How do you put food in your belly?

Riding the bus from Apia to Lotofaga, I found that if I sat in a window seat, children would run from all directions at the bus, pointing at me and screaming PALAGI!!!  I was prepared to be a celebrity.  When I arrived in my village, most people were napping, a few women were weaving mats, and a few men with red eyes tending sitting around an umu (a hot rock oven thing).  I made rounds meeting whoever was awake-- roughly 15 people (out of 30+ people!) in my aiga (extended family), but was astounded at how little activity was going on. I thought to myself, man! Everyone here is so lazy! Nobody even has a job? While the adults slept or gossiped, the children excitedly buzzed around me, some gently tugging at my hair and grabbing my hands while others played peek-a-boo.  I decided that it was time to confirm their suspicions, that I was, in fact, from the future.  I pulled out my ipod as proof, and sounds began to pour out through the speakers. They watched me and the ipod with half-smiles as if something else was supposed to happen.  They were slightly more impressed with my camera...

Va'ali'i (my host sister who behaved more like a mother as Samoan siblings do) showed me where I could put my things and encouraged me to malolo (nap), but within 15 minutes came to wake me up telling me I needed to do my chores, so I shuffled to my feet to go pick the rubbish up from the ground and feed the pigs. 

When the chores were completed, the family gathered in the main fale and proceeded to sing the most beautiful hymns I had ever heard in the most beautifully arranged harmonies.  The older men covered the lower register, and even the 5 year olds screamed in a perfect soprano harmony.  Every single person sang with every ounce of breath in their bodies.  With chilled skin and teary eyes, it became clear to me why the kids didn't give a damn about my ipod. 

As the last song concluded, I couldn't help but notice a rather attractive man, still wet from the sea, materialize with a basket of fish.  The rest of the family scattered to bring out a parade of dishes like they were ready to sing "Be Our Guest!" from Beauty and the Beast.

An example of a typical Samoan meal

I sat alone at dinner with the matai (chief) while the rest of the family waited to eat once we were ma'ona (full).  The pressure to eat was on.  I knew from my Samoan language teachers that if I wanted my family to like me, I would be able to eat all my food and then some.   I ate a dinner of i'a  (a whole fish), taro root and ulu (breadfruit slices) with palusami  (a "dip" with taro leaves and coconut cream)  and a stew with maukeni (pumpkin) and karoti (carrot).  Unsalted, unprocessed, not saturated in grease? My Western tastes were reluctant, disappointed and confused.  I knew that although it was just the matai and myself, many other eyes were watching.  I accidentally made eye contact with the fisherman, and immediately heard giggling and whispers from perceptive siblings.  Lani, my sister who was around my age, approached to clear a plate and said "so you like the fish ah? Siavea caught them this afternoon" I eagerly nodded, separating bones and intestines from the meat.  She called something in Samoan out to the dark which ignited an eruption of whispers.

Feeling the pressure, and not really understanding why, I ate until I couldn't.  In my mind, saying ma'ona was the equivalent of saying uncle.  As soon as the word came from my mouth, the rest of the family quickly came in to carry the remaining plates of food to the back fale.  While everyone else distracted themselves with the food, the fisherman approached to collect my plate of fishbones.  In a low whisper said "I will catch more for you tomorrow". 

my first coconut husking

my first taro!

Each day I was assigned a new chore.   One sister said to me that she  assumed most white people were lazy, because they heard stories about how we sit in chairs at desks pretty much all day without doing a thing.  My mind was officially blown.  She nailed the "American way"- act busy, do nothing. I realized how delicate they assumed me to be, as they started with the easier tasks.   I scrubbed clothes and dishes with the same bar of soap.  I husked and cracked coconuts, grated their insides with a tuna can, and wringed the excess with a cheese cloth to produce fresh coconut cream.  I thought I had earned my creds when I was entrusted to harvest and replant taro from the ma'umoga/ wetlands, and returned with welts all over my face from namu bites, but then it was time to kill a pig.

Sieki, our program director, arranged for our first time to be at her house (probably knowing that she'd have people like me).  I'd played with the pigs at my house, not paying attention to the live pigs in bags on buses, or thought much of the one Sieki discretely snuck on her palagi-mobile. I had psyched myself out that I would be the one to help put the pig down, but as much as I wanted to be able to do it, I ended up crying indelicately and uncontrollably. The pig was about as big as my dog, and they bagged him and laid him on his back while he bleated and squealed.  A gagged wail escaped from underneath a pole laid across its neck while a boy and girl balanced each other on each side of the pole-- not poetically somber and teary-eyed like I imagined our Native Americans might have been after a kill, but non-chalantly shifting their weight. Seeing it all, I came undone.

Removing the intestines of a pig

I cried all afternoon until I had mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted myself.  By the time I pulled it together, I had this inexplicable urge to go spearfishing.  Going to the water was something I had to do daily anyway, just because it was so hot I needed an excuse to cool off.  But this day, I wanted to kill fish.  I went to the matai and asked "e mafai ona fagota?" (is it allowed for me to fish?) and he nodded, and Siavea appeared with the sling.

As we slipped down the hill and into the water, he just illustrated a few key points: never chase a fish; never shoot a fish that doesn't seem afraid of you; always level off before you shoot; and always pin them against something.  I was amazed at how intuitive and natural it was for me to spear these fish. Being alone with Siavea, the fish, and memories of a squealing pig, I became ravenous.

That night, everything tasted so satisfying-- the squash and taro that I had tended to, the fish that I helped catch, and the coconut cream that I helped make.  I found myself wanting to watch the others eat as they watched me the first night, feeling satisfied together in all our work.  When I finally called ma'ona, Va'ali'i gave my belly a playfully/painfully aggressive thump, and not only did I pass her test, but I consider this a point of being initiated from just being a delicate and clumsy palagi, into something else.  From then on, I was introduced as a kauseni (cousin) or at least an afakasi (half-Samoan). This is my proudest accomplishment, thus far.

Paradise Lost to a Tuna Cannery

On a weekend excursion, I went to American Samoa. The first thing that shocked me was how obese everybody was, and not in a good way.  In Western Samoa, most people were outstandingly fit, and even the "bigger" people looked healthy.  American Samoa had been influenced by fast food restaurants and other American habits.  I will never forget the first sandwich I ate with my American-Samoan host family.  I wanted to cry/vomit.  It had processed cheese between two pieces of white bread, buttered on the outside, layers of mayo on the inside, with (drumroll, please)... canned tuna. 

A week before, I was eating fresh fish from the ocean. Although American Samoa is geographically similar to Independent Samoa, government and economic institutions create two different worlds.  When I asked to go fishing, my host had a stream of excuses- too far, too hot outside, the beaches were too dirty, we can go get McDonalds, etc.  Most fishermen had wage jobs at the American Starkist Tuna cannery, and many of the beaches were littered with plastic bottles and such.

There were so many subtle differences in American Samoa.  Like the way the girls suddenly seemed insecure when they found I had (a then broken) ipod, and how they tried to compensate with a bootleg copy of "Bratz" the movie. Or the day I was 3 hours late to meet with my group because all the buses were "full" (due to American-imposed laws on capacity).  Although my American Samoan host family had a rental car, air conditioning, tuna from a can, and other American amenities I was familiar with, it felt like American Samoa was impoverished in comparison to Independent Samoa. It was everything I remembered about America, but it felt so wrong.  

"Real work"

I returned to live near Apia in Independent Samoa to finish my studies on Women in Parliament.  Throughout the semester in surveys,  field observation, interviews and data analysis, I discovered that the Parliament was kind of a joke, but that women in villages and NGOs were the ones running the show.  As the semester came to an end I reflected on my life back in America, and the career path that I would follow.  Everything I thought I knew had been turned on its head. 

During my last week, I decided to receive a tatau, and inevitably ended up with a fish.  I knew when I received it that I was committing to something.  I selected a visible location, and I will forever be branded.  I remembered thinking "you're never gonna get a real job!" And then, I'd reassure myself that any place who wouldn't hire me because of my tattoo wasn't a place I'd want to work anyway. And what is real work anyway?