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.