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.
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