Speaking In Australia

The Moderate Republican

So, I've been out in the workshop again (well carport really). We were getting ready to move into a new house and needed an entertainment center. Why spend a few hundred on a prefabricated particle board assembly job when you can build something yourself? Here's what I came up with. I call it the "moderate republican" because it leans just a little to the right. I know I should have checked for square, but I was working late at night with only a headlamp to light me, and as moving day drew closer this project went from "let's have some fun" to "just get 'er done."  I was going to add a second set of matching doors above the ones you see, but oh well. Oh, and staining wood late at night in bad light is not a woodworking best practice. But "distressed" is hot right now, right? I hope so, because that's how I felt as I tried to sand off all the uneven blotches, leaving the surface with a weathered look.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall

If I look in the mirror I see the inverse of my face right? So, what do I really look like the right way around? Hum. Is it possible that I’m a lot more handsome if seen with the sides of my face reversed and that I’m leaving home unjustifiably confident each morning?

Cold

It’s been storming here in American Samoa recently and actually got so cold last night with the wind blowing through the window that I had to pull a sheet up over my bare legs.

Random Thought

I know I’m taking a big chance by saying this, but every time Katy Perry’s song, Firework, comes on the radio I really, really feel like I can do anything. Seriously. Run a four-minute mile. Dunk a basketball. Anything. 


 
Attribution: Sehsuan at en.wikipedia 

The Waters of Samoa

The Waters of Samoa

 My wife sprawls on the surface next to me, her masked face peering down into water so clear it’s almost like no water at all.  Below, hundreds of fish, a thousand maybe, flash their silver underbellies as they dart in unison, controlled, it seems, by a single brain.  We fan our hands against the pull of the current, what the Samoans call “ava.” It’s not a dangerous ava though. We’re safe.  

We came to see the turtle. But he’s off somewhere else, doing whatever turtles do—eating or sleeping or burying eggs in the sand. Not that much different from our life here, actually, only instead of eggs we bury our children right up to their laughing faces and then watch them wriggle out to find hermit crabs.

If this were Hawaii or the Caribbean, I’d be swimming into people; bikinied bodies lining the beach, reclining, offering their flesh, a malignant sacrifice to the heathen gods of beauty as currently defined. But this is Samoa, and on a Saturday afternoon we have the beach and, it feels, the entire Pacific Ocean to ourselves.

Why is that I wonder? Must be a comfort thing. The flight to Hawaii is long enough without an extra five hours arching up over the fattest part of the earth and into the southern hemisphere. The boil water notices for e. coli can’t be good for tourism either. And then there’s the fetid smell rising up off the tuna factory, spreading out over the harbor like a fog. But that’s all on the other end of the island. Here the breeze smells only of hair-stiffening salt, and the water is clean and warm, washing away the stick of sweat and the heat of the equatorial sun.

I look down at the coral, reaching up to me like colorful fingers pushing through the sand. It’s dangerous, the coral. Sharp. More likely to hurt you than a shark they say. But coral doesn’t slip silently through the water toward you like a shadow, pushed by the whip of a muscular tail. 

My wife gives me the thumbs up and then her flippered feet begin chopping at the water, pushing her clumsily toward the shore. Even with our artificially elongated and flattened feet we’re not well equipped for movement in the water; the fish must think us so awkward, so uncivilized, like fat, baseball-cap-wearing Americans in Paris. 

On Monday I drive into Pago Pago to pick up a package. They don’t deliver packages to our post office box on the west end of the island, just letters and notices of packages.

On the way back, I stop at the Lyndon B. Johnson Tropical Medical Center, a hospital that looks salvaged from World War II, like a black and white memory my grandfather might dredge up on his way to a real hospital somewhere in the States.       

My friend the artist is there to have puss drained from his foot. We met by chance and our friendship grew over stacks of faded art books, images of Van Gogh with his bandaged ear, cypress trees, Monet’s beaches and fields of poppies. Who would’ve ever thought I’d find myself sitting for hours in a Samoan hovel, fans clacking, ants marching single-file to a crumb, looking at Impressionist, Post-Impressionist, and Renaissance paintings.

“Hello old friend,” I say as I come into the hospital room.

“Who’s there?” the artist asks. He’s gruff like that and sounds gruffer because of the phlegm thick and yellow in the clear plastic hole in his neck, a tracheotomy he once told me he didn’t think he really needed. You take your chances at this hospital.

Today my friend looks like Vincent Van Gogh or at least what Vincent might have looked like if he’d survived his insanity—straggly white beard growing down his neck, sharp nose, sharp eyes.

“It’s me,” I say. “What they got you in for this time?”

“Oh it’s you. Hello.” His face softens but not much. It’s his way. I know he’s happy to see me.

“I brought you a picture,” I say and slide a faded computer printout of a Monet onto the tray next to the food he hasn’t eaten.

“What’s that?”

“Have a look.” He sees it. He tells me it’s very nice. I point out how the red sails pull in the color from the top of the bluff. It’s the way he sees color in a painting; I’m repeating things he’s told me.

“It’s very nice,” he tells me again and I know he likes it.

We talk for a while. He complains about the nurses. I ask if he’s going to start painting again. He says he might. The skin sagging off his paintbrush-thin legs makes me think he might not. But you never know. Artists can surprise you—if they’re good.  

“You see what they done to me last time I come in for a bad foot?” he says, and pulls back the covers. I look down. His big toe sticks up like a hitchhiker’s thumb, the other toes are missing.

“Gangrene,” he says. “It’s terrible for diabetics.” 

Gangrene? Gangrene? What is this the civil war? These are my thoughts but I don’t say them.  

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “This one’s getting better though.” I look at his other foot, wrapped in gauze. “Drained a full cup of puss out of it.”

We’re quiet for a minute and then he says, “I like this doctor though, he’s trying real hard. I think I’ll do a painting for him when I get out. A seascape or something.”

I nod. “You’ll have to show me before you give it to him.”

“I’ll show you,” he says matter of factly.

The nurse he’s been waiting for finally returns from lunch. I say I’ve got to get back to work and it’s not a lie. He thanks me for coming and that’s not a lie either, he is thankful, and I’m glad I came.

Outside it’s hot and the air clings to my skin like a dirty sweat. As my pants brush against my sticky legs, I think I can feel the new mole I discovered in the shower that morning. It’s not painful, but I think I can feel it, and I imagine cancer spreading under the surface of my flesh like a black gangrene, like oil spilled in the clear waters of Samoa.

I know there’s no dermatologist on the island, but I go back in to the nurse’s station and ask anyway. She shakes her head. I don’t bother asking about a pathologist.

Epilogue*

            After a rusty-scalpel biopsy (well maybe not that bad), the word from the pathologist in Hawaii was…definitely benign and somewhat hypochondriac.   

*(for the benefit of those who care)

Recent afternoon at the beach. Look at these of Emma. What a flirt. I'm not looking forward to her teenage years. 

Helen and her good friend Melinda. 

Ants

Question: where are all these ants when I can't see them? 
Answer: I don't know. 


Question: how do these ants know when I have dropped an apple core into the thirteen-gallon, Rubbermaid liner-lock trash can in my office?
Answer: I don't know. 


Question: how to I prevent this problem in the future?
Answer: put apple core in zip-lock bag before disposing. Ah, the life of ease here in paradise.  

Another Bed

As it turns out, making a nice bed out of wicked bad knotty pine is about as hard as making a nice Sunday School class out of wicked bad naughty boys.

Here's my best effort. The wood gave me fits. I sanded, I stained, and I sanded some more but at the end of the day I was dissapointed. To add insult to injury, my daughter, Mary, for whom the bed was made, still prefers to sleep on the floor. 

Lesson learned: don't trust the fella's at Ace hardware to lash the best wood to the roof of your car.

But it was still fun to make.

Pinewood Derby

The pinewood derby has come around again, that time honored tradition of encouraging eight year olds to use saws, hammers, and power tools with finger severing potential. I respect the cub scout program, but come on; do you really expect responsible parents to allow their children to make these things themselves? So, like the rest of the dads in the ward, I was up late hacking and sawing at blocks of knotty pine, trying to fashion something that would meet my children's  elaborately imagined designs. This year Matthew went with a local theme and requested a canoe. We wanted an authentic outrigger, but couldn't make it work and still fit on the track. Here are the results, complete with q-tip paddle. 

Benjamin decided on a less traditional design -- he wanted a finger. Helen, with an ego-crushing lack of confidence in my wood-carving skills, feared that the car would end up looking like another finger-shaped appendage, so we added a diamond ring to avoid any confusion. 

Quick and Dirty

So, before school started, Helen wanted some cubbies or shelves for the kids. So, I put these up late one evening. Nothing fancy, but they're sturdy and do the job. No plans (other than in my head). I'm pretty proud of myself for working around both the light switch and the outlet. 

Creepy Ad

So, I go to check my hotmail account this morning and there is an advertisement on the side of the screen informing me that this guy is searching for me here in Pago Pago. If that is really the case, I'm changing the locks at the house and purchasing a firearm. Seriously MyLife, why are your computers showing that I would fit in the same demographic as middle-aged women who are attracted to either (a) Earnest Hemingway or (b) escaped convicts? I'm just saying. 

Spear Fishing

There’s nothing there in the dark that isn’t there in the light…except for fear. But when you are 100 yards out at sea, diving in 30 foot deep water and all you have for protection is a three-pronged spear, an underwater flashlight, and your ability to swim, there’s a lot of fear. At least there is for me.

A friend and I went spear fishing several weeks ago. Apparently the swift darting reef fish fall asleep at night or at least slow down and so the optimal and perhaps only time to nab one with a spear propelled by an enormous rubber band is after dark.

So into the dark Pacific Ocean we went. The beam from the flashlight looked like a long fat light saber, cutting through the black water. Other than in the direct path of the beam’s glow it was anyone’s guess – sharks, barracuda, eels? I just couldn’t let my mind wander.  "Swim and don’t think" was my mantra. You see, I’ve got a problem with that – my imagination. For example, I was never good at baseball because every time I got up to bat, I imagined the zit-faced pitcher hurling an out-of-control, rock-hard baseball with his newly muscled pubescent arm directly at my jaw. I could see (and hear) in my mind and in vivid detail, the cracking of bone, the spitting out of bloody teeth, the screaming of women, and the little bubble of blood that would form when I exhaled through my nose. So, I usually backed out of the batter’s box as the pitch was delivered, obviously making  for a less effective swing and a short lived baseball career.   

So anyway, that’s how my mind works which should help you appreciate why swimming in tropical, shark and eel infested water’s at night could cause some imagination induced trauma for me.

Fortunately, we survived the night. My friend speared a small zebra-looking fish which we rushed up on shore (after a short detour through a shallow coral reef) before the blood attracted any silent predators. Now that I think about it, that’s what makes the water scarier than say hiking for me. If I’m hiking and run into a bear, for example, I imagine there will be some sort of roar or growl as a sort of mark-set-go to start the race between me and my hiking partner (i.e., you don’t have to outrun the bear just your friend) and at least I’ll have a chance – depending I suppose on the foot speed of my friend. But in the water, there’s no growl, roar, pounding of clawed feet over dirt and rocks, just bam, and your arm’s gone and you’re leaving a trail of blood in the  bay like some leaking oil tanker and as a consolation, if you survive and happen to become a professional surfer, they might make a movie about you.

Oh and I forgot to mention. I was nursing an ear infection that night as well and each time I dove down, chasing after some fish, the pressure felt like someone was pushing a twelve-inch needle into my ear canal. Yeah, it was awesome.

So, my spear fishing career, like my baseball and rock climbing (fifty foot fall/three nights in the hospital and one fully conscious catheter insertion) careers was short and painful, both psychologically and physically.

My new personal handbook for fishing has officially been amended to require the following:

(1) full use of visual and auditory senses (olfactory recommended but not mandatory)

(2) an environment where I have a locomotive advantage (i.e., solid ground – these feet weren’t made for flipp’n)

(3) either my father or a paid professional to deal with any fish that I should happen to catch, including but not limited to hook/spear removal; gutting; head, bone and skin removal; and packaging for transportation

I think I’m still okay with snorkeling – catching fish on film in relatively shallow waters during broad day light has not triggered any imaginary trauma, yet.  

Survey Says

So, my fashion design didn't make it in to the voting round of fifteen. But, I did get an honorable mention. Here is what the email said:


"Thank you for entering our Dare to Design contest! While your design did not make it to the final 15, it DID receive an Honorable Mention from our design team. Please accept this $15 gift card from us for your design. Thank you again!"


Do you think everyone who entered got an honorable mention just to try and make them feel good? If you entered this contest or have in the past and received an identical email, let me know -- especially if you know you're design was really bad and did not deserve an honorable mention, because I'm kind of thinking that's what happened to me.


Anyway, enough of that silliness. Recently I have built a built-in bookcase/shelf set up and am halfway through a toddler bed. Photos to come sometime soon.

Design for Shabby Apple (plus flexing, spitting, and other manly stuff)

Before you start reading this post, I require that you raise your arm and make a solemn pledge to read the entire thing, all the way through, right to the end. If you’re not willing to commit to that, you’re perusing without permission and will not be authorized to use anything found herein to form an opinion about me. Agreed? Okay, you may proceed.  

Okay, so as both of the loyal readers of this blog already know, I am working for two years in a quasi-governmental job in American Samoa, which is really just code for super laid back lots of free time.  

The other day when checking my email for the hundredth time, I see there’s something from this women’s online clothing store called Shabby Apple. Why am I on the email list for an online women’s clothing store? Well, my sister and sister-in-law are gaga about this Shabby Apple place and so being the awesome brother I am I once got them some birthday presents from there, or maybe it was just a gift certificate, I can’t remember, anyway, that’s how I got on the email list.

So anyway, from time to time Shabby Apple has this contest where all you have to do is design some clothes and then post it on your blog and if you’re in the top 15 everyone votes and the winner gets free money (that phrase “free money” has always seemed contradictory to me, but anyway, you know what I mean).

So, here I am, in American Samoa, checking my email and it occurs to me, I like free money and I’ve seen clothes before so why not give it a try. How hard could it be right? So I pulled a sheet of paper out from the printer, grabbed a pen and fifteen minutes and three email checks later, voila. I’m a fashion designer. Well, we’ll see. Anyway, of course I don’t have any colored pencils or pens or whatever to color my design so I had to use the super awesome free paint program on my computer. Not the best, but whatever, it’ll do.

Anyway, now stay with me here fell’as and keep reading, it gets more manly down below, I promise.  Here in Samoa the guys wear these skirt things called ie faitaga and I’ll admit, I’ve got one and I like wearing it. This is manly stuff, trust me. It’s like a South Pacific kilt – rugby players wear them, football players wear them, guys who live in a place call Massacre Bay wear them. Trust me, manly.

So anyway, I’m thinking, maybe the ladies would like to wear these as well. It’s basically a wrap around skirt with pockets, and there’s this belt kind of thing that threads through to keep it up. Pretty simple, pretty easy, pretty nice. No pleats so they have a flattening effect as well although with my ripped manly six-pack abs that’s not really an issue for me. On my design I tapered it so it will be a little more figure flattering for the ladies (the one I wear kind of makes me look stocky – or maybe that’s just my rock hard muscular legs, hard to know really). I also threw a strip around the bottom with a traditional Maori pattern. Could do floral pattern instead. Anyway, the top, which I understand is called a blouse, although I’m really too manly to have every had a conversion that actually required me to use the term “blouse,” has kind of a gathered fabric thing that looks pretty nice – I’m sure less manly men would know the proper fashion term for that, but whatever, I was probably busy lifting something really heavy when everyone else was talking about that.

Bright colors – I chose blue and yellow but it should be pretty easy to mix that up – red, orange, whatever as long as it has a bright tropical feel. Maybe even a floral print, although I'm kind of O.D'd on that down here right now (and it was too hard to draw). Another idea is grey or navy with pinstripes for the skirt if you really wanted to dress it up, but then you kind of lose the tropical feel. Now that I think of it, maybe the pinstripes with a white top. Hum. Oh well, I'm done thinking about that now -- got to go back to thinking about flexing my muscles for awhile. Oh, and definitely sandals (I haven’t worn shoes, except to church, in months).

So, right, hopefully the ladies at Shabby Apple will like this. If they do, anyone who made fun of this post will have to vote for me so I can get my free money which I will not be sharing with you haters.

If you have any questions about the design, feel free to leave a comment, but I probably won’t respond because most likely I’ll be out hunting wild boar with my bare hands or buying some power tools or something.

Peace out.

P.S. I am supposed to link to Shabby Apple Dresses, so here’s the link. Go there and buy all of their super awesome modest dresses. 

Neighboring Island (Aunu'u)

Last Saturday we took the boat to the neighboring island of Aunu'u. The swells were large and the boat was small, but we all survived. Apparently the beach on Aunu'u was pretty ugly after the tsunami in 2009, but it has cleaned up nicely. As you can see, the kids had a splashing good time.

 

Apparently Daniel saw a fish. 

After, we went back to the main island and hiked up to the World War II cannons at Breaker Point.

Photo from Night Hike to Nu'uuli Falls

My friend was nice enough to send me some photos from our early adventures here on the island. Here is a photo that goes with this post. It was our night hike up to Nu'uuli falls: 

Their must be some weird camera trick or perspective problem or something that is making my flexed arm look so small. 

Honking

The honk, in American Samoa, does not mean the same thing as the honk in the States. Here, when someone honks it can mean (i) I'll wait for you to merge into traffic, (ii) thank you for letting me merge into traffic, (iii) I recognize you and am acknowledging that fact in a friendly way, (iv) I see you on your bicycle and do not intend to run you over, (v) thank you in general, (vi) you're welcome in general, (vii) other friendly acknowledgments/greetings. I'm explaining this because it can be confusing at first. However, there is a special technique for doing the Samoan honk of kindness and friendship -- as I call it. It is a light tap, a quick and soft beep beep or sometimes just one quick beep. If done properly it actually does sound friendly. For some reason I can't do it. When I try, it comes out as more of an angry blare no matter how lightly and quickly I tap. I think I've upset a few people I was actually trying to thank. I'll have to spend some time alone in the garage practicing before I try again. In the meantime, people are also into giving the wave to say thank you to fellow drivers. I've already got that one down.

Pola Island Trail/ Vatia/Afono Bay

This morning we set off (fairly) early to explore the north side of the island and the national park. You'll know when you're in the national park when you start seeing garbage cans available to the public. For anyone in the neighborhood and interested, we followed Road 1 to Aua then drove up over Afono Pass and then followed the road around to Vitia. Great drive, but very steep roads -- I keep thinking these roads would be impossible in the snow, although the idea of snow and cold are fading from my memory. Intellectually I know snow exists, but emotionally it just doesn't seem possible that anything could be cold.   The photo to the left is of Pola island. We took a short (like fifty yard) hike to a spot where you can see Pola island from the mainland. I understand there is another trail (just opened this week), around the other side and that from there you can snorkel out to Pola island. Would be a good adventure for another day -- without kids. 

Here is the coast after the fifty foot hike. Nice beach but rocky with really big waves. Not for swimming in, but great scenery. The rocks are a little hard to walk on too. It would be easy to twist an ankle if you aren't careful. 

This is looking the other direction toward Pola Island. Cool arch in the rocks. I also love the color of the water here, especially in the spots where it is lighter. 

Why is it that on every hike, even ones that are only fifty yards long, little boys feel like they have to find and carry sticks. Is it programmed in their DNA? Some sort of hunter-gatherer instinct left over from the last ice age? 

Here are those big waves I was talking about. I think waves are really cool. I understand how they happen, but they still seem magical to me. I could sit and look at them all afternoon. 

Hannah and her Nana looking out at the water. 

Two lovely ladies negotiating the wobbly rocks along the beach. 

I think Benjamin's favorite activity in American Samoa is climbing trees. If you can't find him, check the trees. He is in heaven. 

Coming back over the pass, this is the view down into the bay on the other side. This is also the trail head for our second hike of the day, the lower Sauma ridge trail. 

We saw some local wildlife along our hike. Other than bats and sea creatures, there aren't really that many wild things in American Samoa -- thankfully no snakes. 

This is the end of the lower Sauma ridge trail. Nice views of the ocean. It was a steep decent however. 

Mary hitching a ride on the way back up. 

After the hike and a picnic we went to Afono Bay to cool off. We didn't bring swim suits, so the kids just stripped down and the adults (except for me) went in with their clothes on. You can see Daniel was happy to be in the ocean. 

Mary went in the water a few times too, but mostly she hung out with me and Emma near the shore. 

As her reward for staying with me on the beach, I took lots of cute photos of Mary. Love this one for some reason. 

I told you they went in with their clothes on. 

Coming in after a long day fighting the waves. This was actually a pretty nice beach. No sand, which was a drawback, but fairly shallow and some small waves for the kids to play in, body surf, etc. 

Daniel, the Samoan warrior. 

Matthew makes friends wherever he goes. Here he is organizing water games with some local boys. Can you guess which one is Matthew. 

I think Helen had more fun than the kids.