We know the danger

I’m finding that upon learning more complex sentences and phrases in Samoan that my Spanish is beginning to come back to me. This is a bad thing sometimes because I often confuse the two but I used to enjoy speaking Spanish and to my students and other Samoans it seems like a very exotic language. My boy students always want me to teach them Spanish because they think it will help them get girls. It is a fact that Spanish is quite a seductive language and I like the practice. I recently borrowed one of those Teach Yourself Spanish cds and when I feel burned out from Samoan I like to practice my favourite language in the world. My birthday present couldn’t have come at a better time. Among other cool toys and tasty treats I got a new iPod fully stacked with music that used to narrate my life in Detroit. I cannot thank Gregg enough for bringing Manu Chao to my new world, one couldn’t explain how much fun that music is here. Last weekend, speaking of Espanol, I ran into a girl from Cuba who I met last week. I was out with my friend Lio, from Puerto Rico, and we drank tequila while making toasts in Spanish. It was a spicy night, or mid-afternoon. Tequila awakens the beast. I felt like getting into trouble. I left my Spanish speaking friends behind and hopped in a cab without saying goodbye. After tossing an undisclosed amount of money at the driver I asked him to take me far away. He drove until my small fare ran out and I ended up at a beach fale near Luatuanu’u, one of my favourite surf spots. I spotted a few female bodies holding surf boards in the distance. Loosening my bandana I tied it around my wrist and wiped the glazy tequila grin off my face. “Como esta chicas bonitas?” I half-jokingly greeted in passing as if I actually was heading somewhere and to my surprise one of them responded, “bien gracias!” I paused for a second trying to focus on her face; they spoke Spanish. After forcing myself to shift into Spanish mode I found out that they were on holiday from Spain. Beautiful. “Would you like to join us for a drink?” I couldn’t pass, it was a small cooler full of Heineken which is quite expensive out here and I was on a beautiful beach with two equally as beautiful Spanish chicas. A few beers made us close friends and anything lost in translation I just smiled to which usually brought on two cute Spanish giggles. This is unbelievable I thought. I mentioned my birthday was on Thursday, “hold old are you going to be?” the darker haired girl, Maria, asked. I took a close look at her, she must have been 32 I guessed. “28” I lied. The sun set over the northwest side of the island revealing a beautiful view of the ocean. It was really cool to meet some nice girls and ironically find a second instance of Spanish practice in one night. We had some fun for a while and granted they don’t travel to Fiji for a few more weeks I think I made a few new surf friends. Someone once told me that before long I would hate it here. I don’t sign up for bitterness. An adventurous heart will take you to the far reaches of a small island and a little tequila will end you up with gorgeous Spanish girls, or in a fight, either way its gonna be one hell of a night.

I must have listened to the Radio Bemba Sound System album by Manu Chao a hundred times since I first opened my parcel last Friday. The music does something too me. Its good to be in a hot country wearing a short-sleeved white button up shirt only buttoned 2/3 of the way with a beer in your hand and a hop in your step as the sun goes down over the bay. I never used to dance very much in America but I have grown to like it out here. Sometimes the DJ will spin some halfway decent music with a good island beat and it is impossible to hold still. I feel like a bold traveller in Tijuana moving in fusion with the vibrations from the street. There is trouble everywhere if you’re not careful and you have to know who’s girl you are not to smile at. This really is only a matter of how much you care or how well you are at talking yourself out of a dangerous situation. When midnight comes in Apia, the streets become a wild jungle. You have two choices of travel by foot because it is difficult to get a cab at this hour. You could walk on the side of the road that is well-lit with the entrances to the various bars of Beach Road but there is often conflict by drunken soles who see you as an easy target. You could take your chances along the seawall which is poorly lit however easier to sneak off into the darkness which actually offers some safety. The problem with the seawall is that if someone does assault you nobody is going to see it and help might be hard to find. Nights in Apia are debaucherous and expensive. It is fun to get crazy on the weekends after a long week of quiet village life. I find that I like it better when people don’t know where I’m at. On those crazy nights in town I will often disappear and choose my own adventure. Town is not very big and the herd is easy to catch back up with via cell phone and a cheap cab ride. Meeting people is easy and if you’re lucky those people might be surfer girls, my personal weakness. I never leave home without a Sharpe, the only question is red or black. Can I draw on your leg? Your back? Red Sharpe looks amazing on Spanish women. A few details will be left for imagination about Friday night and we can skip a few hours later to the early morning when I met back up with my Peace Corps friends. We are still up acting like monkeys. Names need not be mentioned but I got to watch them get wasted and dress up in drag while taking orders from a large Puerto Rican. The photographs from that night should be enough to prevent any of them from ever getting a job in politics. I was up until 5 when I crashed only to find that I couldn’t sleep. Every time I started to fall asleep I’d think about monkeys and laugh. No sleep tonight, I think I’ll check out the bakery for some donuts.

*

Its Thursday, March 6th. Yesterday I made the appointment and today I am face to face with the most legendary man in Polynesian tattoos. The day begins at 2:00 when school is over and I am surrounded by four of Suluape’s many children who are students of mine at Paul VI College. I need to prepare an ‘oso (gift) for my meeting but everywhere I look is sold out of Vailima, the islands only beer. Hopping from faleoloa to faleoloa I am shit out of luck for finding a case of twelve large beers to make for the perfect gift to the man who will deliver to me my most ambitious tattoo yet. Let us disregard the fact that I am surrounded by 4 of his 8- 13 year olds while ignoring the fact that it looks awful fishy that I am at a store buying beer with so many youngsters around – the culture is my only guise and nobody seems to think otherwise of this mighty purchase, in fact I’ve seen children buy beer for their parents many times. We wait for a taxi and end up hitch-hiking a ride in a large van heading in a direction which I’m sure Suluape’s house resides and to my avail I find that the children remain silent when time comes to explain where their house is. After a bit of confusion I find myself at the beginning of a long road leading to the fale of Suluape, the man I have waited so long to meet. I make a short stop at the faleoloa and purchase twelve large beers which I must carry for like a mile to Suluape’s property while surrounded by question-asking youngsters very curious to what I am doing in their village. Before long I am confronted with a quaint faleo’o where a heavily tattooed man resides passed out cold in front of a television playing Lord of the Rings. His youngest daughter wakes him up and his awaken presence alarms me. The man is quite intimidating like all tattoo artists are but I am taken back by a mantra tattooed on his leg which is identical to the one on my forearm – he knows a bit about Buddhism Upon arrival I find myself immediately humbled. I explained that I am the teacher from Paul VI who has been calling him and he recognizes my request for a large tattoo on my chest and shoulder. He takes out a Sharpe (go figure) and begins to draw a crude outline all over my torso and upper arm without uttering too many words and before long I find myself lying on his floor surrounded by tattooed Samoans holding my skin tight as he pounds ink into my flesh. I didn’t tell him much, I simply pointed to where I wished to be inked and the rest is tattoo history. He didn’t talk much, he just sat there pounding ink with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as an unnamed sole caught the ashes into a well-positioned hand fan. The pain was quite a bit more extreme than a machine tattoo but in the same like I lay there and ignored every moment while staring at the ceiling thinking of things completely unrelated. A few of his children passed and we exchanged eyebrows but the majority of the experience was held in silence. I was nervous yet stoic and I didn’t make a single expression as I’m told traditional tattoos should employ. Funny thing is that halfway through a man from Italy showed up and for the rest of my tattooing experience. I sat there being surrouned by soles, Suluape and an Italian tourist. I didn’t know this at the time but shortly after my first tattoo session was over me and the Italian would become friends. His name was Gianluca and he was from Tuscany. He has travelled all across the Pacific islands in search of tattoos and historical culture while probably not realizing just how lucky he was for landing upon one of the most famous tattoo artists in the world, 52 year old Suluape. Suluape explained to me that my tattoo would take more than one sitting and from this moment I am only half through with my engagement. My shoulder was shaking with pain but I never once made any facial expression to show how bad it hurt. I will come back on Thursday to finish my chest and bicep region but until then I am left staring at the unfinished project of Suluape the great. The man seems to be as equally prolific as a philosopher as he is an artist. His work is great but just as all other tattoo artists I have known, the experience was capitalized by the conversation which followed. His life was incredible. He has seen more in the last ten years than I probably ever will. A few ‘oso beers and brief post-tattoo periods afterward and I really got a chance to understand the great Suluape and where he has come from. I’ll spare a few details but it seems that he was a teacher at my school for three years and a vice-pule at Chanelle college for some 13 years. He told me that his first passion wasn’t tattooing but rather teaching. I spent the next few hours getting drunk with him and the Italian while explaining that he should speak with the pule at my school about getting his job back. It was a beautiful experience just speaking with the man and he gave me a ride home while telling me the stories behind each of his many childrens’ names. For now, my arm is leaking black ink and blood while I try to figure out how to sleep tonight. I left my shoes over his house and I figure tomorrow should be interesting – I don’t even wear shoes to work anymore so I’m not too concerned. I have to come back on Thursday to finish the job but until then I am very happy with the ink that has been pounded into my shoulder. What does it feel like? It feels like a very gruff man is trying to crack my arm off very slowly and the only way around the pain is to ignore it completely or become one with it. Unlike many of his victims he offers me and the Italian a ride home all the way back to my village where I was greeted by Izumi and a tremendous feast. My duties with Suluape are not complete and this story shall continue on Thursday, my birthday..