American Samoa: Indentured Servitude and Food Aplenty (cont.)

After breakfast we all decide to go to the beach, and Joshua suggests we take the children. At first, the family elders don’t like the idea, but after some time they agree to it. All twenty of us climb inside of their blue Ford pickup. Samoans are large people and often drive large trucks. Almost everyone here owns a truck and most people pile into the bed of the truck.

There are so many cars, so many buses for an island this small that it seems as if no one walks anywhere. If you look at the cliffs above us, you see forests green and fertile, fruit stretching for miles. “I do not see a single trail” I whisper to Joshua and he agrees. Someone from the back of the truck says that we should not go into the woods; there are spirits and wild pigs. “That explains the no trails part,” Joshua says, and we start laughing without knowing why. The children look at us; but we cannot help ourselves; we laugh louder and make ghost-like noises.

After about thirty minutes we finally arrive at the family beach. The weather is beautiful; the children jump out of the car before we even fully park. By the time I get out of the car, everyone is already in the water; a few of the girls are frolicking near by, waiting and whispering something to each other.

I decide to keep my shirt on but to take off my shorts. I notice the stares from the sides. The girls wait impatiently; and finally as I take my shorts off, a piercing sound of laughter echoes all around. Three girls run to me followed by a few little boys. “Why are you laughing?” I ask them, and one of them answers in Samoan. The other translates; her long hair is tangled from the sand and salt.

“You are so white, like a ghost,” she says.  I nod my head. “Like the ghost from the mountains.” They laugh and in their happiness sit on my lap kissing my cheeks, playing with my hair, asking me questions.

And then the game starts. These girls want to know everything: Do I kiss Joshua? Is he my husband? Do I have a baby? Do we sleep in the same bed? Silly girls and their silly questions make me laugh. Their eyes bulge out each time I give them an answer.  The girls kiss my face each time I answer their questions. One of the little four-year-old boys, wants to kiss me too but is unable to reach my face; he plants a kiss on my shoulder instead and then runs into the water laughing happily.

Our fun is cut short when Sam announces that the children have a rehearsal for their church presentation. We all climb in the truck and head home.  On the way back, I see a sign that says “Massacre Bay.” I am told that in the late 1700s sailors from France under LaPérouse landed there, were massacred, and eaten by the local population.

Past Massacre Bay we notice our first McDonald’s. The corporate presence is made clear on the island by ubiquitous posted signs. Most of the signs sponsored by Ronald McDonald address public service issues, like: “Be careful of your sugar intake.” referring to the local diabetes problem, or “Immunize your kids.” And my personal favorite, “Don’t like to wake up at 3 a.m. to a baby crying? There is a way to prevent it. Don’t have sex before marriage!”

Samoans, unconcerned with the encroaching western influence, pile fries and burgers on their trays, waiting in line, eating and going back for seconds. Locals fondly cite a statistic that this is the most lucrative McDonalds on earth, which in one month sold more hamburgers than any other franchise in the company.  That’s a whole lot of burgers considering the island has an area of only 52 square miles and boasts a whopping 58,000 citizens.

When we arrive at the house, I ask Joshua if we should go get some biscuits for coffee. He agrees, and our hosts suggest we drive there.

“It’s a five minute walk. I could use it,” I answer, and we walk up the tiny hill.

Inside, a Chinese man sits, his eyes are locked on us; he looks surprised when we say hello.  As we check out, having purchased some snacks, and a few sarongs, the man is still staring at us;, there is sadness in his gaze. He looks homesick. Since the first day on Tutuila I’ve noticed a general animosity towards the Chinese and Korean immigrants. My jaw dropped when one of Joshua’s relatives casually stated that there were “more Chinese on the island than poi dogs,” oblivious to Joshua’s part-Chinese heritage.

Joshua takes his change and responds to the solemn looking cashier with “Xie Xie Ni” (meaning “Thank you” in Mandarin). The man ecstatically rises from his plastic chair briefly touching my sunburned arm with his calloused hands and opens the door for us as if we were royalty. His gaze followed us until we disappeared from his view down into the valley past the breadfruit and coconut trees.

Near the entrance of the house, the children, as always, are waiting for us. They hide behind the trees and bushes attempting to scare us, but their laughter and wiggly little bodies give them away. Joshua and I go along with the game. We act out surprise and fear by screaming or jumping backwards. The children roll on the ground, holding onto their bellies in the pain happiness brings.

We laugh for some time. Then we join our hands. Slowly we walk back towards the house.

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