Ana's Story

March 2001
I've boarded the plane, preparing to depart Auckland for Apia, Samoa. Last night, leaving Christchurch, the love of my family and my friends were deeply imprinted in my heart. This is a new journey.

I'm used to driving past these flashing colours; crayon greens, yellows, pinks and blues. Now my eyes rest upon their stillness, a paradisiacal canvas hanging in the doorway of my grandparents home in Manono-Uta.

The almost-lime green expanse of grass meets the wide band of the glistening dark green pa aute, dotted red with flower. A mere slice in nature is the bitumen road, pressed thin under the movement of the ocean, the baby blue sky and puffs of pure white cloud.

Dad's presence is stamped softly around me: in Grandma's smile, her sleeping face; in this very fale where he has placed his hands. I drift into a space. A space that rocks gently between contentment and yearning.

I am missing my parents again back in Christchurch. Every now and then the waves nudge me deep in the gut and I lose a breath each time. Yet I am so happy to be here - my mothe'rs land, my father's land, the land of their mothers and fathers before them; bathing in their seas and stories, many of which are yet to unfold.

I am overwhelmed by this existence. This is my home. This is completion.

*********

Outside the colours gradually soften into muted greys and blues. Clear sounds emphasise the quiet. Sporadic rain drops echo off the roof. Old-time songs of Samoa crackle in the distance. Relaxed footsteps pad back and forth across the linoleum floor. Barely aware of my own movement, I rise and move towards the door, careful not to rouse Grandma from her afternoon slumber.

Sitting on the top step hugging my knees, I am thirteen again, watching the same spots of rain edge the concrete steps in the same even spaces and breathing the same warm, succulent air. The resounding giggles of my then four and six year-old brothers and their playmates spin in the breeze. Skinny arms and legs, dry and brown from the sun pedal past me. They squeal around the rainwater tank that is no longer there; through Uncle Ioanes fale, since reduced to its concrete foundations by Cyclones Ofa and Val. I allow these and more memories to wash through me then quietly slip back inside.

*********

Our family portrait marks our first steps on this soil. It was a gift to our aiga on our first family visit to Samoa in 1987. It hangs on the wall across the room from me, and has done now for nearly thirteen years half my lifetime.

The day of the photo shoot I remember clearly. It was a crisp, autumn Christchurch morning in Hagley Park. Autumn - my favourite time of year where the air sits cold on your nose, and leaves red where it touches your cheeks. The rich colours: golds and bronzes, scattered beneath the bare trees; the grass floor sprinkled in dew.

Mum and Dad's announcement at home that morning, that we were to dress in our school uniforms for the portrait, was met with relentless protests. Faces and bodies twisted in distaste. Feet stomped. Shoulders drooped heavily. Drawers and wardrobes opened and slammed shut. Perhaps it was the unsightliness of our tantrums that scared Mum and Dad out of that idea, fearful that their normally beautiful children may be captured on film in this state. Amazed at our victory, we dressed triumphantly in our favourite clothes. Of course, we didn't have the foresight to consider the rapid changes in fashion. I study my own dress with amusement.

My red, black-polka dotted outfit I remember well a matching skirt and top. How I loved that ensemble! It came in a large bagful of clothing from Brigette. New to our school, and my new friend, statuesque Brigette had outgrown her clothes in an enviably rapid rise through puberty. I remember the fresh sweet smell of those clothes, the scent of Cuddly fabric softener, a luxurious escape from our regular cold water Surf washing powder. Also among the contents of the bags were two angora wool jerseys, exquisitely soft; two pairs of corduroy jeans the grey being my favourite pair, the other pair an unmemorable… black? But yes, how I loved that red outfit even if for a while it earned me the nickname Spotty. At moments of low-esteem, which was often, it became difficult to tell whether my siblings were referring to my outfit, or my eternally blemished complexion. In any case, I welcomed the opportunity to be photographed in it.

Secretly, I thought Steve the photographer was rather handsome for a tall, lanky red-head. With a friendly energy, he moved and spoke confidently, guiding us into our places. However, unaccustomed to this degree of attention from a palagi, we were reduced to a family of shyness. This intensified when after "a few shots of the whole family" and a few of "just the children", handsome Steve called for a romantic shot of Mum and Dad. Romantic!?

Sinking feelings washed through us, circled and dispersed upward into the trees, then fell again, bouncing off the tops of our heads.
- Come on, arms around each other! Oh, come on, let's make it romantic!
We shifted in embarrassment, not knowing where to look. A reluctant flick of a glance at Dad was enough to pick up on his discomfort, revealed by the line on his face which failed to curve into a smile for the camera. His arm moved obediently across and placed itself around Mum's shoulders.

*********

Dad's love for all of us, Mum included, was unquestionable. We were always clear about that. However overt signs of affection in our presence were rarely, if ever, exchanged between them. Romance was a palagi notion, only ever witnessed on TV and even then frowned upon. Whenever in Dad's presence the most conservative kiss was exchanged on the screen, our hearts would skip a simultaneous beat.
- Ki i le isi iku!
Then we would sink in dismay, as whomever was closest to the TV rose begrudgingly to switch the channel. In the days of only two TV channels, the alternative was always something boring like The News, or worse, The Dog Show.

Not surprisingly but regrettably, the romantic pictures were not included in the final purchase. The 'just the children' portrait hangs on the wall of our family home in Christchurch; and the whole family is facing me now. My eyes linger over the faces of my parents Lui and Ioana, then over each of my four sisters and two brothers. Were we really that young?

My little brothers sweet smiles belie their notoriety at the time. Often wreaking havoc wherever they played, their cuteness alone saved them from any lingering scorn of their victims. How could one remain angry at these adorable little shits? Teleas small, heart-shaped face, long lashes curled over his big brown eyes and his most melting feature a head of brown soft curls. Palema, his darker brown glistening skin, similarly heart-shaped face, with round black, black eyes and fine, blue-black hair. A bitter-sweet duo.

Pue, our eldest sister, third parent and the fairest of us all. (I recall a time when Palema was saddened by his perceived prospect of being adopted, with Pue being so white and he being so black.) The responsibility of being the eldest, Pue has carried remarkably well. Always the adult with maturity beyond her years, she has somehow managed to manipulate the effects of time. With each passing year, she seems to become younger in both appearance and manner. Her sense and sensibilities though, remain steadfast and have a way of highlighting my own misgivings and recklessness.

Second in line, Lita - the elegant one. Now a family and career woman, Lita exudes a different air of maturity, making the rest of us unattached girls feel all the more single. Lita has always had a unique fire in her, and its always a delight when she reveals it now; when she engages and amuses us with updates on her life. Her and her husband Tiketi make a handsome couple. With their three gorgeous boys Liam, Nathan and Mahlon, they are a portrait in their own right.

I am the third eldest, followed by Losa. Like Palema, Losa has darker beautiful features and complexion. Losa has a sense of mystery about her, and one who seemed to enjoy keeping to herself. It has been in very recent years that Losa and I have become closer friends. That accelerated when I moved back home to save money for my coming to Samoa, to share Losas room and uncomfortable double bed. It was like being children again, talking and laughing into the small hours of the morning, only to be momentarily silenced by Mum and Dad banging on the wall every now and then, until we eventually fell asleep.

Maau. Darling Maauifanua. The youngest of the sisters, she divides the boys from the girls. Bearing the brunt of sibling cruelty, I wonder with shame at how she survived our relentless taunts which continued right through her teens. In recent years as we finally grew up, the barriers blurred, we reacquainted ourselves and have become friends, peers, equals. I remember long ago, on one rare occasion when I brought a friend home from school, Maau would have been just four years old. She bounced into my room, giggling in fascination at my companion. Startling me, Annette gasped. Ooh! Your sister is sooo gorgeous! Look at her ringlets! Surprised at how she could possibly attract admiring attention from anyone, I looked down at Maau and saw her through Annette's eyes. Freshly showered, her long brown hair fell into even cascades of ringlets, at the sides of her small, cherub face. Chubby little arms and legs extended from a tiny white t-shirt and red paisley shorts. Annette was right, she was a bundle of gorgeousness. That shut me up, big time.

*********

That portrait, a snapshot of another lifetime. Faces of youth and innocence.

Distanced from my family, my love, appreciation, pride and fondness of them has grown all the more. In spite of the pain we've all suffered at different times, individually and as a family whole, the challenges of assimilating a culture in a foreign country, the financial struggles of raising a large family on minimal means, we have had a rich upbringing. As I sit here in my grandparents' home in Samoa, and absorb the spirits of where I come from in their entirety, I feel a lot closer to my own self.

*********

Hurried movement coming in from behind, breaks me from my reverie. It is my cousin. It is three oclock time to wake Grandma for her afternoon prayer. Time to leave her in peace, and join the others in the fale out the back for a hot cup of koko Samoa while we wait for Grandma to finish. The music will then come on and my young cousins will pull me up to help choregraph a dance routine. This is always a challenge when we are all doubling over with laughter. But look out… Britney Spears, here we come!

Kaligalu

The night air is thick and sweet, the black sky saturated with twinkling stars over the seawall of Apia Harbour. The time is satisfyingly unknown; one or two in the morning perhaps? Again, the midnight closure of bars and nightclubs has failed to terminate the evenings merriment as drunken revellers set out to elongate the night. Plonked on the concrete steps of the sea wall, we are armed with rustling plastic carry bags containing plates of warm and alluring Sunrise Chinese takeaway food, and the magical timbre of clunking Vailima bottles with chilled moisture glistening down their glorious, green glass necks.

There is a period of quiet, while ploughing through our feasts. Spoonful after spoonful warm egg foo yong, always surprisingly flavoursome, slides easily down my throat. The familiar ginger and garlic aroma of sapa sui expertly balanced upon a couple of thick French fries passes welcomingly through my lips. Ive ignored all the bacon bits in the egg. That tiny, surely they can pass for not being real meat? More small portions of meat pass unnoticed among the stir-fry vegetables. With a large degree of discipline I could sustain my vegetarian diet in Samoa, but this is oh so much more fun, and sociable. After a couple of swigs to wash it all down, another round of Vailima is distributed and the murmur of voices gradually builds as we re-bond with our companions. We are alive again.

An orchestra of voices breaks into Samoan song. Resonating male vocals and clear, strong female harmony, interspersed with that unique, almost-shrill from-the-gut laughter, sails over the harbour. Jocular antics and animated dance breeds more laughter. Quietly basking in the richness of this fun, inside I couldnt smile any wider.

Without a word, I turn from the crowd towards the water and the faint sea breeze cools my alcohol flushed cheeks. As my eyes play with the shimmer of golden lines on the sea, it all becomes so simple, so clear, so real. With all my experiences of Samoa to date the island itself, the people, the spirit, the fun, the complexities, the tradition, the history, and family - one word springs from my heart.

Soul. Samoa has soul. It is soul.