LAST OVERSEAS POST

Seti's father helps build the new Faofao fale while I clean up my knee and prep for shooting on land. I've been invited back to their new home on the hill. The drive is very quiet. The father doesn't speak more than a few words of English and my Samoan is totally NG. Seti sits on his father's lap. Interacting directly with him is a challenge. I'm just too alien. Even though this family lives in one of the most visited travel spots (well, what used to be) it seems that their direct contact with outsiders was not really common. I suspect the father is either really shy or doesn't really want to be part of what I'm doing. He's obliging, but I can't say I've seen him smile once - this might sound callous - but most of the people I've met so far have been up and down - life goes on - the range of emotions...this man is only down as far as I can tell. I have compassion - On one side, I don't blame him for being reserved. I don't think I would want a foreign person nosing around at a time like this either. On the other side, I'm frustrated and feeling like I won't have anything of real substance to show for the time invested here. I'm worried that by putting everyone else's needs ahead of mine that I've compromised my own efforts. Originally, I had intended to make my own project and then to also assist the Samoan people directly. Somehow, around the time with SUNGO at the start, I shifted my priorities to serve the Samoans first - that my own needs would get met - all I needed to do was serve them well, then everything would work out. On the quiet drive up to the new settlement, I am increasingly demoralized. I begin to wonder if I should be re-thinking my project. Upon arrival at the new family home I'm further dismayed...the family patriarch is in Apia - hours away - and my translator is also absent. I sit quietly with the father and other family members staring at me. Conversation is hard and stilted. I sense that I'm not really so welcome after all. I feel like an outsider. Lunch is served - two lobsters are placed in front of me. I reach down to open one up - it's cold. Probably cooked over an hour ago. Keeping the flies off it is just not possible. I pull a piece of meat off the tail and there's brown gelatinous fluid seeping out of the end of it. I wipe that off on the plate and politely eat as much of the cold flesh as I can stomach and pass the rest on to the father. I fear this meal may make me terribly ill, but I don't want to risk offending this generosity. These people lost their matriarch, lost their home, lost their possessions - and yet they make me welcome, they give me priority in the pecking order and allow me to document their lives in the midst of this terrible loss. Please, James...just get over yourself and BE with these people. I sit with them for a few more awkward moments and just can't bear to be NOT shooting. I excuse myself and go for a long walk. I figure today's trip is a write-off as far as this family is concerned. I need to move on and shoot some footage of the new village and maybe find some other people to talk to. Being unproductive today is not an option. Unlike my last visit here, the rain is holding off. I saddle up with my overweight camera bag on my back and carry the tripod over my shoulder. The design of this bag is not so good and it keeps slipping off, so I alternate between carrying it at my side, throwing my walk off balance, or over my shoulder. The noon day sun bakes me well. I've got a litre of water. Today will be a challenge, but I've come this far. A minor amount of discomfort and dehydration are a small price to pay. Something will happen. As I carry my load down the gravel road, I feel a sense of release. I pass a home where some young men are out front. They call to me. I clamber up an embankment to say hello. There's a man in the home who was at the Seti's home yesterday. I sit with him for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries, but I sense that I'm not really welcome here. I excuse myself and continue down the road. Some young men are filling 10 gallon buckets from a big green 3000 litre plastic water tank. I shoot them for a while, filling the buckets and carrying them to their home. The final destination is an old freezer, which serves as the family water resevoir. It starts to rain, so I'm invited inside. A woman lies on the ground, profusely coughing every once in a while. A baby sleeps nearby. A guy about my age goes about his business, sorting through the piles of clothing that take up an entire end of this fale. Mostly he ignores me. I'm welcome, but he's busy. This is good. I ask permission to shoot. He agrees and continues to ignore me. Perfect. After a while he comes to talk with me. I ask if he wants to tell his story on camera - he declines, but reminds me that it's still OK to shoot otherwise. The rain clears up and I continue on my way. By this time, I'm resolved to make my way back up to Va'a's family home – the last time I made this trip we were followed by a group of gawking young people – I’m hoping to have a more meaningful interaction this time.



For the record: I felt it necessary to mostly ignore the young people who would swarm me, either posing for the camera or throwing their hands up in front of the lens. This was the only way for me to get some of what I needed in these moments. In other circumstances (If I were a tourist) I would certainly consider obliging these young people’s desire to be acknowledged. They are friendly and I’m an oddity in their bleak world – but my time is short and photographing them in these moments (there were many) would have potentially cost me other more significant material. In these moments, I stayed as friendly as possible, but secretly cursed all the tourists who came before and encouraged this behaviour. If I were staying in one location for the duration of the trip, it might have been possible to indulge the kids early on, then get on with the work, but I was in new locations – facing new kids…just about every day. A small challenge, but worth explaining I hope.



I’m lucky – after shooting some establishing shots of the area, I meet one young man on the road up to Va’a’s family home. Grateful for the break, I drop my bags to say hello. His English is excellent and we chat for a while. I’m pleased to simply talk – no camera – no interview – no feeling of need or loss for not shooting. Neither of us wants anything from the other. (and I think this may be what was hard about dealing with the above). Simple human interaction. I think we share much with ants. I ask after his family. They lost two people, “but they were only children.”, he says. Must be something lost in translation.



When I arrive at Va’a’s family home, the patriarch is sharpening his machete with a stone. He’s got one end stabbed into a fale pole for support and he’s running the stone the length of it. We talk briefly then he heads out to the field. I have one more interaction with his mother-in-law, to say hello and goodbye. This is my final trip to their home this time. The mother-in-law is very friendly, but doesn’t understand English. That’s OK – a smile and a kiss go a long way. We’re both pleased and that means the world to me. I wander outside and shoot several establishing shots of their plantation home. It’s on an embankment – the cows are up above and there are several tents scattered around the property. The main fale has a very low roof and is completely crowded with stuff, including at least two tv’s and several radios – all of which seem to be on. I think that the Australian teams installed electricity to the entire new village. I’m glad to leave the cacophony of noise behind me and head back down the road again. My desire to find a beautifully scenic view as a reward for the hard walk up this muddy hill is left unfulfilled.



By the time I reach the main village road my spirit has shifted. My car is over the next sweaty hill, or maybe the one after that – and soon I will be headed towards another scenario. Still frustrated with the experience (the one I set out for here) I am feeling glad to be leaving here. My knowledge of just how powerful the footage is of the three boys talking in Samoan about how they miss their seaside home – and wondering what Christmas will be like – is still several days away…In this moment (despite all the other great footage) I’m feeling like I have failed in my main objective here. I’m eagerly looking at the horizon. My plan is to deposit the camera and tripod in the car, at the foot of the driveway, then go up to Seti’s house to say “bye-bye” and thank-you, then hit the road.



On arrival at the home, I’m greeted with a surprise: Sagnelli, the family patriarch, has returned. He greets me warmly. Not sure if I mentioned this earlier, but I have been explicitly invited to return any time – as a family member. My Samoan family. I think that the true value and meaning of their generosity and welcome have not weighed in on me yet – it’s hard to fully take this in, amidst all the wreckage.



My mood lifts. Things are different when Sagnelli is present. Not sure how to describe it – but it’s kind of like the difference between arriving at a port to either find the boat is just about to leave, as opposed to finding that the boat has just left. Same place – totally different experience. I sit on the edge of the fale for a while. Sagnelli is playing cards with a pair of friends. I am now in a position where I need to be bold in making requests. Usually, I like to shoot my subjects as they are, naturally – nothing staged. I have always believed that this is a “pure” form of filmmaking. My impending departure causes me to be more brazen. Through a translator I ask Sagnelli what songs they have been singing since the tsunami. Sagnelli summons a bible. I ask if they would please sing a song for me. They oblige. The whole family and guests join in signing a hymn. Everything works out in the end. As I drive away in the car, I’m happy to have had this experience and grateful to leave the mud behind. Those people are struggling to get by – and yet their hospitality is still par none. Humbling.



Va’a joins me on the drive back to Apia. We take the long route – around the east coast and over Le Mafa Pass, one of the most scenic parts of the island. The first district we pass through is Aleipata. It’s more residential than the south coast and hit as hard or harder than the tourist areas. Or maybe, it’s because the damage was partial – or maybe because there are more homes – not sure why, but the damage seems worse here. Actually, there are many people here, living in and around the semi-demolished buildings…that’s why it seems worse. The entire tourist coast had been completely wiped out – so no one was inhabiting the place (except Faofao). People were still living in Aleipata. Yards were flooded, but many of the homes were intact. There were patches of empty land, where the tsunami had cleared, but these were surrounded by other structures that still stood. I don’t know any people here and have not been invited, so we keep driving. Va’a takes the occasional picture for me. My final destination today is Manono, so there’s no time to stop. This place is more desperate – I can feel it.



As we reach the near side of Le Mafa, several tour busses are stopped at a small bridge. Police cars accompany them. Teuila flowers adorn the busses. Va’a wonders out loud what this is about. This is a rural area, so this is clearly a big event. Thankfully we get to pass. I assume that it’s something to do with the end of the school year. Upon reaching Le Mafa, there’s mist flowing over the mountains, but it’s raining hard, so I can’t get a decent shot. We wait for the rain to pass, but the mist goes with it. I pull my camera out to see what I might get – but am mostly disappointed. This is the challenge of returning to places with expectations: some of my best footage was shot here in 2003. I figure the least I can do is take a shot of the lush mountain tops. The school busses catch up to us – by now there are several more. All of them are decked out with flowers. At this point I might have figured out what was happening – the names of the tsunami villages are placed in the front windows. These busses are heading to Apia, filled with children affected by the tsunami – for a special, last minute event hosted by the Prime Minister. It won’t be until later in the day, on Manono, that I will learn this. I pack the camera back into the car and after one more brief stop to shoot a waterfall we arrive in Apia. We stop at the fish market for some fish and chips. By this time I’ve offered to let Va’a stay in my room for the night. He’s never stayed at a hotel before. I figure the best strategy is to drop my bags at my room, take Va’a with me to return the car (he knows the way), head back to my room, offload the footage and catch a cab to the wharf. It’s a Saturday and between the main road construction and the long distance to the rental agency and slow cab driver on the way back, I lose about two hours. Never mind my frustration at having to double back through the extensive construction detour to reach the wharf. About ¼ of the way to the rental agency I figure out my strategy error – but it’s too late. I fume through the entire trip – both times. The second time is worse because the cab driver keeps raising the fare. He feigned lack of English while we were negotiating – but by the time we reach the wharf the price had gone up 20% and his English had improved by at least 70%. A lot of this is my own fault – I wasn’t aware of the fair price for the trip. Blew off the first cab that gave me the right price – took the next cab that gave me a lower price…so all the driver was doing was claiming the proper fare. It would have been better if he’d used his very good English to explain this in the first place – but I was not in my most graceful mode at this time. I was already an hour late for my Manono connection. I had called them from Apia to say I would be late, but still felt bad. The ferry boats are all owned by the Manono locals and there’s no fixed schedule. They make special trips, mostly by arrangement only.



By the time we arrived at the wharf I pretty much silently threw the money through the window at the driver and marched to the boat. I was greeted by a group of very tired looking islanders. I could tell something was wrong. As the boat pulled away I asked the man beside me if they’d been waiting long and he paused then replied, “Yes.” This kind of frankness is uncommon. I apologized, explaining that I had traveled from the south coast this morning and then had been delayed by construction. He gracefully let me off the hook – but for what I didn’t fully understand until later that day. I had been apologizing for being an hour later than arranged. What I learned from Leota, my Manono host – and owner of the boat – was that my phone message from three days ago, had not reached him. Leota had been expecting me at 10am. I had called three days ago to say I was coming at 2pm. He had honoured my original request. It’s possible that the patient islanders had waited up to 5 hours for me.



Manono is a very small island – I think you can walk around it in less than 45 minutes – the islanders say 15 minutes, but I covered the trip to the next village from Leota’s place a few times and it was at least 10 minutes each way and I know that’s only part of the entire trip. Time on Manono is based on two things – sunlight and tides…that’s it. The island has a summer camp feel. Everything is basic, in the best possible way. There are no roads and no dogs. To get around, you either walk the dirt tracks or take a boat.



Leota greets me. First order of business is to clear up what happened with the arrival time. I apologize again for being late – I had explained this over the phone, but through mixed communication and translation, it’s not until the next day that I fully understand just how late I was in their world. Until this time, I am still only talking about one hour.



Leota explains that Neti, his eight year-old son…the one I will be filming…is in Apia…on the mainland. I had previously requested that Neti meet me at the wharf, on Upolu, so we can film on the boat ride to Manono. I figured this might be a good way to break the ice. Good thing – the poor boy would have been waiting 5 hours for me. This is the moment I learn about the Prime Minister’s special event for all the tsunami children in the country. My disappointment sinks deeper – not only did I miss the event, I also missed one of my main subjects attending this unique event. Doesn’t matter the level of co-ordination that it would have taken to arrange this – I missed it. Doesn’t matter the communication it would have taken for the news to reach me at Saleapaga – somehow, the event was arranged at the last minute…and I was the only one not to know about it. So here I sit, waiting on Manono…for hours…for my subject to return from the event I should have been filming him at. If I had only known. The last thing I cover with Leota is a request to film some singing while with his family. I don’t receive a direct answer, but I can see that he’s considering something. We leave it at that. I go to my room to set up the office.



Once everything’s plugged in and tested, I decide to seek out Masi. Masi lives next to Leota. His family home and store are completely gone, save the cement foundation. It’s so perfectly flat that when the aid workers arrived to survey the damage, they used it as a helicopter landing pad. Some time before the tsunami, Masi suffered a terrible head injury. In Leota’s words, Masi is slower than he used to be – but Masi considers himself lucky. While living in New Zealand, four men attacked him, leaving a divet and a soft spot (don’t ask me how I know) on the side of his head. After months of rehabilitation, Masi moved back to Samoa. Masi’s English is excellent and communication is easy. The injury might have slowed him somewhat, but I sense that he’s “all there”. On my first visit to Manono, Leota quickly introduced me to Masi, who was keen to show me the damage to his property.



Given the time now on my hands, I figure this the perfect opportunity to follow up with Masi. Transporting my gear by hand on Manono is a treat compared to Saleapaga. Despite the tsunami devastation, the local paths are dry and intact. I find Masi in his fale, across the path from the destroyed family home. It’s late afternoon and the light is perfect. Masi is graciously obliging. There is nothing I need to say…he patiently waits for me to set up and then makes sure I’m ready before starting his monologue. The late afternoon sunlight skips in pools of water that have gathered in the broken linoleum of the place of Masi’s birth. Yellow spray paint markers delineate the edges of the concrete with parallel lines, filled with diagonal slashes. I’ve seen this kind of border markings on other damaged properties – but am not sure what it means.



Nothing in life is perfect, it seems. As amazing as this scene is, the best way to photograph it is from a distance…and in my rush, I’ve forgotten the headphones. Masi is likely 30 feet from me. There’s no better way to shoot this, so moving the camera is unpalatable. Asking Masi to wait for me to run and get them would wreck the moment – and the light is dropping. I opt for shooting the audio blind. Somehow I have faith that it will be OK. As Masi speaks, I only hear what he’s saying intermittently. I know it’s good…if I can only hold up my end of the deal. Masi obliges several different angles – talking through them all. At the end, I shoot some portrait type video as well as a still or two. There’s still a bit of useable daylight remaining, so I take some shots of the barren homestead and then pack up.



I am feeling buoyed on the walk back to Leota’s. Coming to Manono is a very good thing. I’m feeling a little guilty because of the hardship left behind in Saleapaga, but this is also part of the story – and a part that has been underreported. Just because there was no loss of life on Manono, doesn’t mean there wasn’t loss.



Manono has the feel of summer camp. Beautiful flower trees line the dirt paths. Boats are the only motor vehicles. 24 hour electrical service only started some time within the last 10 years.



On return, Leota invites me to join his family for prayer time, to record the singing. This is a daily event and I’m feeling honoured. Manono is a much more traditional place. To be trusted with this invitation – not only as an individual – but as a member of the media, is a privilege. It is here that I meet Neti.



I quickly set up the camera in one corner of the family verandah, overlooking the ocean. I place one radio mic on the floor, next to Neti. During the singing, his voice is much louder than the rest of the family – I look over to discover Neti, leaning right in to the mic…my previous feelings of relief to be on Manono are nearly scuttled. Is this going to be another struggle to avoid shooting people who insist on posing and hamming it up for the camera? In retrospect, I realize that my situation is an unreasonable expectation…to drop in on the people of Samoa during the aftermath of a disaster and expect them to “act normal”…but through budget constraints and design (the choice to serve the needs of local NGO’s, as a priority) I have no alternative, but to forge ahead and get what I can. This is a tradeoff – if I were to have gone in and spent a week with them to get familliar before rolling the camera, surely lots of spontaneous moments would be lost. Regardless, more time, both here and in Saleapaga, now, would have been beneficial to my story.



After the prayer my hosts excuse me from their home and “suggest” that I need time to work. They offer to serve my dinner up at my fale. Although they are 100% correct, the dismissal is obvious. Although, I’m a welcome guest (they are entirely facilitating my visist – they are putting me up), I am present to the feeling that they need to attend to family business, of which I am not a part.



Just as I am about to start transferring the footage from the camera to the hard drives, Paulo arrives with my dinner. Help, at the worst possible moment...I am still unsure of how the interview with Masi has turned out, from a technical standpoint. I drop what I’m doing and sit on the front porch of my fale. Paulo and another young man serve me a very generous portion of fried chicken and chips. Tsunami victims, giving generously…again. I gratefully accept the company of the two young men. Paulo stays by my side, waving the flies off my food, as I eat. Some previous incarnation would have been uncomfortable with this level of service, but the warmth of the Manono hospitality is welcome to me. I’m getting it. Acceptance is also generosity.



The footage looks good. As usual, there is only time for a spot check for quality – it will be weeks or months before the full content is known. Zero sleep, as tempting as it is, would be bad for future shooting. My world for some technical assistance.



The next day. Time is lost on Manono. My only reference is the fact that after two nights I must head back to the mainland.



The first meeting with Neti is a challenge. The night before, Paulo had offered his services, to carry equipment and translate. Neti’s English is not supposed to be so good. While I’m setting the camera up, Neti wanders around a boarded family building, damaged in the tsunami. After a failed attempt to do an interview, I suggest that Neti walk around the building again – and I’ll follow him. Perhaps, this will be more natural. The walk feels stilted. It’s the old, “literal interpretation” scenario again. It’s beginning to feel like intuition has totally failed me on this project. How foolish of me to preconceive from Canada what life would be like for Samoans after a tsunami. How utterly futile to have assumed anything.



One more attempt to do an interview is stilted by mixed up translations. Neti is confused by too many messages from both me and Paulo. Neti’s English is strong enough that he understands me, but the influence of an older family member, insisting on translating, only confuses matters. Bail on the interview. Next thing we try is for Neti to walk around the shoreline. The tide is out and there’s a damaged home next to where we stand.



Neti leads me out on the rocks. The further we go, the more slippery it gets, but this is the most useful footage I’ve got of him so far, so I persist, hoping not to end up on my side with broken bones poking through my skin. Neti heads for the abandoned house. Keeping up is a challenge, but I manage to get some useable footage of him exploring (more like passing through) the damage.



Back on solid ground, I get an idea. Remembering Neti’s fascination with the microphone last night, I decide to run with it. I give him the lav mic and tell him to lead me through his village. I ask Paulo to watch the equipment, reducing the confusion, for Neti. I invent a game – “tour guide”. I ask Neti to tell me about his village. He leads me along the waterside path. “This is rock. Tsunami coming and put here.” A piece of the puzzle. The beach looks fine to the eye…but I don’t know what to compare it to. Neti reveals that the large pile of rocks, neatly arranged along the entire shoreline, were dragged in by the tsunami. Big changes.



I reward Neti’s initiative with a thumbs-up and a huge smile. Relief. Things are moving in the right direction. Neti gets it. Near the far end of the trip we arrive at the site of his school. He casually indicates the water tank. The mangled slide lies sideways on the concrete pad…all that remains. Neti doesn’t seem disturbed by the total destruction of his school. Maybe it’s because he was in Apia when the waves came…or maybe it’s because the destruction of the school is any 8 year-old’s dream come true. (Maybe that’s a North American thought.) In any case, Neti is very casual about describing the damage. He seems unaffected – even when introducing Masi’s home. Neti concludes the tour with a “That’s all” and turns to me to remove the microphone.



After dumping the footage to the computer, I prep the camera for underwater shooting. Next up is a trip to the reef to go swimming with Neti. The boat driver tells me the water is 5 meters deep, although I’m sure it’s not. Good thing I listen to intuition before leaping in. Samoans use both imperial and metric – 5 feet is more like it. The longer we stay in, the better the footage gets – Neti loves the water.



On the way over, I shoot across from one pontoon to the other, where he’s lying on his belly, watching the water pass under. Having learned from the last water escapade, I’m shooting all of this in slow motion. This way, the elusive best moments will be expanded in time. I need to stack the odds in my favour. Documenting my own story for the blog is also a challenge – what’s a story, without the story about the story? How else am I to share my experiences? The boat driver obliges – I hand him my waterproof stills camera and he takes some memorable shots. I’ve been lucky on this entire trip – lucky to remember to ask people to take shots for me – and lucky that they have been willing. The waterproof stills camera and waterproof splash bag for my video camera were two of the best spontaneous buys I made before coming to Samoa. In hindsight, I would have been very, very angry with myself had I ignored that little voice that said, “do it” when I was in the store. I bought them both on credit – but both have been invaluable to telling the story. Some opportunities don’t come twice. This is one of those times. Neti’s neon yellow/green goggles give him the look of an exotic tropical creature. He plays the part perfectly. At times he sits still in the water, cross legged, hands pointed in the air above his head – and others he swims right at me, reaching for the lens. Pure play. Last thing he wants to do is jump from the roof of the boat. I swim a bit further out and get some shots of the tsunami damage. Much of the coral is snapped, lying sideways on the lagoon floor. There’s a lot of damage. I shoot out the remainder of my footage on the trip back to shore.



That afternoon I am reminded of the amazing progress the construction crew are making, rebuilding Leota’s resort. In my admiration of their accomplishments, it occurs to me that part of the reason I feel such affinity for Samoans is because their culture is the closest thing I’ve experienced to working on a film crew. There’s a similar “one for all” approach, working towards one goal. It’s a weird parallel – and I’m not explaining it properly, but in this moment I was feeling affinity for the workers, despite having not spoken more than a few words with them. After checking the appropriateness with Leota, I walked to the store with one of the young men to buy a round of beer for the workers. Today is Friday and I know they’ll appreciate it. The beer on Manono only comes in one size – quarts. My intuition is correct. That evening I sit with the workers and just hang. They’re drinking some kind of rum or coconut hootch like it’s going out of style. Fortunately for tomorrow, it’s mixed with water. This may be the first time I let things hang out a bit. The timing worked out that I had finished the day’s work before dinner time. Speaking of dinner, I was served at the workers’ site, in the dark. Three things occupied my plate: rice, a whole fish and some kind of meat. I tried the meat first. My thoughts went from 1/Tough pork… to 2/I wonder what cut this is? To 3/What animal am I eating? I didn’t ask. The fish wasn’t scaled. Between the bones and the scales, I was lucky to get any meat. I scooped as much of the rice into my mouth as possible (between shots of the hootch) and eventually Paulo encouraged me to let him finish it off. I was both relieved to be free of the task, but hungry. Freedom won over. I hang with the guys for a while longer then retired to my fale, feeling happy.



Next morning I discover a very fast cockroach under one of my bags. I’m faster. The heel of my sandals is very effective. The carcass of this cockroach emits one of the weirdest, bitter, foul odours I’ve ever encountered. I take pleasure in noting through the morning how ants dismember the roach and carry the parts out the door. Mental note: shake every item out before getting on the plane.



The next morning I attend a fono (chiefs’ meeting in the main village) and am allowed to shoot the ava ceremony. Leota arranges permission for me to shoot the first part of the event only. I learned the night before that the purpose of the meeting is to consider permission for two local youths to be reintroduced to the island. They had been temporarily expelled for drunk and disorderly behaviour. I hope they are accepted back into the community.



One of the first things I was asked on arriving at Manono was when I was leaving. Since this question was asked as recently as last night, it would stand to reason, since no contradiction was revealed, that all was fine. I had after all consistently answered, 11am on Saturday. The importance of my return was also stated – today I meet with the CEO of SUNGO, for an overnight trip to visit with her family. Being on time for this meeting is important. Wrapping things up on Manono is also important. Shooting in slow motion (all the water footage yesterday) is great, but recording audio is not possible in this mode. One last interview with Neti will provide a voice over as well as additional footage to use. The construction workers are hard at it with power tools and a massive boom box, so we walk out of earshot and shoot in a fale on the shore. Ester, Neti’s young sister follows us the whole way. It takes a lot of “encouraging” to get the idea across to her that Neti and I need her to “take off”, but eventually she gets it. One unfortunate side-effect of language barriers is the necessity of blatant gestures. “Go home, Ester.” It breaks my heart to be so straightforward, but it’s the only way to get the message across. Since arriving, Ester has shadowed me. Her little game is to call out my name, as if summoning me to something important. My response is to call her name, as if she is an old long lost friend. I hope our game survives my crassness. Ester goes away. The last interview with Neti is successful.



After packing the camera and all bags, I deposit them at the wharf. It’s still early, so I head into the village to resolve a loose end: I had neglected to ask Masi to sign a release form on day one. I find Masi at the meeting, which is just wrapping up. He’s more than happy to sign. I explain to him that I am not able to directly fulfill his need for a new home. He had been pretty much directly asking for me to build a new home on his family property and had promised to take care of it – and that I would be welcome any time. I tell him that I am not in a position to finance this operation, but through the generosity of his sharing the story on video, I am now enabled to communicate his story of loss with many other people – and that maybe someone who sees his plea will be able to directly benefit from this kind of relationship. Masi thanks me. I wish him well and I leave to catch up with Leota, who’s walking back to his home.



On many occasions he repeated to me the importance of keeping his resort small. Greetings and goodbyes are important to him. On day one he told me that it’s important to know what works and what doesn’t work for the guests. The only shortcoming I can think of was the absence of a hook anywhere in my fale’s bathroom. He laughs. He gets it – and he’s grateful for my suggestion.



Despite all the reconfirmations, Leota’s son has taken the boat to Upolu for a last minute trip. It’s possible that he’ll be back by 12, 12:30 or maybe 12:45…My dissatisfaction with this message is clear. By 1:00 a boat from another village is arranged and by 1:30 I’m on my way back to the main island. Neti is gone with his brother to Upolu, so I fill my last time on Manono taking photos of the washed up coral with the forgiving Ester. Our game has survived my transgression. I leave some gifts for Neti and the family. Using a wide permanent marker I write Neti’s name on my dive belt. He had proudly worn it on our first day together and I know it will mean a lot for him to own it. I include my water bottle pouch so it will have a practical use for him. For the others I leave some caribeeners, sunglasses and jewelers screwdriver set, as well as the 2” paper tape. Earlier in the day I had also doled out most of my polysporin, bactine spray, band aids and gauze. I would have left it all, but I still have 48 hours left in Samoa…and a lot can happen quickly here in the tropics. The boat arrives and I head for Upolu.



My last two days are taken up with a whirlwind visit to a small village with Roina, CEO of SUNGO. The 80 plus year old church in this backwater village had just been renovated. They were just moving the pews back in when we arrived. Next morning, the Sunday service was extra special. The National broadcaster came and set up 4 cameras, for it to be broadcast that evening. I was crowded out. I learned later that my head made it into their shot. Famous. That evening I met one last time with Vaasilli at the SUNGO office. She looked tired. Her bed roll was laid out on the boardroom conference table. This is when I learned that the leadership also took turns doing night shift. The main doors couldn’t be locked because, after all, someone had to keep an eye out for the well being of the security volunteers. We shoot one final interview out front and then head indoors to do a broad review of all the footage. I feel I should be feeling elated at the success of the trip – this is when I learn of the content of Seti’s conversation with his friends on the back of his new fale – but instead, I’m just numb, likely from overstimulation and exhaustion.



If you remember, I had felt totally at a loose end during shooting with 4 year-old Seti at Saleapaga, several days earlier. This was due mostly to language barriers, but also to a propensity for the well meaning adults to specifically “direct” Seti to do this or do that for the camera. Every adult we encountered felt obliged to instruct Seti. This not only would have been profoundly confusing to the boy, but it also hopelessly cluttered my mind with attempts to find someone to please - please - please explain that this is not what is needed. Learning in this moment from Vaasilli that Seti and his friends were talking about missing their beach homes and wondering what Christmas would be like – that this is what the boys were discussing amongst themselves on that stoop – this was a huge relief to me. I reflected on something I had learned last night:



One of the young men on Manono asked me, “who is the actor in your film?” Is it you?”. In that moment I was freed from the pressure of perceived failure in Saleapaga. I laughed so hard…it’s entirely possible that everyone in Saleapaga – Seti’s entire community…thought that I was making a fictional film – and that Seti was the actor and that he needed direction to help achieve my purpose. It’s possible that the whole thing was a misunderstanding because I had failed to properly communicate that what I was making is a documentary. Joke’s on me.



“Who is the actor in your film?”



I’m not entirely certain about the meaning of the following…but in my life there is a connection between the Prairies of North America and Polynesia. On all three trips to the Prairies, some coincidence involving Polynesia occurred. On the first trip to Regina in the 90’s I literally bumped into a Maori man. On the second trip, while driving through Omaha in ‘09 a car pulled up beside me on the highway with a license plate that read, “Talofa”…Samoan for Hello. On the third trip, I was sitting at the computer of Eddy Weiss in Wood River Nebraska, when the news of the tsunami broke. I would have left for Samoa sooner, but I was shooting with Eddy. I left for Samoa as soon as I could.



During the “Talofa” trip to Nebraska I narrowly escaped a tornado with Eddy. In the following months I had decided to modify a tattoo I got in the early 90’s – to make it into a tornado. While in Samoa, land of traditional tattoos, I decided to combine the stories – of my involvement in the tsunami recovery with a telling of the tornado story, in Samoan symbols. I had a feeling at the time that I should also include the story of my third film – but I yield to uncertainty on that one…for now. An hour and a half with the son of Sulu’ape, the most famous Samoan tattoo artist transforms my story into symbols. Everyone in the studio is fascinated with the pictures I show of the Nebraska storm. They are not so surprised with the connections. One of them lived in Colorado for over 20 years. Jr. suggests that I come back in a few hours, so he can work on the design. I head back to my hotel for a quick meal and to pack. No time to shake things out…



Around midnight I board an air-conditioned plane – cold beer – food from New Zealand – and movies on demand. These small familiar comforts are very little reward. I know no satisfaction. All I can see on the horizon is a daunting Visa bill and a return trip in May/June that I’m not sure how to finance. The feeling is that my work here is only beginning. Mostly I’m looking forward to the simple pleasure of sleeping in my own bed…and that’s still two customs checks and 20 hours away.



While it’s true that my own project is still “in production”, the work I’ve done for the Samoan NGO’s is wrapped. All I need to do now is cut their nine projects. This is part of what’s weighing on me. Today is Dec. 27 and I’m just getting around to finally unpacking for real, wrapping the overseas portion of the blog and sinking my teeth into the edits.



Many thanks to everyone who supported this venture both in spirit and with material resources and money. Your contributions went a long way to making a difference to the people of Samoa…as well as directly working on creating messaging that Samoan people want communicated about themselves. Through me, you have communicated the very important message: we care. I am so very grateful that you chose to support my outreach. This was the right thing to do.



End Chapter 1.