August 29, 2011

Samoan greetings from Fern!

I am traveling with an idiot! She has been telling everyone about the trip to Samoa and that Hawaiian Airlines only lands there twice a week. Did she not translate this to the size and remoteness of the island, the community itself, roads, airport? No, she did not. As we begin the decent into Pago Pago she asks her seat mate, a Samoan, do you see the lights? He nods and smiles with the definite eyes of one thinking, "Are you kidding lady?" Granted we were on a big plane, Boeing 767, and had the bustle of the Honolulu airport six hours earlier. Did she not notice that many of the people on board knew each other?

(an aside here: as I write this the neighbor has determined that Manuel Noriega has set up shop here in this house as he/she is blasting this place with disco music, while not Van Halen, it is Thriller, KC and the Sunshine Boys celebrating, and..... wait for it, yes, Donna Summer is now working hard for the money. I give! )

But now back to poor silly Mary...

It is dark when we land, first right wheel, then left, then right, then left, a rough one certainly. The attendant announces we are in Pago (the N is sorta silent, well, it doesn't exist, but there is a bit of one the next to the short A sound...rhymes with "bongo", almost). We are to keep our seat belts fastened until they attach the stairways fore and aft. They need to be secured as it is blowing hard outside. Sitting in the second to the last row we are third to deplane out the rear door. The wind whips a hot blast zapping the manufactured chill provided within the plane's cabin. Instructed not to walk under the plane's wing (why?), we follow a set of orange cones into the building. Through the glass we see a herd of people and Mary finally gets it. Twice a week they light up this place and bring a plane load of people in and take a plane load of people out. These employees are working this gig only a couple of times a week. This remote rock is not Kansas, dear Mary.

We walk into a small holding cell where we show our passports, then walk into a larger room and wait for our baggage. While we just walked past the trucks and workers unloading our stuff, they deliver it behind closed doors to dramatically emerge via an old, groaning serpentine luggage belt. It is a crazy attempt to look like an urban airport. But unlike those airports no one is jostling for position. Everyone is chatting. Obviously newcomers, we are none the less engaged in conversation with all sorts of friendly people. The other side of the room has at least ten blue uniformed customs workers laying in wait. Hanging overhead are placards advertising car repair, insurance, and pizza. They remind me of the style and quality of the ads strapped on the end zone fences at a high school football field.

Finally the belt starts grinding and out comes boxes, strollers, loads of taped up coolers, and suitcases. The cart vendor charges $4.00 to rent a cart and most of them are whipped up in a flash. Either these travelers have been away from home while, or they stock up with stuff in their off-island visits. Fighting the urge to muscle my way to the belt line, Mary holds me at bay. Well into the snaking procession of stuff, her single bag appears and we are off to inspection with the friendly, if somewhat less than fully occupied, customs personnel. While declaring no food on the customs form, Mary panics when the customs man pulls out the large bag of coffee beans. Oops. Not a problem and off into the night we go to find Dennis and Anne waiting with a lovely purple lei and hugs around.

The Wellborns are waiting for another couple, neighbors, who were on the same flight. They spot them, they get their lei greeting as well. We wheel our stuff out to the car.

The ride home is mostly talk with the neighbors, catching up on local gossip (some one is pregnant?), and sites they saw on their trip to Italy. Mary is straining to see into the night as we bump off though the potholed roads, through standing water, and make our way to the "hill", their neighborhood. The night feels like a floral hot-house, complete with the floral, by the way. The humid darkness sticks to the skin.

First impressions: While not your paradise resort, the place seems filled with lovely people that appear to love where they live and are not driven to build grand edifices for photography in Paradise Is My Life Style magazine. Granted this is a pretty poor place, but maybe they have figured out some stuff here...we will just have to see.

Signing out from Pago Pago,
Fern

P.s. From Mary.... My seat mate was returning home with his younger brother, killed in Afghanistan. I saw him and other family members in the waiting area in Honolulu. They each had a picture or framed plaque of this young man. I couldn't understand then written words as they were in Samoan. In talking to Dennis he says per capita, Samoa has suffered the highest death rate in our current wars. Many of these young people opt for military service as not only provides good employment, but also pride to these families. So sad. I had very little conversation on our flight with this man, other than to say how very sorry I am for his loss. So sorry. So sad.