Fa soifua

It's never easy, but no one ever said it was going to be. I'm now alone - with Sanaa and Rina (two other palagi) - on the USP campus. The office is empty, the weather a bit hotter, our dorms eerily quiet. We dropped off the other 9 palagi at the airport last night after a re-entry discussion with Jackie. It was, obviously enough, an incredibly difficult goodbye as we scrambled to collect bags, pay for overweight luggage, and manage to get them on their plane to Honolulu. It was the first time we had been that far apart, Sanaa, Rina and I standing outside the departure lounge watching our counterparts move on from us, from this. Tears were obviously a part of the whole thing, as Samoans looked on at the palagi sobbing and hugging and ushering last words of you changed my life, remember that always.

Re-entry is always uncomfortable, and I'm anticipating it as I imagine those distant shores of my home island (because, if you think about it, we're all islanders ourselves). I felt the shock of re-entry after Sweden and Jamaica, but for very different reasons. And now Samoa. Although I've spent hours writing on this blog (waiting and waiting for this horrible internet to allow me to communicate with you all), there are parts of Samoa that have no words, but are more associated with feeling, with actual experience. There is the smell of the umu (the Samoan fire oven) that burns coconut husks. The smoke from the husks is unlike anything I've smelled. A sweet, musky, kind of tart smell. I wake up to it almost every morning. It burns on the side of the road, it fills my throat with flavor.
There are the people crowding the sides of the poorly paved roads. They wave and yell at anyone who passes. The buses honk hellos to their buddies on the street. They all wear their lavalavas, colored pinks and greens and blues. They play music from their phones, the Samoan songs soaked in techno beats and auto-tune remixes of Celine Dion and Adele. Their cell phone speakers blurt the sounds with muffled quality, but Samoans will take anything to gather around and join others. There are constant church hymns in the back, with the Samoan men belting their tenor so beautifully, complementing the Samoan women and their voices in flight, praising God in whatever domination happens to be celebrating that day.
There is the heat that I can grab with my hand. It sits in my palm like puddy. It coats my skin, fills my lungs, and exhausts my body. I've noticed sweat glands in places I never knew existed. My clothes and hair have a constant aroma of heat and umu and salt. My feet are caked in dirt from walking barefoot around campus, soles to grass. It's almost as if shoes are just one more layer of clothing that makes the heat that much more unbearable.
There is the rain. The rain that cleans you of all of this, settling the radio sounds and the smells and the heat for just one moment, drowning them out to the static of tropical rain. It's almost as if I had never hear the sound of rain before I came to Samoa, not true rain. Rain that soaks you like a hose, so you wait under the roof of a fale'oloa (little shop) knowing the rain will pass in some 4 minutes. It releases you from the heaviness for moments until it all starts back up again.
Most of all, I'll miss the stars. Unlike you'd expect, I often forget I'm on an island, because it's rarely relevant. I go about my day at a different pace, but only until night do I look up and see the stars bleeding in from a distance. They coat the sky like glitter, ranging in a dome above me and around my USP mountains. It is only when I see that night sky can I transcend the concentrated earth beneath me and realize the vastness that I am standing in. If I've learned anything on this trip, I've realized that an island and its people do not stop at the shores. Their lives (and often livelihoods as well) extend past the shores, reaching other islands like the roadways of the American Midwest reach small towns. The night sky changes my perspective for those few hours, winking at me on my two little feet on this little island in this vast ocean.

I can't say that I've changed, because I don't know how or why or when or if I would have anyway had I not washed up on this island. There's no point in naming it, it seems. There are parts of me that have relaxed, drooped in the heat, eyelids falling slightly lower than they usually have. I think my smile is more appropriate, drenched in sunlight and vitamin D. I appreciate things differently, not more, but just differently.

I don't know what it will be like to return home, probably hard at times, but so comforting at others. Samoa has settled in me, just as I've settled into it.

I leave for Auckland tonight with Sanaa. We'll make our way from Auckland to Rotorua to Wellington, and I'll bus back up to Auckland before flying back to Honolulu. I think what will surprise me most, other than the grocery stores and their unreal amount of options, is the people. Islanders treat you differently. Us palagi have our own way, and it's bound to move me.
I'll move from New Zealand to Hawaii for a few days. This transition will most likely help me understand these changes in a way that I wouldn't be allowed if I returned straight home. Just as I move through time zones, moving backward with time, I'll be able to move forward with change, with adjustment, with environment.

I'm thinking of you all as I move on from this part of myself, taking with me what I can. I've been thinking of it in a way similar to luggage. You pack what you can - keep those parts of you that are most relevant and important and memorable and moving. But because I'm only allowed 23 kilos in my checked baggage, there is bound to be some things that get dropped or lost along the way. Such is the nature of something so confusingly beautiful.

See you all soon.

Fa soifua, tele alofa,
Elsa (aka Elisa or Elsafern)

Some recent thoughts

It’s never easy to describe, getting ready to leave a place that has so genuinely become comfortable to you. I think it hit me the other day when I was riding the bus into town, when I looked out the window and saw pigs, chickens, and barefoot children roaming the sides of the roads, congregating at the faleoloa to buy ice cakes and Coke. I realized how usual it was, no longer striking to me and my palagi eyes. Hearing church hymns in the backdrop of every scene, the heat so pervasive it enters your very bones, and the techno remixes of such familiar songs as "My Heart Will Go On" (as a side note, I’m not sure Celine Dion is aware of how popular she is in this part of the world – I’ve listened to more Celine than in my entire life).

I’ve become even closer with my Pacific friends, and I’ve been mentally mapping all the countries that I now have friends (or in some cases, family) to go to, to stay with. I’ve come to know pieces of lives so different from my own, but they now seem so familiar.
Since I last updated, USP has had a campus social (beer, wine, and dancing), and I’ve gone out with an ever-growing group of Pacific friends that has come to include Samoans, Tongans, Cook Islanders, Fijians, and of course us good old palagi.

Sorry that I’ve been so distant from my blog as of late, but I’m sure most of you were able to understand where I’ve been. After getting back from Fiji, we entered our ISP (independent study project) period, where we are given a month to carry out independent research which we will write a 20-30 page paper out of. I’ve focused mine on something similar to what I did in Jamaica, collecting Samoan women’s narratives of their experiences with pregnancy and childbirth. I’ve added to my mental collection of stories some of the most empowering and saddest stories I’ve ever heard.
Right now, I’m in the process of writing, and this Friday marks the due date of our project. I’m thrilled to be done with it. Unfortunately I haven’t given my research quite as much attention as it probably deserves due to my interest in socializing and playing around the campus and Apia. I guess that’s a good thing though, right?

I have so many feelings, so many thoughts about what this place means to me that I’m not sure they can be recorded right here, right now. I leave May 18th with Sanaa to depart to New Zealand for a self-directed tour around the north island, starting in Auckland. I’m still eager to go to another place, explore different corners of this shrinking world, but there’s an emerging part of myself that I know I’ll be leaving behind on this little island of the Pacific.

When did I become so Pacific? Something inside me has really turned, as I guess it was always meant to. There isn’t any real part of me being jerked home – other than my excitement to see family and friends – because I really think I could carry out a good portion of my life here. I’m not sure I expected to be this attached. Considering how many ups and downs I’ve been through, you’d think I’d be itching for some serenity, but I guess I can find that anywhere in the world can’t I?

There is still so much of this island that needs exploring, but alas, there will never be enough time in this life to see it all. Hopefully this weekend I’ll rent a car with my friend Sa to drive around the island (since it only takes about one hour to drive across). We won’t be hassled by buses so we’ll be able to see more in less time, hopefully coming back at night to play with our friends in Apia.

So here is a piece of my scattered mind as I come to a close on one of the most intense experiences of my life.

Love to you all, see you soon enough.

"I am Fijian!"

Next door to Samoa are the islands of Fiji, arguably the most well known islands of the Pacific, most likely because of the famous Fiji water (which, surprisingly, is actually made in Fiji).

Early Sunday morning, I arrived in Samoa after a week on the main island of Viti Levu, Fiji. Although Viti Levu lies only 700 miles east of ‘Upolu, the culture, language, economy, government, and society couldn’t be much different. SIT brought us to Fiji as a way of comparing Pacific nations. Fiji, like Samoa, is an independent Pacific state, but has a much different history than its neighbor. Fiji is by far the most urbanized of any Pacific society and has the wealth and poverty to prove it. It was an incredible experience, like this whole trip, and I was thrilled to finally see the home of all my Fijian friends…they weren’t kidding when they said Fiji was more developed than Samoa.

Unlike Samoa, Fiji is an ethnically diverse society with indigenous Fijians, Indo-Fijians, Chinese-Fijians, and a handful of pālagi. It was the first time I didn’t feel entirely out of place due to the fact that English is spoken by almost everyone. With a mix of ethnicities comes the necessity of a common language, so even young children are able to speak some English. My pālagi identity wasn’t so forefront either, where I could walk around without being completely regarded as an obvious foreigner).

This ethnic diversity, similar to the diversity of Americans, has created problem throughout Fijian history. Fiji was once a British colony and because of its excellent farming lands, the British brought in Indians as indentured labor to work in sugarcane fields. Between the years of 1879 and 1916, an average of 20,000 Indians were brought into Fiji. The British governor at the time refused any intermingling between Indians and the indigenous Fijians, lighting a flame beneath a problem that persists to this day. Some Indians, when their contracts were up, stayed in Fiji and their families have continued to live in the same towns as their ancestors. Through the generations, they generated a new dialect of their Hindi language, dropped some Indians customs while retaining others, and became what are now known as Indo-Fijians.

As the British governor discouraged interactions between indigenous Fijians and Indo-Fijians, many regions and careers became characteristic of one group or the other. As with most cases of social separation, tension arose between the groups as stereotypes developed. This tension, along with many other complex governmental circumstances, created a platform for the military coup of 1987, when indigenous Fijian Sitiveni Rabuka took control of Fiji with military force to back him up in order to instill governmental policies in favor of indigenous Fijians. In 2000, when Indo-Fijian Mahendra Chaudhry was elected as prime minister, another coup erupted with indigenous Fijian George Speight demanding that Chaudhry step down. The most recent coup of 2006 put the current prime minister, indigenous Fijian Commodore Josaia Voreqe (Frank) Bainimarama, in power. All of these coups have stemmed from the same issue, but are carried out in drastically similar ways. Because Fiji is currently under control by the military (and Frank), it has lost allegiance with many superpower nations such as the UK and Australia. For example, a Fijian with a military family member is refused entrance into Australia (you can’t even enter the airport for a layover into Asia). Fiji has a scheduled election next year to elect a new prime minister, which will hopefully end these restrictions, and allow Fiji back into the British Commonwealth.

Obviously Fijian history is much more complex than what I’ve just described, but these historical realities inform everyday interactions between all Fijians. The current prime minister has instilled a campaign to produce unity within Fijian society by airing commercials and posting billboards with the different ethnicities of Fiji proudly saying to the camera, “I am Fijian!” The current constitution now prohibits discrimination—social or otherwise—based on ethnicity; everyone born in Fiji should be called Fijian. There are many issues with his many approaches to this complex problem, but for the most part, tension between ethnic groups is not one that is obviously presented. After talking to my Fijian friends as USP, this tension seems to exist more in the older generation, but as children attend school (smothered with the “I am Fijian!” campaigns), the tension is dying. The outcome of this historical mingling is the Indian food cooked in most indigenous Fijian homes, the finemats and kava used by many Indo-Fijians, and the instillation of English, Hindi, and Fijian languages in public schools. Unlike Samoa, Fiji’s major religions are Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity.

And so, these realities were present throughout my experience in Fiji. I was lucky to have some background thanks to my friends, and seeing the uniqueness of Fiji myself was a beautiful thing.

The only unfortunate thing about this whole trip was the stomach flu I brought with me to Fiji. When we left Saturday, I was throwing up on the way to the airport, at the airport, and after we arrived. It continued for the next two days, which was a struggle in the village, but I’m feeling much better now. These things are to be expected in this tropical world, I guess.

We arrived in the city of Nadi (pronounced nan-dee) Saturday night, and I of course decided to take it easy and stay in, accepting my fate as a sick traveler. We were scheduled to go the village of Abaca (pronounced am-bath-ah) the next day and I was not about to risk throwing up in the village…but it ended up that way regardless.

Prem, our “guide” through the week, was an Indo-Fijian man with a healthy laugh and a tendency to occasionally shout “Bula!” (hello in Fijian) into his loudspeaker for no apparent reason. We had lunch with his family before departing for Abaca, a meal that I couldn't take part in because of my stomach woes. We drove to Lautoka from Nadi, then up into the mountains for about an hour before reaching Abaca. As you can imagine, that trip up the mountain was brutal and I took the window seat for practical reasons.

Indian lunch at Prem's house

Worst car ride of my life

Up the mountain to Abaca. Don't the pines remind you of the north country?

Abaca is a mountain village of only about 80 people. It was a much different experience than Lotofaga, not only geographically and culturally, but my living arrangements were a bit scattered. I slept and ate in two different homes, with my main “host sister,” Melisa, as my escort. Being sick prohibited me from eating most of the food or drinking any kava (in Fiji is called tanoa or just grog). I attempted a hike up the mountain with the rest of my crew but failed after getting sick and had to stop halfway at a creek. Luckily, my resting spot was stunningly beautiful with a breathtaking view of the sea, along with the three stones of Abaca. Melisa told me that the villagers of Abaca used to lived further down the mountain near these three stones representing the first three letters of the Fijian alphabet a, b, and c. In the Fijian language, the b is pronounced as mb, and the c is pronounced as th, so abc becomes Abaca (am-bath-ah).

Fijian grog

The mountain I hiked halfway

Abaca

Although I was sad to leave Abaca, I was looking forward to seeing the capital city of Suva where most of my friends are from. I quickly realized that I didn’t give them enough credit—coming from Suva, Apia looks like a village. Suva is a real city with endless shops, restaurants, bars, cars, and people—all of which we pālagi have had a shortage of. We stayed in Suva two nights, managing to visit a Hindu temple, the local market (Fiji wasn’t hit as hard as Samoa was by cyclone Evan, so produce was aplenty), and a local bar named O’Reily’s that our friends told us “You haven’t been to Suva unless you’ve been to O’Reily’s!” We spent our days at the main USP campus in Suva, and that was quite a shock. USP Suva is a real university campus with 10,000 students, making us feel a little more at home, and finally sympathizing for our Fijian friends having to come to the Alafua campus after Suva.

What we do best

Pretty straightforward, aren't they?

Hindu temple in Nadi

Our last day in Suva, we went to the town of Raiwaqa, a squatter settlement set up by a Fijian non-profit to allow families living in poverty an affordable living space. I’m not quite sure how I feel about this excursion. I didn’t like the role we played—just students walking around the settlement looking at people’s homes. We had the gentlest of intentions, of course, but it was someone’s life we were observing, a circumstance they did not control nor choose for themselves. The only thing it really showed me was the difference between Samoa and Fiji in terms of “development,” whatever that word means. Many Fijians are proud to declare their country the most developed of the Pacific, but with that development inherently comes poverty. Unequal wages, horrendous government programs, and increasing costs of food and gas (which, prior to “development” obviously weren’t necessary to pay for) create this problem.

Leaving Suva was hard because there was so much more to explore, I could have spent a week in that city alone. Hopefully some day I’ll be able to venture back and have my friends show me around to the hidden gems of Suva.

On Wednesday we left Suva for Kulukulu, an Indo-Fijian village outside the city of Sigatoka. Nuzzled up against giant sand dunes, I lived with a Muslim family with Nisha, the mother, and her three boys Fazeem, Nadeem, and Naheed. Nisha was the most motherly woman I’ve met in the Pacific, constantly checking in on me to make sure I had enough tea, water, food, and cool air. The two nights I stayed with her, we would share stories and pictures of our lives, discuss Fijian customs and society, and learn about our two different lives. We cooked curry and roti together, along with ginger chai and dahl soup. I knew my friend Sanaa—who is also Muslim and Indian—would love to meet Nisha, and it was so beautiful watching them connect through two different Hindi dialects. In fact, it was great to have someone like Sanaa with me in Fiji to explore the Indian side of the culture. Sanaa would translate for me and show me shops and explain certain items or customs. I loved watching her in her element; in a way I think she felt at home more than ever before on this trip.

View of Kulukulu from the sand dunes

A glimpse of the sand dunes

To top it all off, Prem invited us to a family member’s wedding, a marriage between to American-born Indo-Fijians that had returned to Fiji to get married. I had no idea what to expect for this wedding, which was Hindu, but it was an extravagant occasion. Some of the pālagi had their families in Kulukulu dress them up in saris for the event, complete with bindi and bengels. The saris at the wedding were magnificent; the colors were stunning, especially the bride who wore a traditional maroon gown with gold embroidery and dazzling gems. Both bride and groom looked nervous as they performed the Hindu rituals that they themselves looked unaccustomed to being American-born. There were Pacific mats on the floor, a fun Fijian flare to the celebration. We were wholly welcomed into the occasion, and once again I was lucky to have Sanaa to explain some of the customs to me, whispering in my ear, “Now they will walk around the alter seven times to symbolize the marriage through seven reincarnations.”

Blessing the marriage before the ceremony

The groom putting a sindoor on the bride's forehead under the privacy of a sheet, establishing that this is his wife and that she is now a married woman.

Bride and groom together

The rest of that day was spent driving back to Nadi to wait at a hotel until our 2am flight out of Nadi.

We left Fiji in a bittersweet fashion, as is expected. Many of us had gotten pretty attached to our families, given the incredible hospitality and kindness shown to us by almost every Fijian we interacted with. Being in a multiethnic society was comforting as well as enriching in so many ways…it felt a little bit more like home. Although Fiji has a long way to go in terms of “development” and ethnic unification, it is generally making the most of its unique demographics and political history. One thing is for sure; Fiji is incredibly different from Samoa, and although I’m happy to have had that experience in Fiji, it’s good to be home in Samoa.

A traditional Fijian house called a bure