Traffic

I deal with a lot of traffic issues as part of my job. On Tuesdays I do traffic court, and I am constantly swamped the rest of the time with DUIs. So I know a thing or two about traffic in American Samoa.

The first thing to know is that there is really only one road. Many times people will refer to something like the Tafuna Public Highway. The key emphasis is on the word ‘the’. As in, it is the one and only highway going through the village of Tafuna. It’s also the only street going through Fagasa, Nu’uuli, Pago Pago, Fatu ma Futi, Fagatogo, and every other village on the outskirts of the island. Depending on what village you are in, that is the public highway you are on. The highway goes around the entire island.

In fairness, there are roads that branch off the main road. Airport Road is one example. Airport Road is called such because it goes to the airport. It is also called McDonald’s road, because there is a McDonald’s on it. There is also a Pizza Hut and KFC on the same road, but nobody refers to the road as such because that would be ridiculous.

The point being, there aren’t many roads, and none of them are officially named. In fact, to describe where something is, and this includes in legal documents, you must say the village it’s in, and a particularly memorable landmark. Many DUI trials include language such as, “The defendant was stopped at the Tafuna Public Highway, near the KS Mart across from Cost-U-Less, not too far from the Stadium.” That actually means something. If you want more detail, then it will be something like, “You know the left turn lane next to the gas station there? Well, he was turning there, but hit the sidewalk at the bus stop in front of the fruit stand. You know, the one with the large flag.”

I do know.

There are a few street names. I live on Lua St. in the government housing. Lua was a great Samoan chief who fought off cannibals from Vanuatu in the 1500’s. Just kidding, Lua is Samoan for ‘two’. I live on Second St.

I hear rumor they’re naming a few residential streets a couple of villages over from me, but that has yet to be confirmed.

The top posted speed on the island is 25 mph. Legally, nobody can go above 30 anywhere in American Samoa. While this cuts down on serious traffic accidents, it does significantly raise the level of exasperation. You know how annoying it is when somebody drives too slow? Imagine a two-lane road, where somebody decides that 10 mph is the appropriate speed for them.

The other interesting thing about driving here is that there are exactly zero (0) stop lights. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The only way to enter the highway is to wait for an opening, or wait for someone to wave you in. Either that, or you just pull into on-coming traffic and piss off everyone trying to drive safely.

Despite my seemingly negative view of the traffic, I don’t mind it too much. Mostly because when I drive to work, I’m going slow enough to enjoy the waves crashing ashore right next to the road. The smell of the beach and the sound of children getting ready for school really makes you think about…God dammit! Some jackass just cut me off.

Manuia le Kerisimasi

Every year the government puts on a Christmas carol show. Each agency dresses in matching outfits and sings on stage in the central pavilion. The event is televised and, since there is not much else to show on Samoan television, rebroadcast repeatedly throughout the year.

Of course, the Attorney General’s Office is one of the agencies that participates in this event. As an employee of the AG’s Office, I too participated.

The event is taken very seriously by the various departments. Choir practice starts weeks early and lasts a few hours every day. Since it’s a government event, this clearly falls into job duties, and is thus done during work hours. The result is that most of the executive branch shuts down during practice, and the mere mention of the words “choir practice” explains away any questions as to why nothing is getting done. It’s such a mess that the Police Department would have one person staffing the place after noon on any given day (noon was lunch, and then after lunch was choir practice, until 4:00, which is closing time).

I was only able to find the time to attend a couple choir practices. Essentially, we just ran through the songs a couple times and left. All of our songs were in Samoan, which I can barely read, much less interpret. I had no idea what we were supposed to be singing, but by listening closely, I could at least pronounce some of the words.

A few words would pop out. Agnelu is angel, Iesu is Jesus, Kerisimasi is Christmas, and so on. Unfortunately, some lines went simply too fast for me to read off. At those moments I was forced to just move my mouth around until I could grasp on to something intelligible.

Finally, it was time for the main event. The event spans three nights, from Wednesday to Friday. Our group was to go fourth on Wednesday night. We were all to meet by a immigration registration building to pull ourselves together and make sure we were ready for our performance. That’s what the boss said at least.

I arrived an hour late, but was dressed and ready to go. I picked up my outfit from the fabric place the night before. It consisted of a blue lavalava (Samoan skirt) and a flowered Hawaiian looking shirt. I also wore white ula, a necklace made of plastic nuts.

When I arrived at the meeting place, all I found were five Samoans from the Immigration Office drinking beer. They were “warming up” and asked if I wanted to warm up too. I did.

Everything was supposed to start at 7, but that just meant the governor began speaking. Rather than listen to a political speech given in a language we didn’t understand, we continued to hang out and warm up. About 9:30, somebody came by and said the third group was finishing up, so we should head over. We all moved down towards the pavilion and waited for the other agencies to finish their songs.

When it was our turn, we mounted the steps and took our spots on stage. Men on stage right, women on stage left. The keyboardist warmed up his preset song list and the conductor nodded at us. The AG gave a short speech about the spirit of Christmas or something, and then the keyboard started playing. We started singing.

Having watched some of the other groups, and having seen others later, I realized what choreographed moves and melody can do for a singing group. We did not have that. In fact, during the final practice, the conductor said we should sway to a couple of the songs. And if we wanted to dance at parts, we could.

It’s amazing how difficult swaying can be when you haven’t practiced. For one, everyone is supposed to sway in the same direction at the same time, and preferably to the beat of the music. Our swaying was more of a bunch of people bumping into each other.

Singing was also a bit difficult. We actually had a false start on the second song (which happened to be a Samoan Christmas song put to the tune of Ricky Martin’s La Vida Loca), and the keyboard guy was so disgusted he simply stopped and told us to start over.

But the dancing, oh the dancing. During the faster songs, you couldn’t help dancing. Well, most of us could help it, but not me. Nothing was planned, so we could do whatever we wanted. I danced and got really into the songs. Somehow, the words I couldn’t say during practice came out during the performance, and I just let loose and had a good time.

It was disappointingly short and we went home from there, after taking a few pictures of us in our outfits. Some people stayed out and partied, but I went straight to bed. After all, I still had to work in the morning.

The repercussions came the next day. Since the event was televised, and only me and another gal from our office really danced, we were the main event on TVs across the island. So much so that people were calling into the radio stations commenting on how much they like the pilangi lawyers. When I came to court, people I didn’t even know said how much they enjoyed watching us. The other gal, Lisa, got the same attention. When she went to the vet for her cat, the guy told her she was “number one.”

The show is rebroadcast throughout the year.

I'll put up pictures and the video once we get it from the TV station.

Size Matters

Take a good look at this advertisment in the airport for a clothing store. Pay particular attention to the sizes offered. It speaks volumes.

Ofu: The Island of Ghosts

About half the pilagi (pee-long-ee; it means white person) community on the island decided collectively that they were going to Ofu for Thanksgiving weekend. As the new guy, I was invited, though I didn’t have much time to make preparations. They had booked their flights months in advance, and I had about two days.

Going into it, I knew absolutely nothing about Ofu. I didn’t even know that it existed until I was invited, and then wasn’t even sure if it was part of American or Western Samoa (hint: it’s American). But once I mentioned it, the locals were quick to give their opinion of the place. The general verdict: don’t go. It’s full of ghosts.

Our trip to Ofu.

The aiku are spirits that live on the island of Ofu. When they are disturbed they become angry and vindictive, and will cause you harm. The aiku are real and nobody should ever go to Ofu. Visitors should not become too rowdy, use foul language, or disturb rocks, as that is where the aiku live. One story told by a guy from my office went like this:

“There once was a young lady named Melissa, who worked here at the Attorney General’s office. She was very cute and well liked. She went to Ofu, and then died of a brain aneurysm.”
“Wow. While she was there?”
“No. Years later.”

Another story was about a pilagi teacher that came to the island about a week before with some other people. She got so drunk that she puked for three hours. During a particularly bad dry heave, she actually popped her jaw out of socket. The Ofu doctors couldn’t put it back so she had to be flown back to Tutuila to the hospital. Everyone, including her students, insist that she was slapped by the aiku. I was also told to watch for the ghost of a nurse who wanders the beaches at night.

The best I could do was get a standby seat for the flight. On Thanksgiving day I showed up to the airport and asked if there was any room. The guy had me stand on a scale with my bag. He took the number and did some calculations. Looking it over he said I would fit, and to buy a ticket.

I bought the ticket from a large gay Samoan man with his long hair slicked back and a flower in his ear. He assured me that there were no ghosts. He should know; he’s from there.

I had never been to the departures area of the airport so was a little lost. There was an outside waiting area, and then people are supposed to go to the inside waiting area when they are done saying goodbye to their families. Everyone was already in the inside area, though they weren’t supposed to be. As I walked over I saw the usual FFA and TSA signs about what’s allowed on a plane, and what objects to get ready for security. Despite the liquid ban, I had a full bottle of whiskey in my bag. No big deal. Nobody ever checked me. In fact, as I was trying to get into the inside area, I was waived to go through a door that read, “Do Not Enter,” and something about authorized personnel only upon pain of incarceration and lawsuits. Nobody stopped me.
The plane was a small propeller powered inter-island puddle jumper with about 20 seats. This was the big plane. We were given assigned seats scattered throughout the plane in order to balance the weight. The cockpit and front windows were fully visible with just small walls separating the pilot and co-pilot’s seats from the seats behind them.

The 20 minute flight was beautiful, particularly seeing Tutuila from the air. People were pointing out their houses as the air conditioning poured in so thick it created a heavy fog that lingered in the aisle the entire flight. However, coming in for the landing was a little more sobering. First, we hit some turbulence, and in a plane that small, a small pocket of air can toss you around like a rag doll. Then, we could see through the cockpit window where we were going. The Ofu airstrip is not only short, but it’s built right next to a mountain. The mountain actually drops off in a nearly straight line down, and then there’s the airstrip, and then a bunch of trees before the beach. Coming in, it looks as if we were heading straight for the mountain, during turbulence. But we landed safely, even if we did get pretty close to the side of the runway.

The Ofu airport is literally a small shack that can’t be more than one room, next to the runway. The hospital, another small shack, is also next to the runway, as is our hotel. Our hotel was actually a series of small bungalos lined up, and a larger building with a kitchen and sitting area. Normally, having a hotel room right next to a airport runway would be a turn off, but seeing as only one flight comes in and out (and within 30 minutes) per day, it wasn’t an issue at all. The rooms were basic, but quite nice and newly renovated. While much smaller, they were clearly in better shape than my house.

We were greeted by Jim’s mom, who owns the place. There was also Marge, a woman who worked there, and her husband, known as Candyman. Depending on who you talk to, Candyman is the best or worst human on Earth. His admirers hail him as the keeper of Samoan tradition and culture. He fishes in the traditional Samoan way, he hunts in the traditional Samoan way, and he makes traditional Samoan crafts. His praise is often orated or written in melodramatic prose that overly describes what he was doing and how. The guy I met was a sunburned white guy from New Zealand with his hair in corn rows. The Candyman.

That first day, I walked down to the national park beach with a couple of guys and went snorkeling in the shallow area. It’s an absolutely beautiful area completely untouched by anything. We had the entire shore to ourselves, and a line of thick trees covered any signs of modernization. We were surrounded by mountains and other islands. The water was almost perfectly clear and relatively calm. From where we were, we could watch the waves break on the coral shelf about 100 yards further out. For a relatively shallow area, snorkeling still revealed plenty of coral and fish.

When we got back we went to join everyone in the ocean at the beach in front of the hotel. There was already a mountain of empty beer cans sitting on the beach, and everyone in the water was drunk. We joined them.

The hotel provided food, and we brought two turkeys with us. We had a full Thanksgiving dinner, with mashed potatoes, turkey, and cranberry sauce. We spent the night playing cards. Each dealer chose a new game, so I learned a plethora of new ways to lose money gambling.

The next day was spent almost entirely in hotel beach waters with a cooler of beer floating with us. Two guys discovered a large beach umbrella which was brought into the ocean to protect us from the sun. We also found a peculiar sea creature that emits a sticky white substance when stroked. Obviously, our over-educated minds, well versed in the refined arts of law, marine biology, and engineering, were able to handle this like refined intellectuals. Just kidding. We threw it at each other and made obscene jokes.

After lunch (leftover turkey sandwiches) we played Slosh Ball. Slosh Ball is essentially whiffle ball, except there is a cooler of beer at second base, and the runner must stop and open a new beer before he/she can run past second. Also, there is a toilet seat as home base. The grass was thick and soft so we were all barefoot. We ran around like little kids and were particularly excited when it began raining, because then we cooled down and the field turned into a slip-and-slide. Afterwards, one girl said, “I think I was five the last time I was wearing only a bathing suit and was covered in grass.”

Saturday morning we planned on going to the bridge. I was tired, hungover, and disturbingly sore after the Slosh Ball game the day before, but wasn’t about to miss the bridge. We piled into the bed of a pick-up truck, and drove across the island. The bridge was a small one-lane structure about 30 feet over the ocean (in high tide at least). So we jumped off it into the water, repeatedly. The now infamous cooler of beer was at the bottom where those who had already jumped would be greeted with a cold beer, a box of wine, or a bottle of Crown Royal filled with some strange mixed drink. Those who were scared to jump, were bullied and cajoled until they did it. Those who jumped regularly were constantly pushed to outdo the others. Two guys jumped out of the bed of a moving pick-up, over the bridge and into the water. One gal over rotated a front flip and smacked herself face first into the water. She came out with puffy eyes and a severely bruised chest. This scene was made into a video which is now famous across the island.

Here's a video of Jim jumping off the truck:

And here's the video of Lisa smacking her face:

We spent the better part of six hours under the bridge until all the booze was gone. I came out of it with a rather braggable sunburn and minor cuts and abrasions. That night, after dinner, I helped start a bonfire. It was a pretty good size and burned most of the night. We built it on the beach and everyone sat around and told stories about Snowy, the dog. Not one of them was true. (Did you know Snowy was actually banned from Laos for life? Nobody is quite sure why.)
We were told that our 1pm flight would actually be leaving at 10am. Therefore, we had to wake up “early” in order to catch the (only) flight off the island. We made it and were all quiet from exhaustion on the ride back. I was sore for three days afterwards, to the point where I could barely walk. One person got nasty food poisoning, and another had to go to the hospital for sunburn. I peeled a bit, but got away from the trip relatively unscathed. And not one ghost; I guess I'm just lucky.

Island Dogs

My house is also known as Snowy’s old house. When I inquired as to who Snowy was, it turns out he is a dog who hangs out around the house. He used to live here with previous tenants. They went on vacation one day and never came back, leaving their dog to fend for himself in the pack culture that is island dog.

Island dogs live a dog-eat-dog life, and I mean that literally. They travel in packs and are feral monsters. Every night, and most of the day, dog fights are common. During the day, the dogs are mostly harmless, but once the sun goes down they become extremely territorial and confrontational. A lot of people have been bitten by dogs, and it’s common practice to carry a rock with you when you walk, in order to fend off dog attacks.

Snowy, on the other hand, is perfectly calm. He is often described as regal, and if he were a human he would smoke a pipe while wearing a silk robe. Snowy’s a good dog, and he hangs around three houses, mine being one of them. He is clearly the leader of his pack, and likes to follow us around. One guy was actually under attack by his own dog, but Snowy stepped in and kicked the other dog’s ass.

The dogs here don’t stray from their territory, but Snowy can go anywhere he likes. This ability has led to ridiculous stories about him (completely made up by us) about his past. He looks like a golden retriever, but is extremely dirty. I feed him leftovers and give him water. He likes to lay in the doorway when the door is open, just to be around people, but he knows he’s not allowed in. Sometimes he’ll poke his nose in a little bit just to see what we’ll let him get away with.

A lot of people adopt some of the puppies, but unless they are kept inside constantly, they become part of the island dog culture.

Work As Usual

A lot has gone on since I arrived here six weeks ago. However, this happened just the other day and was too funny not to keep it timely.

Most of the executive agencies, from the Governor’s Office to the Department of Legal Affairs (also know as the Attorney General’s Office) are housed in the Executive Office Building, or EOB. It’s a one-stop shopping mall of government departments. By one-stop, I of course mean that you could potentially visit all departments at the same time, not that you could actually ever complete a task there in one visit.

On Thursday, we were working oh so hard in our office when this lady started running around saying there was a fire, and we needed to evacuate. We actually laughed at it, until she explained that the fire alarms didn’t work, and that we really had to go.

I grabbed my stuff and began leaving the office. A lot of people ignored the warnings and tried to finish their conversations or work before exiting. As I sauntered down the stairs (I’m on the third floor), I could see three firemen poking around the ceiling on the second floor. One of them wore a hazmat suit, but only the bottoms. The top was draped over his waist.

The bottom floor of the EOB doesn’t have doors going outside, rather they are just very large openings giving the building an atrium, or courtyard feel. The police ushered us outside to stand under an awning outside. As it was 2:00, most people just kept moving to their cars, and were gone. The parking lot emptied almost completely within the first 30 minutes.

We wandered off and got ice cream at a nearby gas station and came back to hang out in the shade. One guy left his cell phone in his office and asked a cop if he could get it. The conversation went something like this:

Guy: “Hey, I left some stuff in my office, and I’m flying off island this evening. Could I just run up and grab it. It won’t be two minutes.”
Cop: “Sorry sir, nobody is allowed upstairs.”
Guy: “It will only take a second. Besides, I don’t see any fire.”
Cop: “It is a chemical spill. It’s too dangerous to go up there.”
Guy: “A chemical spill? What kind of chemical spill?”
Cop: “Don’t worry sir. It’s just a drill.”
Guy: “Oh. If it’s a drill then I could go up safely.”
Cop: “No. There’s a chemical spill, but this is a drill.”

I’m not sure the cop understood what “drill” meant. Anyway, we learned later that it was an anthrax scare. Somebody in the governor’s office opened a letter and found white powder in it. It made us feel quite safe knowing that a potentially deadly poison was floating around the air while we stood in the entry way to a breezy building. It was also good knowing that the police stationed to protect us didn’t know what was going on. The EPA, the only people trained to handle this kind of stuff, weren’t notified. They found out by running into the fire department as they waited outside. The items potentially contaminated by this fatal disease were then put in Hefty bags and placed on the front lawn of the building, for later pick-up by a Hazmat team.


The next day, work went on as normal. We got a letter with letter head from Interpol and the Department of Justice, a headline from the Department of Homeland Security, and signed by the local FBI. It essentially said that most of the territories and embassies are getting these letters, but there is no anthrax in them.

No surprise there. American Samoa would not be the prime target to use rare and valuable anthrax. I’m actually surprised the people mailing the letters were aware we are a territory.
Here’s the link to a news story, complete with a picutre of trash bags on the front lawn.
Samoa News

Here I Am in AmSam

I made it. 10 days late, but I did arrive. I was supposed to be here in American Samoa on Oct. 30, but the flight they booked for me did not seem to know that I was supposed to be on the plane. So I waited until Nov. 9. The extra week gave me time to go to Washington, DC to be sworn into the DC bar. So now I'm licensed to practice law in Ohio and Washington, DC, and soon in American Samoa. Is this overkill? Of course, but it seems to work out somehow.

I live in government housing, which isn't quite as sketchy as it sounds. I have my own two bedroom house in a government neighborhood, which just means everyone else here works for the government in some capacity. Theoretically, it also means most of the basic maintenance stuff is taken care of by the government, but you know how that goes.

I've started working. Last week I began taking over courtroom proceedings on my own and am now the District Court guy. I do everything criminal that comes before the court with the exception of juvenile cases. I am single handedly sustaining the manila folder industry through this recession.

So far, things are going pretty well. The scenery is beautiful and the people very friendly. While there are a lot of downsides (which I will elaborate on in the future, because it's funny), they are easy to forget as you're driving along the beach to work.

So those are the basics. I'll keep this blog updated and elaborate on the interesting aspects as much as possible. It took a month and 5 attempts to get internet installed at my house, but now that it is here, I'm unstoppable.