Going Troppo

“People are strange- when you’re a stranger,

Faces look ugly when you’re alone

Women seem wicked, when you’re unwanted

Streets are uneven, when you’re down.”

- People are strange, The Doors

Studio setting, 2 revolving chairs on a small dais separated by a small glass topped coffee table. A small man dressed like a Parkinson impersonator enters. Somehow, he has the voice right- but there is a toothless gap in his smile and his smartly coiffed grey hair looks as though its not permanently attached.

“Welcome, welcome…ooh- you’re too kind, yes…all right, settle down there you! Ha! Thank you very much. Lets get on with it shall we…”

The man fans one delicate hand at the unseen crowd, and takes a seat, crossing his immaculately suited pantlegs.

“Tonight my guest is someone who may not be known to many of you, but who is almost completely unknown to himself, and intimately well known to me- his Parkinson shaped shard of fractured psyche…That’s right, he’s you, he’s me, he’s a wee bit mental, and he’s here tonight…come on out Iakopo.”

Parkinson’s reflection shambles onto stage in worn rubber jandles, fading board shorts and a pilling cotton singlet. His hair looks like he cut it himself without a mirror- and his dentistry looks like it was done by a visually impaired miner. His skin is probably brown, but under the studio lights appears the shade of orange most often associated with game-show hosts and oompa-loompa’s. There are purple smudges under his eyes, and he looks sideways at where the camera should be, as though it may not…

They embrace briefly, and Parkinson whispers something at which they both chuckle before sitting down.

“Soooo…” begins Parkinson. “You’ve been busy…in, ah, Samoa, I hear?” Parko’s voice ends on a high note- leaving the question.

“You hear wrong Parko” drawls the guest.

“I’ve been about as busy as a one-armed primary school teacher who’s first semester lesson plan is ‘How to count to 5’…

There are broken buzzy bees that are busier than I am…

If I was any busier, I could be diagnosed with narcolepsy…”

“Haha” Parkinson chuckles, without sincerity… “Well you must be doing something?”

“I walk a lot Parko…I walk to work, I walk home…sometimes I take a day off…”

“I see- and what do you do when you get your nose from the grindstone, eh? When you finally get a rest from all of that stuff you mentioned?”

“…and walk...” finishes the guest

“I see. I’ve heard about this…” encourages Parkinson, nodding. “You really love to walk, right! I mean, you’re marching up and down a mountain every day? I hear you’re introduced to people as ‘that bloke who walks a lot’…is that right, yeah?”

“Ah, yeah. It’s hardly a claim to fame Parko. Frankly I’d rather my epitaph didn't read- 'Here lies Jake, he could really get good value out of a pair of sneakers...'  Not much of a legacy that Parko.
I'd much rather be known as that bloke who came up with a smashing idea about how to break the endless circle of misappropriated aid money; so that it might instead be used feed, educate and clothe those people who can’t afford to do it for themselves; and who for some reason are further disadvantaged by the very process designed to help them- often just because some fat, western educated, local git decided that the too much he already has, still isn’t quite enough, and stretches himself to fill out a couple of bureaucratic forms - designed specifically as one further hurdle for people who are struggling to find a place to learn how to read- and thereby manages to get a fully funded overseas professional to come and work for absolutely f-all within an underwhelming and financially suspect organisation, which is completely failing to fulfill the purpose for which it was established, but somehow is allowed to make a 'profit'....Walking? Nah- I wouldn’t say I love it”

“Oh? So why do you do it?”

“Walk?…well, seems useful…comparatively..”

“Useful? Can you explain useful to me?”

“Well…I like the sun- and I get to watch it set, and rise…I walk to work, and do something, and then I walk home- and do something else…” the guest pauses, then adds “I guess it stops me going mental…”

“Not really!” laughs Parkinson, winking at the crowd.

“Yeah- good one Parko. Haha” from the guests laugh, it appears that the lack-of-sincerity contest is escalating. “Oh, and I get to talk to some people…”

“Like who- who do you talk to?”

“Security guards, people on the street, gardeners…people”

“I see, I see…and what do you talk about?”

“About?...”

“Yes, yes, what kind of conversations do you have?”

“I normally say something like ‘Malo’- which just means ‘Hi’.”

“Yes, mmmmm, and what do they say?”

“Well…they normally say ‘Malo’ too…”

“And?”

“um...well, sometimes they say stuff like ‘e fia savali oe, uh?’’’

“Really! How interesting…and what does that mean?”

“well, roughly- it means… ‘you must really like to walk, eh?’…”

“Ah…haha, yes, very good.” Parkinson is laughing again, but his guest isn’t sure why. He smiles benignly at where the crown should be, behind the lights. "Well at least it must keep you fit, then?"

"Fit? Fit? Ha!...mate, I'm not even close to fit...I'm so thin I could be the plot of the next Fast and Furious film....I'm a double breast augmentation away from being on the next series of 'Survivor'...I mean, my ankles are in stunning condition from the sheer abuse of Samoan hillside pedestrianism, but I'm otherwise about as fit as an imitation Stradivarius made out of nothing but struck matches...proverbially speaking my friend, I am not a fiddle..."

“Sooo…let me ask you this…um, I’ve heard that there can be a bit of a scene up there- if you know what I mean…and why not, eh? What with the beaches, sunsets, cocktails…eh? And those infamously amorous islanders?”

“Not really…”

“So you’re not out every night partying? Not out dancing on tables with bikini clad tourists? Not doing the old Volunteer 2-step and trying to get youself into one of those medical statistics they briefed you about?”

“’breifed’!- haha- good one Parko”

Parkinson looks bemused, but remains silent.

“…uh, nope,” adds the guest, finally.

Parkinson leans over and whispers something to the guest. You can vaguely hear his voice through his shrouded mic muttering in a thick welsh accent “you’d better give me something soldier…you’re about as interesting as the fart I had after lunch”

"...Seriously ? I can't keep up with waking up- without contemplating that sort of carry on. There's a bunch of Aussie volunteers who are looser than the wheelnuts on a south auckland BMW...as well as a number of Kiwis who eminate health and wellbeing the way a white t-shirt emits WTF under a black light...A local social calendar with enough charity events to embarrass Princes Harry, William and the one who sang Purple Rain combined...but, frankly, I'd rather hang about home, wash my sheets and have a cup of tea...or a bottle of wine...or beer or six...and cook the kind of curry that makes you careful to brush your teeth left handed."

The guest pauses, while Parkinson nods at him.

“I s'pose occasionally a few volies…um, that’s volunteers…get together for a gin or something” the guest offers.

“Ah…go on…” Parkinson leers, good naturedly.

“Well- I just tend to drink…um as a bit of a preventative really…you know..”

“Against what? Dengue? Chikungunya?”

“Sobriety, mostly” grins the guest.

"Well, it's an inspiring story!" Parkinson starts to wind up.

"Inspiring? I'm so unispired- I feel like a Kanye West and Beyonce Knowles album collaboration which critics are calling "their best work yet"... I've got nothing mate...I've got so little to go on, that I'm surprised I haven't been offered a half hour current affairs show on New Zealand television...I am, my friend, bereft of inspiration and purpose...

Somewhere a bell tinkles…

“Alright, thanks for your time, a pleasure, a real pleasure as always!” smiles a clearly relieved Parkinson, rising to embrace his guest again… “We’ll be back in a minute, don’t go away…”

Camera fades, and you can hear disembodied voices over one still active mic… “Parko- mate, um…can I get a lift…”

Malololelei Reserve...and the legend of Mt Vaea

"When I lack perspective- it’s best to find a mountain and walk up it."

Malololelei is a small, affluent village, a little up the hills from my place. From there you can look out over Apia, and further east and west along the North Coast of Upolu. There’s a patch of land there- some 600 acres- which runs from the mid Upolu mountains down to meet the Mt Vaea reserve.

Trying to find Malololelei Reserve on a map or online is like trying to find a light beer in a Samoan liquor store. Walking tracks in Samoa hide…anything left for a short period to the forest- especially the resounding vacuum of a track- falls back to nature swiftly, as though embracing it’s abolition.

The land around Malololelei was once property of the Catholic Church, sections of which have been traded or sold off over the last half century. What has become Malololelei Reserve belongs to the Ah Liki family (an Apia dynasty)- and has been gifted to the people of Samoa. The reserve’s management shared in partnership between the family and the Ministry for Natural Resources & the Environment.

…and it is splendid.

Wide tracks graze the forest, treading ridges and folding down spurs- occasionally peeking over a canopy, salted with tava’e and manu sina. Tall trees, labelled in Samoan and Latin (surely a rare literary combination), shelter a host of small things, which harp and toot like woodland woodwind. Endangered manumea hide here. The fruit doves, fiau’i, manutangi and manuma appear in brief flight, before concealing themselves to hurl flutey remarks from the trees.

From the top of the park, you stare down Mt Vaea’s knuckled spine toward Apia, and the ocean beyond…

In legend, Vaea was born in Vaimauga (east, at the right of my view of Apia). He had only one brother- his name was Fa’atausili.

As they grew, Vaea became large & strong, dark &, handsome...while Fa’atausili was different; a small, pale and softly spoken shadow of his elder brother.

With Vaea’s strength came the attention of women and men, and so his pride grew, and eventually he became to believe in his own invincibility. If Fa’atausili was envious of his brother’s fame, it did not show, for he loved him as brothers do.

One day, 3 brothers from Fiji came to test the legend of Vaea and almost found themselves added to his list of conquests . They were defeated and saved only when their young sister Apaula revealed herself from where she had hidden in their boat, to beg for the mercy of Vaea, tears rolling down her shell smooth cheeks.

The great Vaea scorned the men, allowing them to escape with their lives but stripping them of their pride and in the bargain claiming pretty Apaula for himself.

It is said that Vaea and Apaula fell in love, and eventually Apaula fell pregnant with their first child.

When the baby was to be born, it was custom that Apaula’s brothers return to escort her to give birth to the child on their own island. Reluctantly, Vaea let his pregnant wife go, but he stood and watched their journey from Savalalo (at the foot of Mt Vaea).

As he watched the boat near its destination, Vaea saw Apaula go into labour and then give birth. He looked on with a growing realisation and dread as the baby emerged into the waiting arms of Apaula’s brothers. The child was killed before it’s mother and the distant eyes of Vaea, and the tiny body cast into the ocean to the creatures that live there. Vaea watched in disbelief and helplessness as they celebrated their revenge for Vaea’s arrogance and mockery, and Apaula wept and bled in the boat beneath them.

Vaea was overcome with grief. He roared at the men, at the sky and at the impassive ocean which held him at bay. He bawled and collapsed to weep- his hands and toes tore at the earth and his knees pressed great hollows in the soil. Sadness drained the strength from his muscles, and spilled it from his eyes and mouth to muddy the dirt. Vaea cried until the beat of his great heart began to slow and finally he found that he could not move, so great was his misery. His fingers and feet began to petrify, and lichens and moss began to inch over his hardening knuckles.

By the time Apaula was able to return her stricken husband, he could move no more.

Vaea murmured a few last words to his heartbroken wife, before his lips stilled. She must find his brother, Fa’atausili, that he might avenge their child.

Apaula ran to find Fa’atausili, not knowing where to look, and it was a long time before she finally found him at Falealupo, on the farthest coast of Savaii. When she came upon the pale Fa’atausili quietly sitting above the cliffs, she wondered how this insipid shadow of her great Vaea could possibly avenge their family.

As she spoke to him of her dead child and her petrifying husband, Fa’atausili remained still, his expression unreadable. Gently he reassured Apaula, and eventually he convinced her to leave him. Only when Apaula left, did Fa’atausili enter the shadows of a nearby cave and there, in the the darkness, gently uncoil and release the anger which lived inside him. What emerged from the cave was no longer the man Fa’atausili, but the embodiment of wrath, and it set forth to hunt Apaula’s brothers with wicked intent.

Apaula could only return to her still and silent Vaea, and curling herself about his massive earthen body, she wept. Her tears pooled beneath the mountain to create the fresh water spring at Lalovaea, which they now call Loimata o Apaula (the tears of Apaula)


Legend adapted from several sources…including
http://1samoana.com/samoan-legend-vaea-and-apaula/

birds at
http://www.samoanbirds.org/

Jailbreak

"Gonna make a jaaaail-break...and I'm lookin' towards the sky
I'm gonna make a jaaaaail-break...oh, how I wish that I could fly
All in the name of liberty
All in the name of liberty"

-AC/DC Jailbreak

Below is adapted from a recent news story…

A mass prison break at Tafa’igata a fortnight ago involved 10 prisoners, the youngest a 13-year-old boy.

(Why would a 13 year old boy be in prison?)  

The incident was confirmed by the Assistant Commissioner of Prisons and Corrections Service, who said the prisoners escaped through a hole on the wall of their cell.

(…a hole…in the wall of their cell…)

The prisoners had dug a hole through a brick wall.

 (The bricklayer was unavailable for comment…)

“There were nine prisoners plus another that was remanded in custody that escaped,” he said.

(…so 10 dudes, escaped through one hole, in one wall, in one cell…who are apparently unrelated and in different forms of custody…)

He added that three other prisoners in the same cell decided not to follow the rest.

(…so 13 dudes, had access to one hole, in one cell……who are apparently unrelated and in different forms of custody…)

Seven prisoners were found on Sunday...

(…were they in church?)

while the rest were caught on Monday. All have now been now secured

(...secured...in what sense?...surely you don't mean the prison...)

Ulugia said there are contributing factors to why prisoners always manage to flee

(...“always manage to flee”?)

“…we have been operating with a very minimum staff…and one of the other issues is that we don’t have a security fence as a backstop.

(...“backstop”?)

“Five prisoners that escaped before, had broken through bars and windows which were really secure.”

(..."really secure”?...I feel like this man needs a dictionary…)

“So again, it comes down to supervision and unsecured buildings.

(…"unsecured"? They literally walked through the wall…and out of the un-fenced, un-guarded yard...no need to check the locks…)

“There is also no security fence as a last defence for the safety of the public.”

(really?…a fence seems like a relatively primary measure for imprisonment- rather than a superfluous last line…)

Ulugia pointed to staffing issues. He said seven officers are suspended over an ongoing matter that is before the Court. “Unfortunately we cannot hire new officers until these cases are cleared.”

 (…let me guess…security issues?...but can’t replace them…cause the seven guys before the court, might be cleared…and then they’d be allowed to…um…)

He said the prisoners are being dealt with internally.

(…ooooh…)

There are 670 convicts including women being housed at Tafa’igata.

While at large, the prisoners were linked to a number of crimes- including armed robbery and the attempted assault of a female tourist by a group of men on the Mt Vaea walking track ...

hot air & sunshine

“And my heart was breaking and got left unlocked
Didn’t see you sneak in but I’m glad you stopped
Tell me something I don’t already know
Like how you get your kisses to fill me with electricity”

-Arctic Monkeys

An aid funded programme of renewable energy development (hydro and wind) to replace diesel generation, and damaged infrastructure is ongoing in Samoa.

Over the last fortnight of I’ve been helping with what might be an overly specific niche business training course…I could tell you about it- but not without a beer.

Anyway- one challenge was the departure of electric power midway through the course- thankfully killing off the twin jet powered air-conditioners blasting 16 degree virus laden fumes through the room.

But, in tribute to modern tropical architects…even opening all the doors and windows could not avert trapping every degree of natural heat & humidity - while still managing to completely avoid catching any of the incessant and presumably irritating cool sea breeze which habitually blows over Apia harbour.

Which brings me to the EPC- Electric Power Corporation…a wholly government owned, monopoly electricity provider.

On that day- as well as irritating me, the EPC had managed to knock out the power to parliament mid session. One optimistic parliamentarian putting it down as a minor issue related to  “deteriorating services” in the “aging” parliament building…now undergoing a $20M aid funded redevelopment.

It seemed slightly ironic that it was the same week that the PM and representatives from EPC were on the front page of the paper holding a giant cheque (presumably latex) for a $1 million tala government dividend.

..turns out it was not ironic at all, considering it was less than a month after EPC declared 62 redundancies (from a total of 400 employees) and a $900k saving in payroll.

…not long after tendering in the local newspaper for 15 new vehicles

(which if valued somewhere between $60k and $100k - would equate to $1M to $1.5M)

…while they speculated about “outsourcing” operations such as “powerlines… pulling wires, putting up wires, trimming trees…and running power stations.”

…Confusingly, back in May this year, EPC was proposing a reduction in rates to consumers. “And it’s not normal for any utility to do that,” they said.

They’re right. It’s not.

Even then stating that…“ the pressure is on for E.P.C. to generate a profit as required by the law”. A figure of 7% ROI. “E.P.C. has never achieved the 7% …the new Minister has put his foot down on State Owned Enterprises to produce profit to Government..."

E.P.C.’s total equity of about $200M makes that about $14M.

…oh, and then there’s the $10M loan from the Asia Development Bank which they’ve requested be “converted into a grant”.

Ever had a loan like that?

EPC has been a basket case for a while…if you look back a bit further…

In 2015…

“…E.P.C. is at a debt to equity ratio of 96 per cent- almost all of its assets are financed by debt”

In 2012-13

…compensation for Directors and executive management increased by 26%

…Director’s sitting allowances increased by about 380%

(from $2,218 per Director in 2012, to $8,400 each in 2013.)

… in Samoan tradition, catering for Board Meetings increased 330%

($7,904 in 2012 to $26,207 in 2013).

…while a dispute arose between EPC and the Ministry of Revenue on unpaid import duty of $1.9M.

…and EPC annual net profit dropped roughly 80%

My favourite understatement is that of the Chief Auditor, that…“the Corporation’s activities expose it to a variety of financial risks.”

http://www.samoaobserver.ws/component/search/epc/%252F?ordering=&searchphrase=all

Baby Animals

The puppy storm struck not long after 5:30 on a Monday morning. 

I'd woken up and set to making rice for the dogs, to eek out leftovers & sardines. My eyes were still gluey with sleep, when I opened the door and a wave of mud, fangs, fur and claws surged in...it reached my knees before receding, washing about my ankles and dragging away some of my more sensitive skin on ninety needled claws. A muddy, bloody, high tide mark left as evidence on my calves and the floors I mopped yesterday.

I got the puppies tray down, fed the remaining big dogs, and raced back into the house to rinse the cooking pot (to avoid creating an ant farm in the kitchen)...then quickly grabbed my pre-packed bag, pulled on my shoes and bolted.

It all took about 30 seconds too long, and I had to shuffle back through the pups...trying not to slam puffy paws in the door, trying not to stand on them, trying to extricate my shoe laces from mouths and paws and maintain my balance in the pre-dawn dark. 

I wondered how I was going to avoid the puppies following me out the gate and into the dangerous world outside...and as the door clicked shut, I realised I'd left my keys on the bench.

I broke back in- to cries of support from my canine fan club, and began to repeat the process. It wasn't yet 6am.

This sort of thing had been happening every morning for several weeks. But it was on this morning that I felt a horrible thing... “I hate puppies”, I thought, as I folded myself through the bathroom window and fell headfirst onto the floor.

Who hates puppies?

I did. 

I stalked to work, now late, taking no pleasure in the sun breaking above the harbour- and I wondered about the best ways to shuffle 36 tiny paws from this mortal coil.

Just stick them in a sack...simple. Tie it up, throw it in the river...you won't even have to look at them. Haven't got a sack, I thought...and I'm not sure I hate them enough to spend a months wages on 40kg of flour. Yes you do, I thought. But what about beer money? Ah...

The river's not far away. I could probably just erect some sort of catapault. Yeah, a puppy sized sligshot on my deck. I've got some coconuts of similar size and weight- for range testing...heaven forbid they don't make it to the river, and land somewhere soft...they might find their way home.

There's a bit of work in it- but the materials are available. It will have to powerful too. 

Then I realised...if I'm going to build a puppy throwing device of such power- I probably wouldn't have to throw them so far at all. Just very fast, at something near. A short, exhilarating ride to a quick death. Heck, they'd probably love it.

I thought about the neighbour's wall- it's not going to require too much accuracy. Just have to avoid the louvres. The clean-up will be a bugger though...and it may have repercussions in neighbourly relations.

So, I'll need to remove the evidence- no little bodies...

(my stomach growled...little buggers made me miss breakfast too- I didn't even get a cup of tea!)
I need a puppy solution- something quick, something simple, something satisfying...
“Something pie-like?” suggested my stomach.

And so was born, Baby Animal pie.

Pastry is the key to any good pie. I left work early...stopping to buy butter and flour.
When I got home, I was already starting to feel better...I patted one of the puppies and kicked another couple out of the way as I closed the door (gently...wouldn't want to bruise them).

I grabbed an aussie rock classic and popped it into my beat up cd player. Music to cook by.
A guitar screamed, drowning out the small yelps coming from outside.
“I wouldn't ever wanna rush you...I don't wanna lose you...I'll never fuss you...” Suze deMarchi belted, assuring me to take my time. 

Sage advice when one is making pastry, I thought. 

Batch one didn't go as planned, although I followed the recipe to a tee. It might have been the heat. My ice water and butter were temperate within moments, and my pastry resembled nothing so much as a scone dough.

Scones wont work, I thought. I haven't got any cheese. 

“Life was never meant to be painless...” crooned Suzie. 

True, I thought...I ditched the 'damper' and started again.

By the time Suzie revealed “Lookin back I must have been- working for the enemy...” I was starting to lose patience. The second batch of pastry was looking ordinary and I'd realised I forgotten to get onions.

Stick with it Stowers, I calmed myself. You're an international volunteer now- you knew there'd be challenges.

Batch 3 was the last of the butter. The pressure climbed a notch- it was now or never.

The outcome was bad- but not inedible. 

“You ain't gonna get my love tonight!” Suzie was shouting at me now. “You're getting what you're given, but you ain't got a right!...I don't like your attituuude...”

I was already frazzled when I turned to get the Gravox. I kept it handy for flavouring things the puppies didn't like- they ate almost anything, the Gravox was just for the really weird stuff...like dog biscuits. The box was empty save a dusty lining...already exhausted by ensuring the puppies wouldn't go hungry. 

No onions, no gravy, crap pastry.
Suzie stopped singing.

I gave up...breathed deeply...counted to nine (one for each of the little monsters) and deposited the lump of dough on a shelf in the fridge next to my earlier attempts. I grabbed a large, icy cold beer, and wandered outside to find a host of tiny bodies snoozing, scattered & motionless about the deck like toys. 

The sun was beginning to set as I sat and propped one foot against the balustrade, sucking back half the beer in a single draft. Something fluffy settled down on my other foot, and I looked down to see a small trusting brown body curled about it, eyes closed, breathing softly.

“Hope you little bastards like scones...” I muttered.

(Nine, eight week old puppies were successfully and carefully re-homed this week, in an exercise which raised $500 for the Animal Protection Society. Before handing them over, each was treated for worms, fleas & ticks and vaccinated. They will be desexed at no further cost to the owners. 

Mum, Constanza, is also slated to be desexed- as soon as we can catch the cunning bitch.)