Pago Pago Harbor is the largest deep water port in the South Pacific, and probably the world.



What’s deep and wet, and loved by Americans?

Pago Harbor!

Sean in American Samoa's Newspaper

So here's the newspaper on the day after the Christmas pageant. As you can see, I'm right there, in all my glory. Every day here is a slow news day.

Sean in American Samoa's Diviest Dive Bar

We went to a party on the beach sponsored by the American Samoa Bar Association. I’m not yet a member, as there is a bunch of stuff I need to get mailed from the States, but I showed up anyway. As one person said, “you’re not going to let the fact you’re not a member stop you from attending are you?” No, I was not. Particularly since there were kegs of beer involved.

It was held at $2 beach, named for the price it costs to go there. It’s on the east side of the island, which I hadn’t been to yet. Out there is real Samoa: more jungle and village than American consumerism. The party was a strange gathering of out of place pilogis - all of them attorneys, and their families. Kids ran around, and I realized I hadn’t seen any white kids since I got here. Where were they all hiding?

I got my first taste of Samoan food. Surprisingly, it was completely bland. It was as if they decided rice cakes were too exotic and they needed something with less pizzazz.

However, the party got dull as the beer ran low so we decided to go home. The road home takes us through the canneries. There is no more depressing cesspool than the StarKist tuna canneries on Tutuila. The rancid stench of old fish and factory blends together with the filth of a New Jersey industrial park. It’s as if everything good and holy were sucked out and all that remained was Satan’s puckered asshole.

Heil Charlie

At the heart of this darkness is a small bar called the South Pacific Karaoke Bar. We had discussed this phenomenon at the bar party. Apparently, it’s the last refuge for sex trafficking in the American territories. It’s a seething bordello in the midst of industrial rampage. According to the rumors, which tend to be more accurate than the real truth, one can come to the Karaoke Bar, ask for a room for karaoke, and will get a girl who shows up to sing for you. However, she is not exactly a professional singer, though she is a professional.

We couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see this place. The goal was to get a room and actually have the poor girl sing us karaoke. Cruel to be sure, but much less so than a 300 pound Samoan getting sweaty and naked to the tune of Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Unfortunately, our task was doomed from the start. I was driving my borrowed government car. The American Samoa government was good enough to let me borrow an official car to drive while I waited a lifetime for a paycheck. This has been very handy, until that night. This car pulling into the parking lot apparently set off some alarms. We walked into the place with a massive red flag hanging over our heads. Apparently, the parking attendant immediately notified the owner as to our presence and everyone shit a brick.

It wasn’t like we could exactly blend in either. Three lanky white guys walk into a bar surrounded by Samoan sailors and young Asian exiles. It’s the beginning to a joke that doesn’t have a punch line.

The bar itself was like Van Gogh’s nightmare. A swirling mess of disco balls, laser lights, and early 90’s hip-hop. At the bar were a group of women orbiting (yes, she was that big) a giant Samoan fafa at the center. She was decked out with large hair and stenciled eyebrows that made her look like a Disney villain. There was one table full of Samoans, who watched our every movement as we moved across the “dance floor” to the bar. Another table had three incredibly skinny Asian guys who just sipped their beers in silence.

We each ordered a drink. As soon as they were handed over and we paid, a Samoan guy came up to us and asked us what we were doing there. We explained who we were and he said he was just concerned because, as he says, nobody’s allowed to drive government cars out at night. Then he ordered us another round of drinks. We hadn’t even started the first round, but he felt it necessary to bring us some more.

His name was Ricky. A very interesting guy. The whole time he would dab his nose with a tissue, obviously to keep the excessive amounts of coke from spilling out into a powdering blizzard of opiates. Our mere presence seemed to make him want to drink half the bar. He dropped shots and beers and anything else that smelled like alcohol. His hair was slicked back and he sported a well-groomed goatee. Around his neck hung a silver chain with what appeared to be a staff or something hanging from it. Also, he was sweating. A lot.

Ricky owned the bar (and presumably the whore house as well). He is also the chief-of-staff to the President of the Senate. A strange combination to be sure, but not necessarily a surprising one. And, as three palagis arriving in a government car, we were now his new best friends. The rest of the night we didn’t even have a chance to finish our drinks before new ones were provided for us. We got a massive plate of fried chicken, gratis. It would have been great, but for the fact that Ricky would not let us out of his sight.

We were introduced to the cream of the crop of American Samoa politics. The son of a famous senator, a high ranking member of the local branch of the CIA, and an off-duty police officer. They all made an appearance at Ricky’s Karaoke Bar. But they didn’t get the attention that we did. In fact, Ned was unofficially adopted as Ricky’s new son, and we were invited to his annual Christmas dinner, which would of course be grand.

As we sat there watching this Hunter S. Thomsen-esque acid flashback, we noticed a lot of movement for a bar that was essentially empty. People were constantly moving from the front area to the back rooms, and always in a rush. Well dressed young Asian women would appear out of nowhere, and disappear in the same manner, without ever using the front door.

Meanwhile, five extremely large Samoan guys danced to early rap against the wall. It occurred to me that I was probably the lightest person in the entire establishment.

Unfortunately, we never did get to check out one of the famous karaoke rooms. I assume that Ricky didn’t feel it was safe to let us roam around freely. I kind of felt bad for the guy. Here he was, trying to run his business, and now he’s stuck keeping us happy for fear that we’re here to bust the place.

We finally decided to leave, which meant convincing Ricky not to bring us another round. Ricky personally walked us out and made sure we got the hell out left safely. It was the first time I really felt like I was in a foreign country since I got here. And not just a foreign country, but a hostile one. We did not belong.

So yeah, I’ll be going back.

UPDATE: I went back!

This time I was with a rather large group, with both men and women. Ricky, unfortunately, was not there. However, we were given a room in the front to do karaoke, which was the worst part. The room was small and had absolutely NO air, so we cooked like a bunch of Italian sausages.

Double bonus – we also got a girl. This guy Evan was able to talk some idiot into hooking us up with an Asian hooker. She came in and saw a bunch of people singing karaoke, and was immediately bored and disappointed. She left two songs in, and we never even got to make her sing.

Singing and hookers, but no Ricky. Alas, you can’t always have it all.

Sean in American Samoa's Dive Bar

My first Saturday I went to see a movie. There is one movie theater on the island, and it shows two movies at a time. The day before, High School Musical 3 had just left (after a 3 week stint) and was replaced by the new James Bond movie, Quantum of Solace. Movies are big here as there’s not much else to do in the evenings. After the movie we weren’t ready to go home so we wandered over to this little bar next door called Pilcher’s.

Nobody had ever been there, and it was clear why. Pilcher’s is what can only be described as a Samoan dive bar. All the lights were off, and the only light came from blue Christmas lights around the ceiling. There were a few tables and a bar off to the left. It was a small place, with maybe three or four tables. The ceiling was made of tiles, most of which were discolored and maybe even moldy. There was a tile floor and a large stand-up fan in the corner. In the back of the room was some sound equipment, microphones, and a keyboard. A TV hung from the corner illuminated by a purple neon light. In the opposite corner sat a small table with a lamp. The bulb was a black light, and the shade was installed upside down, so it resembled a satellite.

When we walked in (a group of 6 white kids) everyone turned around and stared at us until we sat down. By everyone, I mean the four people at the bar and the bartender. There was a Samoan couple and two old drunks, both white. We sat down and ordered a bucket of beer, which was six bottles of Vailima. Through the course of the night we ordered two more buckets. The second order had 4 beers, and the third bucket had 5 beers.

Someone at the table joked that this was the kind of place that probably had really great sushi, and a couple minutes later the bartender brought out a couple plates of sashimi, though nobody heard the comment except us. I went outside for a smoke and met the Samoan couple. They were both radio personalities and said their names expectedly, as if I should recognize them. I explained that I just arrived and didn’t have a radio. We chatted for a bit about random stuff, like race relations in the south.

After being there for a while the owner came out; he was also the chef and talked to us for a bit. He just bought the place and was trying to drum up business. In Samoa, there’s no better business that pilogis. Then he went to the back and picked up a bass guitar. Another guy came out of nowhere and set up the keyboard. The music had been random to begin with, but this took the cake.

The two of them began playing random songs, many of which I recognized, but didn’t know that well. The best was when they played “Low” by Glamourcide. The owner was wearing a skirt and a blue shirt with white flowers. His long hair was tied in the back with a bun, and he was Samoan big. Another group of Samoans came in at some point earlier, and the fattest guy got up and sang along with them for a while. When they first started, I had to go outside just to laugh.

Sean in American Samoa's Hospital

I woke up in the middle of the night with horrible pains. I thought they were cramps, but they continued and the next morning I had a dull pain in the right side of my stomach. I decided to go to the hospital to make sure it wasn’t appendicitis.

They told me it was appendicitis. And they would have to operate that day.

LBJ Hospital is a series of metal buildings that look like they were set up as a temporary service after some major disaster. Or perhaps a service to the locals by colonialists that don’t plan on keeping a permanent presence, which is exactly what it is. The floors are concrete, and to go from one ward to the other often requires going outside. Many of the wards, such as the maternity ward, have no air conditioning. In a place where the normal noon time temperature fluctuates between 87 and 92, throughout the year, that is a serious problem.

Plus, I had heard nothing but terrible things about LBJ. More importantly, I had heard terrible things about getting appendicitis here. The governor had to take a life flight to Hawaii after the surgeons here messed up his appendectomy. My friend Matt had an appendectomy here, and now has a six inch scar, and nearly died. The general rule is – don’t go. If you’re that sick, take a plane to Hawaii. Unfortunately, I got sick on a Monday, and the next flight wasn’t until Thursday. Needless to say, I was not excited about the prospect of getting an operation here. So, as I was getting gassed, I just kind of hoped I would wake up.

And wake up I did, in a hospital bed with people trying to explain the complex procedures that had just occurred, while I had the cognitive abilities of a half dead sewer rat. I can remember waking up for mere seconds while people put needles in me, or asking me if I needed pain meds. I was awake enough to say yes, and then passed out when they gave them to me.

I also remember waking up needing to pee. They left me a water bottle looking thing, and I had to pee into that. I couldn’t get up to use the restroom. So I’d lean over and try to pee, but it’s surprisingly difficult to put pressure on the bladder when all those muscles have just been shredded by surgery.

The next day, I did wake up enough to get bored. I went into the hospital with nothing. I didn’t expect to stay. There was nothing to read, no TV, no change of clothes (I wore a hospital gown anyway, but still), no tooth brush or shampoo, nothing, nothing, nothing. Fortunately, I did get lots of visitors. People came in to see me and always brought something. For some reason, the typical hospital gift here is juice. Everyone brought juice. Everything from Poweraid, to mixed tropical blends, to Big Bird’s apple drink boxes. It was very nice of them, even if my fascist doctor and nurses wouldn’t let me drink it.

They didn’t let me ingest anything the first few days. The rule was that I couldn’t put anything in my mouth until gas came out my rear. I must have been health as an ox though, as that was the one thing I couldn’t stop doing. On Tuesday they allowed me to eat ice chips. This is not a meal. I was starving. It wasn’t until Wednesday lunch that the doctor said I could eat “soft” foods. So the hospital brought up a barbequed turkey leg, soup, pineapples, juice, milk, and a dessert. It was delicious.

There aren’t a lot of great places to eat on the island, and the hospital is actually considered one of the best. You can get a solid, tasty meal fore mere dollars. Many a palagi who dated a Samoan has lamented their dates to the hospital canteen, but they never complained about the food.

My room was nice, if bland, in a surgical ward kind of way. The surgical ward was air conditioned, but always kept at about 60 degrees…Kelvin. I had a roommate in the bed next to me. He was some Samoan guy who didn’t speak much English. I still don’t know what he was in for. But he spoke enough to bum cigarettes, and borrow my shoes. For some reason he didn’t have any shoes. So he borrowed mine. He borrowed my shoes, regularly. It’s still a funny thing to say. The nurses laughed and said it was “ghetto.”

For the most part, my healthcare was fine. I got one of the “good” surgeons. He was one of two who received actual medical training. The others were just trained as butchers. Or so I say. Most of the nurses were nice and knew what they were doing, except for the one who flushed a blood clot stuck in my IV into my arm. It is still in my wrist. You can see the vein sticking up. It’s hard and painful. I’m assured it’s no big deal.

Also, they didn’t have any antacids. The American Samoa hospital didn’t have something that comes in a basic travel first aid kit.

They released me on Thursday, after I heckled them to get me out of there. I was so bored I was going to claw my eyes out. I had read, literally, 11 magazines, two newspapers (one of them was a Sunday New York Times), finished one book and read half of another, that was 700 pages long. I had pancakes for breakfast.

However, being released from surgical isn’t the same as being released from the hospital. I still had to pay the bill. Health care on the island is subsidized. It’s kind of surprising considering America’s disdain of subsidized medicine. And some of the fears are well founded. I came back a week later for a check up to the surgical clinic. I had to wait two hours to see the doctor. That’s like 30 minutes longer than I would have waited to see a doctor in America.

I should note, however, than while the surgical clinic was crazy, I never had to wait to get surgery. They were on the ball for that.

But the payment process was ridiculous. My contract hadn’t been completed, so I was considered a non-resident, which means my healthcare isn’t subsidized, so they gave me a quote in the thousands. However, while I was in the hospital, my contract was finalized. I told them this and they asked for a copy. Here is the Catch-22: I couldn’t leave until I paid my bill. I couldn’t pay my bill unless I left to get my contract.

I did get it worked out, but it reminds me of another Catch-22 related to the hospital. In order to get a contract, you have to get a medical check-up. But you can’t get a medical check-up until you are a resident. You can’t be a resident unless you have a contract. The ways around these problems are complex and require numerous phone calls and yelling. For some reason, everyone involved recognizes the ridiculousness of the situation, but nobody ever does anything about it.

All these problems made me want to give up the dream of universal healthcare, until I worked them out. My entire bill, including three nights and four days in the room, meals, the initial doctor’s visit, a blood test, a CT scan, a prescription, and two follow-ups, totaled $280. Try doing that, even with the best insurance.

I’m doing better now. I worked the next week, which probably wasn’t the best idea. Some people get the idea that the work world stops when they’re not around, and I assured myself that wasn’t the case. Until I got back, and the whole house of cards had fallen in on itself. That’s the problem with only have one person work hundreds of cases. If that person is gone, nobody knows what the hell is going on.

Since they took the stitches (staples) out, I’ve been moving around just fine. Stairs are still an obstacle, but that’s only a problem when the elevator is out (all the fucking time). At this point, my only goal is to be well enough to play slosh ball next weekend for the Pilagi Olympics.

More on the Dog Situation

I've already described the island dogs a bit below. But the High Court once issued an opinion that dealt with one of the neighborhood dogs. Here's what they had to say:

From Savage v. ASG, 1 ASR2d 102 (1983):

"Jason Savage, age 5, a resident of the public housing enclave at Tafuna, was attacked by a stray dog bearing the improbable name Tweeter. We must paint in broad strokes, a background of the canine situation in this territory and particularly in the Tafuna Governmental Housing Tract.

There are few places on this earth which suffer more than American Samoa from an oversupply of man's so called friend, the dog. Untold thousands of dogs roam the territory...Almost without exception they are mongrels -- scrawny, emaciated, mangy, in-bred, flea-bitten, diseased.

"Sophisticated world travellers usually refer to the dogs of Mexico and China as the worst looking dogs in the world. Compared to the dogs of American Samoa, the dogs of Mexico and China could qualify as best of their class at Madison Square Garden...Twas not always thus. During the Naval Administration a dog without a collar was quickly disposed of by the Fita Fita guard.

[Discussing the dog in question] "A vigilante spirit prevailed and some unidentified person prevailed upon a couple of Tongans to beat Tweeter to death with clubs. It wasn't pretty and the S.P.C.A. would undoubtedly have disapproved but it was effective. So much for Tweeter."

Geological Oddities

I'm not sure what these are, but they pop out of the water in strange places. Usually they are near the shore, but this one is further out. It's one of a couple that are on my way to work.

A Little Story About Beer

Alcohol is the universal language. You can go anywhere, and it doesn’t matter if you look like everyone else, understand the culture, or even speak the same language, so long as alcohol is involved. Anyone can be friends (or enemies) over a couple bottles of beer.

Drinking is the national sport of American Samoa. It ranks above football, volleyball, and fighting. It happens before, during, and after all of these events, and any other activity you can think of. There’s not much else to do here, so might as well do it drunk.

Of course, it’s also a huge problem. Probably 99% of the cases that come across my desk (and almost all cases come across my desk) are alcohol related. DUIs, drunken brawls, or just plain jackassery are common occurrences. I’m working on a case right now involving a Senate staffer who decided to pee in a hotel elevator during the governor’s inauguration ceremony.

With an island that enjoys their beer so much, let’s review what the options are:

Vailima
Coors Light
Steinlager

And if you’re feeling really fancy:

Heineken
Corona

Well, that’s it. There are five beers on the island. Most places you go will only offer Vailima, Steinlager, and/or Coors Light. None of these are respectable beers.

Vailima is the Samoan beer. It is Samoan for “hand of water.” If by that they mean it is probably stirred with some guy’s hand. In fairness though, you do get to the point here where nothing is better than a nice, room temperature, Vailima.

Vailima is also a common currency. Just offer a six-pack and you’d be amazed how quickly things get done. This one gal got the housing department to build her a carport using nothing but some Vailima and persistence.

I’m thinking of buying a keg and shooting for central air.