Sunday, June 7, 2009
Day 14: Landscape as Art; Language as Music
Aoaraki/Mt. Cook, N.Z.New Zealand, June 8, 2009
Sharon and I arrived in Christchurch last evening after a full day of bus travel and sightseeing. We boarded our bus in Queenstown at 8:00 AM and checked into our Christchurch hotel at about 7:30 PM. That’s a lot of bus travel. In spite of the fact that our bus drive/tour guide “rabbitted on” (talked nonstop) for nearly 12 hours, it was a wonderful trip. New Zealand is a place of wonder—from the Southern Alps to the glaciers to the snow fed lakes on the South Island, to the boiling mud, geysers, natural springs, strange birdlife, and glowworm caves of the North Island.
Photos from Queenstown to Christchurch are linked here. You will see lakes and mountains in abundance, each more spectacular than the next. At this point, our senses are so over-stimulated that we are mentally, emotionally and physically fatigued. If we were not coming home tomorrow, we might need to just take a day off to recover from a full week of aesthetic immersion. Is there such thing as beauty fatigue?
In my last blog, I talked about the names of things. The white man named the remarkable mountain range that runs across the Queenstown area “The Remarkables.” Duh! The Maori name for the equally remarkable lake near Aoaroki/Mount Cook was Tekapu, or “Sleeping Man.” As a species, is our capacity to create stunning visual metaphors inversely related to our ability to invade and conquer the lands of other peoples? Just a thought.
This is the final blog in the South Seas Adventure series. I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Day 12: Land of the Long White Cloud
New Zealand, June 5, 2009
When the Maori landed in what we now called New Zealand eight centuries ago, they called it Aeteroa*: Land of the Long White Cloud. The Queensland area of New Zealand is situated in what is called the Southern Alps, or, in Maori, Tiawahi Ona Mu: Land of the Green Stone. Apparently, the jade found in this area was prized for jewelry making.
The scenery in this region is the most spectacular we have ever seen. We were dumbfounded by the endless beauty of snowcapped mountains, sparkling clear lakes and ponds, farmlands. and endless blue skies streaked with, yes, long white clouds resting like pillows on the mountain peaks. The southwest coast of the South Island features 14 sounds, one fiord after another. The copious rainfall and snowmelt create a 10 foot layer of fresh water on top of sea water. This layer of fresh water acts as a lens, refracting light in a way that causes the very deep, glacial water to appear a beautiful aqua color. Here is the link so that you can see for yourself a little of what we enjoyed yesterday:
When the Maori landed in what we now called New Zealand eight centuries ago, they called it Aeteroa*: Land of the Long White Cloud. The Queensland area of New Zealand is situated in what is called the Southern Alps, or, in Maori, Tiawahi Ona Mu: Land of the Green Stone. Apparently, the jade found in this area was prized for jewelry making.
The scenery in this region is the most spectacular we have ever seen. We were dumbfounded by the endless beauty of snowcapped mountains, sparkling clear lakes and ponds, farmlands. and endless blue skies streaked with, yes, long white clouds resting like pillows on the mountain peaks. The southwest coast of the South Island features 14 sounds, one fiord after another. The copious rainfall and snowmelt create a 10 foot layer of fresh water on top of sea water. This layer of fresh water acts as a lens, refracting light in a way that causes the very deep, glacial water to appear a beautiful aqua color. Here is the link so that you can see for yourself a little of what we enjoyed yesterday:
The Scandinavians who settled in Iceland were strategic in their naming. The island they called Iceland was quite habitable whereas the one they named Greenland was one giant glacier. This was a clever rouse, keeping other explorers off track and out of their new country. As we travelled to and through Milford Sound today, we paused many times to discuss the names for things. The Maori name for the sound is Piopiotahi which translates, simply, One Thrush. We can’t help but think that this name was given intentionally to divert attention from this visually stunning region: “Not much of anything over there. Maybe a bird or two, but you wouldn’t be interested.”
Another interesting thing about this area of New Zealand is that it is considered a cool temperature rain forest with an average of approximately 23 feet of rainfall per year. That comes to 200 days of rain each year, or , in everyday parlance, "you better take your umbrella with you, because it will rain!" The flora and fauna of the region are also of interest. The forest is primarily populated by a species of beech tree that is evergreen. The leaves are tiny; the trees are magnificent.
Due to the introduction of predators, 47 bird and animal species of New Zealand have gone extinct since people arrived less than a millennium ago, Among them are a number of flightless birds including some types of kiwis as well as the gigantic moa, a distant cousin of the emu, that stood 9 feet tall. Its slightly smaller cousin, the bush moa, was a brilliant blue and lived in this rain forest. These birds must have been remarkable to watch running through the beech trees. An endangered cousin of the moa and kiwi lives in this forest, but we didn’t see any today. Maybe next time.
A species of parrot, the kia, also lives in the Milford Sound region. It is the only parrot in the world that lives above the snow line. Kia are the official bad boys of the forest, too. They are constantly dreaming up ways to cause mischief by doing annoying things like pulling rubber gaskets out of screens and windows. Our bus driver told us that recently, a kia got down into the luggage compartments under his bus and flew off with some poor tourist’s passport. We can just imagine a bunch of kia in their leather jackets, smoking cigarettes, loitering around a street corner hawking passports.
Speaking of names for things, we got a kick out of the white man’s names for these amazing geological phenomena. Our favorites were Doubtful Sound, Halfway Bay, and The Remarkables, (a mountain range with peaks up to 7000 feet). These names are pretty pedestrian compared to the Maori names which always add a touch of mystery to what one is viewing. Gives a little insight into the comparative capacity for creative thought between the cultures. Hey, but even if the invaders couldn't write a line of poetry, they had steel and the musket.
In the words of our bus driver and tour guide, I won’t keep “rabbiting on.” We hope you enjoy the pictures.
____________________________
*If there are any Maori scholars out there, please excuse my phonetic reproductions of many of the Maori words.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Day 10: Convert! Or Die?
New Zealand, June 3, 2009
I apologize for the gap in postings. Sharon and I met up in Auckland on June 1. (May 31 for you. We are living in tomorrowland until next week when we again join you on that side of the international date line.) We have been touring the North Island for a couple of days. In this very civilized country, it’s hard to find free wireless and the hotels want to charge $10 for a half hour.
Our first tour was a two hour bus ride through gorgeous countryside from Auckland to Waitomo to Rotorua. Rotorua (‘second lake’ in Maori) is both a lovely town on the water, and the heart of Maori (MAO-ree) country. Wes, our cab driver, was a Maori who, in a completely disimpassioned way, pointed out places along our route sites of bloody battles between Maori residents, the settlers, and British troops that were called in to help the new settlers (who were getting seriously whooped by the Maori). As Wes tells it, as the numbers of British settlers increased, they broke treaties by settling on Maori land. At first the Maori allowed the “visitors” to stay until it became apparent that the object of these behaviors was not sharing the land, but stealing it. When the people would not leave, the Maori slaughtered them. Rather than accepting these nasty confrontations as the results of their own misdeeds, the settlers went on an all out, 20 year killing rampage with the help of the British military. These Land Wars, lasting from the 1860’s through the 1880’s, resulted in the nearly complete annihilation of the Maori people who were fighting to the death to retain their homeland, or a least part of it. Whereas the Maori people once populated the entire area between what is now the heart of Auckland, New Zealand’s largest city, through the entire Rotorua region, they had now retreated to a small area around what is now Rotorua. On a later tour, another tour guide, also Maori, told is that the annihilation of the native people had been so complete that at one point they had been deemed extinct.
This is not an unusual story, but a sad one. It is easy to make a connection back to the Samoan people who gave up their beliefs and ways when white religion and culture were superimposed on theirs. From there, it is natural to make the connection to our own Native American people who were hunted to the brink of extinction, and to the people of Africa who were enslaved to enrich “our” new country. White makes might makes right. But back to the narrative.
The Maori are a Polynesian people who sailed to New Zealand about 800 AD, probably as other islands throughout the Pacific became over populated. New Zealand was uninhabited at the time and had no predators of any kind, no poisonous snakes, insects or plants—a virtual Eden. The Maori brought dogs and rats with them which began to tip the ecological balance of these islands. One of the tour guides explained that Maori tribes can talk to each other, although there are minor differences in “accent” or dialect. She also thought that Maoris could probably communicate with Samoans, Hawaiians and other Pacific Islanders, but with difficulty.
It was amazing for me to compare sound of the Maori language to Samoan as well as the tattoos and wood carvings. There could be no doubt that these people are cousins. It would take an educated eye to distinguish one culture’s weapons and art objects from the other. Even some of the words are the same. For example, in both Samoan and Maori, a haka is this crazy, ritualized dance used to get warriors pumped with adrenalin. My students had acted out their haka during a class exercise, and we observed a Maori haka at one of the cultural shows two nights ago. (These shows always make me more than vaguely uncomfortable. There is something very sad about a vanquished people having to trot out their old costumes, customs, and dances for the conquering people in order to make money. I have attended many of these over the years and I have a sneaking suspicious that we, as white people, are treated to only the most superficial aspects of the culture during these shows. I hope in my heart that they keep the strongest “medicine” and most meaningful rituals for their private use. Perhaps that will be a different post.)
I apologize for the gap in postings. Sharon and I met up in Auckland on June 1. (May 31 for you. We are living in tomorrowland until next week when we again join you on that side of the international date line.) We have been touring the North Island for a couple of days. In this very civilized country, it’s hard to find free wireless and the hotels want to charge $10 for a half hour.
Our first tour was a two hour bus ride through gorgeous countryside from Auckland to Waitomo to Rotorua. Rotorua (‘second lake’ in Maori) is both a lovely town on the water, and the heart of Maori (MAO-ree) country. Wes, our cab driver, was a Maori who, in a completely disimpassioned way, pointed out places along our route sites of bloody battles between Maori residents, the settlers, and British troops that were called in to help the new settlers (who were getting seriously whooped by the Maori). As Wes tells it, as the numbers of British settlers increased, they broke treaties by settling on Maori land. At first the Maori allowed the “visitors” to stay until it became apparent that the object of these behaviors was not sharing the land, but stealing it. When the people would not leave, the Maori slaughtered them. Rather than accepting these nasty confrontations as the results of their own misdeeds, the settlers went on an all out, 20 year killing rampage with the help of the British military. These Land Wars, lasting from the 1860’s through the 1880’s, resulted in the nearly complete annihilation of the Maori people who were fighting to the death to retain their homeland, or a least part of it. Whereas the Maori people once populated the entire area between what is now the heart of Auckland, New Zealand’s largest city, through the entire Rotorua region, they had now retreated to a small area around what is now Rotorua. On a later tour, another tour guide, also Maori, told is that the annihilation of the native people had been so complete that at one point they had been deemed extinct.
This is not an unusual story, but a sad one. It is easy to make a connection back to the Samoan people who gave up their beliefs and ways when white religion and culture were superimposed on theirs. From there, it is natural to make the connection to our own Native American people who were hunted to the brink of extinction, and to the people of Africa who were enslaved to enrich “our” new country. White makes might makes right. But back to the narrative.
The Maori are a Polynesian people who sailed to New Zealand about 800 AD, probably as other islands throughout the Pacific became over populated. New Zealand was uninhabited at the time and had no predators of any kind, no poisonous snakes, insects or plants—a virtual Eden. The Maori brought dogs and rats with them which began to tip the ecological balance of these islands. One of the tour guides explained that Maori tribes can talk to each other, although there are minor differences in “accent” or dialect. She also thought that Maoris could probably communicate with Samoans, Hawaiians and other Pacific Islanders, but with difficulty.
It was amazing for me to compare sound of the Maori language to Samoan as well as the tattoos and wood carvings. There could be no doubt that these people are cousins. It would take an educated eye to distinguish one culture’s weapons and art objects from the other. Even some of the words are the same. For example, in both Samoan and Maori, a haka is this crazy, ritualized dance used to get warriors pumped with adrenalin. My students had acted out their haka during a class exercise, and we observed a Maori haka at one of the cultural shows two nights ago. (These shows always make me more than vaguely uncomfortable. There is something very sad about a vanquished people having to trot out their old costumes, customs, and dances for the conquering people in order to make money. I have attended many of these over the years and I have a sneaking suspicious that we, as white people, are treated to only the most superficial aspects of the culture during these shows. I hope in my heart that they keep the strongest “medicine” and most meaningful rituals for their private use. Perhaps that will be a different post.)
Click here for more photos.
Just Sharon, myself, and a young woman from Great Britain were toured through Glowworm Cave and Glowworm Grotto by yet another Maori guide. That was a breathtaking experience. The caves are made of limestone, so they are like a white cathedral inside. The glow worms were viewed from a boat in a darkened chamber of the cave. The glowworms are pupae that have created these chemical lights to attract insects that also hang out in the caves. They all dangle down a little filament which the insects get tangled up in as they fly toward the light. Glowworms are all over the ceiling and walls of the cave. In the pitch black cave, it looked like constellations of stars above us.
The Rotorua area is geographically very interesting. There are cold springs and hot springs, boiling mud, spewing steam and geysers. Yesterday, we were treated to all of these as well as a lovely nature walk and a show at the Agrodome where we saw sheep shearing, and watched sheep being micromanaged by some very manic and determined dogs. The dogs, a couple specially bred variants on the border collie, are able to “persuade” the sheep to do just about anything, just by using intense eye contact. I was glad to see that the sheep did not seem afraid of the dogs, even the ones that are trained to run along their backs from the back to the front of the herd. Actually, they seem more annoyed than anything. In fact, the sheep and the dogs seem to be friends. One of the back-walking dogs was sitting on a sheep’s back, licking its head quite affectionately at one point. This world is a strange and wonderful place.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Day 8: Where’s the Wal-Mart?
American Samoa, May 31, 2009
What makes Samoa unique? Perhaps one thing is that it has not yet been ‘franchised’. Okay, to be fair, Pago Pago has the most successful KFC in the world; and McDonalds is terribly popular with young and old alike. In fact, perhaps these two companies should be sued for ruining the health of the last two generations of American Samoans; half of the adult population now has type 2 diabetes.
Due to the fact that none of the three commuter companies that run between American Samoa and Samoa will fly on Sunday mornings, I needed to go over to Apia on Saturday for my Sunday flight to Auckland. This seemed merely inconvenient and an added expense at first, but it turned out to be another gift. I found overnight accommodations at a place called the Airport Lodge about five miles from the airport and a thousand miles from civilization as we know it. The lodge was a series of six or so little cabins, just big enough for a bed, a tiny table and a bathroom. I splurged and got one with air conditioning for a whopping 163 Tala or about $60 American. Above, I have posted pictures of a) The Airport Lodge from the road; b) The dining fale (fah-lay, which means meeting place) where I dined and chatted with fellow travelers from Germany and Australia; and c) A picture of my little cabin and its beautiful surroundings. It’s not every day that one gets to stay overnight in a rainforest.
This experience got me wondering: What makes this part of the world so different? On neither American Samoa nor Samoa proper, is there a mall, a Gap, a Starbucks, a Costco, or a Wal-Mart! A complete and utter absence of Wal-Mart! In Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, a dessert paradise on the sea at the Southern tip of the Baja Peninsula, the natural beauty is swiftly being paved over to create a place that is convenient and familiar to American visitors, complete with a huge Wal-Mart rising like a behemoth from sand and brush. Even on The Big Island of Hawai’i, a relatively unspoiled place by American standards, you can find the Wal-Mart—a hulking, ugly, bloated building surrounded by a sea of asphalt. They paved Paradise, put up a parking lot.
The Samoan version of shopping for clothes is the antithesis of the Wal-Mart experience. Here is how it is done. First you go to the fabric shop where bolts of material are stacked on shelves according to price: $1.99, $2.99, all the way up to $5.99 for the real good stuff. You wait the requisite amount of time to be waited on, probably according to how powerful your ‘aiga is. Then you make a selection and explain how you want to use the fabric. “How much will I need?” you ask. The sales person squints at you with an expert eye, “Oh, three and a half yards to be on the safe side.” Then she deftly cuts you a length of your new fabric. So far, so good.
Second, you go down the street to the little dressmaker shop, where three or four women (perhaps including a fa’fafini) are working and chatting at a few of sewing machines. Everyone looks up and smiles and greets you, and the expert dressmaker comes out from behind the counter. It’s decision time. The dressmaker hands you a floppy, worn, Xerox copy of a booklet, filled with a dazzling array of hand drawn puletase designs. You will recall that a puletase is the modest, two piece tunic and long skirt first introduced by the missionaries that is now traditional Samoan dress for women. After marveling at the ingenious variety of ways missionary-wear can be made beautiful, you select one; a simple and safe design, in my case.
Now for the moment of truth: Out comes the tape measure, and you are sized up on every possible dimension. If you are in American Samoa, you cannot hide from the truth of those numbers as they use the English rather than the metric system.
Third, a day or two later you drop by the dressmaker shop again where you are greeted by smiles and a little stir of excitement. The boss gets your new outfit and takes you to changing room in the back which you immediately sense if not air conditioned (which explains why everyone is working in the front). You prepare to don the garments with both anticipation and trepidation: “What if this doesn’t fit?” “How will I negotiate the social discomfort in a culturally appropriate way?” Ruminating all the while, you struggle into the outfit—you struggle because it has been two minutes and you are sticky with sweat. Then the puletase is on, and it fits perfectly! You quickly retreat to the front and the cool, to approving murmurs and more smiles.
My puletase is beautiful. It is the most comfortable real garment that I have ever had on. Nothing pulls or gaps no matter how I move, and it does look good. The fourth photograph above is me modeling my new outfit. The cost? Twelve dollars for the fabric, and $28 to have the garment made. The experience? Priceless.
What makes Samoa unique? Perhaps one thing is that it has not yet been ‘franchised’. Okay, to be fair, Pago Pago has the most successful KFC in the world; and McDonalds is terribly popular with young and old alike. In fact, perhaps these two companies should be sued for ruining the health of the last two generations of American Samoans; half of the adult population now has type 2 diabetes.
Due to the fact that none of the three commuter companies that run between American Samoa and Samoa will fly on Sunday mornings, I needed to go over to Apia on Saturday for my Sunday flight to Auckland. This seemed merely inconvenient and an added expense at first, but it turned out to be another gift. I found overnight accommodations at a place called the Airport Lodge about five miles from the airport and a thousand miles from civilization as we know it. The lodge was a series of six or so little cabins, just big enough for a bed, a tiny table and a bathroom. I splurged and got one with air conditioning for a whopping 163 Tala or about $60 American. Above, I have posted pictures of a) The Airport Lodge from the road; b) The dining fale (fah-lay, which means meeting place) where I dined and chatted with fellow travelers from Germany and Australia; and c) A picture of my little cabin and its beautiful surroundings. It’s not every day that one gets to stay overnight in a rainforest.
This experience got me wondering: What makes this part of the world so different? On neither American Samoa nor Samoa proper, is there a mall, a Gap, a Starbucks, a Costco, or a Wal-Mart! A complete and utter absence of Wal-Mart! In Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, a dessert paradise on the sea at the Southern tip of the Baja Peninsula, the natural beauty is swiftly being paved over to create a place that is convenient and familiar to American visitors, complete with a huge Wal-Mart rising like a behemoth from sand and brush. Even on The Big Island of Hawai’i, a relatively unspoiled place by American standards, you can find the Wal-Mart—a hulking, ugly, bloated building surrounded by a sea of asphalt. They paved Paradise, put up a parking lot.
The Samoan version of shopping for clothes is the antithesis of the Wal-Mart experience. Here is how it is done. First you go to the fabric shop where bolts of material are stacked on shelves according to price: $1.99, $2.99, all the way up to $5.99 for the real good stuff. You wait the requisite amount of time to be waited on, probably according to how powerful your ‘aiga is. Then you make a selection and explain how you want to use the fabric. “How much will I need?” you ask. The sales person squints at you with an expert eye, “Oh, three and a half yards to be on the safe side.” Then she deftly cuts you a length of your new fabric. So far, so good.
Second, you go down the street to the little dressmaker shop, where three or four women (perhaps including a fa’fafini) are working and chatting at a few of sewing machines. Everyone looks up and smiles and greets you, and the expert dressmaker comes out from behind the counter. It’s decision time. The dressmaker hands you a floppy, worn, Xerox copy of a booklet, filled with a dazzling array of hand drawn puletase designs. You will recall that a puletase is the modest, two piece tunic and long skirt first introduced by the missionaries that is now traditional Samoan dress for women. After marveling at the ingenious variety of ways missionary-wear can be made beautiful, you select one; a simple and safe design, in my case.
Now for the moment of truth: Out comes the tape measure, and you are sized up on every possible dimension. If you are in American Samoa, you cannot hide from the truth of those numbers as they use the English rather than the metric system.
Third, a day or two later you drop by the dressmaker shop again where you are greeted by smiles and a little stir of excitement. The boss gets your new outfit and takes you to changing room in the back which you immediately sense if not air conditioned (which explains why everyone is working in the front). You prepare to don the garments with both anticipation and trepidation: “What if this doesn’t fit?” “How will I negotiate the social discomfort in a culturally appropriate way?” Ruminating all the while, you struggle into the outfit—you struggle because it has been two minutes and you are sticky with sweat. Then the puletase is on, and it fits perfectly! You quickly retreat to the front and the cool, to approving murmurs and more smiles.
My puletase is beautiful. It is the most comfortable real garment that I have ever had on. Nothing pulls or gaps no matter how I move, and it does look good. The fourth photograph above is me modeling my new outfit. The cost? Twelve dollars for the fabric, and $28 to have the garment made. The experience? Priceless.
Days 6 & 7: Let’s Party, Samoan Style
American Samoa, May 30-31, 2009
Before I left San Diego, my colleague, Steve, said “They’ll probably have a party for you.” I thought, “How nice.” I thought back to when I taught in Ireland. When the class was over, my students took me to the pub and supplied me pint after pint. Just like in movies, there was Irish singing and poetry, and after last call, the bartender locked the door of the pub, and we continued to party. That’s the Irish way.
The Samoan meaning of party is something quite different. Last night, we were wrapping up our final class. Students had been working all week and in class every evening for five consecutive days, and, I must say, I did work them hard. As I closed, I complimented the class on their engagement and diligence and ended by saying “You’ve worked really hard and it’s Friday night. Have a wonderful evening and I hope I can come back and work with you again.” Then, someone yelled out, “Not so fast!”
Out came food and more food. Someone put a chair in the middle of the circle of chairs and said, “Sit down. We have something for you.” Each class member came and brought me something, fabric, lavalavas, towels, mugs, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, hair clips, a lovely print, and a case of wahoo tuna (which I am assured is the best in the world). People kept coming and gifts kept piling up. At one point I had four lava-lavas around my waist and I nearly passed out from the heat. The gift giving was so fast and furious that I had no idea what had come from whom. Give and give…Samoan people seems to get such joy out of it. Someone had my camera and captured some of the faces during this gifting ritual.
I don’t believe in being falsely humble. I have enough flaws and enough wisdom to be naturally humble at the right times. I do, however, know one thing: I am a very good teacher. I know my stuff and I am enough of an entertainer to make class time relatively painless. However, I also know that my colleagues are equally skilled, and that the Samoan students throw a lavish party for each and every one of their visiting professors. Everyone else who has taught in Samoa before me has kept this a secret, but I am letting the coconut out of the bag. Fellow professors: be prepared and bring extra luggage!
On to Saturday: I flew from Pago Pago (actually pronounced Pongo Pongo) to Apia (AH-pia) today and got to see American Samoa from the air. You have seen the towering mountains carpeted in green rain forest in my pictures. You’ll have to imagine how spectacular the view from above was, because I was so entranced that I couldn’t tear myself away to get the camera. What a place!
I also saw big sea turtles from the plane, hundreds of them. At first I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. The pattern of light and shadow in the waves would break in unexpected ways. Then I saw—a big head and the clear shape of a turtle, and another, and another, as far as the eye could see. It was hard to determine their size from the plane, but they seemed to be maybe two or three feet in diameter. Such magic!
I wonder what kind of sea turtles were, and whether they were coming in to the beach to lay eggs or something. Maybe they were just hanging out enjoying their turtle day, oblivious to their wonder. I’ll try to remember to Google so that I can tell you what kind of sea turtle hangs around the shallow waters of American Samoa in late May, and why.
Seeing the water teaming with giant sea turtles was an experience I will never, ever forget. I guess as the planet shrinks, our imaginations about animals are becoming zoo-sized to match. We might see a half dozen of something penned up huthat might normally travel hundreds of miles in groups counting in the thousands. To be taken by surprise by such a spectacle in the wild—a species thriving in its natural habitat—was a gift beyond imagination. This must be my time for receiving gifts.
Before I left San Diego, my colleague, Steve, said “They’ll probably have a party for you.” I thought, “How nice.” I thought back to when I taught in Ireland. When the class was over, my students took me to the pub and supplied me pint after pint. Just like in movies, there was Irish singing and poetry, and after last call, the bartender locked the door of the pub, and we continued to party. That’s the Irish way.
The Samoan meaning of party is something quite different. Last night, we were wrapping up our final class. Students had been working all week and in class every evening for five consecutive days, and, I must say, I did work them hard. As I closed, I complimented the class on their engagement and diligence and ended by saying “You’ve worked really hard and it’s Friday night. Have a wonderful evening and I hope I can come back and work with you again.” Then, someone yelled out, “Not so fast!”
Out came food and more food. Someone put a chair in the middle of the circle of chairs and said, “Sit down. We have something for you.” Each class member came and brought me something, fabric, lavalavas, towels, mugs, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, hair clips, a lovely print, and a case of wahoo tuna (which I am assured is the best in the world). People kept coming and gifts kept piling up. At one point I had four lava-lavas around my waist and I nearly passed out from the heat. The gift giving was so fast and furious that I had no idea what had come from whom. Give and give…Samoan people seems to get such joy out of it. Someone had my camera and captured some of the faces during this gifting ritual.
I don’t believe in being falsely humble. I have enough flaws and enough wisdom to be naturally humble at the right times. I do, however, know one thing: I am a very good teacher. I know my stuff and I am enough of an entertainer to make class time relatively painless. However, I also know that my colleagues are equally skilled, and that the Samoan students throw a lavish party for each and every one of their visiting professors. Everyone else who has taught in Samoa before me has kept this a secret, but I am letting the coconut out of the bag. Fellow professors: be prepared and bring extra luggage!
On to Saturday: I flew from Pago Pago (actually pronounced Pongo Pongo) to Apia (AH-pia) today and got to see American Samoa from the air. You have seen the towering mountains carpeted in green rain forest in my pictures. You’ll have to imagine how spectacular the view from above was, because I was so entranced that I couldn’t tear myself away to get the camera. What a place!
I also saw big sea turtles from the plane, hundreds of them. At first I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. The pattern of light and shadow in the waves would break in unexpected ways. Then I saw—a big head and the clear shape of a turtle, and another, and another, as far as the eye could see. It was hard to determine their size from the plane, but they seemed to be maybe two or three feet in diameter. Such magic!
I wonder what kind of sea turtles were, and whether they were coming in to the beach to lay eggs or something. Maybe they were just hanging out enjoying their turtle day, oblivious to their wonder. I’ll try to remember to Google so that I can tell you what kind of sea turtle hangs around the shallow waters of American Samoa in late May, and why.
Seeing the water teaming with giant sea turtles was an experience I will never, ever forget. I guess as the planet shrinks, our imaginations about animals are becoming zoo-sized to match. We might see a half dozen of something penned up huthat might normally travel hundreds of miles in groups counting in the thousands. To be taken by surprise by such a spectacle in the wild—a species thriving in its natural habitat—was a gift beyond imagination. This must be my time for receiving gifts.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Day 5: East Meets Meritocracy
American Samoa, May 29, 2009
Here are three strong women of the MA in Educational Leadership Samaoan cohort.
“Shhh! Hear that rumbling and grumbling and quaking? It sounds like a volcano about to erupt!” Startled, I look up at these mountains made of lava, and I wonder, Could it be? “But wait! I think it just may be the sound of 10 Samoan students, complaining about my work demands.” Without words, my students shake the ground, expressing their indignation and disbelief. Their faces say, “You mean we have to do something to earn each and every point?” “Unfair, unfair!”
Samoa is a fascinating place for an American teacher and scholar. Here, the size and strength of one’s extended family and village, or ‘aiga, not one’s abilities or achievements, confer status. As one matai (chief) told Margaret Mead, “In the past we had two gods—Tagaloa and the village; the greater of these was the village.”[i]
Samoa is a fascinating place for an American teacher and scholar. Here, the size and strength of one’s extended family and village, or ‘aiga, not one’s abilities or achievements, confer status. As one matai (chief) told Margaret Mead, “In the past we had two gods—Tagaloa and the village; the greater of these was the village.”[i]
The village is all, family ties reign supreme, and all men (and women) are not created equal. This paradigm is as foreign to modern day Westerners as infanticide, and almost as shocking. Moreover, one’s standing in the community determines how much slack others are willing to give you. Because this is the paradigm, it feels like the only truth to the people inside the culture, just like Americans can't imagine being handed something just because.
So, I have about 10 students that are insisting (in many nonverbal, but easily read ways) that I should simply give them the points because they are very busy people! Should I? Some of the other students have come to me privately, thanking me for setting a standard for all to abide by.
Just as work is not distributed fairly between men and women, those with lower status tend to do much more work than those with high status. One of the students mentioned that she had asked another instructor not to give group assignments because the burden falls to one or two to do all of the work for the group. I appears that students who feel oppressed by the existing ‘aiga system are very happy to adopt a meritocracy. They are used to working hard without acknowledgment, and I bet it feels good to be recognized for once. Otherwise, I bet life feels like one big fa'alavelave, forever giving and giving and giving.
This gets me to thinking…should cultural norms be admired and sustained just because they existed before, exists now, and probably will go on existing for the foreseeable future? That doesn’t seem like a good reason to me. When people are being oppressed by the status quo, shouldn’t we look to the oppressed group rather than the oppressor for clues on the correct response to a society? Are we being culturally sensitive when we perpetuate oppression by condoning it as a cultural norm? Or are we just going along, like Uncle Toms, because we don’t want to speak truth to power: "Oooh, someone might be oFENDed!" For example, why, as Westerners, are we tolerant of a culture that keeps its women subjegated, beaten down, ignorant, penniless, tormented, and objectified, then covered from head to toe to hide the bruises. Where does political correctness leave off and human rights begin? In the words of my favorite politically incorrect social commentator, Bill Maher, “Don't be so tolerant that you tolerate intolerance."
Yes, I have been alone too much this week. I think I may be brooding. In two days, I will meet Sharon in Auckland, and we will begin our adventures in New Zealand. I leave Western Samoa on Sunday at 1:00 PM and arrive in Auckland at 3:30 PM Monday, four hours (and 24 hours) later. Sharon and I have been laughing about all the cool Star Treky things that might happen while crossing the international dateline. We think that the most likely impact will be a temporary breaking up, like a bad Skype connection: "you're breaking up, Scotty! (zap zap)", only to be reassembled a moment later. I'll let you know how it goes in a couple of days.
This gets me to thinking…should cultural norms be admired and sustained just because they existed before, exists now, and probably will go on existing for the foreseeable future? That doesn’t seem like a good reason to me. When people are being oppressed by the status quo, shouldn’t we look to the oppressed group rather than the oppressor for clues on the correct response to a society? Are we being culturally sensitive when we perpetuate oppression by condoning it as a cultural norm? Or are we just going along, like Uncle Toms, because we don’t want to speak truth to power: "Oooh, someone might be oFENDed!" For example, why, as Westerners, are we tolerant of a culture that keeps its women subjegated, beaten down, ignorant, penniless, tormented, and objectified, then covered from head to toe to hide the bruises. Where does political correctness leave off and human rights begin? In the words of my favorite politically incorrect social commentator, Bill Maher, “Don't be so tolerant that you tolerate intolerance."
Yes, I have been alone too much this week. I think I may be brooding. In two days, I will meet Sharon in Auckland, and we will begin our adventures in New Zealand. I leave Western Samoa on Sunday at 1:00 PM and arrive in Auckland at 3:30 PM Monday, four hours (and 24 hours) later. Sharon and I have been laughing about all the cool Star Treky things that might happen while crossing the international dateline. We think that the most likely impact will be a temporary breaking up, like a bad Skype connection: "you're breaking up, Scotty! (zap zap)", only to be reassembled a moment later. I'll let you know how it goes in a couple of days.
I may or may not be able to post tomorrow, Day 6, depending on the availability of internet service. I certainly will have time on my hands. It looks like I may be in the Apia (Western Samoa) airport all night. Don’t ask…
_________________________
[i] Smitz, P., & Farfor, S. (Samoan Islands & Tonga, 5th Ed. Victoria, Australia: Lonely Planet
[i] Smitz, P., & Farfor, S. (Samoan Islands & Tonga, 5th Ed. Victoria, Australia: Lonely Planet
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Photos
From top to bottom: Maria, our facilitator; Sam, Rod and Pooch (on table); Sam & Rod, catching Pooch; Pulotu
Day 4: Enough Solitude, Already!
American Samoa, May 28, 2009
One of the good things about traveling alone is finding and redefining one’s margins. On this trip, I have located my absolute outside margin for solitude, and it appears to be four days. Aside from class time and a couple of social contacts with Maria and students, I have been quite alone. I hate eating alone! Traveling solo could be a great diet plan for me, but I wouldn't last long without getting depressed. Even the beauty all around me is starting to make me feel sad.
Therefore, I will distract myself, and you, with wonderful pictures of my students. Above are some of the folks I have been working with this week. They are all dressed up as several were presenting last night. The traditional dress for women in Samoa is the puletasi, a modest, two piece garment that replaced cooler, more comfortable bare skin and little else (thanks to the missionaries). Puletasi are custom made and quite gorgeous. In fact, getting clothes here means buying fabric and taking it to the tailor who measures you head to toe and produces your garment in a day or two.
A wonderful thing about Samoan culture is tolerance for individual expression of gender and sexual orientation. One of our students identifies as fa'afafini, or third sex. As I mentioned a couple days ago, the prefix fa'a means, "the way" or "in the manner of." Fafini means either sister or woman. I could not get an absolutely clear answer on that. Males with orientations that differ from the norm have always been valued in Samoan society. Although Fa'afafini do not suffer the kind of deep misunderstanding and discrimination that we see in the states, I could still detect some derision in the voices of students as they discussed the issue. However, could you imagine an open transexual, gay or lesbian school administrator in the United States? Fa'afafini have valued roles in the arts (what else?) as well as in education and business here. I would say the attitudes of people range from tolerant to accepting to embracing. This is a long way from the good old U.S. of A. where attitudes range from tolerant to rejecting to murderous rage! Just goes to show you that gender truly is socially constructed. Each culture has its own take on these issues.
There is a myth that some boy children have been selected by their parents to be raised as girls in the past. I searched the web and didn't find any evidence for this. To an extent, Samoan boys are permitted to define their own gender preference. Like all matters at the core of a person's identity, sexual and gender orientation can be joyfully expressed, or repressed and distorted, but it can't be extinguished.
To fracture an old saying, for every silver lining, you can anticipate a big, 'ol' gnarly cloud.The picture is not nearly so rosy for women and girls who are lesbian or transgendered. But, as my mom always told us when we were kids, life isn't fair.
See you on Day 5, the last day of class.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Day 3: Samoa Is a Breeze and a Kiss
American Samoa, May 27, 2009
Samoa, or SAH-mwa, as pronounced by the people who live here, sounds like a gentle ocean zephyr rustling the palms, followed by the softest kiss to a baby’s fragrant head. It is a sweet sound, a gentle sound that evokes emotions of warmth, beauty, and family. So much feeling in such a short word!
Samoa, or seh-MO-ah, as pronounced by Americans, is also fully present here, living happily beside SAH-mwa. Samoa is lots of chubby babies, strapping children, and great, big men and women, happy and strong. It is volcanic mountains, hulking, jagged, and verdent, reaching up into the sky. It is endless, unfathomable expanses of blue water, forever bonded to her blue sky, climbing billows to heaven. Big and small. Now and forever. Banal and holy.
Samoa, or SAH-mwa, as pronounced by the people who live here, sounds like a gentle ocean zephyr rustling the palms, followed by the softest kiss to a baby’s fragrant head. It is a sweet sound, a gentle sound that evokes emotions of warmth, beauty, and family. So much feeling in such a short word!
Samoa, or seh-MO-ah, as pronounced by Americans, is also fully present here, living happily beside SAH-mwa. Samoa is lots of chubby babies, strapping children, and great, big men and women, happy and strong. It is volcanic mountains, hulking, jagged, and verdent, reaching up into the sky. It is endless, unfathomable expanses of blue water, forever bonded to her blue sky, climbing billows to heaven. Big and small. Now and forever. Banal and holy.
But I wax poetic. I return to the narrative.
Last evening I was reading a travel book. I laughed when I came across this passage: “skinny Samoans are as rare as hawkbill turtles.” I googled hawkbill turtles: they are critically endanged. This should be a strong warning to Samoan to avoid dieting!
Samoa a small island—it only takes four hours to drive all the way around it (even going the 25 mile an hour speed limit).
Big Samoa is exemplified by one of my students, a great man with shaved head and strong, confident voice, wearing a lava-lava (wrap-around), taking control of the room as if it had been his all along. He and our other two men in the class demonstrated "trust." I will ask the guys this afternoon if I can used their photos on the blog. That way, you can see big Samoan guys and lavalavas, all at the same time.
There is also visible and invisible Samoa. Both visible and invisable Samoa are big, in my view, but they are two different kinds of big. It's the women who construct invisible Samoa. Let me explain.
I never met my 19 students--16 women and three men--until Monday. I have been conducting my class through distance technology. That means we email, we Skype (sort of like video telephoning), I provide pre-recorded presentations and structured activities to make sense of the readings. Maria, my host, coordinated it all on this end. She is a vary able teacher who provided the eyes and ears I needed to make sure students were getting the concepts.
The capstone assignment in the class is a presentation. The class was divided into seven groups, each of which was tasked with presenting an hour-long lesson on a different theory. My assumption was that groups would divide the work and share it, roughly equally. Following is a passage from the reflection paper of one the women concerning her group project:
"My group gave me their trust to develop and plan our presentation...This whole experience of planning and writing our group project got me to realize that...one must have the compassion to do something in which others depend on it."
The group handed the task to this highly capable woman who must have worked herself to the bone to single-handedly create a well-researched, coherent and highly entertaining lesson for the class. (I would not assign a group project in the future!) I was struck by the fact that the only male member of their group ended up being the moderator and leader, and that the other female members very ably did their parts. However, it was apparent all through the semester that this one woman bore the burden of success or failure of the group. She did it with a quiet competence and grace that I find difficult to understand.
This is fa'alavelave; giving and giving. I am guessing there are moments of bitter resentment with all of this giving, so one must have fa'amahalo; forgiving. Giving, forgivinng. I don't know this for sure, but I think these are women's work here in Samoa, and maybe all over the planet.
I wondered about the fa'a prefix, too. It roughly means "the way." So the Samoan way is fa'a Samoa. Giving, forgiving; the Samoan way.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Day 2: Falling Victim to Fa’alavelave
American Samoa, May 26, 2009
This is the view from my hotel. No wonder Paul Gauguin, the impressionist, moved here and never left!
I did my homework before I traveled to Samoa. I knew that part of the culture was a kind of generosity that makes mainlanders grimace in pain, clutching their hearts. The tradition is called fa’alavelave, and it means, loosely, give until it hurts. Ceremonial giving is an expectation, not a choice.
I’m not sure what I was thinking yesterday when I admired the lovely, colorful traditional outfits of the three women who were presenting in class. Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe it was the humidity. Today, one of the students picked me up at the hotel, ostensibly to talk about her progress in the class. She said “Want to go fabric shopping?” I said, “Sure! I love to look at fabric.” We looked at about a hundred bolts of nice cotton poplin, one print more bright, bold, and savagely beautiful than the next, and I picked out some fabrics to buy. I had heard that there were tailors in town who could measure you and produce a custom article of clothing in a day, so I thought I might do that. I stood at the cash register, wallet in hand. Of course, not knowing Samoan, I had no way knowing that my student had paid. I argued in vain. I blushed. I protested. I may have even stomped my feet. I’m sure I seemed grotesquely American during those moments to onlookers in the shop.
Once I calmed down, my student said, “let’s go get your measurements.” I said, “Sure, but I pay for this. I really do want to pay. This is already too big a gift.” We drove behind some shops to a little dress shop called ‘Amy’s.’ As she, Amy, I presume, measured, we all chatted, and I pulled out my wallet, “Do you need a deposit?” “No, it’s taken care of.” This time, I politely said thank you and rolled my eyes. All the women in the shop cracked up. These Americans!
Well, I’m picking up my newly tailored things on Thursday. In the meantime, I am fiendishly plotting how to outdo my students’ fa’alavelave with one of my own, something that will delight and surprise them. No, I’m not planning on automatically giving everyone As. But I will think of something and now wish I had brought gifts from the states. I’ll need to scramble. A warning to Nan and Chuck, the instructors who are coming here after I finish: the fa’alavelave is alive and well in Samoa. Be careful what you wish for.
I have learned something important about this culture, and it has to do with the role of women here. This is still a very traditional, patriarchal place. Whereas women have always been responsible for family, home, children, church and village, they are now also working in very demanding jobs outside of the home, which means they work and give incessantly. I’m not even sure they would comprehend the idea of “me time.” Selflessly, tirelessly and uncomplaining, they labor day and night for the benefit of family and community. The women in our program are directors, principles, school counselors and teachers. They make key decision every day and the buck stops with them, many times. Moreover, at least one of our students is a matai, a chief, which means she is a primary decision maker on village issues—in addition to all of her women responsibilities as the mother of 36 (not all birth children, of course) and grandmother of 9.
I learned another Samoan word last night, one that women use constantly here: fa’amahalo—forgive. They gently admonish each other, “fa’amahalo” or “just let it go.” If they didn’t, they might just die of resentment.
I think there is a relationships between the extreme burden put on women and the epidemic of obesity. There is no complaining, there is no getting away, there is no saying “no,” there is no talking back, there is no stop to the onslaught of expectation that they give and give and give. The only choice they have is to stuff their feelings. I wonder if anyone has done research on this?
As promised, today, I did get those pictures from my hotel. The beauty and quiet of this place is almost overwhelming. I have not felt so centered in a very long time and I am enjoyed the unstructured hours for reading and thinking, oh yes, and for blogging.
One more thing…
I forgot to write about the animals. There is a cute little cat that lives in the restaurant. She doesn’t look to be more than 5 months old, but she is full of kittens already. Yesterday at breakfast, she got up on my lap and we had a pet fest. There are stray dogs, too. I was warned about them by the uptight attorney who sat next to me on the plane from Hawaii to Pago Pago. However, the dogs seem shy and sad and harmless, even to me. Dogs really do need relationships with people to be happy. These mutts are a gloomy bunch. My favorite, though, are the chickens. Glossy black and red-brown chickens that just appear anywhere and run around aimlessly like a bunch of harebrains. Why not? It’s Samoa!
I’ll be back to you on day 3.
I did my homework before I traveled to Samoa. I knew that part of the culture was a kind of generosity that makes mainlanders grimace in pain, clutching their hearts. The tradition is called fa’alavelave, and it means, loosely, give until it hurts. Ceremonial giving is an expectation, not a choice.
I’m not sure what I was thinking yesterday when I admired the lovely, colorful traditional outfits of the three women who were presenting in class. Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe it was the humidity. Today, one of the students picked me up at the hotel, ostensibly to talk about her progress in the class. She said “Want to go fabric shopping?” I said, “Sure! I love to look at fabric.” We looked at about a hundred bolts of nice cotton poplin, one print more bright, bold, and savagely beautiful than the next, and I picked out some fabrics to buy. I had heard that there were tailors in town who could measure you and produce a custom article of clothing in a day, so I thought I might do that. I stood at the cash register, wallet in hand. Of course, not knowing Samoan, I had no way knowing that my student had paid. I argued in vain. I blushed. I protested. I may have even stomped my feet. I’m sure I seemed grotesquely American during those moments to onlookers in the shop.
Once I calmed down, my student said, “let’s go get your measurements.” I said, “Sure, but I pay for this. I really do want to pay. This is already too big a gift.” We drove behind some shops to a little dress shop called ‘Amy’s.’ As she, Amy, I presume, measured, we all chatted, and I pulled out my wallet, “Do you need a deposit?” “No, it’s taken care of.” This time, I politely said thank you and rolled my eyes. All the women in the shop cracked up. These Americans!
Well, I’m picking up my newly tailored things on Thursday. In the meantime, I am fiendishly plotting how to outdo my students’ fa’alavelave with one of my own, something that will delight and surprise them. No, I’m not planning on automatically giving everyone As. But I will think of something and now wish I had brought gifts from the states. I’ll need to scramble. A warning to Nan and Chuck, the instructors who are coming here after I finish: the fa’alavelave is alive and well in Samoa. Be careful what you wish for.
I have learned something important about this culture, and it has to do with the role of women here. This is still a very traditional, patriarchal place. Whereas women have always been responsible for family, home, children, church and village, they are now also working in very demanding jobs outside of the home, which means they work and give incessantly. I’m not even sure they would comprehend the idea of “me time.” Selflessly, tirelessly and uncomplaining, they labor day and night for the benefit of family and community. The women in our program are directors, principles, school counselors and teachers. They make key decision every day and the buck stops with them, many times. Moreover, at least one of our students is a matai, a chief, which means she is a primary decision maker on village issues—in addition to all of her women responsibilities as the mother of 36 (not all birth children, of course) and grandmother of 9.
I learned another Samoan word last night, one that women use constantly here: fa’amahalo—forgive. They gently admonish each other, “fa’amahalo” or “just let it go.” If they didn’t, they might just die of resentment.
I think there is a relationships between the extreme burden put on women and the epidemic of obesity. There is no complaining, there is no getting away, there is no saying “no,” there is no talking back, there is no stop to the onslaught of expectation that they give and give and give. The only choice they have is to stuff their feelings. I wonder if anyone has done research on this?
As promised, today, I did get those pictures from my hotel. The beauty and quiet of this place is almost overwhelming. I have not felt so centered in a very long time and I am enjoyed the unstructured hours for reading and thinking, oh yes, and for blogging.
One more thing…
I forgot to write about the animals. There is a cute little cat that lives in the restaurant. She doesn’t look to be more than 5 months old, but she is full of kittens already. Yesterday at breakfast, she got up on my lap and we had a pet fest. There are stray dogs, too. I was warned about them by the uptight attorney who sat next to me on the plane from Hawaii to Pago Pago. However, the dogs seem shy and sad and harmless, even to me. Dogs really do need relationships with people to be happy. These mutts are a gloomy bunch. My favorite, though, are the chickens. Glossy black and red-brown chickens that just appear anywhere and run around aimlessly like a bunch of harebrains. Why not? It’s Samoa!
I’ll be back to you on day 3.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Day 1: Impressions of Pago Pago
American Samoa, May 25, 2009
View from my hotel room.
The hotel? I am staying at Sadie's by the Sea, a former brothel. It’s right on the water, which explains the extreme mustiness of my room. A half day of air conditioning seems to have improved that situation. The accommodations are adequate and clean. I slept well and awoke to a most glorious view out my window. See above.
The rest of American is celebrating Memorial Day, but I will be conducting class with 19 seasoned educators , most of whom will receive Master of Arts degrees in Education from San Diego State University this coming December.
My arrival on the island was a steamy surprise. Although my host had suggested that I not attempt to step out of the plane in anything heavier than a loose tank top, I disregarded her advice. Afterall, it's winter here. Silly me. The moment I hit the air, my glasses steamed up, making debarking down the aircraft’s stairs a little dicey. I’m not sure I ever experienced the sensation of exploding with perspiration before last night. Even our summers in Champaign, Illinois could not compare to a Samoan winter night. No, Nyna and Jae (former colleagues at the University of Illinois), I kid you not!
Maria, the on-island facilitator for my course, has been a wonderful host. She and her three handsome sons, I'm guessing they are about 17, 15 and 10, met me at the airport. Since planes land here only twice a week, the airport is a happenin’ place on Sunday night. At 10:00 PM, there were families everywhere—babies, little kids, grandma, dads and moms and aunts and uncles. Maria’s eldest daughter was on my flight, returning from her graduate degree program on the mainland, and we waited for her to appear so that Maria could hug and kiss her before she was swept away by another contingent of their extended family. She and the boys helped me check in and get settled. We needed to walk down a very dark walkway and up some stairs to get to the room, so I was glad to have people with me. Maria and her family are truly lovely people with all the Samoan warmth, gentleness and hospitality I have read about.
After completing a couple of hours of work, I went over to the restaurant. The food was very American with the exception of Spam and eggs. (I know, that’s American too, but the WWII meat substitute seems to have really caught on here.) I order the matai (meaning ‘chief’) omelet, and it was tasty. I have never been served FOUR slices of toast before, though. Portion control would go a long way toward solving Samoa’s weight problem I bet. I ate one, not four, if you're interested.
I am debating on whether to tell you about the views or the people first....Okay, I’ll start with people, but I promise to come back to the former. As a preview of the latter, though, I now understand why people call this place paradise!
People: Yesterday in the Honolulu airport, I saw a couple of men in skirts. I initially wondered if these were the Samoan fafini (transgendered folk) I have heard about. When I studied the situation further, I realized that no self-respecting fafini would crop hair close, wear men’s glasses and go without makeup. Duh. I had not realized that men in Samoa still wear traditional wrap skirts. It makes a lot of sense, considering the climate. Maybe I'll bring one back for Sharon so she can surriptitiously wear Samoan drag. It will be our little secret!
Of course, the wrap seems more popular with the older men, and young guys wear jeans which are a lot less comfortable, but more western. I wished I had my camera earlier to photograph a police officer with the coolest uniform: Red baret, black shirt with all the quasi-military buttons and ribbons, and a black skirt with red stripes around the bottom. This might read like a description from a fashion show, but believe me, this guy was über butch!
There are plenty of beautiful Polynesian women of all ages and sizes. The restaurant manager was the no-nonsense type who walked and talked fast, wore a form-fitting dress (as she didn’t have any reason to wear a mu-mu), and had intricate tattoos around both knees that you could see, but just sometimes, as she rushed back and forth, ordering people around. Okay, I know bossy women are not everybody’s cup of tea, but as a fan of Hillary, Martha and—dare I say it—Piedad (but not Condeleesa), you know I got a major kick out of this. I hope she is there tomorrow…
The views…the views…. As I said, I made a little video which is causing me fits. I also missed the opportunity to photograph women doing something like kayaking out there on the water this morning, so you’ll need to imagine long, traditional boats with 6-8 people in them and a long, parallel float to the left, probably designed to stabilize the craft in rough water. My colleagues who have been here numerous times and know island culture will be smirking at my cross-cultural discoveries, but for the rest of you, I’ll work on getting a picture.
I’ll be back to you on day 2.
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