A Speck on the Map- The Postcard Project

"A nun."

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.

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.)

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."

"But, you live in the same country."
"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.)

One way to give these kids an idea about the rest of the world is the Post Card project. So here's the pitch:
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:
Samantha Maranell, PCV
Peace Corps
Private Mail Bag
Apia, (Western) Samoa
South Pacific

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.

Literary Recommendations from a Literary Snob

I'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.

The Best:
-Stiff by Mary Roach
-The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
-Columbine by Dave Cullen
-The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the OED by Simon Winchester
-Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer (You cannot go wrong with this book.)
-The Hunger Games Trilogy by Suzanne Collins
-The short story "Fantasy for Eleven Fingers" by Ben Fountain (Found in the book Brief Encounters with Che Guevara)
-Life of Pi by Yann Martel (!!)
-The Reader by Bernhard Schlink
-Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card
-The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possibly by AJ Jacobs
-Ishmael by Daniel Quinn (!!)
-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.)

The Worst:
-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?)
-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.)
-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.)
-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.)
-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.)

For anyone considering the Peace Corps, here are a few recommendations from the 15 month book list:
-The End of Poverty: Economic Possibilities for Our Time by Jeffrey Sachs (Aid is clearly the answer.)
-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.)
-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.")
-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.)
-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.)
-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?)
-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.)
-Ishmael by Daniel Quinn (This book will make you question everything.)

365 Days of a Samoan Summer

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.

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.

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?

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?

One year in and I still can’t put my lavalava on right.

"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."

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.
     "What are you all here for?"
     "We're leaving for the Peace Corps."
     He offered his hand. "Well, thank you for your service."

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.

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.

There is a poem written by a soldier during the Vietnam War that I consistently come back to when considering my current Samoan experience:

APO 96225 by Larry Rottmann

A young man once went off to war in a far country,
and when he had time, he wrote home and said,
“Dear Mom, sure rains a lot here.”

But his mother — reading between the lines as mothers
always do — wrote back,
“We’re quite concerned. Tell us what it’s really like.”

And the young man responded,
“Wow! You ought to see the funny monkeys.”

To which the mother replied,
“Don’t hold back. How is it there?”

And the young man wrote,
“The sunsets here are spectacular!”

In her next letter, the mother pleaded,
“Son, we want you to tell us everything. Everything!”

So the next time he wrote, the young man said,
“Today I killed a man. Yesterday, I helped drop napalm
on women and children.”

And the father wrote right back,
“Please don’t write such depressing letters. You’re
upsetting your mother.”

So, after a while,
the young man wrote,
“Dear Mom, sure rains here a lot.”


Imagine this next bit as a cute little footnote:
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.)

Red Sequined Flip Flops

Bed Bugs, Giant Centipedes, and Rats. Oh My!

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?

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).

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.”)

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.

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.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

The Fa'alavelave of the Red Puletasi

According 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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'.

(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.

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.

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."

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.

And that red puletasi? It might be my favorite one.

What Am I Doing Here?

Besides asking myself that question quite often, I'll tell you what I'm doing here.



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.

The Green House









Sports Day!



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.



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.



"Man, detention with Sema sure is fun!"



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.

"Geez, why doesn't that girl freaking mow her lawn?!"



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.)



Monono Island
Rob, Olivia, and I Tipped the Canoe in the Background
Twice the Previous Day

 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.



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!"



The Giant Centipede that Bit Me
This is After I Killed It



Coolest Little Brother I've Ever Had





Visiting Tafitoala
(Clockwise from Top Left)
Avei, Oneaka, Me, Poulima, Laupama, Ruka





Lauina, Baby Mikaele, and Sa



Keeping Cool at Sports Day




Eni, Lesina, Ina, Lisa, ma Rosanna Chilling
On My Porch





Boat to Monono