Text & Photography by Dixie Samasoni

"May I see your passport?" The big Samoan wore the official white shirt and black pants of the American Samoan Immigration Department. I handed him my Western Samoan passport .

"Are you going on to Western Samoa?"

"No. "

"How long are you planning to stay in American Samoa?"

"About six months."

"Are your parents here?"

"No, they live in Hawaii."

"Do you have any other identification?"

"Yes, there in my passport."

I flipped several pages of the passport which was still on the stand in front of him. I extracted my alien registration card for permanent residency in the United States. He looked at it and asked no more questions. He filled out a slip.

"Take this," he said, "and return it to us when you leave American Samoa."

"Thank you."

I went on to wait for my luggage. I could see boxes and suitcases still being unloaded from the plane onto the truck.

All the Samoans and several palagi (white men) who had been on our American Airlines flight from Honolulu got off at Tafuna, American Samoa's airport. The passengers who were continuing on to Fiji were all palagi.

I am sure by the airline's and the crew's standards the five hour flight from Honolulu had been routine and uneventful, but for me it was a traumatic experience. It had been filled with emotional upheaval, for it might prove to become one of the important turning points in my life.

It was opening a door-a door which might lead to a new self-awareness and self-confidence, or which might prove utterly shattering. I was coming home-or was I? I was returning to my cultural heritage after an absence of nearly eleven years. I was returning to a land of childhood memories and I did not know what to expect.

Would returning to Samoa help me to fully develop whatever potentials I had or would I become shatteringly disillusioned?

I am a Samoan-with some Scottish and some Chinese blood thrown in. I was born in Western Samoa but my mother and my father, Fritz Crichton, were divorced when I was a baby. I was their third child but the only boy. While I was still small, my mother married an American Samoan, Samasoni Save, who took us from Upolu to live in Tutuila, the major island of American Samoa. It was there that I first went to school and learned the many aspects of traditional Samoan country life.

In 1961, when I was eleven, our family emigrated to Hawaii. I was bombarded with so many different cultural values I could not tell what was right and what was wrong. Although we lived in a transplanted Samoan community, the American schools in Hawaii taught me many contradictory things. From my peers of other ethnic backgrounds I was introduced to ways of life I had never conceived possible.

Despite my personal love for music and the arts, my family was filled with praise when I graduated from Waianae. High School and enrolled in the Police Science course at the Honolulu Community College. Their pride was ecstatic when I received the college's graduation certificate-the first Samoan to achieve such an honor.

To them, to become a policeman was the height of ambition; what more could a man want from life? As a policeman, one had the power to give orders. He had status in the community, good and regular pay and security towards retirement.

When I announced that I was not going to become a policeman and was going to continue on in liberal arts at the University. . .well, I became the black sheep not only to my family but to the whole community of Samoan Church Village. I knew within myself that I was right in what I was doing, but it was impossible to explain or substantiate.

The experimental New College at the University of Hawaii's Manoa Campus gave me the proof and the reasons I needed, for it opened up a whole new world of self-discovery and whole-heartedly backed my search into universality.

As undreamed-of-doors opened, both at New College and at the University of the Americas in Mexico, I became aware that to further realize myself, I would have to explore my own heritage firsthand. I would have to go back to Samoa to see how the values I was little by little establishing for my own life stacked up against the traditional patterns of where I had come from.

This flight on January 3, 1973, was my return-a momentous event in my life. I was coming back as part of my independent studies program for New College and I had no idea what to expect or what my conclusions would be.

Filled with my own problems and the diversity of possibilities for the immediate future, I had been in no mood to talk with anyone on the plane, although I was keenly aware of all that was going on around me-particularly amongst my fellow-traveling Samoans.

During the flight, I had had a window seat on the smoker' s side of the aisle. To my left had been older Samoan men. Scattered in the fore had been a Samoan couple and several Samoan women and girls. There had been several palagi, too. I had spoken to no one except a Samoan woman who was sitting next to me. I had asked her for a match when my lighter did not work. She had been smoking too. She gave me a pack of matches and I thanked her.

All the way, most of the Samoan passengers had been guzzling cocktails or beer. They had spent their money on such goodies rather than pay for earphones for music and the movie.

My luggage finally arrived from the plane and I carried the many pieces from the conveyor belt to the Agriculture and Customs inspectors. The Customs officer did not look like a pure-blooded Samoan. His complexion was lighter. Undoubtedly, he was a part-Samoan like myself. I untied the rope from one of my boxes. He glanced in.

"Is it a television you got there?"

"No, just books and my typewriter."

"Okay, you may go.''

"Would you like to open my guitar case?" The hand-tooled leather case and the custom-made guitar had been especially created for me in Mexico the previous summer.

He hesitated and then said, "Not necessary, but if you were a hippie, I would."

"Thanks."

He was a nice fellow and did not bother to check my luggage further.

Along with the other arriving passengers, I struggled to the gate. There a swarming mob of happy Samoans, dressed in their colorful lavalava and pulatesi noisily greeted relatives and friends. I was truly back in Samoa. By the airport's thatched oval fale, my friend David waited for me with a taxi.

I had been working for over two years with David Asherman in Hawaii and Mexico. He had only recently arrived in Samoa as the first Artist-in-Residence. I was to live at this Government studio and assist in his work while at the same time doing my Independent Studies' research for the University. Would it be a different Samoa from what I remembered? In which world would I fit? Where was my place?

The harbor of Pago Pago is one of the safest and loveliest in the world. It was the only reason the United States had annexed Eastern Samoa at the turn of the century: establishment of a Navy coaling station in the South Pacific.

From a wide mouth, flanked by shallow coral reefs, the harbor turns a sharp right-angle to the left and continues about a mile between steep, heavily vegetated mountain ridges. The right end at the turn is dominated by the massive Rainmaker Mountain.

The narrow strip of shoreline around the harbor is dotted with villages, which now run together without apparent borders. The lower mountains on the left form a peninsula, which, at the point, is now the site of the fale-style tourist hotel. The first step of the hill, which has a commanding view of the harbor in all directions, is the location of American Samoa's "White House" - the official residence of the U.S. governors since before the First World War.

On the left, at the end of the harbor, is the village of Pago Pago. Although no longer the hub of business and government activities, its name is used to include the entire left shore area and even around the peninsula to the village of Utulei.

About halfway between Samoa's White House and Pago Pago village, on the south (left from the harbor entrance) shore is Malaloa, which runs from the water up the steep hillside. It was the site of the first Samoan hospital run by the U.S. Navy. When, during World War II, the hospital was moved to Utulei on the other side of the peninsula, the buildings became a government hotel for transient military personnel.

Now it is known as The Annex, and has been remodeled into apartments for American government officials. From the shore-level road, several flights of steep outdoor stairs wind between trees to the various terraced levels. Apartment IG-21B of the Annex was to be my home during this stay in American Samoa. A long one-story building, it was separated from the main building of what used to be the hospital. It was probably a large patient ward, although Samoan friends told me it was the morgue, and was haunted by aitu.

For ventilation, everything was open and screened. The apartment had a huge living room/working studio with three bedrooms, two showers and a well-equipped kitchen. It was completely American-style structure with full modern conveniences adapted to local conditions. Except for its openness, it had little in common with the traditional Samoan fale. There I was, a Samoan, living in Samoa, with more American luxury than I had ever known, even in Hawaii. It was a bit baffling in its incongruity. How was I to resolve the differences of being a "partially-civilized" Samoan, viewing Samoan people, customs and traditions from this oasis-like westernized setting?

The view from the front terrace was spectacular. Through the luxuriant tropical trees and f lowers, we looked across the shimmering harbor to the fleets of rusted-metal Oriental fishing ships, anchored near the buildings of the tuna-fish canneries. To the extreme right stood Rainmaker Mountain, which we glimpsed between the giant leaves of an old breadfruit tree. Below us, on the right, were the metal roofs of Max Haleck's General Store No. 3. It was remodeled from what once was a little hotel-boarding house - the inspiration for "Rain," Somerset Maugham's short story of Sadie Thompson and the missionary.

On the third day of my return to Samoa, I walked down from the Annex to the main road, turned right towards the harbor mouth, and passed Max Haleck's store. At the harbor's edge, a huge crane was noisily dredging, piling up the coral and silt to form what looked like the foundations for a small boat wharf.

The tarred main street, bordered by stores of various kinds, reminded me of a Western cowboy movie. Roofs extending out from the wooden store-fronts completely shaded the sidewalks. This was the edge of the town of Fagotogo, a part of the Pago Pago area, and it was bustling, noisy, crowded mass of humanity and honking buses, cars, and Toyota pick-ups.

Unlike a northern city, however, nobody except the scampering children seemed to rush. While doing their Saturday morning shopping, people strolled easily, shouting and laughing with their friends. Most of the women, large and dignified, were dressed in traditional Samoan pulatasi. About half of the men were wearing brightly colored lavalava; the others were in cheap work pants and gaudy aloha shirts, T-shirts or no tops at all. Almost everyone was barefoot.

Outside the Tropic Isle Grocery, an ice cream stand was doing a brisk business. Adults as well as children congregated to get their ice cream or soda treats. I remembered when I was in elementary school in Malaeloa village on the other side of the island. It was a status symbol to get such Western goodies as ice cream, chewing gum, and candy; even having a piece of dry bread to eat at lunch, instead of the taro, banana and breadfruit we had brought from home, was an invitation to have it stolen by the bigger boys. Now, the American type tidbits seemed the everyday fare.

The closer I got to the main outdoor market, the greater the hubbub. I was surprised by the modernity of this new food market complex. Gone was the hot and rainy shelterless area I remembered from my childhood. Now it had become an open quadrangle about a hundred feet along each side. The roofless center of grass was filled with people, resting themselves and gossiping with friends.

The new building was about fifteen feet wide with an overhanging gabled roof of wooden shingles. The floor, as well as the upright pillars which support the roof, were concrete. The building had no walls. The display stands ran along at the outer edges leaving a center aisle. Customers could purchase from the aisle sides, although they usually remained outside. Occasionally the line of stands was broken by walkways running through to the grassy inner court.

Behind the stalls the vendors sat on sections of coconut tree-trunks placed on top of shorter sections, displaying, large stalks of many kinds of bananas: green and yellow, short and long, slim and fat. Fresh green bananas are perfect when boiled and served with corned beef, mackerel, sardines, tuna and even salted beef. The purplish-brown taro roots were of every shape and size, ranging from ones about like a small orange to ones comparable to a large watermelon.

I am not too fond of taro but it is good when baked and eaten with palusami and corned beef. Big and small, round and oval yellow-green breadfruit were piled next to cucumbers and lemons. Husked coconuts and young coconuts for immediate drinking were also available. I saw laufao plant strainers for use with white coconut meat and bottles of homemade coconut oil.

The scene vividly brought to mind the Saturdays when, as a very small child, I would accompany my mother to this market. With the first beginning light of day we would gather our home-grown produce into freshly-made coconut frond baskets, lug them down the mountain, and catch the first bus to town. At the market place we would sit under a mango tree, praying that someone would pass by and quickly purchase our wares.

If we sold five dollars worth we were happy for it was more than enough to buy supplemental imported foodstuffs such as sugar, salt, canned fish and canned fruits. This was enough to feed our family of five for a week because we raised most of our own staples. And, too, the longer we had to remain at the market, the later we would have to work at home that night preparing for a Samoan Sunday's "traditional" feast.

The Fagatogo market place is also the main terminal for buses from both ends of the island. They rattle in from their villages, wait for a new load of passengers, then bounce back to the country. Samoan buses are unique: worn-out small trucks and pickups are given new handmade bodies, mostly of wood, adapted for passenger transport. As there are no bus companies, these Samoan jitneys are as varied in style as the individuals who own them.

Usually these buses have a wooden bench on the inside along each side and across the back, with a front entrance. Sometimes, the more luxurious ones have rows of double seats with a center aisle. In the old days they often had a rear center exit/entrance. All the buses are open on the sides above the seat-back level. The low flat wooden roof is usually the only protection from the sun and the rain, although some do have plastic curtains that can be put up.  A bus seating twenty is considered large.

The one thing the buses do have in common is their gaudiness. The owners, whether they are individuals, families, or churches, try to out-do each other in brilliant painted decorations all over the outside. Many of them have catch names which are not only painted in letters but are imaginatively illustrated as well.

There seemed no plan or order as the buses drove in all directions, calling to each other, exchanging greetings with horn honks, screeching to a halt, then suddenly taking off. I read some of the different names on their sides: Rainmaker Bus Company, Aeto (Eagle) Transport, Manulele Tautala (Talking Bird), Blue Bird, Moso'oi Pala (Decayed Moso'oi Tree). None seemed to indicate where I wanted to go, Leone, the second largest village in American Samoa. It was about fifteen miles from Pago Pago, beyond the airport, towards the western end of Tutuila.

A boy was standing near me. He seemed to be waiting for a bus. I was lucky, for when I asked him for directions I discovered that he was also heading for Leone.

Over loud cassette music playing within the bus, he shouted to the driver: "Are you going to Leone soon?"

"Right now, hop on!"

We found two places on the wooden bench near the front. The boy knew another passenger and they exchanged a few words. Soon they had nothing more to say. I had a good view and was happy to concentrate on the passing scenes.

As we bounced from the market place and turned onto the main road, I recognized an old two story, white wooden building with its double-decker verandas and pillars - The High Court of American Samoa.

Did I actually remember it, or was it just like some of the hotel saloons pictured in Wild West movies?

Next to it, but set far back from the road, was the huge stuccoed L.M.S. (London Missionary Society) Church of Fagatogo. Opposite on my left, was a deteriorating fale tele (a chief's guest house) which was only re-thatched once a year when it was used as a shelter during American Samoa's Flag Day celebrations. Beyond it was a fale afolau (elliptical house) when women sat on the mat-covered coral floor displaying their Samoan arts and crafts for sale to tourists; and, beyond that, I could see that the construction was underway on the Fono (Territorial Legislature) Building.

On the mountain-side to my right was the large malae of the town. It was a madhouse of excited people, screaming and hopping about, beating tin cans and blowing whistles, cheering the two cricket games in progress on the muddy field. During this season, a grand inter-village cricket tournament takes place on Saturday mornings. Villages sponsor both women's teams and men's teams. In these annual matches, only teams of the same sex play opposite each other. A women's match and a men's match were taking place at the same time at the two ends of the oval malae.

On the malae's far side I could see the dilapidated-looking business center-trading stores like Scanlans and Kneubuhls and the Pago Pago Bar. Next was a wide empty space. I tried to recall what had been there or had it always been vacant?

Next to it was a barber shop-a one-story, one room heavy concrete building with bars at the windows. I remembered when it used to be the women's jail. And next to it a similar but slightly larger building which had been the men's jail-now, as the sign indicated, the Territorial Liquor Store of American Samoa.

Beyond this was a long two-story building, also painted white: the lower floor heavy concrete, the upper, wood. Downstairs was the Police Station while above were the temporary headquarters for both chambers of the Fono.

Just beyond was the biggest shock: a very modern but dingy grey-brown concrete building squat, heavy and forbidding - it looked like some European Medieval fort. This was the new and expensive Lumana'i Building. Its faddish contemporary American architecture was totally out of keeping with the environment. The ground floor housed the American Samoan Branch of the Bank of Hawaii, facing the malae, while the far end was the new U.S. Post Office. On the street side of the building an outdoor double staircase led to the business offices for Pan American Airways and other companies.

On the harbor side I had only a fleeting glance at other old Navy buildings: Navy Communications was now the Department of Tourism; the old Post Office was undergoing renovations to house Mrs. Haydon's museum. I could also see Reid's Pool Hall and a government small boat repair shop. A new dock where a large freighter was unloading was further in the distance.

Further down the road we came to a long row of large well-to-do-homes. The one story square white wooden frame houses had pyramidal roofs and fully screened verandas running around three sides. Carefully landscaped and planted, with tall coconut palms swaying on the beach, these were the former residences of Navy officers and their families. It was known as Centipede Row and the homes were now occupied by the highest paid palagi government officials.

On the right, a tarred road led under an impressive stone gateway up the hill through luxuriant forest to a scarcely discernible large white wooden home. A sign at the gate said, in both English and Samoan, "Government House: Admission Positively Forbidden - Maota o le kovana, Ua sä ona ulufale'."

As we turned right, around the peninsula, we passed the Intercontinental Hotel, and on into Utulei. Here was the Department of Education with its multi-million dollar T.V. station, Samoana High School, American Samoa's Community College, and the major offices of government.

There, too, I saw for the first time, the huge new Lee Auditorium, better known as The Turtle because of its fale-inspired oval shape. We passed more government-employee housing, a few stores and Morris Scanlan's fancy new auto service station, Standard Oil's storage tanks, and then we were happily out of the city-like atmosphere of the Pago Pago area.

With the beaches, reefs and ocean on our left, we spun along the narrow tarred road following the sharply zig-zagging coastline at shore level. There was little conversation between passengers for, even if they had been so inclined, the roar of the bus motor, combined with the full volume amplification of Samoan music from the bus's cassette player, drowned out the possibility.

At Faga'alu village sprawls the big, new LBJ Medical Center designed in psuedo-Samoan "fale" style. We stopped for a man and his son. The man knew a woman who had been riding with us from Fagatogo. They talked in Samoan.

"Where are you heading with your son?" she asked.

"We're going in that direction," he said as he indicated forward with a nod of his head.

"Look at that new house! Construction was just completed and now it is blown down by last week's hurricane. Perhaps it wasn't strongly built. Construction these days is terrible, and it costs so much. Things certainly aren't what they used to be."

"You're right. They say that this Nu'uuli Village was the most affected by that recent wind. Well, it is to be expected at Nu'uuli - that murdering village."

Some passengers laughed, for fighting and killing were a known characteristic of Nu'uuli. I only smiled remembering the rivalries between villages.

As we bounced speedily onward, tossed from side to side around the many hairpin curves, I could not recall which passing village was which, nor could I remember the dividing lines between villages. There were none of the road signs I had become accustomed to in Hawaii.

Most of the traditional open Samoan fale with their high thatched roofs had disappeared. The few that we did pass seemed sad and dilapidated.

There were many new houses all very much alike. They were single-story square buildings with the same center door flanked by a window on each side of it. All were made of concrete blocks and had corrugated-tin pyramidal roofs. They seemed totally incongruous amidst the luxuriant foliage.

I asked my nearest fellow passenger about the houses and was told that they were called "hurricane houses", that they had been designed by government palagi, and that they had been given to the people free.

I even saw a couple of modern hamburger-stand drive-ins which I knew had been opened by Samoans who had lived for years in Hawaii or California and had retired to their birthplace. Many of the most modern-looking houses had been erected by Samoans who had spent thirty years in U.S. Military Service. I noticed, too, a number of small new churches representing religious sects which had not existed in Samoa when I had left, congregations such as Assembly of God and Jehovah' s Witnesses.

Beyond the Tafuna Airport turn-off, at the edge of a stately old coconut plantation, was a complex of modern white block buildings. A large sign indicated that it was the Mormon Church's Mapusaga High School.

As we approached the Village of Leone, I looked around for a passenger signal-cord or stop-button but could find none. In addition, there were no bus-stop signs anywhere along the road I rose from my seat and crouchingly edged towards the front. The driver noticed me in the mirror and asked if I wanted to get off. He stopped, I gave him a quarter, and descended. The bus sped off in a cloud of dust.

I gazed about at the once-so-familiar village. It had not changed much for major landmarks still dominated the scene: the huge cement LMS Church and, further along, the almost-as-imposing Catholic Church.

I walked along the tarred highway which cut directly through the center of Leone. In the old days, even before my time, the area had been the malae, said to have been one of the most beautiful in all Samoa. The U.S. Army had built the road during World War II for defense purposes. I remembered having heard how the land had been confiscated without compensation to either village or family owners. At that time everyone had been too terrified of a Japanese invasion to say anything. I wondered if any reparations had been made after the war.

I passed Poia's little store (Poia is a sister of my stepfather, Samasoni) and on to the Save house. Save, Samosoni's oldest brother, had been the family's high chief. He had died about ten years ago, and his wife had recently died in California. My mother had gone from Hawaii to her funeral.

Save's son, Tafiaina and his family now lived in the house, together with his sister, Mausa and her husband. Tafi was a Samoan minister for the LMS Congregationalists. He had been the pastor for the village of Vatia when my younger half-brother, Fotu (otausala), had stayed with him last year.

Although Tafi's house was enclosed and modern, it some-how still retained a bit of the Samoan feeling. As I reached the front, I hesitated and asked myself, "Should I abruptly knock on the front door or should I not?" None of Samasoni's relatives residing on Tutuila knew that I was back on the island. As I was anxious to visit my family's old plantation on the mountain, I decided I would not enter Tafi's house if many people were inside. It would have required long conversations and ceremonial welcoming. Furthermore, I was just not sure enough of the correct traditional Samoan etiquette required for such occasions, and I did not want to disgrace my family or embarrass myself by some ridiculous demonstration of ignorance.

As inconspicuously as possible, I casually sauntered. towards the back of the house. I examined it from the corners of my eyes without looking directly into the house. All was quiet. Apparently not many people, if any, were at home. I felt more comfortable.

By the rear corner of the house three small children were playing. I stood smoking, gazing at the sea as if I had not noticed them.

Finally, I asked, "Who's in the house?"

"Asi."

Asi was a younger daughter of Tafi - probably then about sixteen. I stepped over to the back door and knocked. I heard footsteps from the inside. The door opened a crack and a girl's voice asked, "Who is it?"

"Dixie."

The door closed quickly. I took off my shoes, opened the door, and stepped in. I recognized Asi immediately, even though it was years since I has last seen her. She and an old man just stood there staring at me, surprised, even a bit afraid.

"You must be Asi," I said at once.

"Yes.Who are you?"

"Dixie."

"You're lying."

"Where is Tafi?"

"He went to Fagatogo."

"Where are Mausa and her husband?"

"They're both working in Fagatogo. Where are you from?"

"I've just come from Fagatogo."

From the expression on her face I could tell she still did not believe I was Dixie. I realized that she had been very young when last she had seen me and I had been skinny and small and had not worn glasses. Now I was big and heavy with a curly black beard and black-rimmed glasses. No wonder she couldn't recognize me. I laughed and explained.

"As soon as Niusila is discharged from Trippler Hospital he will come with Mua on a military flight." Mua was Tafi's wife and Niusila was Asi's oldest brother. He and I were about the same age and we had been best friends when we were small, living on the mountain. Now Niusila was in the Marine Corps.

''Why is Niusila in the hospital?"

"I heard that he had a stomach operation."

"Will he be coming back with Mua and the baby?"

"Yes, that's what Mua said."

"But I don't understand. Niusila left for Hawaii last week. He'd been here on a Christmas furlough."

"I know, but Mua explicitly said that she and the baby will come with Niusila on a military flight."

"What is Fotu doing?"

"He's working at Toyota Motors in Waipahu and has just bought himself a car.

"Asi now seemed convinced that I really was Dixie. The old man finally spoke: "Mua has returned from the Mainland?"

"Yes, she stayed with my parents until the dedication of the Samoan LMS Church in Waianae and then left for California. She has now returned and is again staying with my parents in Nanakuli, waiting for Niusila to be discharged from the hospital."

He nodded, and then he and Asi disappeared to another part of the house. Asi returned almost immediately with a glass of fresh lemonade for me and then disappeared again. Soon they brought me a plate filled with wahoo tuna and another piled high with boiled breadfruit and fried chicken. I ate and talked while they watched me.

"What grade are you in now, Asi?"

"Tenth grade."

"What school do you go to?"

"Leone High School."

"Where is your brother Faleti?"

"He's up at Olovalu Mountain."

"Is he still going to school?"

"He graduated last year, and now he's going to the Community College of American Samoa."

"Who else is on the mountain?"

"Faleti and Big Fotu (Tafi's brother) and my younger brother and the Upolu boy and some other kids.

"Can I still get to the mountain through the Malaeloa Village Trail?"

"No, that trail has completely disappeared."

"Then, I could only get there by the Futiga Village Trail"

"Yes. "When I had finished eating, the old man brought me an enamel pan of water to wash my hands. I felt strange as though I were making the elderly man a servant. Never before in my life had I had a Samoan bring me an after-meal washpan. When I was small I had served the food and the washpan to my parents and older people that came to our house. Now things are reversed.

I complimented the old man and Asi on the meal, then started taking my dishes to the kitchen. They protested, insisting that I leave the work to them. I ignored them and took the pan to the kitchen to wash my hands there. I was amazed to find that this old Samoan custom of serving a guest was still in practice.

I returned to the front and again sat on a thickly upholstered chair. Asi and the old man were still at the back of the house as I decided to leave for the mountain.

In the kitchen, I saw them eating and most of their meal seemed to be what I had left on my plates. I was surprised and felt guilty that I had eaten most of the food they had given me. I had not realized that they had not yet eaten lunch.

I thanked them again, said goodbye, and told them I would return another day.

I caught another bus to Futiga Village, paid my quarter and got off by the trail to the mountain which I had used when a child.

Soon along the path, I reached the house of Pua'atoli'ulu and Milosia. Their sons, Upu, Paepae and Paoa had been attending the same elementary school at Malaeloa Village as my sister, Felila and 1. When in Hawaii I had heard that the boys had gone to California to live with their older married sister, Sui.

The three boys used to come up the mountain to our house to play and our families used to exchange food. When we had lots of pork or fish we gave some to Milosia-Save's relative. Sometimes Milosia sent us fish.

I remembered one day when Milosia had sent Paepae to deliver some cooked fish. Paepae had handed my mother a coconut-weave basket and had said that Milosia had sent us some fish. After he had left we had opened the basket only to find empty breadfruit leaf wrappers.

The next morning, Samasoni went down and asked Milosia why she had sent us an empty basket. She was surprised and called Paepae. Upon strong interrogation, Paepae admitted that he had eaten all the fish on the way to our house. He had known that if caught he would' be severely beaten, but the good food was worth the punishment.

At my left, I now saw a new hurricane house on Milosia's property. In front of me the old papalagi house was still standing. On my right was another hurricane house.

As I passed the first house I noticed a small fale o'o (family shelter) with a umu (cook house) behind. Four girls were weaving coconut-leaf baskets and I could see that they had just covered an umu (earth oven). One of the girls was separating leaves from the rib of a coconut leaf while another was cleaning ribs to make a broom. One of the girls called out, "Are you heading for the mountain?"

"Yes, I am." I replied and continued along under Milosia's mango tree and on past their old pig sty.

Soon, I reached a taro patch. Several young men were pulling weeds. As they worked they talked and joked happily together. They looked at me but as I said nothing, they continued working when I passed.

The trail along the gently undulating ground had not changed and even the surrounding breadfruit trees seemed the same. There were taro and occasionally banana plantations. Here and there were tall coconut trees.

As I approached the foot of the steep hill, I caught a glimpse of Tafi's tin-roofed fale o'o on the plateau far above. By the time I was half way up I was completely out of breath and forced to rest. I remembered how I used to run up and down the slope even thought I had been carrying heavy loads of bananas, taros, coconuts, breadfruit, mountain apples or firewood.

When I had somewhat regained my energy, I continued on up - but more slowly - until I reached the front of the wallless fale o'o. Several boys were inside. The only one I recognized was lying supine on the dirty wooden floor. I could tell by his profile that it was Faleti. One of the boys called, "Faleti! A palagi is coming!"

Tafi's son raised his head slightly but obviously did not remember me.  As I entered and sat down on the old floor-planks I said,' "You must be Faleti."

Surprised, he sat up quickly, leaning against a support pole facing me.

"I'm extremely thirsty. Do you have any water?" I asked.

Still with a befuddled expression on his face, he ordered a younger boy to fetch water from the big enamel teapot.

After a long quenching drink I remarked, "I've just come from Leone."

"Who's at the house?"

"Asi and an old man. You still don't remember me? I'm Dixie."

He sprang to his feet and started pumping my hand while exclaiming gleefully, "Oi sole! Oi sole!" (Oh boy! Oh boy!)

He first introduced me to the Upolu boy, Satini, who seemed a bit older than Faleti. I then met Faleti's younger brother and the other two boys, who were also members of Samasoni's aiga (extended family). Then, still excitedly, Faleti asked, "When did you arrive from Hawaii?"

"Wednesday, three days ago.

While giving him news of his family in Hawaii, I drank more water.

"Have you seen where you house used to be?" I shook my head in the negative. "Well," he continued, "I'll take you there later. As you came along the trail did you see Pua'atoliulu's sons, Upu and Paepae working with Big Fotu on the taro plantation?"

"I passed. them but I didn't recognize them. I thought they were still on the Mainland. When did they come back?"

"They've been here almost a year now and still seem happy to have returned."

One of the boys was splitting an uncooked breadfruit in half with a pelu (bush-knife). The halving is done to insure thorough cooking in the umu. But using a pelu for the job is not the traditional Samoan method. Samoans always use a to'ipua (a type of adze cut from a single piece of wood) for they not only claim that metal ruins the flavor, but that a pelu makes too smooth a cut i.e. that a breadfruit should be more or less torn gently into halves, something like separating an English muffin with a fork rather than a knife.

The boy was trying to hide his laziness by using the blunt edge of the pelu but Faleti noticed and scolded: "Tafi will be angry. Go sharpen a piece of wood into a to'ipua."

Although reluctant, the boy obeyed immediately. The two younger ones prepared the umu for baking. Faleti and Satini just sat and gave orders. When however, I told Faleti I wanted to take some photos of the umu preparation, he and Satini jumped into the act. As soon as I put my camera away they returned to their recumbent positions leaving all labor to the younger boys.

This, too, was a Samoan custom of long standing. Almost from the time they can walk children are put to work usually under the command of a child only slightly older than themselves. He goes up the ladder. Always there is someone slightly older in charge. Throughout the hierarchy the younger must show absolute respect and obey without question the orders and whim of the older. They carry to the 'nth degree the principle that authority comes with age. The younger must not speak in the presence of elders unless spoken to directly. All chores about the home, even the family cooking, are usually done by the children. And when the food is prepared the eldest eat first. Sometimes by the time the turn for the smallest children comes around there is no food left and they must go hungry. Almost never do the smaller children get the opportunity to eat such tidbits as meat and fish.

The situation of Satini, the boy from Upolu, was typical of a recently acquired exception to the hierarchy status. Fifty years ago, no Samoan would have tolerated the position. Actually it had largely come about since Western Samoa became independent ten years ago. Although Western Samoa is far richer in land and natural resources than American Samoa, she became monetarily much poorer after release from the complete domination by New Zealand. About the same time the Federal Government of the United States suddenly began to try to absolve its guilty conscience over its long neglect of the American Samoan people. Millions upon millions of dollars started to pour in annually. As American Nationals (a third class U.S. citizenship, but one which gives entrance and exit freedom) more and more American Samoans emigrated to Hawaii and California where they could earn more money in a month than they could in either Western or American Samoa in a year. Western Samoan citizens, of course, did not legally have the privilege. Immigration regulations to the U.S., even to American Samoa, became much tighter, but if a Western Samoan could at least get to live and be recognized in American Samoa he stood a much better chance of getting to the U.S.A. proper.

Satini was a member of the extended family-a Western Samoan branch - so Tafi had brought him to Leone to work. At any time any member of the family could have denounced Satini and he would have been returned immediately by immigration authorities to Western Samoa. Like many other American Samoans, Tafi needed labor on his plantations, labor which he could get free while his own sons were getting educations or holding down fairly high-paying jobs with the American Samoan government. In consequence Satini became a virtual slave to his American Samoan cousins. As noted before, Satini was older than Faleti, and undoubtedly a more experienced farmer, but Faleti was obviously the boss. Satini was like the hired hand on an American farm - except that he received no salary. By being a good and obedient boy, working from dawn. to late at night, perhaps someday he would get to Hawaii or California.

These were some of the thoughts which were running through my mind as I watched the boys prepare the umu.

After the breadfruit halves were placed on the hot stones, the umu was covered with green banana leaves. In order to contain as much heat as possible, they also placed on top the withered leaves which had been used for the umu of the day before. Now all we had to do was to wait for the cooked breadfruit - a half hour or so.

It was a good time to visit my old home. Faleti and I left the other boys and headed for the well-remembered path. He pointed out an old guava blown down by the recent hurricane. Oh how I used to climb it when it was laden with fruit! An old coconut tree was lying across the path, another victim of the storm.

Finally we arrived at the spot where my house used to be. Nothing remained, not even visible ruins.

I recognized some of my old friends, the big fruit trees:the mago (mango), ulu (breadfruit) and nonu (mountain apple). Everything else had disappeared under a massive entanglement of vines, bushes, and weeds.

I had always remembered my mountain home as a huge place but now it seemed so tiny!

Around our front yard I remembered a high tagitagi (panax) fence. I looked around but could not see a single bush. I asked Faleti what had happened and he pointed out the thick vines which had completely enshrouded the hedge. Poor tagitagi! It didn't have a chance without man's help. Soon it would give up the struggle, die and rot into the earth to fertilize its murderers.

"I wouldn't mind returning here to live,'' I remarked to Faleti. "It is so beautiful, so peaceful, so oblivious to crowded concrete and man's petty struggles."

But even as I said it I began to wonder. It had not always been a paradise of bliss and calm. In my mind I began to recall quarrels and fights and other unhappy things.

I remembered how particularly hard we all used to work early Sunday mornings, preparing the umu and cooking special foods. Later, Felila and I used to hike down from the mountain to Leone loaded with the best foods from our umu. These were delivered to our family's highest chief, Save, Samasoni's oldest brother. This was a part of Samoan tradition for we lived on family land and were obligated to the tautua (faithful servitude to the chief).

Eventually, the unreconciled discord led to my parents decision to leave American Samoa. In 1959 we sold our pigs and realized enough cash for Samasoni's one-way ticket to Hawaii. He worked hard in Honolulu and brought each of his family to the "land of milk and honey". In 1961, at the age of eleven, I flew to rejoin my mother and stepfather.

Faleti and I continued to explore my former homestead. I became thirsty again but I was ashamed to admit that I had forgotten how to climb a coconut tree.

"Sole," I said, "Can you still climb coconut trees?"

"Sure", he laughed, "but if it's just coconut you want, the boys chopped a tree down the other day because they were too lazy to climb it. It's over there. If Tafi ever finds out about this he'll beat them all."

We located the felled tree but the nuts were all gone. Nearby, however, was another fallen tree but with up-torn roots and no evidence of axe marks. It must have been blown down by the hurricane. Some of the nuts had scattered free when the tree had hit the ground. Faleti pounded one until the milk dripped out, then handed it to me to drink. I pulled hard at the cracked nut until it split in half. After drinking I was still thirsty so we prepared two more. The juice was cool and delicious insulated from the sun by the thick fibrous outer shell.

Carrying a few more fallen green coconuts we trudged on to see what might still remain of the old pig-sty. If not for several old mango trees I would not have been able to tell where it once had been. It too, was completely overgrown like the house site.

Soon we were again on the trail leading back to Tafi's fale o'o. Two pigs were rooting about and I wondered whose they were.

"They're ours," Faleti said. "We have only two pigs and two chickens, now. It's just too much work. Even keeping the trail passable is a full time job. You should have seen it, Dixie, only a few months after you left. Without someone living on the place it disappeared completely in the undergrowth. You couldn't believe it! By the time we had finally cleared to the top of the trail, the bottom half was already overgrown again."

Since I had left my old home I had not seen such unrestrained wildness of growth. I had forgotten. Earlier in the day I had told Faleti that I thought only people changed, that places and environment remained basically the same. Now I knew that I had been wrong. It became clear to me that plants grow, mature, and then die. This process for all nature had been going on since Time immemorial. Like the plants I had been born. I was developing. And I, too, will die. I learn new things as my life progresses. I have heard, and I fully believe, that one never stops learning until one dies. Trees never really stop changing even when they get old. I need water to drink in order to live. A tree needs water to nurture itself. I must inevitably follow the pattern of nature. I am wholly a part of all nature.

As we returned to the fale o'o the boys jumped back to work. Faleti and I rested and drank from more coconuts. I asked him what he intended to be.

"I am studying business at the Community College," he replied.

"Why?"

"My father told me to."

"Will it make you happy to become a business man?"

"I don't think so," he said slowly. After a few moments of silence he added, "I guess I don't really know."

My thoughts raced back to my old friend Niusila, Faleti's older brother. It was the same thing all over again. In 1969, Niusila had come through Hawaii on his way to the Mainland. He'd had a Government scholarship to study law. We had talked much, far into the night.

"What would you really want to be?" I had asked.

Without hesitation he had replied, "I've always wanted to be a medical doctor. But I have to study law now because Tafi said that I must become a lawyer."

The next time I saw Niusila was several years later at a Matai benefit dance in Honolulu. He was in the Marine Corps and he seemed quite happy.

"What happened to the law?" I had asked.

"The Government of American Samoa stopped all scholarships," he replied without hesitation. "I had no money for my education so it was logical that I join a military service."

Later I found out that Niusila had been twisting the truth. He had actually been doing very badly in college and the Government had implemented its policy of withdrawing scholarships from continuously failing students. Niusila could not then have gone home to face his father and this I would have understood. But his silly pride had forced him to tell me lies without looking ahead to the time when I would find out the truth.

One of the major problems I had seen with young Samoans coming to Hawaii was that they lacked both self-reliance and self-discipline. For the first time in their lives they would be free of parental control. They were not prepared to make decisions for themselves.

They had never been taught to cope with new situations, nor had they ever before had cash in their pockets to spend as they wished. They had suddenly been turned loose and were lost. Their scholarship money for a semester would be spent in the first couple of weeks on fancy clothes, cars, night-clubs, American women, and any other whim of the moment. Their studies were totally neglected. They did not consider an all-too-short future time when the gratuitous incoming money would suddenly stop. It is almost a miracle that even a few of the scholarship students do manage to adjust to a new life-style and, occasionally, make good.

Another probable reason for Niusila's failure in college was that he had not really wanted to become a lawyer. Having literally known Niusila since babyhood I felt that he had neither the type of mind nor personality best-suited to the legal profession. Perhaps in medicine, if he bad made the decision himself, he might have pulled through. He was loving the Marines, possibly because it was the first major decision he bad ever made in his life concerning his own life.

As I watched Faleti and the other boys there on Olovalu mountain, I felt sad. The directions of their lives were being dictated from fear. What chance did they really have?

I rose and gave my farewells. I invited Faleti to visit my new home in The Annex at any time, then headed downward along the trail. During the hike and the return bouncing bus ride, I noticed little that I passed, for my mind was filled with long, long thoughts of my past, my present, and my future. Who am I? What road should I take?

DIXIE SAMASONI was born in Western Samoa, as a child lived in American Samoa, and came to Hawaii in 1961. He attended schools in Kaneohe, Nanakuli, and graduated from Waianae High School. He holds a B.A. in Oral Samoan Literature and is currently working on a Master's degree in Linguistics through a grant from East-West Center.