Sunday 28 December 2014
bye-bye Savaii
“You say yes, and I say no, you say stop and I say go…
You say goodbye, and I say hello
Hello hello
I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say hello”- The Beatles
Savaii is a short 1 hour ferry ride from Upolu, and if you strap the ferry trip to a 1 hour/$4 bus fare from Apia, you’re facing a total of $16 tala ($8) and a couple of hours of mild adventure to find yourself on the Big Island.
There are fewer Samoan’s on Savaii- one of the reasons, apparently, that it’s not entirely surrounded by the reef lagoons (as Upolu is) which provide relatively safe access to the ocean, and shield the coast from the open Pacific. When combined with the large volcanic cones and the relatively short period since the last major eruption (which lasted from 1905-1911)… the big island has a couple of attractions sau risks which the smaller doesn’t.
I’m here for the weekend, taking advantage of an empty fale left by a couple of volunteers enjoying a Christmas break on Upolu. They live in a self contained room out the back of the Savaiian Hotel…which is closed for a couple of weeks when I arrive, lending the resort a ghost town atmosphere which lone caretaker Sa only adds to (he’s a Samoan Yul Brynner with a Steve Buschemi smile).
As I’m walking the few kilometers from the ferry to the hotel- I get offered a lift. The driver is named Tusi (his name literally means “story” or “book”). We exchange names and occupations…I give mine…
“ae a oe?” (and you?)
“I’m in the circus”
“Oh…?”
“The Samoan Magic Circus…”
When you’re fed a line like his from a dude name Tusi, you can either call him on it and spoil the fun…or go with it, and end up playing pool at Tusi’s place for a while, discussing his extensive international travel (Amsterdam is apparently the schnizzle), and meet some of his family before he gives me a lift to the Savaiian and my fale le aso.
My weekend consists of a bike ride from the Savaiian at Sapapali’i to Manase and back…I discover on arrival that I’ve misplaced my cashcard, lending me both a time limit and a cash budget for a day or two until I get back to Apia. The bike journey is 45km one way, the road is mostly flat with a couple of gentle hills designed for skinny white legs that last rode a bike in the 20th Century. It’s a pleasant, easy ride passing from the east coast of Faga, lined with fales; through more sparsely populated lush jungle, before appearing on the north east coast in lava fields and descending to the beaches of Manase, the tourist centre of Savaii, about 3 hours later. On Saturday night in Manase I get a basic, comfortable fale which my hostess discounts to $60 (NZD $30.00)- including breakfast and a tuna steak dinner. The fale is about 10m from the crystalline fish filled water… ta’ele (swim) or snorkel, go for a walk, find a beer, read a book- you know how holidays go.
Aso Sa is Sunday. The palagi advice I’ve had is that riding a bike or walking through the villages on Sunday isn’t encouraged, the shops are all closed and swimming (outside the resorts) isn’t done. There is, in short, nothing to do on Sunday. There is some substance to this…but…I have to ride home- I’m cash poor and I’ve asked a couple of locals if I’ll be cool riding home- they say “le afaina” (no worries).
Within a kilometre of leaving the fale at Manase I’ve seen ½ a dozen kids on bikes, lots of pedestrians, and a ta’avale (car) every minute or so. Not everyone is going to church- people are resting, bathing, doing chores or just playing with kids in the yard. There’s no indication I’m out of place and everyone is friendly- happy to wave or say “malo”. Something is occasionally lost in translation, and I get a couple of "I love you"s…odd but not unpleasant when it comes from a couple of mature ladies bedecked in white wear and hats like a pair of Polynesian country singers (you be Tammy, you be Dolly, I’ll be Kenny…). Kids all the way shout “bye-bye” and offer high fives…my “malo” meets repeated “bye-bye’s” as though it were time I left.
The shops are all open before Church, until 9 or 10. And after that, they close for a bit while everyone has lunch and a nap- or they don’t. I’m back on the East Coast before 11, and by 2pm I’m starving and my ghost resort fridge is only stocked with the lingering thoughts and odours of real food. So, I go for a walk and pass half a dozen closed stores, before coming to an open one. The shop keeper is sleeping happily on top of his deep freeze behind a counter full of fresh bread…even vividly imagining a corned beef sandwich, I can’t bring myself to wake him. 20m up the road another store is also open. They don’t have bread or corned beef- and I have to mention the sleeping storekeeper next door…”Oh, my brother- wake him up!” she says, before giving me about ¼ of a chicken, leftover from their family to‘ona’i to have on my sandwiches… I have to buy something to go with my free chicken and nap-interrupting bread, so I get a couple of beers for the fale fridge, even though alcohol isn’t sold on Sunday.
Saturday in Samoan is Aso To’ona’i…named for the feast to be prepared for Sunday, to’ona’i. Despite this weekly, not so subtle reminder the shops do a brisk trade Sunday morning…in a land where tomorrow is a long time away.
Lots of things aren’t done (although most still are done) on Aso Sa in Savaii.
Sunday 21 December 2014
to'ona'i trouble
"All I wanna do
Make a meal of you
We are what we eat
You're my kind of meat
Got a hunger for your love...
Hot pot, cook it up, I'm never gonna stop
It's all I'm thinkin' of..." I Eat Cannibals- Total Coelo
This story is an adaptation of one, which is posted on a carving at the Robert Louis Stevenson museum in Vailima...it is the story of the cannibalism of King Maleatoa- and of how cannibalism in Samoa ended (sort-of)…
King Malietoa Uilamatutu lived at Tualagi, near Malie (not far from Magaea...home of another famous family). He was son of the first Malietoa- his father bravely and fiercely shrugged off Tongan tyranny around 1300 ad. The title Malietoa is taken from a phrase in the speech of the departing Tongan’s…"Mālie toa, mālie tau," meaning "great warriors, well fought." The title Malietoa has continued for over 700 years (the last holder of the title dying in just 2007).
The subject of our story Malietoa Uilamatutu (aka Faiga) was a reasonable man, although he had something of a soft spot for a meaty treat. In the absence of a reasonable butchery, and 800 years prior to the placement of Golden Arches in Saleufi…he managed both his subjects and his hankering, by occasionally (well…daily) ordering the sacrifice of a man from this village or that, to be served at his table.
Important folk hung about the land in front of the home of the Malietoa- the grass court of the king- a reception committee of orators, chiefs and other grass court specialists (possible a former Wimbledon champion or two- clearly they were important enough people that they got to hang about waiting on sunny afternoons, even though there was probably washing to be done at home).
When a sacrifice was ordered, the reception committee would greet the unfortunate victim (although the term “unfortunate victim” may well have been banned from use in preference for ”special lunchtime guest”) The welcome might have included speeches, special thanks and ceremony…but, it certainly included a short sharp rap to the back of the head when one least expected it, after which the “special lunchtime guest” was usually reported to have “ducked off to help in the kitchen”.
The ‘guest sau umu’ would be wrapped in a seated position, with his feet beneath him (it’s poor manners to point your feet…) and slowly roasted. Then the grass court specialists- brave warriors, noblemen, and other blokes skyving off washing duties- would all partake, with the heart and the nape of the neck reserved for the Malietoa.
One day, when Malietoa was getting older (and slowing down a little- possibly a result of his red meat diet…) two men arrived on the beach from Fafine in Savaii. On the same night the kings son, Polualeuligana, was sleeping on the beach. The men, dressed in finery had been invited for “The Kings Day”- a euphemism meaning that although they’d been invited to dinner as special guests, they probably wouldn’t be around to try the fruit and Pavlova.
Polualeuligana, heard the men talking and lamenting their sacrificial fate. He rared up from the beach in the dawn light, like a man shaped lamington, white sand and bronze skin, and presented a cunning plan for their escape…(cunning as a fox shaped guilt roast).
Make a meal of you
We are what we eat
You're my kind of meat
Got a hunger for your love...
Hot pot, cook it up, I'm never gonna stop
It's all I'm thinkin' of..." I Eat Cannibals- Total Coelo
This story is an adaptation of one, which is posted on a carving at the Robert Louis Stevenson museum in Vailima...it is the story of the cannibalism of King Maleatoa- and of how cannibalism in Samoa ended (sort-of)…
King Malietoa Uilamatutu lived at Tualagi, near Malie (not far from Magaea...home of another famous family). He was son of the first Malietoa- his father bravely and fiercely shrugged off Tongan tyranny around 1300 ad. The title Malietoa is taken from a phrase in the speech of the departing Tongan’s…"Mālie toa, mālie tau," meaning "great warriors, well fought." The title Malietoa has continued for over 700 years (the last holder of the title dying in just 2007).
The subject of our story Malietoa Uilamatutu (aka Faiga) was a reasonable man, although he had something of a soft spot for a meaty treat. In the absence of a reasonable butchery, and 800 years prior to the placement of Golden Arches in Saleufi…he managed both his subjects and his hankering, by occasionally (well…daily) ordering the sacrifice of a man from this village or that, to be served at his table.
Important folk hung about the land in front of the home of the Malietoa- the grass court of the king- a reception committee of orators, chiefs and other grass court specialists (possible a former Wimbledon champion or two- clearly they were important enough people that they got to hang about waiting on sunny afternoons, even though there was probably washing to be done at home).
When a sacrifice was ordered, the reception committee would greet the unfortunate victim (although the term “unfortunate victim” may well have been banned from use in preference for ”special lunchtime guest”) The welcome might have included speeches, special thanks and ceremony…but, it certainly included a short sharp rap to the back of the head when one least expected it, after which the “special lunchtime guest” was usually reported to have “ducked off to help in the kitchen”.
The ‘guest sau umu’ would be wrapped in a seated position, with his feet beneath him (it’s poor manners to point your feet…) and slowly roasted. Then the grass court specialists- brave warriors, noblemen, and other blokes skyving off washing duties- would all partake, with the heart and the nape of the neck reserved for the Malietoa.
One day, when Malietoa was getting older (and slowing down a little- possibly a result of his red meat diet…) two men arrived on the beach from Fafine in Savaii. On the same night the kings son, Polualeuligana, was sleeping on the beach. The men, dressed in finery had been invited for “The Kings Day”- a euphemism meaning that although they’d been invited to dinner as special guests, they probably wouldn’t be around to try the fruit and Pavlova.
Polualeuligana, heard the men talking and lamenting their sacrificial fate. He rared up from the beach in the dawn light, like a man shaped lamington, white sand and bronze skin, and presented a cunning plan for their escape…(cunning as a fox shaped guilt roast).
“Wrap me in this banana leaf” cried Polualeuligana. “Plait me up in the leaf like a fish for the umu” he persisted.
“Righto” said the blokes from Fafine, who bereft of a better plan would happily would have dressed him up as Priscilla Queen of the Beach, if they thought it might keep them around long enough to see the fruit platter.
“Does my butt look big in this?” queried Polualeuligana, before being assured that it did- which is considered a good thing in Samoa (and green can be such a difficult colour).
“Now put me on a pole”. After a moment or two of confusion, in which the men approached a couple of nearby sailors from Warsaw…Polualeuligana was secured firmly in leaf, and on a long wooden pole and promptly marched off to surprise his father.
When the fish de jour was presented to the Maietoa, he licked his lips and imagined the feast to come. But as the kuka began to unplait the “fish of the chief”- probably to pop in a bit of garlic and an onion- the feast began to act a little more luvely-jubbley than anticipated…
“It is I, father” cried Polualeuligana, flexing his buttocks against his firm leafy binding, and beginning to enjoy the attention a little.
“How can you be so cruel” began Malietoa… before continuing in parental fashion. “I -I’m not angry…just disappointed”
And so, the Malietoa decreed that if he could not cook his son this day, then no more should his subjects have to fear a Sunday roast at his place, and he ended canabalism in Samoa…mostly.
Sometimes naughty children are still roasted and eaten here- but that’s just for their own good. (You still have to set an example occasionally…)
“Righto” said the blokes from Fafine, who bereft of a better plan would happily would have dressed him up as Priscilla Queen of the Beach, if they thought it might keep them around long enough to see the fruit platter.
“Does my butt look big in this?” queried Polualeuligana, before being assured that it did- which is considered a good thing in Samoa (and green can be such a difficult colour).
“Now put me on a pole”. After a moment or two of confusion, in which the men approached a couple of nearby sailors from Warsaw…Polualeuligana was secured firmly in leaf, and on a long wooden pole and promptly marched off to surprise his father.
When the fish de jour was presented to the Maietoa, he licked his lips and imagined the feast to come. But as the kuka began to unplait the “fish of the chief”- probably to pop in a bit of garlic and an onion- the feast began to act a little more luvely-jubbley than anticipated…
“It is I, father” cried Polualeuligana, flexing his buttocks against his firm leafy binding, and beginning to enjoy the attention a little.
“How can you be so cruel” began Malietoa… before continuing in parental fashion. “I -I’m not angry…just disappointed”
And so, the Malietoa decreed that if he could not cook his son this day, then no more should his subjects have to fear a Sunday roast at his place, and he ended canabalism in Samoa…mostly.
Sometimes naughty children are still roasted and eaten here- but that’s just for their own good. (You still have to set an example occasionally…)
Wednesday 17 December 2014
Chikungunya bingo
Standard Samoan bingo has been in decline for sometime- and the effect on the retailers of ultra-fat highlighters has been dire. But de-fun-dont-stay-done-long up here and since earlier this year it appears* that the Samoan Bingo Retailers Association, the WHO (not the band who should- nay must- remain in obscurity...but the World Health Organisation), Aedes aegypti and Aedes albopictus (the parasitic not so high flyers who bought us all the fun of malaria and dengue fever), and a bunch of people who really wanted a week off, combined to bring to Samoa and a large part of the equatorial globe the brand new game everyone can play, and everybody seems to be playing… Chikungunya bingo.
With a simple set of symptoms, no known treatment and no way of preventing infection- anyone with skin can get involved. Just exit the house in daytime, expose a a well formed ankle, and wait for the kiss of Aedes or Aedes (once you’ve played you’ll be on a first name basis)…and then hang about waiting for the fun to start.
If you suddenly begin to experience cold shivers in the 30 degree light of day, and really want to lie down under a duvet…you’re on your way, and can tick off symptom one.
As the cold becomes hot again, but doesn’t stop at your normal 37.5 degree body temperature, instead revving your engine up to around 39 degrees, so that bits of your brain are starting to make not very funny comments about other bits of your brain, and you’re sweating and shaking like a Neil Diamond impressionist…well, cross off another a symptom, and cross your fingers while you can cause you won't be able to tomorrow.
30-48 hours later, if you’re swaying slightly next to the washing machine- waiting to recover your previously sweat soaked sheets and wondering where enough salt water could have come from to leave the entire bed in a state where you could farm mackerel…your bingo alert bell should be ringing, but it’s probably just your ears.
If your shoulders won’t allow you to reach up and peg your sheets to the line because you’ve developed the kind of arthritis that makes you crave a copper bangle, a flat in Noosa, and at least 2 fewer limbs…Chikun-bingo glory is almost upon you.
But only, finally, when you wake up a morning later, and stumble into the bathroom like you’ve got Parkinson’s because your feet are suddenly and painfully confused as to why they have arches, to discover large pink welts drawn across significant portions of your body…can you be sure, can you fully appreciate the irony, that you’ve hit solid Chikun-bingo-gold. The final fat pink highlighter of congratulations from the Samoan Bingo Retailers Association - a bunch of no-harm goodtimers with the kind of sense of humour that can only be treated with paracetomol and fluids.
As the cold becomes hot again, but doesn’t stop at your normal 37.5 degree body temperature, instead revving your engine up to around 39 degrees, so that bits of your brain are starting to make not very funny comments about other bits of your brain, and you’re sweating and shaking like a Neil Diamond impressionist…well, cross off another a symptom, and cross your fingers while you can cause you won't be able to tomorrow.
30-48 hours later, if you’re swaying slightly next to the washing machine- waiting to recover your previously sweat soaked sheets and wondering where enough salt water could have come from to leave the entire bed in a state where you could farm mackerel…your bingo alert bell should be ringing, but it’s probably just your ears.
If your shoulders won’t allow you to reach up and peg your sheets to the line because you’ve developed the kind of arthritis that makes you crave a copper bangle, a flat in Noosa, and at least 2 fewer limbs…Chikun-bingo glory is almost upon you.
But only, finally, when you wake up a morning later, and stumble into the bathroom like you’ve got Parkinson’s because your feet are suddenly and painfully confused as to why they have arches, to discover large pink welts drawn across significant portions of your body…can you be sure, can you fully appreciate the irony, that you’ve hit solid Chikun-bingo-gold. The final fat pink highlighter of congratulations from the Samoan Bingo Retailers Association - a bunch of no-harm goodtimers with the kind of sense of humour that can only be treated with paracetomol and fluids.
http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs327/en/
Thursday 11 December 2014
Serving suggestions
Well, imagine the mind-explosion of discovering it could be deliberate. Apparently if your idea of aircon temp is a chilly 27 degrees- and your seasons range from “hot” to “you just stepped in something- oh, it’s lava- lucky, I thought it might have been from the dog”…you start to get a bit ambivalent about temperature all round…
What’s for lunch?
Taro, rice, sweet and sour pork, chicken…stir-fried vegetables
Vegetables?
Yeah- someone stuffed up.
When was it cooked?
Um…earlier.
Hot?
It certainly was.
Got a beer?
Yep, here’s one I took out of the fridge earlier…
How do you take your coffee?
Quite a long way, and then I wait a bit…
So- if you’re sitting about in the heat, and it’s humid enough for fish to cross the road between stormwater drains...it turns out that you may not be hanging out for the sensation of sizzling plates of just cooked food, or to scald the roof of your mouth on a frothing flat white or koko.
Of course, that doesn’t explain why luke-warm beer would seem like fun…but beer's not always about the taste, is it?
Of course, that doesn’t explain why luke-warm beer would seem like fun…but beer's not always about the taste, is it?
w..w...bankers
"I need dollar dollar, a dollar is what I need
And if I share with you my story would you share your dollar with me
Bad times are comin', and I reap what I done sow hey hey
Well let me tell you somethin' all that glitters aint gold...
Its been a long old, long old troublesome road
And I'm looking for somebody to come and help me carry this load"
Aloe Blacc- I need a dollar
Last day, of 5 days of Agribusiness- Start Your Business training today at work…and as the morning session regarding bank loans was being delivered (something of a sales pitch), I couldn’t help but notice…
Business loans in Samoa, offered by major NZ and Australian banks are charged at;
- 9.5%-14% interest on amounts over $50,000, over 6-20 years
-12%-14% on amounts over $5k over a similar period
-16% on amounts less than $5k up to 3 years
A “fast saver” account in Samoa- if you manage to save a bob, could earn you a whopping 1% on savings….minus bank charges.
In Australia or NZ- savings will earn 3% on average....
On a business loan…you’ll pay 6%-8% in Australia on similar periods and amounts. 7%-10% in NZ.
There are apparently reasons beyond my limited financial comprehension that the average Samoan farmer should pay up to double the interest an aussie or kiwi might….and if he did save a dollar somehow, why it would earn a 1/3 of the reward you’d get in the colonies....
...I wonder if the banks will manage to squeeze out a profit this year
Saturday 6 December 2014
Bahá’í
“I believe I was reading a book, or maybe it was a magazine,
Suggestions on where to place faith, suggestions on what to believe,But I read somewhere that you’ve got to beware
You can’t believe anything you read.”
Jack Johnson
The world
is full of holy places-but agreement on which they are is rarer.
The Bahá’í
House at Tiapapata seems like a holy place…
Forgive me
if I quickly try to summarise something quite complex- an unusual, almost a
composite, faith. Bahá’í believe that
the word of God has been delivered by different prophets, in different ways at
different times… they liken it to the moon, seen each night in a different
phase, not because the light source, the sun, has changed…but because the view
point and the receptacle have.
Which prophets is the interesting part- Krishna , Moses, Buddha, Christ, Mohammed and others less
familiar to me. The Bahá’í result is a distinct brand of tolerance blended with
a familiarity for the followers of any of those faiths…a blend of mid eastern
beliefs from India to Egypt over 4000 years.
In a Bahá’í
service- there is no sermon, no minister- there are simply readings directly from
the books of faith belonging to religions- Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism,
Judaism, Islam, all in one place in harmony….the “words of God” delivered
through prophets at varying times in varying cultures.
The
readings are delivered in English, or Samoan, or as they would be in their
native place. One particular prayer delivered affectingly this morning…as she
sang, if you closed your eyes, it was like sunrise over a great city somewhere-
and old place, stone walls and brass domes, dusty streets…like a mullahs chant-
perhaps the words of God, certainly a voice that seemed less earthly bound than
it’s host. (Yasmine, I met later a native “Persian”, alternately living between
Samoa and Australia
The
building, like the belief is of remarkable design…(constructed by Fletchers
from NZ)
Concrete,
glass and samoan hardwood combined to form a resonance unique and beautiful-crystalline-
when the choir sings, the sound bounces about the room in a subtle echo,
returning to tickle the inside of your ears, around and behind the newly sung
words - the birds outside, not muted, chiming in with jazz-like unpredictable
precision.
It is a
truly peaceful place, and experience- the service is short (1/2 an hour) and
almost completely without ceremony…it’s a good way to wake up on Aso Sa ile taeao (Sunday morning)…
IVD
“He was standing at the rock,
gathering the flock…
And getting there with no
directions,And underneath the Arch, it turned into a march,
And there he found the spark- to set this f*kr off”
Set it off- Audioslave
IVD is, according to the UN,
International Volunteer Day. In a nutshell, a moment to appreciate good people,
with good intentions doing good things with often indefinable results, but darn
it they do something…so bless them and bless the little children they’re
helping (or the turtles, or the tourist association, or opposition guerrilla
movements or whatever).
It is not to be confused with
“I (might) have VD day”…which is an entirely different day commemorating the
arrival of foreigners who bought strong daytime concepts of god, governance and
morality, but rather looser evening codes around sleeping arrangements and
hospitality.
...Imagine, if you will, a lavalava (sarong) woven from a firm but slightly transparent moral fabric…
but for some reason the little moral fabric knot at the waist seems to loosen
independently, anytime someone smiles at you in a friendly kind of way and asks
innocently “o a mai oe? e te fia ai?”
(how you doin’…would you like something else?). ...“I (might) have VD day” is part of an important awareness campaign regarding what came next.*
Anyway, IVD day is different.
So, Thanks UN. Thanks for thinking of volunteers.
Thanks also for Friday
morning, when I stumbled out of bed and into the darkness at 5:30 filled with a
sleepy kind-of do-gooding vigour, to
meet you in town to go for a bit of a volun-march.
I don’t dig parades…but hey, I
said I’d help, and I get to watch the sun rise…
What time should I show up? Before
7:00? Sweet.
What time will we actually
get walking on this march? Oh, it’s with the police…Cool. All the volunteer
organisations, eh?...and the fire service, and red cross, and the yanks, and
the aussies, and that italian chick, and the couple from Rotary, and the
special Olympics crew…wow, sounds like a bash.But, um, roughly when does it start? The Police band do it every day, eh?
So when..? Ah, from the fire station around the Clock tower…um, ok.
But in terms of a starting time….um roughly when…do you think? Oh, because I, um, have to work.
Work where? Oh, well, I’m, um, volunteering…so I kind of feel like I should be at that job…oh, well, I guess it’s slightly inconvenient…but the march won’t take long will it?”
Sometime after 9 I was high
stepping down what was by now a very sunny main street with the police band
tooting and drumming, ahead of about 100 volunteers … casually watched by a
crowd of about 30 mildly confused Samoans… holding one side of an “official” NZ
flag borrowed for the occasion from the high commission…with a crew of just 3 (of
a possible 18) VSA volunteers…and trying not to catch the eye of the
commissioner who appeared to be smirking at something²…following a pack of 30 unjustifiably
happy aussies, who had bowled up about 8:30…
I felt like an 8 year old on
Anzac day tricked into public exposure and heat stress with the promise making
granddad proud, and maybe an ice-cream if I don’t pass out… I began to wish I could just disappear
into the cloud of sweatfunk emitting from my shirt and cap…or maybe even get to
work and do some of that “volunteering” stuff that everyone seemed talking
about.
Apparently they put on coffee
and a free breakfast later…sometime after 10 (not sure if it was a.m or p.m)…
Lessons:
- time is a concept which has
no place here, and time related questions are an odd thing to waste further
time asking.- I still don’t dig on parades.
* I (might) have VD…not really a day
² Her excellency the NZ High Commissioner put on a free bbq around her pool and invited all of all of the VSA volunteers on Saturday night. She is a thoroughly lovely, down to earth hostess…needless to say the turnout was significantly stronger than the parade.
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