2 Down, 2 to Go

Daaaang. Texas Rangers got beat down tonight. At one point, one of the announcers on the American Forces Network, before praising Edgar Renteria, tried to affirm his objectivity by saying he didn’t favor either side, and that all he was rooting for was a 7-game series in which each game was decided by 1 run. After which I said to Blakey, “I’m rooting for a 4-game series in which each game is a blowout.” The series has yet to be decided, but at least the latter part of my wish came true in game 2. Ouch! But really, the thrill of the last 2 days has simply been watching baseball.

Through Facebook and talking to friends from back home, I know a fair amount of people who attended one or both games, and it’s weird because I don’t feel jealous at all. After living in Samoa for 2 years, I am disconnected from America enough that the thought of attending a World Series game seems surreal. It would be sensory overload; more stressful than fun. Like getting in a car and jumping from 10 mph to 100. It honestly doesn’t sound appealing.

But I miss baseball. I wrote about this nearly a year and a half ago after watching Field of Dreams, and as much as I’ve spent the time since then adjusting to a life without it, I still quietly miss it a lot. So part of the thrill in having the Giants go to the World Series is having an excuse to seek out a TV in Apia showing a baseball game.

Shortly after I posted Sunday, I emailed the Charges d’Affaires to ask about possibly watching a few World Series games at the American embassy, and she was cool with that. So I wore my Tim Lincecum T-shirt to sixth period yesterday, and as soon as the bell rang I made a beeline for the embassy.

I felt a little ridiculous emailing the Charges to ask if I could come watch TV, and I was completely prepared to sit in a corner at the embassy to quietly watch by myself. But it was the Charges who suggested the event might be more fun if I brought some other people. So Blakey came along yesterday and had a good enough time she came back for Game 2 this afternoon.

There was a brief moment of panic when I first arrived yesterday and we couldn’t find any channel showing the game on the handful of stations that come in through the embassy’s satellite dish. But then some embassy TV expert came in and changed the input, and the American Forces Network came through like a champ. This means that we get military commercials between half-innings and during pitcher changes. Although I’m still apt to recite, “And when it’s time for a change, think Speedy Oil Change...”

So just for a second, I’m going to use my soap box here to talk some trash...
Is walking in a run not one of the most embarrassing things one can do in professional sports? I’d say it’s worse than shooting an airball from the free-throw line or getting tackled in your own endzone. It’s the kind of thing where the opposing team winces in embarrassment for you. The kind of thing where even the scoreboard shakes its head, shrugs, and then chalks one up for the other team. The kind of thing Germans invented the word “Schaudenfraude” to articulate. In English, I’d just have to call it pitiful.

Bring it on in Arlington.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Note: Odds and Ends Thursday will run tomorrow.

Me in my Lincecum T-shirt and my gray 'ie faitaga.

Blakey and I have been watching in the embassy's staff dining room.

Me and Blakey.

Yes! Giants!

My dad texted me at 8:46 p.m. PDT with, “Giants win 3-2”. And just like that, my boys are going to the World Series for the first time in 8 years. This is glorious news, except for the fact I’m completely isolated from baseball. I’ve been wearing my Giants t-shirt to class and my Giants baseball cap around town, but the thrill of baseball isn’t about the jersey or the hometown pride; it’s about watching the game. And though it’s going to be decidedly difficult to do that, I’m going to try my damnedest.

Looking at the game schedule, games 1 and 2 are this Wednesday and Thursday at approximately 2 p.m. Samoa Time. Then games 3 through 5 are Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and then, should games 6 and/or 7 be necessary, next Wednesday and Thursday.

Here is a list of viewing possibilities I’ve come up with:

• Sports Bar. There are 2 prominent sports bars in Apia: Henny’s and Wildfire. Each of these has ESPN Australia. Fox has domestic TV rights, but I suppose there’s a chance ESPN is telecasting the games internationally (or at least to Australia). Assuming that, and that they are open at 2 p.m., these places become viable options.
  
• Charges d’Affaires. The Charges gets the American Forces Network at her house, and I would definitely assume it will be showing there. Going to her house is probably not an option during the middle of the week, but it’s possible she’d allow a TV-less PCV to come watch the World Series next Saturday or Sunday.
  
• The American Embassy. They have cable that can be shown in the lobby. It’s unclear whether they get any channels that will be showing the World Series, but it’s certainly possible. They tend to be tight on security there, but I don’t think watching a game there would be out of the question. It’s definitely worth a try.
  
• GameDay Webcast. If worse comes to worst, I should be able to (ideally) watch or (more realistically) listen to the games over the Internet. When I lived in Pasadena I subscribed to MLB.com so I could listen to Giants games, and their web capabilities have only improved since. Watching a 3-hour game on LavaSpot would be expensive, and it’s unclear the LavaSpot would have the bandwidth to handle streaming video. These factors make this option a last resort.

I wonder if I know anyone else who has good cable. Jordan and Blakey housesat for a couple up the hill who have pretty good international cable. Jordan invited me over earlier this season to watch baseball. The second-to-last resort:

Do you live in the Apia area? Do you have a satellite dish or otherwise International TV capabilities? Can I come to your house to watch a baseball game at one of the following times?
• 27 October, 1:57 p.m.
  
• 28 October, 1:57 p.m.
  
• 30 October, 12:57 p.m.
  
• 31 October, 3:20 p.m.
  
• 1 November, 2:57 p.m.
  
• 3 November, 2:57 p.m.
  
• 4 November, 2:57 p.m.
I would be willing to bring chips and soda and explain the finer points of Major League Baseball to anyone interested. Please email me here.

I hope you’re well. Picture below.

While watching Lost yesterday, I noticed Hurley put a Teuila blossom on Libby's grave. The Teuila is, of course, the national flower of Samoa.

Note: Please refrain from leaving comments about Lost. Thank you.

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.

Champ of Champs

“This is the first Champ of Champs in a really long time,” the Indian Missionaries told me this morning while we waited under the mango tree for Apong to pick us up. None of us was assigned responsibilities for today’s event, so there was no rush to get over there. In fact, I didn’t know what time I was expected to show up (or if I was expected to show up). But I heard Maengi locking her door around 8:15 a.m., and I shouted to ask her if I could catch a ride.

The Champ of Champs, so-called because it is the championship track meet for the top scorers in the regional “zone” meets, was canceled last year on account of Swine Flu, the year before because of student fighting got out of hand at regionals. So going into today, I was a little excited to see a part of Samoa I haven’t seen before.

Then again, you see one athletics meet, you’ve seen them all.

The athletes have a tendency to become extremely faint after crossing the finish line, there’s no shade, and the scene in the grandstand is at least as enthralling as the actual track and field events, if not more so.

Not having responsibilities was good and bad. Since I wasn’t an official at the record-keeping table like I have been the last 3 athletics meets this year, I could wander the stadium freely watching starts and finishes up close, cheering for students from just outside the track’s fence, hanging around with other Peace Corps Volunteers whose schools showed up for the event. On the other hand, having a job gives the day focus—something to occupy my time. No offense to the athletes, but a 6-hour track and field meet can get a little tedious.

Also, I did have responsibilities. I was supposed to take pictures for the school magazine. This ended up being pretty easy because when most people see a palagi with a camera at an event like that, it’s just assumed there’s an official purpose.

While the day flowed much like any other athletics meet, the general feeling was tenser. At USC, football games were mostly a jolly, easygoing affair—except for the higher profile games. Any time we played Notre Dame, things became cold and uptight, like there were grander issues at stake. This was the feeling at Champ of Champs. There was still cheering and laughs, but at the core of things, particularly where the athletes sat waiting for their events, people were on edge.

At one point I went to high-five Linda, a year 12 student who goofed off in my class last year, but is very sweet and an extremely fast runner. But after we high-five, she says, “Sorry.” Confused, I asked what she was sorry for. “I run too slow.”

I wanted to shake her and say, “You qualified for 5 different events in the national championships. I’m not worried about your speed.” But instead I shrugged and pulled out my camera. She smiled in the picture.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Year 10 Rivalina finishes the 400-metre hurdles. Cool shadows, ay?

Supy was a finish-line judge.

Year 9 Nakisa runs the 1500-metre race. I really wanted to get the photo so she is in focus and the background is blurry, but my Sony CyberShot would have none of that.

Student spectators from my school.

Year 13 Maryhellen long-jumping. I'm a little proud of this photo. An homage to Mr. Mac.

Year 13 Lanuola (white top, black pants) starts the 100-metre dash. I'm a little proud of this one too.

You can tell in this picture how the police moved the spectators far back from the track. Yet somehow Blakey and I were allowed to stay.

Year 13 Pene finishes first in the 800-metre race.

Athlete turned fa'aluma Manila dancing for the crowd.

Ungentlemanly Conduct

The most stunning sports injustice I've ever faced was during a water polo game fall of my senior year of high school. Water polo can be absurdly brutal because the pool’s surface provides a translucent-at-best scrim underneath which the referee cannot see—and thus can’t call fouls. In this particular game against Newark Memorial, the hole set had a much larger wingspan than I, and at one point he grabbed my wrist and pulled it far enough below the surface that I couldn’t breathe. He probably only did this for 5-7 terrifying seconds, but it was enough to induce deeply primal fear in me. I wriggled out of this literal death grip and climbed this kid like a ladder. From there, I proceeded to curl my body around his head, trying in vain to drown the guy. It was with only slightly less of a sense of injustice I approached tonight’s social soccer match.

PCV Erica works for the Samoan Soccer Association, and she has served as team captain for the Peace Corps’ team over the past seven weeks. Our games have always been on Friday nights, and for the great majority of the time, the games have been lively and competitive but still fun. We’ve played such local teams as Punjas, Lesa’s Telephone Services, and UN/SPREP, and we’ve had a great time.

Until our final game.

We played Friday evening. The first half of the game was uneventful, save for the goal we scored. The ball had sailed toward the sideline on a kick from our backfield, and I passed the ball in from the sideline just before it went out. The other team, who shall remain nameless, thought it should have been called out—our team took advantage of the confusion and scored.

The second half grew much more heated as the game became more rough and confrontation escalated. At the peak of this conflict, a player from our team was negligently kicked in the head/neck and was knocked out cold. We loaded this player on an ambulance, and the game pretty much ended then and there.

Three days later (errr... yesterday), the other team protested. They claimed we had abandoned the game. Nevermind that one of our players was taken away in an ambulance and another rode along to the emergency room; apparently the rest of us should have finished the game. The other team somehow also successfully argued that we should have to forfeit the goal we’d scored in the first half, and that the entire game should be replayed. The re-match was scheduled for tonight.

This was particularly detrimental for our team for several reasons, including:

• Our players are dispersed throughout the country, and it’s difficult for volunteers to assemble on a Tuesday night;
  
• Casey 80, one of our power forwards, finished his Peace Corps service and flew back to America yesterday; and
  
• One of our players couldn’t play tonight on account of the concussion he’d sustained in Friday’s game.

Unfair!

So we showed up tonight with six players and no subs. The other team showed up with enough players to field an American football team—it was as though they had squads to rotate in and out.

We managed to score a goal—a header off a corner kick—but of course the other side dominated, and we lost 6-1.

Our 1-0 game stolen from us, we sauntered off the field, completely disenchanted with The Powers That Be.

Whatever.

I hope you’re well. Tommy’s pictures from Friday’s match below.

Joey 81, an inimitable force on the Peace Corps Samoa soccer team, and Casey 80, who sadly made his exit last night.

Erica 80, our all-star goalkeeper. No really. Opposing teams are unanimous in their awe. She's amazing.

Joey 81, Jordan 81, and Ben 80 forming a wall in front of the free kick. This ball deflected off Ben's unguarded shin. Me on the far left.

Scheduling Conflict

I’ve had success with time conflicts in the past. The summer after my junior year of college I got an internship through the County of Los Angeles, for which, in order to get credit, I had to work 10 weeks. It worked out that the last 3 day of my tenth week were the first 3 days of RA training at USC. Both of these organizations were staunch about time commitment, and for a while there it looked like I’d have to make a choice between the two. But that’s when I came up with a brilliant third option: oral surgery. I had to have some dental work done that summer, and what better way to get out of a double-booking than to trump both with a more important triple-booking? Today didn’t work out so well.

Today was the Ministry of Education’s common exam for spreadsheets—every year 12 computer studies student in Samoa took the same test today. Today was also the interchurch athletics meet at Apia Park for which I was an official. In fact no classes were held at my school today because everyone, faculty and student alike, was at the athletics meet.

I admit partial blame. I was at the meeting (I blogged about it here) where the teachers rebelled and changed the dates of the common exams. I voiced no protest to holding the test on the 2nd of July.

That’s the big picture. In the smaller picture, I take a lot more blame. While I was aware of the conflict a few weeks back, I neglected to tell my pule. He found out yesterday, and called me aside after the staff meeting. “When are you going to give the common exam?” He asked.

“Monday,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster. My pule has a hands-off style of management, and I find it best in these situations to continue with my own plan until someone tells me otherwise. Or it blows up in my face.

This answer satisfied my pule. I told my class we’d have the exam Monday, and even asked them to come in Saturday morning to practice for it. I printed out letters to parents on school letterhead announcing tomorrow’s session.

So we get to the athletics meet this morning, and during the second event, I am summoned to meet with my principal.

He was one of the field marshals today, so I met up with him next to the long jump pit. “You have to give the exam today,” he told me. “Papalii says you can’t postpone it.” I don’t know who Papalii is, but it doesn’t seem worth the trouble to argue.

Today’s meet was slow. By 11:45 we were an hour-and-a-half behind schedule. I was told to gather my students and take them back to school after the scheduled break, but since that came an hour-and-a-half late, I opted to take them early.

We had no means of transportation. Imagine how delighted the students were. You know that test that I said we’d take on Monday? We’re taking that today. Also we have to leave the athletics meet early. Also we have to walk.

They took it in stride though. And when we passed a taxi stand on the walk back, I put up fare for 2 taxis.

The test didn’t go too well. I was banking on tomorrow’s practice session beefing up their skills before Monday. They did finish somewhat quickly though, and the meet was slow enough we were able to get back in time for the last few events.

Of course, we had to walk back, which wasn’t the kids’ favourite.

In the end, it wasn’t too bad, but I should have, you know, scheduled a dentist appointment or something.

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

The walk back.

High jump. This particular jump was successful.

The intermediate girls' 100-metre dash.

My school in the grandstands.

Samoa Shrugged

During the last World Cup I was teaching summer school in Oakland, and the many of the games conflicted with my teaching schedule. So I recorded them on the DVR, much to my roommates’ annoyance. 6 hours of soccer every day takes up a lot of memory; add that to my other two staples, Jeopardy! and The Daily Show, and I was suddenly a memory hog. Was it my fault for being into the World Cup, or were my roommates out of touch with the world?

From what I’ve seen, Samoa would side with the roommates. Samoa does not have World Cup fever.

First I need to draw a line here. I have Samoan friends who are very excited about the World Cup. One was all too tickled when it almost looked like New Zealand was going to make it out of group play into the bracket. Another posted a Facebook comment admitting she had a tough time following the competition because she’s been too busy ogling the players (It was a bluff. She was the one who broke the news about New Zealand not making it.). Clearly there is a sub-culture of young urbanites who are emotionally invested in the World Cup. But it seems like the rest of the country’s interest is fleeting. Sounds like America, doesn’t it?

I admit, my host family’s TV was part of the allure of visiting the village this past weekend. TV1 has agreed to show all 64 matches, which seems like a lot until you consider matches air at 12:30, 3:00, or 7:30 a.m.—not exactly prime time. When I asked my family the night before if we could watch US/Ghana, they seemed baffled as to why such a match would be shown on Samoan TV, but they agreed to let me watch anyway.

It’s a little strange because living in America, I always felt we were in some soccer bubble; as though everyone else in the world cared, and we just couldn’t find it within ourselves. When I signed up for the Peace Corp I had this romantic notion of finally witnessing the supposed madness that America can’t seem to catch. Yeah, that didn’t happen.

On the other hand, as with other World Cups, I have been impressed with the people who rise to the occasion. I always thought Maengi was cool, but since she’s been consistently going to bed right after dinner in order to wake up for nearly every game, my respect is at a new level. Hell, she keeps a packet of papers next to her couch so she can track the tournament.

The one thing that felt cool about watching TV in the village was the tentative reception pulled in by the makeshift antenna. With the fuzzy picture and the snow coming in and out, often during important moments in the game, I felt both the isolation of south-island Samoa as well as the global connectedness that every World Cup spectator feels.

Go Portugal!

I hope you’re well. Pictures below.

Male prefects receiving their new shiny ID badges.

More ID photos this morning. This was clearly an outtake. I like this because it looks like the girl on the right has so much contempt for the girl on the left.

I was working on the introductory slideshow for Group 83, and I needed a picture of a male teacher in typical teaching clothes. So I turned the camera on myself. That kid in the background was only too happy to jump into the frame.

Real Quick

A bunch of us are heading up to the Charge d'Affaires' house to sleep over so we can watch the USA vs. England World Cup game very early tomorrow morning. So I don't have time to write up a whole post tonight. So I'm going to use the little time I have to upload some photos. Enjoy.

I Love a Parade

The rooster chorus trumpeted the day. I’d set my alarm for 8:15 a.m., but I woke up early on account of the clamor outside. Also, Scout stood on my chest as she often does, purring preemptively, reminding me it was feeding time. I grabbed my phone and texted a couple volunteers around town, “Where you at?”

Last week the Prime Minister declared today a public holiday to celebrate the Manu Samoa’s victory in the World Championship Rugby Sevens tournament in London the Saturday before last, and there was to be a parade through town this morning, and not having anything else to do, I figured I’d go watch.

There was another parade a month or so ago to celebrate the Manu Samoa’s victory in the Hong Kong tournament, and the one thing I learned about parades in Samoa is the only sure sign the parade will pass by is to go to a spot where there are Samoa spectators; the route printed in the Samoan Observer is a rough estimate, by no means a reliable map. With this in mind, I set out down Beach Road, and only when I saw people standing along the sides of the street did I stop. The method proved itself effective: I stopped when I saw people, and that turned out to be the very beginning of the parade route.

Maintaining a blog demands a constant flow of content, thus I almost always have my camera in my pocket. This morning was no different, but when I went to take my first photo of the day, the battery died.

The police marching band was called to attention. They started playing. The parade was off. Girls through feathers in the path of the Manu Samoa players a la Prince Azim’s palace in “Coming to America”. I witnessed all of this, but caught none of it on film.

Then, as the tail of the parade passed, I saw Rachel and Lily (both of 82) approaching, each with camera in hand. They’d both missed the parade, and I had no photos. Let’s head it off at the pass, we all thought. “Maybe if we cut through the fish market, we can catch it in Mulinuu.”

We sprint-walked past the fish market and the expansive bus-loading zone next to it. Taxis and trucks trying to beat the parade found had also discovered our route, so we had to take oncoming traffic into account as we lumbered down the sea wall.

Finally I could see the front of the parade, and somehow we’d timed things perfectly so when the sea wall converged with the road, our smaller parade would meet the bigger more official parade at the same time.

For Rachel and Lily, this was not enough. “We need to get out in front of it,” they said. So we kept our faster pace, slowly overcoming the strangely quick-paced police marching band. But then I noticed it wasn’t just the 3 of us. Sure enough there were lots of other people walking along the side of the parade route, whether to keep up with their favourite players or to get a better seat at the end of the parade route, I’m not sure.

At one point when the road narrowed I wound up walking with my flow of foot traffic directly next to the rugby players who were actually marching in the parade.

Finally we broke ahead, and we found a spot with a bunch of other spectators where we were able to see the entire parade pass by once more.

I’ve seen many parades in my life. I’ve also marched in a few. But never have I watched a parade, joined it, and then watched it a second time.

It was quite a morning.

I hope you’re well. Pictures (thanks to Rachel and Lily) below.

Super Fans.

The Manu Samoa.

The Manu Samoa again. Mostly I'm just posting this photo because of the Giants cap at right.

This banner is written in Text Message. I really like the use of "FORGET'N" in the top line.

This banner reminds me of an old Conan O'Brien character that used to yell ridiculously long football chants. This is a banner, people, not a paragraph. It makes it seem obvious why marketers started using terse slogans.

The Head of State's motorcade.

Manu Samoa Under Tent with Police Officer in Foreground. Photographed by Rachel.

I ran into loyal blog reader Faautu (sp?) at the event. She usually accesses the blog from her home in Switzerland. It was a pleasure to meet you!