Magazine Update and the Dog from Yesterday

It’s Finish
The magazine is done except for 4 things:

1. I have received no report nor do I have a good photo of my Vice Pule;
   
2. I have received no report nor do I have a good photo of the Director of Education;
   
3. I have no photo of the Magazine Committee; and
   
4. I have no advertisement for Samoa Stationery Supplies.

If I don’t get the first 2 tomorrow, I figure we can just turn their page into a Table of Contents. It will be more worrisome if they both submit and they write too much to share a page (which is pretty likely). I couldn’t write in the names of the Magazine Committee because I don’t really know who is actually on it. I feel a little like I am the entire Magazine Committee (people have been asking, “How’s your magazine coming along?”), but I’m trying to be inclusive. I made my own ad for another Apian vendor, but I can’t find any contact information for Samoa Stationery on the Internet, so I’m at a loss for what to do there. These are all relatively tiny details though. The major hope is that I don’t have to spend another couple hours scavenging and cropping photos. Although if I end up making that table of contents, that’s exactly what will happen.

The Dog from Yesterday

One of my friends in town asked if I could take photos at the National Memorial Service yesterday because for whatever reason she would be late if she could make it at all. She arranged a ride for me: I rode over to Taifagata Cemetery with her mom and her mom’s friend. On the way home, we stopped off at a fale’oloa to pick up a few loaves of bread for Sunday’s typically light dinner. And then we went back to my friend’s mom’s house to drops some things off.

When we get there, Mom sets the loaves of bread on the patio furniture outside, finds her keys, and opens the door. I follow her into the kitchen carrying the small take-away meals we received after the service. “Can you get the bread before the dog gets to it?” She asks me. Sure. I walk back outside to find the dog wolfing down a loaf of bread.

I’ve mentioned before Samoans can be nasty toward domestic animals, and though I was annoyed at the dog for complicating my life, I didn’t know what would happen if someone found out. So I quietly scolded him, tore a small chunk off where he’d been chewing, and took the bread inside. A couple minutes later I went back outside to wait by the car, only to find the dog eating a second loaf of bread I had missed the first time. This time it was a loaf of pane, which is sort of like Hawaiian sweet bread. It comes in individual “buns” that can be torn away from the loaf one at a time. So the fact that the dog has taken a chunk out of one of the buns makes it conspicuous this time.

Still wanting to cover for the dog, I ripped off the remaining corresponding bun (loaves are baked in rows of two), and in attempt to get the dog away from the scene of the crime and to destroy the evidence, I threw the bun across the yard. The dog goes tearing off, and I turn the loaf of bread the opposite way in the bag to hide the now-non-heeled end.

I go back into the kitchen, leave the bread on the counter, and then walk back outside. The dog, who has eaten way more bread than he’s used to at this point, is taking his sweet time swallowing the pane.

Just then, Mom walks out. I’m getting ready to wash my hands of the entire thing, should she notice what the dog is eating. I figure I’ll just blame the dog and that will be that.

But then her son follows her out of the house, and he’s holding the doomed loaf of remaining pane.

“Here!” says Mom, taking the loaf from her son and handing it to me. “We bought too much. You take this.”

So at least no one had to discover that the end of the loaf was missing. But now I kinda regret giving the extra chunk to the dog. Pane’s good. Oh well.

I hope you’re well. Picture below.

We talked about the seasons in my 9.2 science class today. Notice my crappy rendering of Australia and New Zealand on each globe.

Primary School Tour

I’ve got new respect for the 82s. The Peace Corps office commission- ed Kaelin 82 to produce a video about co-teaching that can be shown to incoming PCVs and to primary schools where the new PCVs will work. Kaelin, in turn, employed me to head up videotaping and editing. So yesterday, along with language instructor Mafi and Peace Corps staff member Papu, the 4 of us visited 3 schools to get footage of primary school kids doing their thing, as well as interviews with teachers, principals, and volunteers. And I must say, I was impressed with what I saw.

Our first stop was at Jenny Uefa’s school. The plan was to tape the kids singing a song, and then to interview the principal and a few students. I’m used to my school, where we have over 30 people on staff, and more than 700 students. Though our campus is relatively compact, the amount of activity on school days is sprawling. Primary schools, on the other hand, tend to be tiny and intimate. Kyle 82’s school, has a staff of 4, and a student body of 85. I have nothing in my experience, as a teacher or as a student, to know what that’s like.

In any case, the small nature of the school means when a bunch of palagi visitors come rolling in with video cameras, it’s big news. Everything stops. So at Jenny Uefa’s, I setup the camera, and her kids sang a pretty good rendition of “We Are the World”. “We Are the World” was popular at my school even before the devastation in Haiti and the new version was released. So seeing a classroom full of Samoan kids singing it didn’t impress me. But then while we were interviewing the principal, the class started singing Bob Marley’s “Every Little Thing’s Gonna Be All Right”. Now that was something to warm the heart.

Next we were off to Corina’s school. Unbeknownst to me, Corina is quite the artist, and she’s spent much time decorating her classroom with amazingly stylized posters and activities. Her classroom could easily rival that of a good elementary school in The States. Phonics and vocabulary and grammar litter the walls to such a degree, I set up the camera to tape the interview, and then spent the rest of the time marveling. I took a lot of pictures. You can see them below.

Corina’s school fed us lunch. Apparently I made a good impression because I ate my fried fish with my hands rather than my fork.

Our last stop was Kaelin’s own school. Kaelin spent the day bragging about her kids’ English. “It’s certainly not because of my teaching,” she told me. “But when I got to my school, my kids just had amazing English.” And they did.

During their taped interview, Kaelin asked a couple of kids why they thought it was important to learn English. One girl answered, “It’s important to learn English in order to communicate internationally, with friends and family overseas.” None of my year 10s speak English that well.

Keep up the good work, 82.
Note: Frequently readers know I try to stay away from using last names. Note Uefa is not Jenny’s last name, but rather, her Samoan name. Since there are 2 Jennys in group 82, we use their Samoan names, Sieni and Uefa, to identify them. Anonymity is intact.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Flashcards taped to the chalkboard.

Parts of Speech posters.

Vocabulary on the back of the door.

A cat writing a letter. Hey Corina, after the Peace Corps just go ahead and illustrate children's books. You're ready.

The Phonics Corner.

Kaelin interviewing Corina's pule in The Phonics Corner.

This girl scowled at me. So I took her picture.

Kaelin doing a ridiculous dance with some of her students.

Paul Got a Tattoo

Living in Apia, I get a fair amount of guests staying at my house, I typically always have someone to hang out with on Friday nights, and I get to watch a lot of volunteers get tattoos. Of the volunteers who get work done while they’re here, most go to Tatau Suluape, run by the Suluape family, which operates out of the same building as Magik Cinema. Paul told me last night he planned on getting his tattoo today, and always up for a spectacle, I showed up to watch.

RPCV Sara wrote a particularly good article about the traditional tattoo practice, and I don’t want to re-tread old ground. I will say watching someone get a tattoo the traditional way is more of a spectacle than watching someone get tattooed with the buzzing machine. My roommates and I, on occasion, used to watch “Miami Ink”, which chronicles the clientele at one particular tattoo parlor in Miami. It was interesting, but looking back it seems quite saccharine compared to the literal hammering at Tatau Suluape.

The process, on the whole, is more involved. Typically a team of “stretchers” are employed to keep the skin taut. The tattoo artist, who holds the sharp, ink-filled comb and the hammering stick, directs the stretchers like the director on a film set. I was amazed by how, for much of the time I was there, the artist and the stretchers worked in silence, intuiting the next move with almost no verbal communication. The process is methodical, and when everyone is in the zone, they can cover a lot of ground with efficiency.

RPCV Trent claimed when he got his tattoo, he slept through much of it. Given the intermittent bursts of hammering, I’m not sure I believe a person could actually fall asleep. On the other hand, drowsiness and slumber seem like the best way to dull the pain; after all, isn’t that why we use anesthesia?

Paul, for his part, took it like a champ. His concentration seemed as focused as the tattoo artist’s. Though he acknowledged me when I entered the room, it was brief, and he quickly went back to distantly staring at the mat on the floor.

Paul had a crowd of spectators, among them Rachel 82 and her parents, who are visiting from The States, and Dan and his mom, who’s also in town. Rarely does anyone get such a crowd. The group would watch in silence for minutes at a time, and then strike up conversation. And then fall back into silence. It was a little surreal.

When it was all over, it felt a little like the end of a play. Paul and the tattoo artist both came out of their focused trance, the air in the room was immediately more light and jovial.

And Paul had a tattoo. Pretty cool.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Paul smiling for the camera.

The artist marks the arm.

The comb making lines.

Mālō Mātou (Part 2)

The sun was a factor. On the car ride over the mountain, I looked out the window and, though it was still before dawn, the sky was growing lighter. I turned to AJ, “That doesn’t bode well.” He shook his head wearily. During last year’s race, cloud cover was a welcome state of affairs for most of the day. It wasn’t until we got to the village of Falefa on the north side of Upolu that the sun became a factor, but this year, from the beginning, there was no cloud cover.

There was a clause in the race rules this year that essentially said if you finish the race too early, you’ll be disqualified. This was an effort to keep teams from inflating their estimated finish time in order to get an earlier start time. Earlier start times allow for more running in darkness, which is much much easier.

AJ started the race about 20 minutes after dawn, which meant my first leg came somewhere around 8:30 a.m., and anyone who’s been to Samoa knows a sunny day here gets hot well before 8:30. Sunscreen-laden sweat rolled down my face into my eyes moments into my first run, my shirt and pants immediately soaked.

We had Joey’s fiancée buy us matching dry-fit shirts in The States before her recent visit and used fabric paint to add a mock-Peace-Corps logo and our official team name, “Toa Pisikoa”. The fabric paint held up surprisingly well, though there was still a faint trace of red and blue bleeding into the rest of the shirt. I joked with Dan about the post-9/11 Bush ‘These Colors Don’t Run’ mantra. “These colors...” I trailed off.

“...occasionally run,” said Dan.

“It’s a race, man. These colors run fast.”

During one of my legs I ran through patches of small bugs, only to realize it was light rainfall. I was still in direct sunlight, and the raindrops weren’t nearly substantial enough to feel good. It just felt like more sweat.

We used the Peace Corps name to get us into the bathrooms at Faofao Beach Fales in Saleapaga. And when we remembered PCV Paul and his mom were staying at Tafua Beach Fales in Lalomanu, we drove past shouting, “Paul! Paul! Paul! Paul! Fa Paul! Fa Paul!” We spotted him eating breakfast, and it seemed like he was pretending not to know us, but he told us later he simply hadn’t heard us. Sure, Paul. Whatev.

Though none of our runners ever got near that of our rival team, our leap-frogging van caught up to their truck sometime around leg 11 up nearing the Mafa Pass. Whereas the morning had been a leisurely affair, getting within sight of them brought a new urgency to the race. We dug our heels in and pushed ourselves harder.

This newfound motivation came just in time: the distances of the legs increased toward the end. Everyone’s last leg was 5 kilometers, a longer distance than all but 2 legs had run contiguously, and by that point it was 12:30 in the afternoon and the day was reaching peak temperatures.

AJ looked dazed after his final leg. Dan bottomed out on blood sugar after his and took copious amounts of Gatorade before he became coherent again. Kyle said it may have been the most painful thing he’d ever done in his life. I don’t want to make us out to be a bunch of whiners; I’m just trying to paint a picture.

Since I had the last leg, I sat and listened to all this in a state of nervous denial. As I stretched before my final leg, I tried to get real with my body, “Do you realize what we’re about do to?” I asked my dawdling legs. “You know that everyone is talking about how awful this last leg has been? Are you ready for this?” Ben came tearing around his final bend in a dead sprint. The kid looked good. He passed me the baton, and I was off.

My final leg was nearly identical to the course of the Independence Day 10k a bunch of us ran in June. I started in Fagalii-Tai and worked my way toward town.

Oh! Before I get to my leg, I should tell you: for whatever reason, our team had its own police escort for the entire race. This meant one guy on a motor-scooter behind the runner, and one in front of the runner for the entire event. Have you even run 18 km with a guy following you on a motorbike? It’s weird.

They were nice though. They’d occasionally shout words of encouragement, “Faamalosi! Faamalosi!”, and once one of them offered me water mid-leg.

In any case, as I entered the village of Moata’a on the outskirts of Apia, they seemed to both shout, “Only two more villages!” It was fun.

Back to the sun’s death knell: It was fiery and there was little-to-no shade. The pavement reflected the heat, creating a sort of broiler. And with the smog and dust and pollution of urban Apia, things could only get worse. Traffic picked up, exhaust fumes blanketed the course, the foliage-lined highway gave way to dingy, crumbling sidewalks. It was a briar patch of pavement and asphyxiation.

But just like Brer Rabbit, I was at home. The up-and-down driveways, the drivers that can’t find it in themselves to give a runner (with police escort!) right-of-way, the uneven curbs, the curve of the seawall, the giddiness of other pedestrians, the kids walking along the walls of the bridge, the beauty of the harbor, the majesty of the trees on the waterfront, the music of the car horns. As Shaquille O’Neal would say, “This is my house.”

We finished 7 minutes behind the next closest team; the same team that started 16 minutes before us. We won the race by 9 minutes. Our total time was 8 hours, 5 minutes. Not too shabby.

I drank a niu.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Kyle making a much better "My house!" Shaq face.

Ben.

Crossing the finish line. Dan was low at the time, but the other 4 guys crossed it with me.

Dan and me after the race.

The girls crossing the finish line. The girls took first place in the Open Womens' Division.

Group photo.
Guys left to right: Kyle, Dan, AJ, Joey, Me, Ben.
Girls left to right: Rachel, Dana, Lily, Kaelin, Corinna, Erin.

Mālō Mātou (Part 1)

Yesterday was the 2nd annual Perimeter Relay Race, which started at Sinalei Resort on the south side of Upolu and wraps around the rolling terrain of the island’s east coast, over the mountains of the Mafa Pass, in and out of the inlets in the northeast, and finishes 64.1 miles (104.7 km) later in downtown Apia. The distance is separated into 24 legs, run in a 6-person rotation, with varying lengths depending on elevation change; i.e. the more the climb, the shorter the leg.

The Peace Corps fielded 2 teams this year, for whatever reason separated by sex. The boys’ team consisted of Ben from 80; Joey, Dan, AJ, and me from 81; and Kyle from 82. The girls’ team was Erin from 81; and Corinna, Dana, Kaelin, Lily, and Rachel from 82. Because of the nature of the race, we didn’t see the girls’ team for most of the day, but there was a shared camaraderie.

In any case, the boys’ team gathered at Chris 81’s house Friday night to carbo-load, strategize, and sleep. There was already a rotation at that point: a couple guys standing in the kitchen keeping an eye on the pasta, someone showering, someone reading over the list of race legs, and 3 other guys sitting in the living room passing the time.

We weighed in with our leg preferences, but in the end, team Captain Joey 81 came up with the following order:

1. AJ 81;
   
2. Dan 81;
   
3. Joey 81;
   
4. Kyle 82;
   
5. Ben 80; and
   
6. Matt 81.

Rinse. Repeat.

When we registered for the race we had to estimate our finish time because the race’s organizing committee, the US Veteran’s of Samoa, staggers the starting times of each team with the idea that everyone will finish together. Based on these predictions, we were the top seed.

I admit I was a little disappointed by this. Last year we were seeded second, and the team that won beat us by an hour. There was no chance of our being able to win, which meant we could relax in our second-place glory and have a good time with the day. This whole first-ranked business brought a competitive edge to the day.

Being top seed has another implication: we had to start last. In order to get everyone to finish together, the teams expected to have the longest finish time start earlier (In this case, one team started at 10:30 p.m. Friday so they would finish at 3:30 p.m. Friday) and the teams expected to have the shortest finish time start later.

We headed over the mountain this morning, bleary-eyed and tense, watching the sky slowly brighten. We rolled into Sinalei early enough to see the second-seeded team start the race. We were allowed to start up to 30 minutes before our allotted time. So 16 minutes after our nearest competitor left—we used the bathrooms, signed waiver forms, pinned on our bibs, did some awkward stretching—AJ sauntered up to the starting line, and we were off.

Part 2 tomorrow. I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Dan and AJ standing over the stove making pasta. That's also Dan receiving the baton from AJ above the fold.

Kyle and Ben sitting in the back of the van in the Sinalei parking lot.

Dan proudly rocked his short shorts.

Me in the foreground getting ready to receiving the baton from Ben. That's Joey on the side of road watching. You can also see the police escort, which stayed with our team's runner the entire day.

Joey, Chris, and AJ at the exchange point in Saleapaga.

Our team's van, sponsored by Country Director Dale, at the exchange point at the rock quarry outside Lalomanu.

The Letter

The idea was romantic—not the love and un-platonic companion- ship candle- light-dinner romance, but more the lofty, idealistic romanticism. I synced my iPod, put my notebook in my backpack, and headed down to the seawall. Though it’s raining now, the sun was out this afternoon, and I didn’t have much to do today. And since I’d received a rare hand-written letter in the mail earlier this week, this afternoon seemed like an opportune time to draft my reply.

My friend is an amazing writer. Bona fide. She’s a Ph.D. candidate in English at Berkeley. And without getting into specifics, I can say that her letter had this tangible sense of place. Part was written at an art museum, another at a cafe on Telegraph Avenue. So I thought I would return the favor by leaving my house to write back to her from an interesting environment around here. Where better than the seawall?

The seawall lines most of Apia Harbour, starting in the east at the shipping docks in Mata’utu, meandering along Beach Road, jutting out behind the Government Building, wrapping back in around the fish market, and riding into the sunset in the west all the way into Mulinu’u, which literally translates to “the end of town”. From what I hear, the seawall was constructed fairly recently after the last batch of hurricanes battered Apia’s waterfront severely enough a barrier needed to be put in place. It’s scenic and tree-lined, and there’s enough shade to keep a person comfortable in the early afternoon.

The Harbour is about a 10-minute walk from my house, although getting to the greener shadier area takes another 10. Heading over, I remembered I had my iPod with me, and I had Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” rolling around my head, so I played that. The popular fashion in Apia is to wear one ear-bud, and let the other dangle aimlessly. I’m a slave to fashion.

Saturday afternoons in Apia are a lazy affair. The shops have closed for the rest of the weekend, and the nightclubs haven’t yet opened. Constructions sites are quiet, and the roads are empty. Crossing the bridge at Mulivai, I waved to some girls sitting in the shade of a coconut tree near the Samoa Tourism Authority.

I was in no rush for anything, so I had time to be selective about choosing a spot. A bench seemed like too much to ask for, but I wanted something a little bit away from anyone else, and shade and grass were important considerations.

In the end I found a nice shady tree, where the grass was a little long, but not too bad. There was a lady sitting in a van reading the Samoan Observer nearby, but she didn’t bother me.

I reached into my bag and found my notebook, and I scrounged for my pen. My pen. Where’s my pen? I didn’t bring a pen? I just put on this whole charade walking 20 damn minutes down the seawall in tropical sunlight, and I forgot my pen?

The idea was romantic.

I hope you’re well. Picture below.

The Mata'utu skyline as seen from behind the Government Building.

We Did Start the Fire

Everybody’s got an opinion. During training we played that game where you sit in a circle and draw a picture and then pass your picture to the left. Then you take the picture that’s been placed in front of you and augment the drawing somehow. Then pass again, augment. Pass, augment, pass, augment, pass, augment, until finally you get your original drawing back and it’s warped and bizarre, but somehow it’s the product of the collective. That’s how today’s fire worked.

A bunch of us headed out to Tafatafa on the south side of Upolu to hang out on the beach and barbecue. And right from the start, the barbecue’s outlook was bleak. For starters, we didn’t have a barbecue. We had 18 pounds of chicken; onions, soy sauce, and garlic to marinade; and a plastic bag with not enough charcoal. And no barbecue. Brilliant.

Blakey got things started by asking the family at the next fale over if we could borrow the large rocks and corrugated aluminum they’d used to cook their food. Erin was able to finagle a grill from the owners of the beach fales. Dan then went into bush and came out with an armload of firewood. Paul collected a bunch of dried palm fronds to use as kindling, and Phil and I went in search of small volcanic rocks, which function like reusable charcoal. If I’ve given you the impression this was a neat and orderly process in which we huddled, set out a plan, and yelled, “Go team!”, I’ve painted the wrong picture. This process of gathering materials was deeply unorganized with begrudging participants and probably took about 2.5 hours.

Paul stepped up to build the fire first. My stint in the Boy Scouts is best measured in weeks, so I’m no fire-building expert. That said, I recognize that everybody seems to have their own style of doing things. Paul comes from the Start Small and Build Slowly school of thought. Dan comes from the Throw Everything On So We Can Start Cooking school of thought (His style makes me think of that line from Dances with Wolves where the one Sioux looks at the others and says, “Only a white man would light a fire big enough for everyone to see.”). In any case, there were conflicting philosophies about how best to cultivate the fire.

I found it best to simply try an assist whichever firemaker was up to bat. I helped Paul build a small structure from firewood. I helped Dan build a larger one. I helped Phil fan the kindling. Then I helped Paul stuff the lava rocks between the burning logs.

It was all very tag-team. Someone would come along, add their 2 cents, and then walk away. Then someone else would come along. Augment, pass, augment, pass, augment, pass. Soon enough it became a quality fire with a pretty optimal cooking temperature.

Say what you will about too many cooks ruining the soup, but in the end we succeeded. Out of nothing we came up with 18 pounds of grilled chicken.

Yeah. Mālō mākou. Uma le case.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Paul does it his way...

...Dan does it his.

Lunch with the Missionaries

“My people were headhunters ...until the missionaries came and we stopped in 1872.” Apong spoke these words and then paused briefly to let that one sink in. I’d heard about it before, so I watched Phil’s face to gauge his reaction to this news. He nodded coolly. “That knife I used to cut the pork? Yeah. We used to use that to chop off the head.” Apong clearly revels in telling this story, and I’m pretty sure the detail about the knife is his favorite part. He said all this with glee.

This was just one of many revelations that came out of lunch with the Indian missionaries today. At Interval Thursday, Apong told me he’d acquired some fresh pork and he planned on making his famous Tibetan Momo (his term for something very similar to what we in America refer to as a “pot sticker”) today. He invited me and Phil, who was in town for Champ of Champs, to come for lunch.

Phil and I were quick to accept the invitation, but there was a small amount of apprehension this morning. On the one hand, Peace Corps Volunteers and CWM missionaries are two peas in a pod. We have a common foreigner status, and we can empathize with each other. On the other hand, we’re foreign to each other. And then there’s the whole secular issue. Would this luncheon work?

Yes.

When we arrived, Maengi, Thanpuii, and Rachel (the missionary who teaches at Koa’s school) had formed an assembly line in the kitchen to assemble the momo. Apong was sweating over the stove, his wife Zorin was playing with the baby. But upon our arrival, everything stopped briefly so everyone could shout their greetings. There was love.

Conversation flowed easily. We talked about school and Samoa and riding the ferry and growing up in India and vacations to New Zealand and blah blah blah. We gossiped about our staffs and made wisecracks about life at school. At one point Maengi called my name from across the room, “I want to get a movie from you!”

“Oh right,” I said. We borrow from each others’ libraries on occasion. But to confirm, I asked matter-of-factly, “A comedy with some drama about relationships, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

The room erupted with laughter.

While the momo steamed (in Apong’s 5-tiered steamer he brought specially from home), we took a walking tour of the campus. Apong and Zorin live about halfway up the mountain at a school that was founded in 1891. It’s gorgeous—there’s a babbling brook, ocean vistas, a bamboo grove.

Back at the house over lunch, Apong regaled us with stories about all the different animals he’s eaten. Crocodile, snake, rat, elephant. “ELEPHANT?!” the entire table shouted. “Elephant,” said Apong.

Maengi made a chili sauce from the Raja Mirchi plant Apong in his small garden. Apparently Raja Mirchi are some of the spiciest peppers in the world. Phil and I can now attest to this.

All in all, the event was a great success. Great food, delightful conversation. What’s everybody doing next Saturday?

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

The assembly line. Rachel in the background on rolling duty. Thanpuii in the foreground stuffing and crimping.

Stuffed momo waiting to be packed in the steamer.

The finished product.

This huge tree is out in front of the school, and is said to have a spirit living within it. I made Phil stand next to it in the rain to give some scale to the photo.

Raja Mirchi on the vine.

Kiki

Note: Google cannot corroborate the term "kiki". But that seems to be what everyone in Samoa wants to call it. I think this is essentially what Blakey was going for. Take the term kiki with a grain of salt.

My roommates during and post- college were never into themed parties, and it seems like the people who throw them never invite me. I’ve never been to an ugly Christmas sweater party. Or a Pimps and Hoes party. I attended an 80s party once, which was a good venue to show off my Nintendo track jacket. But other than that, nada. But I understand the concept though, so I was down this morning to help Blakey find a kiki for her Tahitian dancer costume.

The Yacht Club of Apia had a benefit fundraiser last night. The party’s theme was originally “Vicars and Tarts”, but when this was decided to be too British, the theme was changed to Vs and Ts; that is, you had to come dressed as something that starts with a V or a T. Thus Blakey’s Tahitian Dancer. (Note: I never planned on attending the party, and I didn’t. No costume for me. (In case you were curious.))

When Blakey asked me this morning where I thought she could find a Tahitian leaf belt, I had no idea what she was talking about. I’ve seen many Polynesian dancers in my time, but it’s usually the motion of the hips that hypnotizes me rather than their adornment. I shrugged. Blakey thought the open market at Fugalei would be the best place to look.

We went booth-to-booth through the souvenir vendors, each of them offering up grass skirts, none of which Blakey had in mind. Blakey had a conversation with each one, asking specifically about a Tahitian hip garland. It was the kind of deal where you ask 10 Samoans and you get 15 different opinions. In the end, we divined 2 important details: the garland was called a kiki, and it’s usually made from leaves of the lautalotalo, which my Samoan dictionary claims is an ornamental shrub called a Mauritius Hemp.

It became clear very quickly that the thing Blakey was looking for was a consumable item, something like a Hawaiian lei that’s only meant to be worn once and then tossed before it rots. But we were shopping at souvenir booths where they sell things meant to at least last the trip home (often not much longer).

So Blakey decided to make her own. But where to find this lautalotalo? At the market, we ran into an Aggie Grey’s employee and asked him where we could find the shrub. “Aggie Grey’s!” he said.

Not wanting to poach plants from an upscale hotel, we sauntered on keeping our eyes peeled walking through town. There was an ornamental shrub outside the barbershop where I get my haircut. We had a brief debate about how to proceed. We didn’t want to take leaves without asking. So Blakey went inside to ask the owner.

I waited outside, quietly amused by the whole thing. She emerged rolling her eyes. “He says it’s not the right plant.” Hahaha.

Eventually we found a tree in a lonely corner of a parking lot with passable leaves. It was certainly not lautalotalo, but it got the job done.

We walked to the Peace Corps office, where Blakey strung her own makeshift kiki and I played cards with some other volunteers.

Qualified success.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Friday at my school, the year 13s had their internal assessment for Samoan. Among other things, this involved making a couple traditional umus to roast pork, poultry, and other traditional Samoan cuisine. I had to teach during most of the festivities, so I gave my camera to my year 13 Amanda, who took 244 photos! Yeow! I didn't realize this until my camera ran out of memory during yesterday's wedding. Bad timing. Oh well. This picture and the ones below are from Friday's IA.

Giggly girls with the 13.1 form teacher in the middle of the line-up.

James with an axe.

Tafale and Ruta, both computer studies students, grill fish.

Lise peels ta'amū, a large starchy root, like big taro.

Girls pose for the camera.

Lanuola holding pig entrails.

Amanda, Tafale, and Ruta.

Wedding

My theory: cell phones. From what I hear, marrying a Samoan used to be all the rage among Peace Corps Volunteers. You’d be sent to your isolated village, see most other volunteers rarely, and inevitably fall in love with one of the natives. In my head I picture Tom Hanks and John Candy in “Volunteers”, but I believe this trend was still going pretty strong even 10 years ago. But with the rise of Digicel, volunteers can keep in close contact with each other and even people back in The States with relative ease. And just like that, marrying a host country national seems to have gone out of style. Thus my excitement about today’s wedding.

I invite suggestions for the Cultural Exploration series, and the most frequent response is people want to hear about weddings. The only reason I haven’t covered weddings is because I have yet to attend one. Unfortunately, Friday’s wedding wasn’t all that “traditional”. The ceremony went down in judge’s chambers without the hoopla and fanfare I’d assume would usually go into a Samoan wedding. That said, it wasn’t all just signing of names and shuffling of papers.

Attendance was small, but so was the office. The entire list of attendees goes like this: Presider, Bride, Groom, Bride’s Sister, Blakey, Me. The married couple is on a pretty tight budget—getting the bride’s American visa requires flying to Auckland for an interview at the American consulate there, and flying to Auckland requires getting a Kiwi visa at the New Zealand High Commission here. Fees abound.

But On a Budget doesn’t mean Un-Sentimental. The bride and her sister cried during the exchange of vows, the groom panicked as he patted down his pockets when it was time for the ring, the couple shyly shared the briefest of pecks at the end of the ceremony. It was cute.

Blakey and I, neither tolerating the down-played nature of the occasion, pulled out as many stops as we could. Both of us sat in the back of the judge’s office snapping photos, a veritable storm of flash photography.

The quiet ceremony was followed by a cozy celebration at a swanky Apian eatery. I was quick to introduce the American tradition of clinking my glass with my knife to force the couple to kiss. The couple balked initially at the practice, but by the end of the meal they got into the spirit.

Blakey and the bride’s sister were signed witnesses on the marriage license, so my presence in Judge’s chambers was auxiliary at best. It wasn’t until the reception when my attendance became crucial.

After drinks were served, the groom turned to me and said, “You’re the Best Man, Matt. I guess you better make a speech.”

Whaaaa?

I’ve never attended a Toastmaster’s meeting, and after an embarrassing incident in high school, I try as hard as I can to avoid expository public speaking. Trucking through my mid-20s, though, I’ve attended a fair amount of weddings in the years leading up to joining the Peace Corps, and I heard some pretty good speeches. I don’t remember anything specific, but they’re all fresh enough in my memory I had a good ballpark to aim for.

So I let it flow. And if I do say so myself, it was pretty damn good.

Warm, heartfelt, funny. In fact, I think those words capture the whole day. It wasn’t a Samoan wedding, nor was it very American. It was a Peace Corps wedding. It’s too bad there aren’t more these days.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Blakey and me in the back of the judge's office.

The bride's sister and Blakey.