Food Poisoning

No matter how good it smells, do not under any circumstances eat the BBQ chicken from the roadside stand.  Ask my wife Helen if you want the unpleasant details.

The Turtle and Shark Lodge

The road to the Turtle and Shark Lodge would make the surface of the moon seem like a smooth ride. After several minutes of bouncing along under the thick jungle canopy, we arrived. The spontaneous extension of a Sunday afternoon drive, we had no intention of making a reservation -- we were just exploring, checking things out.  The best air conditioning on the island, it seems, is in the minivan we are borrowing, so car rides in the afternoon are a favorite.

The Lodge is perched on the edge of a cliff. And beyond the black cliffs, turquoise water stretching on for what seems like infinity. What is on the other side of all that water anyway? Antarctica I guess, unless you happen to veer a little to the west and hit Tonga. And to the north, on the other side of the island? Nothing until you hit that sticky-outy tail part of Alaska and then the Arctic Ocean. When I think about that I feel very isolated and vulnerable. So I try not to think about it.

Anyway, we parked the car in what looked like a parking spot at the Lodge. There weren't any other cars. The kids were bouncing off the seats and the air conditioning, turned down to 60 degrees, was actually starting to feel too cold. We decided to get out, stretch our legs, and let the sun sap some of the kids' energy (could it be that because Helen and I are taller and therefore closer to the sun that it drains our energy faster than the kids'? Not likely, but it definitely does have a greater effect on us for some reason).

After crossing a small, well kept field, and what turned out to be a putting green, we came to a little platform surrounded by a railing overlooking the ocean. This is nice, we thought, and then we heard a hiss, like a dragon, coming up from the rocks far below. Then a mist from the caverns.

So this must be how stories about things like sea monsters and puff the magic dragon got started (well not puff the magic dragon, which reminds me, some people at the end of our street have a very strange farming operation going on. Hum). Anyway, after the puff -- a roar. 

And then kapow, water shooting up everywhere. This made the other blow holes seem like sissy impersonators, like going to a preseason WNBA game after watching Dirk Nowitzki in the finals.

 After seeing that, of course my wife and kids wanted to go down the scary looking stairs with no handrail to get a closer look. Didn't seem like a good idea to me, but as you can see...

Well, no one got swept out to sea, thank goodness, but I had no idea of the real danger we were in. When we came back up we decided to have a look around the rest of the place. With a blowhole that awesome, surely there would be other cool things to see. We found a tennis court but not much else. My wife had the good idea to get a brochure or something from the front office -- perhaps we could come here for an anniversary or something. The front office looked closed. Not unusual for a Sunday in Samoa. As we turned to go back to the car, we were met by a barefoot Samoan. 

"Can I help you?" he asked and it wasn't one of those are-you-looking-for-a-toilet-or-the-vending-machines can I help yous, it was more like a what-are-you-doing-here kind of can I help yous. 

"Just looking around. It is very beautiful," I said. "I hope that's okay." 

His eyes darted, his weight shifted from one foot to the other. 

"Where did you go?" he asked. 

"Just down to the blowhole, looked around a little."

"You should make an appointment first," he said. 

I explained that we were just out for a drive, saw the signs for the lodge and decided to drive down and see it. We thought we might spend a night there some time. His demeanor eased up a little, but then we heard them. Barking from around the corner and then a rottweiler and his two German Shepherd looking pals. 

"It's just that," the man explained, "if I know people are coming, I lock up the dogs."

"I see," I said.

"They don't like kids," he said. 

He shouted at the snarling dogs and told us he would walk us to our car. I'm not exaggerating or employing a common phrase casually when I say that I believe it was divine intervention that saved us from those dogs. If they had come upon us before the Lodge owner was there, I am sure one or maybe even all of us would have been mauled. 

As we drove away, the dogs nipped at the car. The rottweiler even threw himself into the side of the car. What if he bites a tire? Images of a certain scene from Jurassic Park crowded rational thoughts out of my mind. Forget the potholes, I thought, and sped down the road, leaving the savage animals behind.  

They're Finally Here

The night air in the airport clung to my skin like a dirty sweat. People were everywhere mulling around me, dressed in bright clothes, beads or flowers around their necks, welcome banners custom made rolled up in their hands.  They were waiting for someone, their hero – the local kid who had made it big in the NFL coming home to a hero’s welcome – one of them, but now all moneyed up and famous, bringing with him a cohort of recruiters and coaches, all searching for the heir apparent, the next thick necked, broad shouldered, flip flop wearing diamond in the rough. 

 

But not me. I couldn’t care less about Mr. NFL whatever is name is (Troy Polamalu). On some level I suppose I’m glad that he’s done well, hasn’t forgotten his roots, but I was waiting for the arrival of my wife and kids – it had been nearly a month -- and Mr. Big Time’s big return was just making things harder for me.

For a week I had been chasing leads, trying to find the right person that could give me a special pass to get through security and into the baggage area so I could help my wife and kids with eight suitcases, seven pieces of carryon luggage, a baby, a toddler, four just past toddler age toddlers, two strollers, a car seat, and whatever else they brought with them.

The first guy I contacted about access to the luggage area no longer had the authority to grant passes. The second guy sent me to the third guy. The third guy had to talk to the fourth guy who never got back to him. The fifth guy new a woman who is related to the fifth guy, but she either forgot to call him or he was off island. I can’t remember.

So, the day of my family’s arrival came and I had no pass. I imaged my wife and children, huddled in the corner of the airport, collapsed in exhaustion, roaches and rats crawling around and over them while their luggage circled endless on the conveyor belt, too impossibly heavy and voluminous for them to even attempt gathering. 

I had one last hope. A friend from work was coming with me to the airport to help get the luggage home. He knows everyone on the island, or so it seems whenever we are in public and in a rush to get somewhere. Surely he would have some contact, some string he could pull, some favor he was owed that could get me through.

I explained the predicament. He understood.

“Come with me,” he said.

I followed as we made our way, stopping ever few feet for him to greet friends, toward the customs office.

Inside the ceiling fans did little but push the flies back down. A group of men in pale blue uniforms sat behind desks, slumped and lounging, swatting at the flies, percolating small shining beads of sweat on their brows.

“I just explain to them, okay?” my friend said with a laugh. He always laughs.

The exchange began. Why weren’t they speaking in English? Where they trying to hide something from me, or is this just how “special” deals are made, favor’s granted?

I tried to read their faces. They laughed. Is that good? Just small talk or have negotiations begun? Do they find my predicament funny, my appearance (I was wearing a lava lava). Now my friend’s eyebrows were pinching together above his nose. Not a good sign. More laughing. Hum. The guy who seems to be the leader of the blue shirts is shaking his head. More explaining from my friend. Everyone is nodding. This may just work. A miracle in the eleventh hour. More laughing and then my friend turns to me.

“They say we have to talk to the Treasurer.”

Great the old deflect and dodge technique. I’ve seen this one before. My heart sank.

“We go find him. He is here,” my friend said.

I smiled at the blue shirts and waved. They waved back. Nice but not particularly helpful.

Back in the crowd my friend informed me that he had seen the treasurer earlier that night and that he knew him -- but not very well. “But it’s okay,” he told me. “We’ll find him.”

Making our way through the crowd, my friend stopped to greet people. Was this the treasurer? They were speaking in Samoan. They said good bye. We moved on. A few more greetings, some men, some women, no Treasurer. Finally my friend turned to me and said, “I think he is maybe in the VIP lounge.”

Great I think, off to the VIP lounge we go. But, apparently, we are not VIP material. So is that it? Game over? Sorry Monson family we gave it the old college try. My friend shrugged, “We can go wait for them over there.”

We took our position at the end of a long tunnel that leads up from the baggage area. The crowd suddenly moved with a collective gasp and then cheers. My friend pointed to a TV screen and there was the football star coming down off the plane. I watch the screen intently, waiting to see an exhausted woman and six tiny children come tumbling down the stairs behind him. But they don’t come.

“Maybe you go a little closer to look for them,” my friend said.

What’s the point I wonder, but I go anyway.

Just a few feet away the customs officials were loitering, mostly watching the TV screens or talking to the people holding banners. I checked to see if they were carrying guns. Don’t see any, but even the smallest of them easily outweighed me by a few hundred pounds.

I watched them for a minute. They didn’t care, they weren’t watching, who would it hurt really if I just walked down? Then again, I would get hurt if I got tackled and deflated under the crush of 400 pounds of Samoan flesh, but things were getting desperate. I checked the TV again. Passengers were now flooding down the stairs, forming a slow moving river of bodies flowing out of the plane and into the customs and baggage area. My wife and kids could already be out. Time to act.

I checked the guards again and then walked forward briskly, looking straight ahead, trying to make it look like I was on official business. It was a technique I had used at jobs in the past to make myself appear busy. It had worked then but the stakes were higher now.

Past the first few customs officials. They didn’t even notice or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. The baggage area came into view. Almost there. Focus. Stay on target. Don’t look nervous or uncertain, just march straight in there.”

“Stop.”

Oh no.

“You can’t go in there sir.”

I turned. A Samoan stepped in front of me.

“Just for ticketed passengers.”

“My wife and kids are traveling, they have bags -- eight or ten, they need my help.”

“But you can’t.” He put a hand up to my chest.

“You don’t understand it will be physically impossible…”

Just then I saw the head blue shirt from earlier. He sees me. I give up on the I’m-on-official-business façade and shoot him the most desperate, pathetic, raised eyebrows, scrunched shoulders, palms up expression I’ve got in my bag of expressions.   

He frowns one of those poor-sucker friendly frowns and waves me through. The beefcake Samoa guard tells me to stop.

“No, look, he says it’s okay.” I point to the head blue shirt with me eyes. Beefcake has apparently heard that one before, but at my insistence turns and sees the head guy. "Okay," he says, "go on." Bless you, I think to myself, a thousand blessing to you and the large family that is waiting for you at home.

After scanning the baggage area and not seeing the wife and kids, I turn to the luggage rack. Coming toward me are bags with bright colored ribbons tied on their handles. Instantly I know they are ours, I know it the way I know my son, Daniel, will tell me he loves me “super duper” as soon as he comes through the gate, I know it the way I know my daughter Emma will say “dadeeee” and cry when I put her down to finish getting the luggage, I know it the way I know my wife will be exhausted but some how under control. And I am right on the luggage and the other things too.

Snorkeling

Almost a month on the island and I finally made it out snorkeling. The water was clear and warm, the fish were colorful and awesome, but by far the highlight of the day was having a giant sea turtle come swimming by. No joke. I tried to chase him, but those flippers move pretty fast. This photo is not the actual turtle, but the one I saw looked just like it. Pretty cool.  

Slipping on moss in the dark

I made a new friend. No, not the gecko that creeps out from behind the curtains when he thinks I am not looking. A real person this time. He is an attorney down here working for the attorney general's office. He got to the island two weeks before I did, so we are figuring things out together. The other night we decided to go exploring. I had heard about some waterfalls that only took about 5 minutes to hike to, so between the time we got off work and the time the sun set, we decided to give it a go.

Things started off bad. Trail? There was supposed to be a trail right? Well, we started down what we thought was the trail, but it ended up in the river. So, we went sloshing up the river -- that's got to lead to the waterfall, right?

When the water got too deep, we scrambled along the uber slippery rocks along the shore. That neither of us slipped and broke our necks was a miracle.

At the five minute mark there was no sign of the falls, not even the sound of rushing water in the distance, just the croaking of frogs and the quite flutter of bats' wings overhead. (Lots of bats down here by the way, fruit bats though, not the bite-your-neck-and-give-you-rabbies kind. Oh, and it's illegal to kill the bats. Apparently they are pretty tasty but the population was dwindling so the Samoa government put the kibosh on killing the flying rats, but I digress).  

We pressed on for another five minutes. Still no sign of the falls, and darkness was starting to close in.

"Should we turn back?" I asked. "Don't want to have to find our way back in the complete dark."

"Let's keep going, it's probably just around the bend."

I agreed and we pressed on. One bend lead to another. The darkness thickened around us, especially in the shadows of the thick jungle foliage.

Finally, as the sun was sending its last bending rays of light over the horizon we arrived at the falls. Were they awesome? Yes. Of course I forgot my camera. That may be a good thing though because otherwise I surely would have dropped it in the river somewhere along the way.

The hike back to the car was in fact as difficult and frightening as I had anticipated. But we made it with only minor scraps, bruises, and mosquito bites. I didn't even put my hand down on a frog when I tried to steady myself. That may have been the biggest miracle of all.

The next day I found out (1) there is in fact a trail, (2) it only takes five minutes if you are on the trail, and (3) there are even better waterfalls if you go past the first one. Oh well, I'll save that adventure for another day when there is more light. Here are the falls we made it to -- a photo taken by someone  (my good friends the Temple family) with enough sense to go during the day.

A Day of Choices

Saturday was a day of choices, some considered and some spontaneous. None were of eternal import, but it was interesting (at least to me) to see how they affected my day.

Choice 1. I had two options for starting my day – (a) go to the ward and help clean or (b) go with a local hiking group to climb a mountain called “Rainmaker” (I know, awesome name huh). So…I went to the ward. I just figured I didn’t come here to go hiking, although I hope to find time for that too. 

Cleaning the bathroom, let’s just say except for an absence of graffiti it was about the same as a West Wendover truck stop. I did what I could with a spray bottle and paper towels, but what I needed was a water cannon, a large brush with metal bristles, and several gallons of undiluted Clorox bleach.

After cleaning, I was invited by some of the young men to play a pick-up game of basketball on the church’s outdoor court. We had a lot of fun. Considering I was in flip flops, I did alright. Hit a few jumpers, missed a few layups --pretty much what you would expect after not having played for a few years. Took a charging foul in the lane by a driving Samoan. The next time I just let him have the basket. 

After laundry and lunch, I went to the office to Skype with the family. They weren’t online, so I decided to head into town to get a new book from the library. Now, you wouldn’t think there would be traffic jams on an island with a speed limit of 25 mph and only one main road, but there was. Apparently, there was some sort of Olympics going on in town not to mention it being Father’s day tomorrow so everyone was out shopping. Anyway, I jettisoned the idea of the library half way into my journey and went to Carl’s Jr. for lunch. I've got to admit, I’ve never been a big Carl’s Jr. fan before, something about the cheese. But here in American Samoa it's good. I mean it’s really good. Maybe they get their cheese from a dairy farm in New Zealand instead of the Kraft wax factory, not sure. But whatever it is it makes a huge difference.

Back to the office to Skype with the family. Isn’t Skype amazing. How can something be so awesome and free? It’s like chocolate with no calories. Had a good visit with Helen and the kids. Seems like I've been gone forever. I’m glad we finally have their tickets lined up and they’ll be coming soon. After we finished Skyping, I decided to head home. Surprise! That’s my car sandwiched in behind all the others. Apparently, that nice singing that was come up through the vents while I was in my office was some sort of well attended religious meeting.

“How much longer?” I asked a guy who had stepped out of the meeting for a smoke.

“Maybe half hour.”

Okay. Back to the office. I heard laughing as I climbed the steps.

When I came back down an hour later the cars were gone. Phew.

By now it was about 4:30. Choice number 2. I could either (a) go home and eat some eggs, carrots, and bread for dinner or (b) try and find that awesome snorkeling spot I read about on other people’s blogs.

I still hadn’t made up my mind when I came to the street that I was guessing, based on cursory review of Google maps, was the turn off to the snorkeling location. What the heck, I turned down the road. This was the spontaneous decision.

After driving for a few minutes and one wrong turn I found it. Well, I say “it” – not the snorkeling location, but the trailhead that leads to the location. Here it is. Pretty nice, huh. Along the black rocks in the background you can see white plumes of water, shooting up in the air. More on that in a minute.

This is looking back on where the trail starts. There’s a convention center/resort thingy back there. Not really sure what it is, but they were getting ready for a wedding reception that evening. Pretty nice place for a reception.

After walking a short distance, the coast turned into black lava rock, carved by years of pounding waves. Here is a photo just before the waves hit.

This one is just after.

For the next quarter mile or so this is what you see. Even cooler is that in lots of places there are these holes in the rocks. The waves come rushing in, disappear under the rocks, you hear a distant, buried rushing sound and then – geyser time (of course, being an amateur photographer I didn’t get a good shot of the geysers blasting 100 feet into the air, but trust me, it was impressive). Here is the best shot I got.

(Yes I know I wrote "throught" but it's late and I'm too tired to go back into photoshop and fix it)

Basically, it is like Yellowstone national park only with a nice cool ocean breeze, no smell of sulfur, and no tourists wearing t-shirts with cartoon moose on them -- no tourists at all in fact. I was all alone. 

After the blow holes I came to a fork in the road. Hum. Go into the scary looking vegetation or take my chances with the waves along the coast?

Not feeling particularly Robert Frostian, I took the road that looked more traveled by (through the bushes) and, as it turned out, it made no difference. Both paths joined up and took me to the same place. Sorry Señor Frost, but it’s true.

Getting closer.

Last thing you see before you arrive at the snorkeling spot are these two “pill boxes.” 

These were built during World War II so soldiers could sit inside and defend the harbor from Japanese warships. You can see the hole in the nearest one for the guns. Now, for a war that ended in a nuclear blast, this means of defense seems to me a little, I don’t know – medieval. But, apparently it had a deterrent effect because the Japanese never attacked American Samoa. It was either that or the Japanese just couldn’t be bothered. Hum, guess we’ll never know.

After the pill boxes, I arrived.

Okay, why is this a primo snorkeling spot? First, if you look out in the distance you can see the waves breaking. Big waves. The kind that shoot 100 feet in the air when they go through blow holes.  But, because they break out so far, you have lots and lots of calm water for snorkeling. Second, crystal clear water.  Third, deep but not too deep. Fourth, what was the fourth thing? Oh yeah, its jam packed swarming full of brightly colored tropical fish. I knew there was something else.

Of course, the drawback to my spontaneous decision to come on this adventure was that I was completely unprepared – no snorkel, fins, mask - not even bathing suit. And not feeling spontaneous enough to go in naked, I called it a day and headed back.

   

When I got back to the trailhead, I happened on these guys. Yes, they are holding on to rope so that the waves don’t crash them into the obsidian rocks or wash them out to sea.

For the kids

It's not Lagoon, but at least it's something. Public library in the background.