indicate, I think we're probably actually Hufflepuff. </div></div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIlchclOKP6hILrZSEFxSTsihKBS1lgEAVs5mrdgcM0NOv-pDya-sh6CTuGit-27kt2R4HuoSh0lKPOEUqIHjnXKgYkViWXIFXqWIjWec7NxR9tbaVE69YbD2BZ8Ccu96tM81iutGKZs/s1600/IMG_1743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzIlchclOKP6hILrZSEFxSTsihKBS1lgEAVs5mrdgcM0NOv-pDya-sh6CTuGit-27kt2R4HuoSh0lKPOEUqIHjnXKgYkViWXIFXqWIjWec7NxR9tbaVE69YbD2BZ8Ccu96tM81iutGKZs/s200/IMG_1743.JPG" width="200" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">The Green House</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWo43B7jZoTxVsXW9C_VYUXspcBu_La_3LjMg3_lCMTTQOMf63QxiQT2c7ZuYaRps0lKAeQo-cZOpsTlAfmH2BchC-qHYyBGPQOGL1D79veWyqhpPDnBR_cHc4CUvmhVdMOCbv9SvxUE/s1600/IMG_1747.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWo43B7jZoTxVsXW9C_VYUXspcBu_La_3LjMg3_lCMTTQOMf63QxiQT2c7ZuYaRps0lKAeQo-cZOpsTlAfmH2BchC-qHYyBGPQOGL1D79veWyqhpPDnBR_cHc4CUvmhVdMOCbv9SvxUE/s200/IMG_1747.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sports Day!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Anyway, after assembly, it's time for school and time for me to teach. I start the day teaching year 7 English. And it's not like I'm teaching English how we know it; I'm teaching a foreign language. And the ability levels of the kids are all over the board. Keep in mind, they've been learning English since year one (equivalent to our kindergarten). So my year 7s are about 6th graders, about 11 years old, but their English reading and writing skills re probably equivalent to our kindergarten-third graders. Their speaking ability...some don't understand any English while a few can hold an open-ended conversation with me.</div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We teach from the scheme, a book thing given to us by the Ministry of Culture, Education, and Sports (Ministry! Harry Potter again.) The scheme is a blessing and a curse. It gives us an idea of what to teach, but it is also way past the level of most of the kids and wants you to fit three hours worth of material into one class period. The scheme is basically impossible to use how it was meant to be used.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBkvgzpG9WW5TsKCwQUSapiIm1XCP6t9vNtU16-StjtaxnKNVcZajbf2AkMe1gUV3O2aS6LhjFmY8bVTvYUITP5AFG9P5db9zRybPgEMEs_ZdCYjwiEuQJVeJBthPNSv-m3nX8yJRstk/s1600/IMG_1731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBkvgzpG9WW5TsKCwQUSapiIm1XCP6t9vNtU16-StjtaxnKNVcZajbf2AkMe1gUV3O2aS6LhjFmY8bVTvYUITP5AFG9P5db9zRybPgEMEs_ZdCYjwiEuQJVeJBthPNSv-m3nX8yJRstk/s200/IMG_1731.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Man, detention with Sema sure is fun!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And my discipline program for the chilluns, since I don't hit them, is to write their name on the board when they misbehave. Three checks next to your name, and you're out. Once they get three, then they get one mark on the detention poster. Dun dun dun. One mark equals fifteen minutes of detention, which I have them serve after school one day a week. In detention, they usually work on homework if I've given them any for then ext day, or they write their spelling words until I tell them they can go. Sometimes a few of the boys just rack up detention marks, so I'll have them come over to my house and pick up the rubbish, and by "rubbish" I mean leaves. That's right, leaves in your yard are a big no-no. And I hardly ever clean up my leaves. I think it embarrasses my host family too. They've started having the kids come over after pastor's school on Monday to clean up my yard. I'm pretty sure I'm the equivalent of the person back home who lets their grass get way too long in the summer. My yard is an eyesore. I think it's kind of funny.</div></div></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUlaezhfQL_H4pxPxVJaJo4VS_Hzo3AELuVfVLHALuQUkdbjrJDPEjfHqx9nEDm9yLiO33Mrc6ppppb1HxQzwBnQDkqKWRfbslhes6cH3zfJJ4uFPf9MpKDJB1R7MNZtXEgj9cOu-n8Ho/s1600/IMG_1756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUlaezhfQL_H4pxPxVJaJo4VS_Hzo3AELuVfVLHALuQUkdbjrJDPEjfHqx9nEDm9yLiO33Mrc6ppppb1HxQzwBnQDkqKWRfbslhes6cH3zfJJ4uFPf9MpKDJB1R7MNZtXEgj9cOu-n8Ho/s200/IMG_1756.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Geez, why doesn't that girl freaking mow her lawn?!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Then I usually work on lesson plans until lunch/interval. Lunch is provided for the teachers by the families of the students. Every day, a different family brings lunch. It is usually taro (which I don't eat) and some kind of soup with chicken, and either tea, coffee, or niu (coconut) to drink. Yes, we drink straight out of coconuts. A few of the moms set up a little stand outside and serve the kids noodles for lunch.I'm not sure if the kids have to pay or not; I think they do. After interval, I usually teach a remedial reading class for the struggling readers in year 7. Sometimes we have class in the library or outside under the breadfruit tree. This class is a challenge; it takes most of the kids who won't listen to me and the kids who can't read and puts them all together. Right now, we're just working on phonics. If I can get these kids to read by the end of the school, year, I will consider it a success. (The Samoan school year starts in February with breaks in May and October. School ends in mid December.)</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1C0VuFf9sNzTsHg4QMZx5QwXldpn4ARushrNcDe3-cp_JPy3k_KIGFE1gq6rXgeSMQq8TB71zKwFF88zeFQkeiY6EmRelbOdHyTwyP0_SvRv_D4fjsWRK5XPYmsfzdLKhI__E2kx-fb4/s1600/IMG_1712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1C0VuFf9sNzTsHg4QMZx5QwXldpn4ARushrNcDe3-cp_JPy3k_KIGFE1gq6rXgeSMQq8TB71zKwFF88zeFQkeiY6EmRelbOdHyTwyP0_SvRv_D4fjsWRK5XPYmsfzdLKhI__E2kx-fb4/s200/IMG_1712.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monono Island<br />
Rob, Olivia, and I Tipped the Canoe in the Background<br />
Twice the Previous Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> After reading, I hang out for a while and work on lesson plans again until school is done, which is never the same time. Some days I stay longer to do make-up spelling/vocab tests, or for homework help, or when it's a detention day. ((I'm also thinking of doing an extra reading class after school one day a week for the kids in my year 7 who are good readers. A lot of the smart girls always ask if they can join my reading class.) Or some days I'll leave earlier if I have to go into Apia for something. And every other Wednesday is teacher payday (not for me...we don't get paid, we're volunteers, remember) so that means school gets done early and all the teachers go to Apia.</div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">To end the day, I usually walk home with some of the kids, usually they year 7 girls who love to giggle when creepy guys stare at me too long or the younger guys try to flirt. The year 7 girls get a kick out of it. And some days, there's a little boy who always greets me with, "Fa, Palagi!"</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqFSKZ4SBKO1mhBw_xfe9eUd6cp25-pUwB4jBtCdvW01JXrTFb4HiH0t0P2Y6gPnxJsNZMnHJoUrOlLQEsUiDCyWqqeFCJg6z5B7hJcVvpL1c12wpdn4RIv7Dyp9LrFwFW4xj8crPWb0/s1600/IMG_1554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqFSKZ4SBKO1mhBw_xfe9eUd6cp25-pUwB4jBtCdvW01JXrTFb4HiH0t0P2Y6gPnxJsNZMnHJoUrOlLQEsUiDCyWqqeFCJg6z5B7hJcVvpL1c12wpdn4RIv7Dyp9LrFwFW4xj8crPWb0/s200/IMG_1554.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Giant Centipede that Bit Me<br />
This is After I Killed It</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAdNuUNhopx9Pccg07Rvm6VMZq_iu2d3gG_Vq4Gk2fpK8DQjqedBZOchBGkOI7vY4uJFfdKHDjix0HX-Q7smtDsNKCeLy23fA0HY4rSbWeYOj4AwwKvZMOMulUZgtzRJ_elBOU7-v8Fc/s1600/IMG_1682_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGAdNuUNhopx9Pccg07Rvm6VMZq_iu2d3gG_Vq4Gk2fpK8DQjqedBZOchBGkOI7vY4uJFfdKHDjix0HX-Q7smtDsNKCeLy23fA0HY4rSbWeYOj4AwwKvZMOMulUZgtzRJ_elBOU7-v8Fc/s200/IMG_1682_1.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coolest Little Brother I've Ever Had</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdoPKjUkMxjG-ron8JMTy9EQdzlrG_le7UU6lMQMWGWGlx182GXu2o0dgsGgpgyjUrpgR1wXLvLPYAN3DpiA7If_MZLuSDjI6B8wWgfCcZeClujqB43ZXCPH6SY9RV0m8hhCTmU35y6o/s1600/IMG_1686_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdoPKjUkMxjG-ron8JMTy9EQdzlrG_le7UU6lMQMWGWGlx182GXu2o0dgsGgpgyjUrpgR1wXLvLPYAN3DpiA7If_MZLuSDjI6B8wWgfCcZeClujqB43ZXCPH6SY9RV0m8hhCTmU35y6o/s200/IMG_1686_1.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visiting Tafitoala<br />
(Clockwise from Top Left)<br />
Avei, Oneaka, Me, Poulima, Laupama, Ruka</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YxLiThxqLQbiPW3YFBbewlLYrUtUjDtnU9Mv-8kPrtMJ7PJ7IAp8hoLe8kzkbVFwKgcu-fuGil7-ZjqUhBv5nYUZrutipCoPaPJpXotkcgalDDqI_jpZunc2LFxcQGt6IQmAlHpimV8/s1600/IMG_1684_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YxLiThxqLQbiPW3YFBbewlLYrUtUjDtnU9Mv-8kPrtMJ7PJ7IAp8hoLe8kzkbVFwKgcu-fuGil7-ZjqUhBv5nYUZrutipCoPaPJpXotkcgalDDqI_jpZunc2LFxcQGt6IQmAlHpimV8/s200/IMG_1684_1.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lauina, Baby Mikaele, and Sa</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVhFB1xQR8I41TeWOYGHeI1SP3oLgBcO_LC6H8AwMjSYBzRnurrhM8-HLKX2_myAQ3OosyzwHRvgOC584jfC1ya0uiWYXCrV4s6XFecgeOaT60r41mHysIlZ07aJttse-fX4RsiH7-i0/s1600/IMG_1744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVhFB1xQR8I41TeWOYGHeI1SP3oLgBcO_LC6H8AwMjSYBzRnurrhM8-HLKX2_myAQ3OosyzwHRvgOC584jfC1ya0uiWYXCrV4s6XFecgeOaT60r41mHysIlZ07aJttse-fX4RsiH7-i0/s200/IMG_1744.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keeping Cool at Sports Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLmTfWQCi968i1ktnKyg_0r3IZwb3vCsi8mC1ayyW61__MMQXJ4aZ6Axt2g4x_mNIoUaTYCWzMbWgDcUnd-225dmJ1FAHGRJhGaDwaXEj9MvHL53Zn5CUlPw77z1VPPxM8mBuZsrf9Dw/s1600/IMG_1768.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLmTfWQCi968i1ktnKyg_0r3IZwb3vCsi8mC1ayyW61__MMQXJ4aZ6Axt2g4x_mNIoUaTYCWzMbWgDcUnd-225dmJ1FAHGRJhGaDwaXEj9MvHL53Zn5CUlPw77z1VPPxM8mBuZsrf9Dw/s200/IMG_1768.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eni, Lesina, Ina, Lisa, ma Rosanna Chilling<br />
On My Porch</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2JPwY6teCcsUgZoX6Wial_BwtgcxU6UGSw5h9dWVrpjqWK_OSg6dCdQ4vcr7_yb8_jx4wQRC27-MJUww6utFGUdN-UgkGlibX2MYBI1WKhublTA17FsVdxAaygpwNHCSXl3SyJ3JvbQM/s1600/IMG_1728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2JPwY6teCcsUgZoX6Wial_BwtgcxU6UGSw5h9dWVrpjqWK_OSg6dCdQ4vcr7_yb8_jx4wQRC27-MJUww6utFGUdN-UgkGlibX2MYBI1WKhublTA17FsVdxAaygpwNHCSXl3SyJ3JvbQM/s200/IMG_1728.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boat to Monono</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-31776059701092371442011-03-23T18:47:00.000-07:002011-03-23T18:50:00.062-07:00The Real World--Season TwoIt's a world of bills, taxes, employment, unemployment, houses, or living with the parents. I believe this is known as "the real world." You know, that phrase that was drilled into our heads over and over again in high school.<br />
<br />
A few days ago, with the miracle of a borrowed computer and skype, I talked to some of my best friends back home in the good ol' US of A. An offhand comment was made, something to the tune of, "Sam, when you get back to the real world..." Well, throughout college, I always joked about never joining the real world, and let's face it, college was definitely not the real world we'd been told about. Even when we pisikoas first arrived in Samoa and were walking down the sidewalks of Apia dripping in sweat, I was still joking about not being in the real world. However, after living here for more than five months, it's become painfully clear that this is a world more real than what most of my friends back home are experiencing.<br />
<br />
No, I am not living in what high school indoctrinated us to believe would be "the real world." No, I'm not looking for jobs back home, or applying to grad schools, or paying bills and taxes (that's a lie, I'm still paying taxes and the student loans are still rolling in and grad school will happen when I get back home). But I am living in a world that <em>everyday</em> tests who I am, that everyday challenges everything I thought I ever was. Last time I checked, job applications don't make you question who you are or what you are made of.<br />
<br />
I'm living in a world where people tell me men are better than women, where my words are twisted, a world world where I see children hit every day, where I'm told to simply "lead by example" when it comes to corporal punishment. This is a world of "Hey baby"ies and being randomly touched in a crowd, a world that makes me glad I took self-defense my last semester of college (let's hope I never need to use it). This so-called not-real-world is a place where I had to evacuate my house on the ocean after the earthquake in Japan because of a tsunami scare. (Samoa was hit by a tsunami in September 2009; you ever hear of that one?) A world where I am constantly being judged on how many leaves are in my yard, by every preconceived (usually wrong) notion people have of palagis (my oh-so-favorite word), and my level of Samoan. Again, let's be real. When I go back to the States, I'm probably going to be able to speak Samoan better than, what, 90% of the country? (And how ethnocentric is it that Samoans learn to speak English because ours is the dominant world language. In other words, we don't have to bother to learn Samoan.) A world where, when I can politely do so, I throw in that I can also speak Spanish just so I don't look like some ignorant, young girl, which, I'm sure a lot of people think I am. This is a place where I am solely seen as a pretty little girl teaching school; I am no longer the smart, talented, flute-playi9ng, writing, performing, phi beta kappa person who I was back home. Nobody sees that here (I played flute with the National Samoan Orchestra on TV and more people recognized me when they saw me on TV in the audience at Samoa's Best Dance Crew.) This is a life of just hoping some of my students will be literate by the end of the year, of wanting them to <em>want </em>to learn, but I fear that is too much to ask. This unreal world is a place where I worry about three little girls with an alcoholic father. It's somewhere where I've turned down marriage proposals. I've been bitten by a poisonous Giant Centipede and yeah, that might be something out of "Alice and Wonderland" or the movie "James and the Giant Peach" (I kid you not, that effing centipede looked just like the one from th movie), but how often do you get bit back home by a bug that makes you simultaneously laugh and cry as the injury swells?<br />
<br />
No,I'm not living in y our "real world." I'm living in a world that's realer than real. (Ahem, Sean Cobb, I believe we talked about a very similar phrase last year in Senior Sem. I think I've finally figured out what it means..)<br />
<br />
So for anyone who thinks I'm not living in the real world, I would encourage you to think of the last time you saw a piece of wood broken on the back of a child.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-62434320622453729252011-02-28T17:55:00.000-08:002011-02-28T18:01:17.206-08:00One Stick at a TimeI have made it no secret to those I've talked to at home and some of the other volunteers here that the corporal punishment/child abuse that I see nearly every day is quite bothersome, to say the least. This post is a continuation of a past post entitled "Observations on Sasa."<br />
<br />
My presence, which would hopefully prevent some corporal punishment, hasn't really seemed to accomplish that. Today may have been the first day at school I didn't see a child get hit really hard; probably because I was the one teaching them. (That's right, today was my first official day teaching my own classes! I teach Year 7 English and a remedial reading class for some of the Year 7 students. They're about sixth graders, but their US English equivalent is about kindergarten to 3rd grade). However, sometimes I do overhear in Samoan, "I'd hit you right now, but Sema's here."<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I had my first (and only) triumph against corporal punishment. It was the first time in Samoa that I have felt like I did anything that I envisioned Peace Corps to be about. The Year 7 teacher, our only male teacher, hit three students in one day with a huge stick. And when I say stick, I don't mean some little branch. I mean a 5 to 10 centimeter width stick. To the back and to the legs. It was the first time I ever showed a reaction to a beating. All the kids know I don't like it when they get hit, so when these kids got beat with a stick, all their eyes were on me to see my reaction. Usually, I try to look judgemental or like I am looking my nose down at the teacher doing the beating. But this time, I couldn't conceal a flinch and a wince. I wanted to take the kids outside and comfort them, check for whelts. I didn't. But at interval (lunch/recess) I talked to the Year 7 teacher. "Can you not use the stick to hit the kids? It's really hard and it leaves marks." That honestly was the jist of my argument. He didn't say he would stop and just kind of tried to justify himself: "They make me so mad." Well, later in the day, I noticed him getting mad again, but he wasn't going for the stick or raising a hand. Then he explained half in Samoan, half in English that "Sema gave him some advice" and he won't use the stick to hit the kids anymore. One of the boys, Junior, turned to me and gave me a thumbs up. Another boy, William, mouthed "Thank you." At least for that one moment, my being here actually made a difference. ...........That, however, doesn't mean that the kids don't still get hit. <br />
<br />
A few days ago, I was in my kitchen and I heard these loud whacks. I looked out a window and a group of kids was staring into the not-so-far distance. I looked out another window, and there was the faife'au (pastor) beating two girls with a giant stick. My first reaction was, "What kind of a place is this where 'a man of God' is beating children with sticks?!" But then another Peace Corps reminded me that, "Pastors back home rape little kids." That did not help. Besides, pastors raping children is not happening right in front of my eyes; it is not something that I can stop so easily. <br />
<br />
This next one qualifies as a Peace Corps horror story, so if you're squeamish or have an all-too-romanticized view of the Peace Corps, turn away, and join me in the next paragraph. This story comes from another Peace Corps volunteer here in Samoa. The taule'ale'a (untitled men) were at his school cutting the grass with machetes (that's just how they do it). One of the men had his hand in a door. A kid accidentally shut the door on his hand. The man then sliced the kid's hand open with the machete and proceeded to chase the kid while the child's hand gushed blood. Not until a teacher yelled, "Stop. The Peace Corps is here" did the man stop. <br />
<br />
Another kind of disturbing facet of the hitting culture here is that girls will even whale on other girls. Or male teachers will slap female students. Oh, and as a reminder, or in case I haven't said it yet, corporal punishment is illegal in Samoa. <br />
<br />
Back when we lived in Tafitoala, the first time we ever went to watch youth siva practice, the woman in charge hit nearly every person there. (These are 15-23 year-olds we're talking about.) It became a game for Mikaele and I to guess who would get hit next; it was usually my host cousin Sene. Anyway, afterward, one of the girls came up to us. "Do you know why she was hitting us so much? It was because she was showing off for you two." Can we just remind everyone that showing your power or dominance by hitting someone else went out of fashion quite some time ago?<br />
<br />
More observations:<br />
The school kids do this thing when they get nervous or when they get an answer wrong or don't know the answer. The put up their arm and scratch their head. We were told in training that this was a mannerism a lot of kids have. But after being in the school, I think I've figured out where this conditioned response has come from. Brace yourself, 75% of the time that kids get hit in school is because they got the answer wrong. Kids put up their arm when they don't know the answer or get it wrong, not because their head itches; they're blocking a hit they think will happen. <br />
It's also nice to know that if you're about to get slapped, puff out your cheek. Seems to temper the blow. <br />
<br />
And here is a recent journal entry from Feb. 24th. <br />
I think I just made a huge realization about hitting the kids....My pule said something I've heard multiple times before: Samoan kids need to be hit. They need to be hit; it's all they know; it's the only discipline they'll respond too. Basically, beating them is for their own good. And here's what I realized: we said the exact same thing about African Americans during slavery. The need to be whipped; it's all they'll respond to. As if Samoan children and black slaves were somehow genetically or biologically incapable of understanding any sort of discipline besides physical abuse. The kids aren't what need to change; it is the culture and the attitudes of those doing the hitting. I've often worried that the kids don't really care that I won't hit them, that they think or want me to hit them, and yes, they're right. Sasa is what they know, but that doesn't mean they like it or that it doesn't hurt. <br />
<br />
Can I write something amazing about the beating of Africans during slavery in tandem with the "Samoan kids need to be hit" atttitude an present it to my teachers? Will the racism thing even translate (like what a problem it is)? Would racist comments be made? Samoa is very homogeneous and I've become aware that I miss diversity. Racism towards whites in Samoa doesn't exist; at least, I haven't experienced anything blatant. However, we have heard a few anti-Muslim comments. But, is that what they think, or what they think we as Americans, with our War on Terror, want to hear?<br />
<br />
Can I just hand out copies of <u>Uncle Tom's Cabin?</u> <br />
<br />
Samoan kids don't want to be hit. They just don't know it; after years of conditioning, they don't now there's another way.<br />
<br />
And I'm not trying to compare the life of a Samoan child to slavery, although, their lives are very servant-like. I have said many-a-time that I'm glad I never had to experience a Samoan childhood.<br />
<br />
You know what else is crazy? The smart kids are the ones whose parents encourage them to practice, to read at home, the ones who've been given an inch and taken an ell, to semi-quote Frederick Douglass, one former slave who really knew the value of an education.<br />
<br />
...Another great argument that I've heard from Samoans is that "Fa'apalagi doesn't hit kids, but in the Samoan way, the kids need to be hit." But this can't mean it's just the "white way" to not hit kids because look at America. The "American," multicultural way is to not hit kids, so in this instance, "palagi" must mean foreign, everything not Samoan. In which case, how did the rest of the world get off so lucky with having kids that apparently don't need to be hit? How did the inhabitants of this island in the middle of an ocean bear such children that are somehow more inherently inclined to be so rowdy and unruly as to warrant beatings?<br />
<br />
And the way this "fa'apagi vs. fa'aSamoa" argument is presented seems to imply that it's just a cultural thing, it's just a difference, a difference that I, a palagi, should accept, like mean wearing lavalavas, or the unfailing church attendance, or the fact that a man with a machete shouldn't be perceived as an immediate threat; he's probably going to the plantation to get food for his family. Well, let me just give you a crash course in cultural relativism and universalism. Where's Martha Nussbaum with her article on female genital mutilation?! Or can I just get a copy of the paper I wrote in college in Ethical Theory and hand it out in pamphlet form?<br />
<br />
But let's face it, the problem still remains that the kids don't know there is any other way and until they find that out, they're going to expect sasa and until a "po i lou nuku" (slap in your mouth) happens, they aren't going to know they're doing anything wrong.<br />
<br />
Everything i've been taught in my life has been to not be an apathetic, silent witness. But now, when I've come to a place that has directly put me in the face of injustice, how can I just forget all that, just let it go? Everything I've learned has instilled in me to not have a silent voice. Even though it's the hardest test of my life, I don't intend to lose that voice. <br />
<br />
Call me an idealist. But if I remember correctly, Gandhi said....and amazing quote that, no, I can't remember right now, that was something about one man making a difference. Martin Luther King often used this quote too. (Anybody know the one I mean?) It only takes one person. <br />
<br />
Corporal punishment in schools is already illegal in Samoa, but clearly the law has not made an impact. And so too were slavery and segregation illegal, but we all know those two things didn't stop just because there was a law against them. The culture and attitudes need to change. We need to change "hearts and minds." <br />
<br />
Religion is a huge thing here in Samoa; I think 90%, if not more is some sort of Christianity. But go back to Gandhi and Martin Luther King and say you did something to put you in comparison with them. It'd probably feel outrageous because they are almost like gods on a pedestal. You can't touch them. They faced injustice and they brought it down, peacefully. Christianity teaches you to walk in the footsteps of Jesus, to live your life like He did. I can't say that I'd give anyone the shirt off my back, or wash the feet of the homeless, or die for anyone's sins, but I will try to walk in other footsteps. I see an injustice. Now I just have to do something about it, one stick at a time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-11266368530169508552011-02-12T11:54:00.000-08:002011-02-28T17:58:32.183-08:00Fesili?Tossing the blog over to you! If you have any questions about anything Peace Corps, Samoa, cultural, or whatever, shout it out!!! Post a comment and let me know and the next time I post a blog, I'll try to answer some of the questions. <br />
<br />
In the meantime, here are a few fun pics!<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KaOxDBL1GTpYQZ6dJR0TmDfoZ3bb0V-lN1RYYgRyH7DVxIfoTF8rd2NwFbOWhPOkjqSc6bmN8wYYOKay9MedLUA3wfYfC0YVv87HVOKKO40g-g9wmyHuOHpmbJ7m044oLJQzEG5aoAI/s1600/IMG_1137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KaOxDBL1GTpYQZ6dJR0TmDfoZ3bb0V-lN1RYYgRyH7DVxIfoTF8rd2NwFbOWhPOkjqSc6bmN8wYYOKay9MedLUA3wfYfC0YVv87HVOKKO40g-g9wmyHuOHpmbJ7m044oLJQzEG5aoAI/s200/IMG_1137.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dear Lopati</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLYZPqlRWzfnrZQT3GtSUvn8PMSvwGzKDjJ2Mdi54_Ext_WN7OD3FLjWniB9Ps6jdWkhB0SncdidKSofFOJAuQgin8MKWD9LkAHTYnEGqQmsR0pav1T-0mK4amVhucGSqm1Aq88PKDAM/s1600/IMG_1260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLYZPqlRWzfnrZQT3GtSUvn8PMSvwGzKDjJ2Mdi54_Ext_WN7OD3FLjWniB9Ps6jdWkhB0SncdidKSofFOJAuQgin8MKWD9LkAHTYnEGqQmsR0pav1T-0mK4amVhucGSqm1Aq88PKDAM/s200/IMG_1260.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tafitoala's Hip Hop Crew with Lance and Saigi</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_5wfM9EZpGe5m49y_amAbATUODQgMMMjzirCgzC682G23dYxHXd_fGc4Peqddamcxz9VGakMk6M015ddjaj6UzCmyNFFe5Dxk3v2iNFOPjFxW48wQmOrkfY2m8MKLwh9CZ-SN_7OnNY/s1600/IMG_1295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_5wfM9EZpGe5m49y_amAbATUODQgMMMjzirCgzC682G23dYxHXd_fGc4Peqddamcxz9VGakMk6M015ddjaj6UzCmyNFFe5Dxk3v2iNFOPjFxW48wQmOrkfY2m8MKLwh9CZ-SN_7OnNY/s200/IMG_1295.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Rosanna<br />
Host Sister in Falefa</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiaNrFGcskI119EwYDZcKm63WzHstmBKzaDnoH9lwTqj7qhnLwSIguCpsGNosAm9KfcYTjr-YfVAVSIHfv1VIzzbtGfR2flTpaqldCSMTaKDf8SXZhzpA0CDibdeXqVXkS_OusFIs6uLA/s1600/IMG_1418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiaNrFGcskI119EwYDZcKm63WzHstmBKzaDnoH9lwTqj7qhnLwSIguCpsGNosAm9KfcYTjr-YfVAVSIHfv1VIzzbtGfR2flTpaqldCSMTaKDf8SXZhzpA0CDibdeXqVXkS_OusFIs6uLA/s200/IMG_1418.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MY NEW HOUSE!!!!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-81088736101873292832011-02-04T18:13:00.000-08:002011-02-12T11:40:56.184-08:00The South Side -- A Home Away from HomeThe South Side-- Makes me think of <u>The Outsiders</u> every time. Who knows, the EFKS and Catholic church could have a rumble one day. But who would be Ponyboy? <br />
<br />
Tafitoala. I've talked about it many times and made references to it here and there. It was my training village and it is located on the south side of the island, just west of Cross Island Road. Basically, while in training, the twenty of us were split into four training villages, five pisikoas to a village. Tafitoala had Karen, Jenny, the two Mikes, and myself. Little did I know on my first day in the village when my family's bus pulled up with a handful of drunk men that this village would become a second home and that I would find so many great people there. This post is devoted to them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLW2QRmZHY-n2ztmAgWgEW2rMnIALiPx7ugP2gh1_UoDsJker09HNOdwBAKnIzwTawgb2aT-yDUc7F9mqI-c-gkoGzpB31wa2Fi4vS18WH3uC8l2UzQ5BUA9QiIbWnKzWL_4cfCKR32Q/s1600/IMG_0798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLW2QRmZHY-n2ztmAgWgEW2rMnIALiPx7ugP2gh1_UoDsJker09HNOdwBAKnIzwTawgb2aT-yDUc7F9mqI-c-gkoGzpB31wa2Fi4vS18WH3uC8l2UzQ5BUA9QiIbWnKzWL_4cfCKR32Q/s200/IMG_0798.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mika and Meke at Culture Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We'll start at the training fale. Our teacher was Lumafale. She was great. Tehre were two kids who lived at the training fale: Susanna (6 or 7) and Meke (5). Susanna was one of my famorites and Meke the monoki (monkey) was our mascot.<br />
<br />
Then it was Karene's family. They own a faleoloa, the one nobody really goes to. Her host mom, we, the pisikoas, affectionately called Diva; it hapens withn you wear the flashiest sunglasses and dresses. Karene has two brothers in their twenties who I knew: Sese and Kusi (whose name is also the word for "two write" or "book," but ironically, Kusi is illiterate).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8kIYU2rPPRoWCHg3P6zpoNflTWiZN99_ocCjBNmTJfFyQK3uo6BdQ5Wc6SKGGSixOGdG1lp0rjY_5Z6nF1lFtzt3bhhtM7hFtuzHQXzA5DAGLBaNdYaw4M1otH8UiwxWBIIok1790jk/s1600/IMG_1230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8kIYU2rPPRoWCHg3P6zpoNflTWiZN99_ocCjBNmTJfFyQK3uo6BdQ5Wc6SKGGSixOGdG1lp0rjY_5Z6nF1lFtzt3bhhtM7hFtuzHQXzA5DAGLBaNdYaw4M1otH8UiwxWBIIok1790jk/s200/IMG_1230.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tala</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Tafitoala is located off the main road (the orad that goes around the island) so going down the village road, the next Peace Corps house was mine. My host mom was Tuputala, host-dad Fuga (he'd just recovered from a stroke when I moved in; he's also a matai, a village chief). My thirty-year old brother was Amigi, named after "the great Idi Amin" as I was introduced to him. Yep, that's the genocidal dictator of Uganda. My nearly forty year old brother was Moeva; he is a teacher at one of the other training villages, Fusi. His wife, my host-sister-in-law, was 27 year old Sialei. She was basically my go-to persion. They have three children: Falelua (7), Jessie (6) who I adore, and Tala (2). My relationship with Tala had quite the evolution. In the beginning, he always hit me or threw things at me. By the end of training, he had nothing but hugs. And this kid will siva (dance) on command. He's prety spectacular. And seeing him walk around with a machete was not uncommon (don't worry, it's really not that weird). One of my favorite memories from Tafi was a dance party I had with Falelua and Jessie one night. They also know my parents' names; I had a video (before my computer crashed) of Falelua saying, "Malo, Darren," and Jessie saying, "Malo, Deb." And one of my favorite accomplishments so far, was teaching the three of them to say, "Hey, dude," especially Tala since hse doesn't even speak that much Samoan yet.</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfIyNdFn2jHXt7d5oh8kMy8boDso9BWALHqk_CO1tZBU9F_bnayZKw8Qv3TFFx8KE_XUer7VJamGWGoRCOVF_rsKogQivOL93aTY6jMOFOnQfD6hdY-zI5G9gPjEjK4f-C7PMytaiFrg/s1600/IMG_1214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfIyNdFn2jHXt7d5oh8kMy8boDso9BWALHqk_CO1tZBU9F_bnayZKw8Qv3TFFx8KE_XUer7VJamGWGoRCOVF_rsKogQivOL93aTY6jMOFOnQfD6hdY-zI5G9gPjEjK4f-C7PMytaiFrg/s200/IMG_1214.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Sa in Mikaele's Fale</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A little further down the road is Mikaele's family. They own the other faleoloa, the one to go to. His mom was Louina matua (kinda like Louina Sr.) and his dad was Uri. His host sister (23) was Louina laititi (little Louina) and she is hilarious! Her husband is Vavega (24). They have three kids: Vanessa (5 or 6), Sa (2), and a brand new baby boy who they named after Mikaele!! Mikaele also has a host sister named Faautu (17 or 18) and another named Masani (1). Their fale was the place to be Saturday and Tuesday nights; while the viallage played bingo next door (which is huge in Samoa), Mikaele, Mika, and I would usually play cards, drink cofee, and eat cookies. Outside of their fale was the popular ploace for boys to fagota i le auala--fish on the road--aka try to pick up girls. Theis alone was reason enough for Mika or Mikaele to always walk me the fifty yeards home after bingo. </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Next to the bingo hall, lived Sene. She just lived with a host-mom, also named Sene. Her and Mikaele's family are closely related.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Backtracking a little, I also consider two other girls a part of my host-family. Sene (17) (different from the pisikoa Jenny) and Limu (22). Sene is Siale's little sister and I think Limu is a cousin.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7fH3cgjoA35Odms_MmwpnukovsWU8gVutTAFXpc_aDtVqxF6cz9OKZn4LQ2SSqB7vBu4oOSAra-8P1bWejlL777XIr03VjofTQDlgT5xczs7bBOkF1xNsEvK__rlTiRb89n_a8wOW-U/s1600/IMG_1187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7fH3cgjoA35Odms_MmwpnukovsWU8gVutTAFXpc_aDtVqxF6cz9OKZn4LQ2SSqB7vBu4oOSAra-8P1bWejlL777XIr03VjofTQDlgT5xczs7bBOkF1xNsEvK__rlTiRb89n_a8wOW-U/s200/IMG_1187.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Lance</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Around the corner of the road, across from the ocean and next to the EFKS (Congregational) church hall was Mika's family. I fell hook-line-and-sinker for this family. Avei is the mom and Yulio is the dad (possibly the hardest working matai in the village). Mika's host-brother wasw Saigi (19) and his host cousin was Lance or Lasi (18). These two are partners in crime; you hardly see one without the other. Honestly, for about a month and a half, I thought Saigi was Lance and vice versa. Leki (16?) is the second brother; I think I only ever met him once. Mika's host-sisters were Poulima (18), Oneata (14 or 15), ruta (10), and Laupama (!!!, 7). </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And on the other side of the church hall, lives the faife'au (pastor). One of his daughters, Sera (21), also became our friend. </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwCpyFiFO7XBCiFB4BjedewlD6W381LCxKcYWkz7wJwuE9uvwKwjy6rBXp7Ghk5Z6utYWcAlPAmhXqRXjNd2d0JdL7xSVxmewkzqyNwaYKP1WesmKxATQdToE83QT2IWInlW5tXob7M4/s1600/IMG_0800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwCpyFiFO7XBCiFB4BjedewlD6W381LCxKcYWkz7wJwuE9uvwKwjy6rBXp7Ghk5Z6utYWcAlPAmhXqRXjNd2d0JdL7xSVxmewkzqyNwaYKP1WesmKxATQdToE83QT2IWInlW5tXob7M4/s200/IMG_0800.JPG" width="200" /></a></div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the Sasa at Culture Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Some brief glimpses into a few favorite moments from dear Tafi: the last day of teaching practium at the primary school, sivas in the church hall, blowing bubbles with Jessie, walking down the road and hearing, "Sema! Fa! Fa, Sema. Fa. Sema! Ia, Fa!," being the go-to person for the Samoan food prayer (Faafetai Iesu, foa'i mai mea ai, tausi ai matou le fanau. Amene), seeing Tala crash every dance there ever was, dance party with our host-moms at our farewell party, dancing and singing to "Faamalolosi" at our last siva, doing a sasa (another type of dance) at culture day, taking Ruta and Jessie to see "Harry Potter" with Mika, visiting for a family reunion at New Years and feeling like I'd gone home.</div></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoi4K9XgwFKt1tsKYctqFM-GI39gr8STsX-gU1JsRwdu9-XLwgcxnN3FbYK1fPUAmUjXsJk4VAPlW07OWiNHgDtZbTP3y7BL_45sfMO4njQN2JVPHYiC1rI-L69wLIeRJ7U8yZAIVTRU/s1600/IMG_0845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoi4K9XgwFKt1tsKYctqFM-GI39gr8STsX-gU1JsRwdu9-XLwgcxnN3FbYK1fPUAmUjXsJk4VAPlW07OWiNHgDtZbTP3y7BL_45sfMO4njQN2JVPHYiC1rI-L69wLIeRJ7U8yZAIVTRU/s200/IMG_0845.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mika, Sene, Poulima, Me, Faautu, Vanessa, and Mikaele</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I've said it many times and I'll say it here, if I could've stayed in Tafitoala for these two years, I would have in a heart beat. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Here's to Tafitoala and to the friends I'm already dreading having to say goodbye to one day. "Nothing gold can stay."</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-87435440378128757672011-02-04T17:51:00.000-08:002011-02-04T17:51:56.773-08:00A Silent Witness: Observations on SasaI'm not sure I can say anything new on this topic that I haven't already written in my journal somewhere, so for this post about child abuse in Samoa, I'll mostly quote from journal entries. But here's some background info. Sasa, or "to hit," a child can put you in jail where I come from. Here in Samoa, sasa is the disciplinary action of choice. Corporal punishment in schools has been ruled illegal. That, however, does not mean we pisikoa have not witnessed children being hit at school or beaten at home. <br />
<br />
Some of these journal entries are pretty charged; these were moments when I seriously considered quitting, when Peace Corps didn't seem like it was right for me. Keep in mind, we've all had moments when we've wanted to go home; probably every Peace Corps around the world considers quitting at some point. And as a disclaimer once again to cover Peace Corps' butt, these are my thoughts and observations.<br />
<br />
"No matter how true my story, I cannot save the children here, now." That is a loose quote from Anderson Cooper's memoir <u>Dispatches from the Edge.</u> It was almost nearly this quote alone that made me decide not to go to grad school for journalism. Keep this in mind while reading this post.<br />
<br />
From entry dated November 22nd, 2010: (names will be changed for this blog post.)<br />
Hearing the screams of a child as he gets hit kind of renders you numb. Last night...Child A screamed and cried like I'd never heard him before. Someone was hitting him. And I couldn't do anything about it because Peace Corps has taught us that that's Samoan culture and from observing, we've learned that because hitting is all the children know, that it's the only way to discipline them. And so we sit there and let the kids get hit, but I've never heard cries like A's last night...I realized I've become everything I've been against. I am a silent witness. My silence is complicity. My silence is approval. I've accepted cultural relativism when universalism should be applied. Peace Corps is teaching me passivity and apathy. Instead of continuing passivity though, I need to become even more passionate about what I'm against. America's got it right on the importance of not hitting a child. No child should scream like the screams I've heard. <br />
<br />
The following day, Child B was hit in the back with a rock by another family member. I was in a car with another pisikoa and a member of my host family when B came running up to the car. I knew she'd been hit, and hard. Her face was flushed red, her cheeks wet with tears, and her breathing labored like I'd never heard. And Samoan kids are tough; they hardly ever cry. I was visibly upset by this one, and my host-family member asked me the common question: "Are you happy?" "Yes," I quietly choked out, while inside my heart was pounding. A child I'd truly come to love was in pain and I could do nothing to stop it. <br />
<br />
From November 26th, 2010:<br />
[Another pisikoa] said today how it's funny that Peace Corps are people who give a fuck, but we get here and we aren't supposed to give a fuck (about anything except teaching). Maybe I'm the one pisikoa who'll go home because she does give a fuck.<br />
<br />
Even though I cannot directly tell someone not to hit a kid (Peace Corps has told us that is not why we are here...and there are tons of cultural issues it would raise), I can and will lead by example. <br />
<br />
From January 31st, 2011:<br />
And [my pule (principal)] even told the other teachers, and this is semi-quoting, there will be no more sasa of the children, no more abuse, because Sema, a palagi, is here. Has my presence alone already made such a difference? <br />
<br />
From October 28th, 2010:<br />
My one piece of advice to anyone considering the Peace Corps: if you want to change the world, the Peace Corps probably isn't for you. We don't and won't change the world, but our trade-off is that we might possibly give one person the opportunity to change their own. <br />
<br />
Some of these moments made me seriously think I'd made a mistake by joining the Peace Corps. I wasn't changing the world, or saving lives. I'm teaching English. But what if because of me putting in extra time to help a year 8 student practice English, he or she does better on their national exam which determines which college (our equivalent of high school) they get into, and subsequently the university and they go on to do something to end beatings?! Maybe; it's probably all of our hopes to impact a child like that. The hope of every teacher probably. That you make a difference in one student's life and they go on to influence others (hopefully in a positive way). And here I'd like to throw in a huge thank-you to all my teachers. Job well done if I do say so myself. <br />
<br />
However, sasa is a complex thing. Kids smack each other all the time. This was the first week of the new school year (we've finally begun what we came here to do!), which means it's a week of cleaning the school grounds, which has given me the opportunity to observe the kids. When they hit each other, it's not like they're bullying each other or starting a fight. It's more of a knock-it-off-smack. But sometimes a hair-pull will be too hard, or a hit upside the head seems completely unjustified and I'll say, "Aua. Soia." (Don't. Stop it.) Or I'll do a common Samoan lip sound that I've picked up as a new mannerism (it's somewhat like a "tsk") that you make with the corners of your lips against your teeth followed by a quick "a'e," which shows disapproval or anger.<br />
<br />
And then there's the ponytail hit that some of the girls around my age do. Most Samoan girls wear their hair in a bun (I'm kind of a cultural faux-pas because I only do the bun when I'm really sweaty) and sometimes in a sort of you're-being-stupid-but-I-love-you-anyway way, they'll just knock the bun forward, which is usually folllowed by that lip sound and a smile from the girl who got the ponytail smack. This one seems more like a sign of affection. I've gotten it twice from two of the girls in Tafitoala, and it made me feel like I'd been accepted. <br />
<br />
But don't think my acceptance of the hair-tap means I will let anyone hit me. One of my guy friends from Tafitoala once playfully hit my cheek--in a way that it didn't even hurt--(but as a friendship hiatus during college showed, one hit--or push-- is one too many with me), but to get my point across, I slapped his cheek. Hard. "Sole, that actually hurt." "Good, it was supposed to hurt. Don't ever hit me again." (One of my favorite Samoan words is "sole," which loosely translates to "dude," but I feel like it's often used as a term of endearment or affection.)<br />
<br />
This would be a lovely transition into assimilation vs. integration, but that's another topic that kind of irks me, so we'll skip it for now.<br />
<br />
I guess the moral of the story is that culture is a complex thing, and to a point relativism maybe should be applied, but the next time I see a kid in a completely unnecessary amount of pain because of an adult sasa, universalism will come into play. I didn't pay thousands of dollars to take Ethical Theory in college for nothing. And here's a shout-out to a professor who influenced me so that I can now use fancy words when I talk about right and wrong. <br />
<br />
And to update the situation, I'm pretty sure I'm in the Peace Corps for the long haul. Differences will be made.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-6535555765340267412011-02-04T17:18:00.000-08:002011-02-04T17:18:13.399-08:00Minority ReportIt's a four letter word. Well, it's really six letters, but it's come to be pretty offensive to some of us pisikoas. <br />
<br />
Palagi. Pronounced puh-long-ee.<br />
<br />
At first,hearing this word shouted from multiple fales as you walked down the road really wasn't a big deal. To be blunt, palagi means "white person." For a while you can pretend it means "foreigner," but that isn't sa'o (true) once you find out Asians or Africans are called something different. For a while, I even liked to think it just meant someone who doesn't really know fa'a Samoa (the Samoan way), but this was clearly sese (wrong) when I moved to my new village and met a white Samoan. There is a little girl here, half Samoan, half "palagi" who has white skin, blonde hair, and brown eyes. She's maybe around kindergarden age and has spent her whole life here. They call her "palagi." This word clearly means "someone with white skin." <br />
<br />
Maybe it's American (another overgeneralization) political correctness, but a few of us have come to dislike being called this word that is a huge racial overgeneralization. And yet, I remember a day back in training in Tafitoala when a car drove down our pretty secluded road with two white people in it. I said, "What are those palagis doing here?" It was honestly surprising to see someone white who wasn't a pisikoa. I hate to be called it, and yet, I still use it. I can call other white people "palagi" but I don't like to hear Samoans use it. Reminiscent of anything? The N-word, maybe? Which is kind of ironic because we've taught a few Samoans not to use that word to which they ask, "But it's OK for them to say it to each other? Because it's in their music." <br />
<br />
One of the most disteressing things for me in Samoa is when I hear vast overgeneralizations about "palagis" or am told that I should teach people fa'a Palagi (the white way), as if I could speak for every culture of Caucasion descent.<br />
<br />
Just today, I walked to the faleoloa (shop) and a little boy across the street yelled "palagi" at me the entire time. Sometimes my response to being called a palagi is, "O fea le palagi?" (Where is the palagi?) After I bought what I needed at the store, I alked over to the boy. "O ai lou igoa?" (What is your name?) He was too shy to respond now that I was only a few feet from him. "O lo'u igoa o Sema. Leai palagi. Sema. Fa." (My name is Sema. Not palagi. Sema. See yah.)<br />
<br />
Even though I'm trying to get he kids not to call people palagi (I really don't think anyone means it in a derogatory way) and I am very adamantly against answering questions for all white people, being called palagi hasn't bothered me that much. Until one day, I went back to Tafitoala to visit for Tausaga Fou (New Years). It was early morning, which means my host family was awake and bustling while I was still moe umi (sleeping long), but really, how long can you sleep when you hear someone's name monotonously called for two minutes until they finally answer (other pisikoas know what I'm talking about here)? Relatives from overseas were visiting and I heard my host-mom talking about me in Samoan and saying "palagi" over and over. I just lived with you for two months and comptely fell in love with your village and now you start calling me palagi?! I have a name, you know it. Please use it. <br />
<br />
Use "palagi" as a descriptor if you want, but don't use a cultural overgeneralization to replace my name. <br />
<br />
P.S. Sema is pronounced Same-a.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3262140147361495272.post-16867225869300003242011-01-18T13:40:00.000-08:002011-01-18T13:40:48.494-08:00War Comes to SamoaI asked my host brother last night, "When was the last war in Samoa?" He paused for a while and then said, "I don't like history." It's kind of strange to live in a place where wars are not common knowledge, where an eleven year old child cannot ramble off the name of the wars of the last century, where one can even say "wars (PLURAL) of the last century."<br />
<br />
I honestly don't know when the last time was that Samoa engaged in a war. Maybe it was a tribal war before colonialism. However, that doesn't mean that Samoans aren't affected by war, by our war, the War Against Terrorism. (Insert patriotic American flag here.)<br />
<br />
Right now, I am staying with the faife'au of the EFKS church in my new village. (That's the pastor of the Congregational church.) His wife went to the States for Christmas because her children live there. A week or two ago I asked when she'd be coming back. He said that she was already supposed to have come back, but her daughter, a US citizen and member of the Navy, is getting sent to Iraq, so she stayed an extra week.<br />
<br />
War's worldly impact.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17239019587350864915noreply@blogger.com0