Ok, usually ‘normal’ people celebrate 6-month or 1 year anniversaries but from what you have read it is safe to say that normal isn’t what we do. So HAPPY 8 MONTH ANNIVERSARY US. We have survived ... so far and when I talk about survival it’s not in reference to the different lifestyle here, the food, the weather (although we are in cyclone season so this may change) or Samoan people, it is us. We have survived us. The family has not imploded – there were times and I still get glimpses of it every now and then when I think ‘shit, fuck we are a bunch of fucking lunatics and we really shouldn’t all be in the same place together ... alone .... with no escape hatch’. Watch this space because it may change as life often does. What does it mean that we have been here just over half a year? A lot has changed, and I have gone from being a whinging expat wife of, complaining that I am not ‘utilising my skills’ to a whinging expat wife of complaining that I have too much on my plate. Be careful of what you wish for, it may come back to bite you in the arse. For a while there I was spreading myself too thin, volunteering in three different places and running around like an idiot that didn’t know which way was up and which way was down and then I got an actual job and reality sunk in. I will have to go to said job 5 days a week, do a shit load of planning and mentoring and deal with the politics of other people! What was I thinking? Why couldn’t I just be like the other expat mums here and swan about in my flowy dresses or active wear and do what ever the hell I want to do because I am on an extended holiday?! Thankfully things, like work visas take a long time here (even though the process is relatively simple seeing as I already have a temporary visa) so I am still volunteering and have some degree of flexibility and I feel it is a good way to ease myself into the workplace. I could be wrong because let’s face it I often am. I have been mulling over a lot of contentious issues since arriving in Samoa. I haven’t been able to coherently express them because I have been challenged on a deeply personal level by them that emotionally it has been hard to deal with:
I suppose we're all implicated in colonialism in the massively and increasingly corporatised milieu of education - over here, it's so naturally spoken of as an industry or a business, it seems crazy to talk about (and so construct it) in any other way. But I guess therein lies a tiny space for speaking back. So another one of my jobs now is to find spaces, no matter how small to ‘speak back’. This is a work in progress and will take many hits I am sure of that. I just hope that I am up to the task. My parenting on the hand, that is still very much in question as to whether I am up to the task. But then, who really is? How is the child thing going I hear you ask? Well it is the first week of school holidays and I want to buy a plane ticket, for myself back home! Ok I am being overly dramatic, it really isn’t that bad, they don’t even really want to interact with me anymore, unless it’s for food, water or to watch a movie. I guess I am redundant now? Not a chance. Bed time is still fun, and I am now finding it so stressful that I get anxiety when it gets dark because I know that is when the shit storm will hit. I know, I know that my own stress levels are adding to the drama and there are some nights I am cool as a cucumber but then there are other nights, I just release the Kraken! Then I feel guilty and tell myself I am a bad parent. I then proceed to Skype my mum and she consoles me by regaling stories about her fuck ups with me. Good to know I am carrying on a family tradition.
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When I was upacking our boxes I came across a little machinato (Italian expresso machine), a parting gift from a friend of mine back in Australia. As I pulled out that little, silver beauty; so simple in design yet so sophisticated – my heart lifted. After a full day unpacking crap that I didn’t need (like a million cups and mugs “just take them you never know you might need them” – yeah like never!) I held that beautifully designed gift in my hands and smiled.
I placed the machinato on the bench and left it there as a symbol of joy. That week, I took a trip to the supermarkets to do the shopping and there I stood in the coffee and tea aisle staring, looking, yearning to be able to make my own coffee. I picked up an expensive packed of ground coffee and through the packaging I could smell it; heavenly scented, sweet coffee. I don’t care how much that coffee cost me, when I got home I unpacked the shopping and made myself my first cup of real coffee and it was lovely. I suffer a lot with anxiety and depression. The first panic attack that I can remember was outside a lecture theatre, I was 17 years old. I am sure there were other incidents that I don’t recall as a child, but this one stood out because of the overwhelming feeling of what I call BIG small. It is hard to describe, for me it is an actual physical feeling whereby I feel big in the space that I am occupying and yet so small that I could fit in the palm of your hand. As I said it is very hard to verbalise the BIG small feeling. Along with that weirdness I have the usual panic attack symptoms coupled with bouts of depression. I don’t always get panic attacks and I am not always depressed, these things ebb and flow depending on situations and other shit that I am not always aware of.
I rarely talk about this stuff, except with my sestra because she’s got my back. But I felt it necessary to talk about it now because of the frequency at which I am experiencing panic attacks and how I can no longer hide them from my children. I am now faced with situations here where I can’t always run away and hide under my blanket (mostly because it is too damned hot!), but because I don’t have a choice but to push on through. The Mother’s Day walk up Mt Vaea is one example of said pushing on through. Another example is when I went out to dinner with a friend of mine here in Samoa. It was a girls’ night out, and I had to drive in the dark to a restaurant that I have never been before. Even in Australia I didn’t like driving at night time because of night blindness, but in Australia there were street lights to help and street signs. In the dark everything looks different and it is easy to get turned around and disorientated. That’s what happened to me that night and after going around and around in circles, driving down side streets with no lighting and getting turned around, I parked the car and struggled to breathe. I know it’s not that big of a deal, nothing to lose your shit about but I came so close to driving home and calling my friend, telling her some stupid excuse about why I didn’t make it that night. I didn’t, because I knew I couldn’t do that – it was only me and her and I think she would have noticed an empty seat at the table. The night turned out to be fun, with good food, drinks and many laughs. But pushing through is exhausting. And sometimes I just can’t. And that is when I see the look in my children’s eyes. During the school holidays we decided to go to the Mailelani soap factory. They have a café so we would have a bit of lunch, watch a demonstration and maybe buy some locally made products. Sounded like a good plan and it was! But ..... it started to rain and not just a little bit of a drizzle it was a massive downpour. That’s ok I thought to myself it’s only rain, I have driven in rain before and it’s not far, literally down the road, it will be fine. It wasn’t fine. The rain was lashing against the windscreen, wipers were at full tilt, struggling to battle the torrents of water and as we reached the turn off to Mailelan. I read the sign “Mailelani Soap Factory 400m Downhill”. Hmmmm downhill, I wonder... The rain eased up a little and we drove down the one-way road, it was kind of sweet. There were chickens and baby chicks feeding, cats hunkered under bushes trying to avoid the rain and pigs snuffling about in gardens in search of tasty morsels. Then we got to the ‘downhill’ bit of the road and the road turned into a more than single gravel track and downhill doesn’t adequately describe the angle at which the track was plunging. Ok, it may have been my panic attack that surged, causing reality to distort and transform the world around me, but I froze. Car idling in the pouring rain. Mummy what are you doing? I ... I can’t ... I’m sorry ... I can’t do this. What’s wrong Mummy? I’m sorry, we have to go home. I can’t drive down there, I’m scared. Ok Mummy. I reversed the car, did a gazillion point turn, glad that there weren’t any cars coming behind or in front of me and drove home. I’m really sorry girls, Mummy sometimes has these things called panic attacks and I just didn’t feel comfortable driving down that steep track in the pouring rain. I’m really sorry girls. That’s ok Mummy, maybe we can go when it isn’t raining. Yeah, when it’s not raining. ... We haven’t been back ... yet. There are 3 Indian restaurants on the island; The Curry House, Tifaimoana and Taj Mahal
Crazily enough The Curry House is literally a minutes’ walk from our house, next to Whipped Apia – oh sweet providence! While the husband was away (grinding teeth) I decided that I would live by the motto Treat Yo Self ! because why the fuck not. One Friday afternoon, after three days of snotty noses, headaches and coughing, I decided that tonight was the night that we would have curry and gelati. As I felt only slightly human we voted on The Curry House. Because of the meltdown child number 2 had about walking there and past the psycho dogs we actually drove there. I know, I know it is possibly the stupidest thing to do and goes against every environmental bone in my body BUT let me put things into perspective. At this point in time husband was away, I had had zero sleep, children were going nuts every single night before bed (because going to bed is the worst thing in the world to do) and I had a head cold in 30 degree heat and 80% humidity – so yeah I gave in and drove there. As we wait for our take away order to be made, we head on to Whipped Apia because there is nothing better than dessert before dinner – like I said TREAT YO SELF. We drive back (adding to climate change in the process) and now it is time. We ordered butter chicken, lamb korma with rice, papadums and some roti and it was gooooooooooooooooood. It was just what I had been waiting for. The only thing to do now is try the other 2 restaurants in order to maintain scientific integrity for determining the best Indian restaurant in Samoa. It’s a tough job, but I really think that I am up for the challenge. During several trips to the local markets I have seen these amazing looking bananas, bright orange chubby beauties and during these times I have been tempted to purchase said gems and see what they are like.
We have tried a couple of different types; the tiny little lady finger ones that turn from a bright lime green to a lovely yellow in a matter of days and are extraordinarily sweet. Then there are other ones that never turn yellow but when soft to the touch are ripe and ready to eat. Not as sweet as the beautiful lady fingers but delicious all the same. I took the plunge and bought one bunch of these orange beauties. The woman at the market stall assured me they were good to eat and ripe so YOLO right? A day or so later the girls and I decided it was time to try one, I peeled one and inside found the bright orange flesh of the banana. Oooooooohhhhhh Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh We all said in unison. Right let’s do this! I cut it into thirds (incorporating a mini math lesson as I did so, much to the annoyance of the offspring) and down the hatch! Kinda tastes like a cucumber Yeeeeahhhhhh doesn’t taste like a banana Hmmmmmmm maybe they aren’t ripe enough? Ok it’s Google time. So Googling “Samoan orange banana” doesn’t really narrow things down all that much or the official banana website weirdly enough, 30mins later I stumble upon a travel blog with some images of said bananas BINGO! And there’s a name! ok we are on to something now. I find out that these are in fact plantains called Fe’i – you know the bananas you must cook before you eat them, hence the reason they didn’t taste all that great (but it is all a learning process and we didn’t get toxic shock so really a win win I would say). Guess what we’re having for dinner guys? That night I roast the plantains with pumpkin, carrots and potatoes along with some other food stuffs I won’t bore you with (run of the mill roasted drumsticks etc etc) BUT the piece de resistance of that meal was the Fe’i they tasted, and I quote my eldest here “like the sweetest sweet potato you have EVER eaten” and they did. Two things surprised me that night:
My head hurts and my bones ache.
I'm weary; I'm weary from all the shit decisions I make, I'm weary from the resources I take. I'm weary from my consumerism, capitalism, cynicism and all the isms in the world. I don't like this world we've made, I don't agree with the lives we trade - in order to live bigger and bigger and bigger. We slave away for our marble tombs, Wrapping homestyle magazines around our wounds. To take the pain away, To forget the disappointment and dismay At the lives that we are living, the crap that we are giving. Pouring our plastic hearts onto Facebook pages, Boasting about our disgusting wages. While little children dig in mounds of dirt, So we can upgrade our lives and flirt With Apple dreams and Android beams. I’m disgusted by my own desires That are fueled by jealous fires. To be that somebody we all dream about. Recapping the first months of our life here in Samoa is taking longer than I anticipate and frankly I just can’t be arsed writing week by week. I’m lazy that’s the long and short of it! From now on it will be a combination of hours, days and weeks in a very lose time line of events or if anything outstandingly interesting happens I shall endeavour to record it for time immemorial.
Phew! Now that I have that out of the way I can relax and get to writing. Let’s start with home schooling. Now there are going to be many people about there that love home schooling their children and that is cool WOOO more power to you, I actually love the idea of home schooling. However, my children did not love it as much as me, in fact I would come close to saying that they disliked it very much. Ok, I should clarify why my children disliked home schooling so much – they had unrealistic ideas of what home schooling entailed (which is largely my fault because as a mother everything is my fault). They have been so institutionalised by mainstream schooling that the concept of unstructured emergent learning was flipping their brains “but mummy we need to have lessons! When are we doing math?” they were also under the impression that every day we would go out and “do something exciting”. This was meant to be enjoyable, this was meant to be a journey of learning and discovery that we would take together not a constant battle. To ease the transition into home schooling I decide to structure some ‘lessons’ loosely based on what the girls have been working on in their previous school. This too was a challenge (I refuse to call it a failure because I am sure they learnt something while I was teaching them). Apparently my teaching style is so drastically different to their previous teachers that they found it impossible to complete any task that I set for them. I am also their mother so that meant that when they were hungry, thirsty, tired, sore, uncomfortable, had an itch on some part of their body they had to go into great detail about it and expected me to fix it for them. By this time, it was hard to say who disliked who more, I think we were even Stevens. I get to the point where I am not coping with this situation and rightly or wrongly I decide it is imperative that the girls get in to school, if only so that they can make friends and socialise with someone other than me. There is really no other way to describe what happened next other than ... I lost my shit. I am not going to go into great detail here because frankly I am not entirely proud of my lack of resilience or ability to cope with the situation, in fact I still think about it now and go over how things could have gone differently. Here is the breakdown of events:
I’m going to skip the phone conversation I had with my husband after I looked at that list. It wasn’t a conversation as such more of a loud rant which people in his office may or may not have overheard, especially the copious amounts of swearing. Like I said not a proud moment. I edged perilously close to a full on mental breakdown over this issue. My main concern was how was I going to teach my children for potentially three years and what did this mean for my own teaching career here? The thought of packing my bags and taking my children back to Australia had entered my mind, obviously that didn’t happen because here we are. A step in the right direction? The girls got in to a school! Oh happy day! Oh happy day come on everyone hands in the air it’s time to celebrate isn’t it? We have mixed feelings about this. It’s not an expat school, although there are some Palagi (pronounced palangi and is the Samoan word for White or Foreign person https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palagi) at the school, so regarding our wanting the girls to integrate into the Samoan community that is a step in the right direction. However, it is a religious school and the husband and I aren’t really into the whole Christian dogma thing. In fact, you could say we have a pretty critical view of religion in general and so do the girls. "Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people" – Karl Marx This is going to be very interesting. You know that feeling you get, in the pit of your stomach when you start a new job? Like you are about to vomit? I can only imagine it was 100 times worse for the girls. Their vice-like grip on my hands was unbelievable (I should get them to open up those gherkin jars), and quickly followed were the tears. The children in their respective classes were unbelievably friendly, nothing I have ever seen and the teachers quickly scooped the girls up in their arms and proceeded to hug and cuddle them – again something you would never see in an Australian school. But the fear remained. Moving to a new country as an adult is one thing. Exciting and scary at the same time; making small and exciting discoveries that generally over ride the frustration of navigating tedious government agency lines, unusual foods and language barriers, all these experiences are usually capped off with copious amounts of alcohol (oh the days before children). Children on the other hand, they don’t have all the tools to cope with the change and the worst of it all, they didn’t get a say in this change. Putting my children through this stress makes me wonder ... is it worth it? 5 weeks on and the girls have adapted amazingly, I didn’t give them enough credit for their ability to adapt to change. Don’t get me wrong, there are still nights when my youngest is in tears because she doesn’t want to go to school, but in general they are happy if not somewhat confused and bemused by the religious elements at school – if only they could remember their times tables like the hymns they belt out! I might have to start writing catchy math and literacy tunes. Best question my eldest daughter had after school “how do they know if you have been good enough to get into Heaven? I mean is there a card you have and they swipe it before they let you in and it shows you how much good you have earned?” Not sure if she was being serious or sarcastic. During this period of emotional turmoil, the husband had to go away for work. This is not the first time he has had to travel for work, in his previous position he was required to travel so not an issue and we knew this was an important part of his position here. However, this time was different, this time he was required to be away for over 3 weeks due to a freaky coincidence of a couple of people being away on home leave and therefore leaving the husband being the only person in his department qualified to attend. Fucking awesome, no really I was totally and utterly over the moon by the thought of being home alone in a foreign country with no support network and two children. We had only been here just on 2 months, and here I was abandoned! I know I wasn’t abandoned, but that is how it bloody well felt. I was and still am trying to navigate and learn the lay of the land, understand the culture, make friends, transition the girls in to a new school, and look for work. Now we are home alone and not in a fun Macaulay Culkin kinda way. Suffice to say I was an absolute BITCH before he left because I was angry. I know I shouldn’t have been and it really wasn’t a great demonstration for my children but what are you going to do about it eh? The first night I think I spent dozing in and out of consciousness, waking at every noise and checking the locks on every door and I put the girls’ night light in the kitchen for ... well just because I didn’t like the dark. My god it is pitch black outside! I forgot how dark it is when you don’t have light pollution messing up the environment – beautiful in the right circumstances just not when we are home alone and I am feeling ultra-vulnerable. For the first time since moving here I was actually happy to have the neighbours’ dogs on our street patrolling because I knew that if anyone they didn’t know walked down our street they would have at em! Ok there was one night when they barked and howled all friggin night and the next morning we all looked like zombies, our eyes were literally hanging out of our heads – at one point during the morning, my youngest grabbed my cup of coffee, took a massive whiff and said: “that’s a good cup of joe!” oh how we laughed. Those 3 weeks were an emotional rollercoaster – there was crying, laughing, yelling, shouting, insomnia, paranoia, more crying, more laughing – you get the picture. It also didn’t help that the husband was often uncontactable by phone or internet so I felt very alone. Thankfully, I had my sestra and my parents back in Australia to talk to, they were and still are an amazing source of support for me – the fact that they haven’t told me to shut the fuck up with my whinging already is a minor miracle, maybe there is a god? Marx, K. 1976. Introduction to A Contribution to the Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right. Collected Works, v. 3. New York. I’ve decided to start some semi-structured home schooling with the children. Seeing as we can’t get them in to any of the independent English speaking schools and they don’t know how long it will take for a space to open, this seems like a really great opportunity for us three independent women to explore our new country and learn through doing! Oh emergent and inquiry based learning how terribly exciting! I envisage us learning math, literacy and social sciences based on real life experiences such as; taking trips to the local markets and purchasing our groceries, visiting museums and cultural centres, becoming immersed in Samoan history and culture and developing our Samoan language skills. Then the girls can each keep a journal of their experiences and document their new-found discoveries through literacy and art. Will my fantasies live up to my expectations? Probably not, but I’m going to give it a red hot go.
It becomes quickly apparent that this home schooling gig is going to be harder than I thought. Even though we have just bought a car, I am still a little bit apprehensive about taking long trips by ourselves (so much for being a fucking independent woman! Hangs head in shame). I spend the first couple of days comparing Australian culture, specifically Indigenous Australian culture with Samoan culture through language, religion, dance and art. I finally have internet in the house and we Youtube a shit load of stuff which the girls love - yay videos. Then I ask them to write about the differences and similarities between the two cultures – booooooooo writing. Here we enter a world of pain. Cue the whinging, rolling on the floor and tears. Ok, I can do this, I CAN DO THIS COME ON! Just think about all your teacher placements and your uni stuff .... what did they say at uni? Right intrinsic and extrinsic behaviour management let’s see if we can behaviour manage this situation ... It quickly deteriorates. I bribe them to write then send them to their room. I am a bad teacher and mum. This continues for the rest of the week. We go out, we experience something really interesting then we come home, I ask them to write about their experiences and they crack the shits. I’m starting to dislike my children. There is a light at the end of my home schooling tunnel of doom – and it is called gelati. Yep, there is one gelati shop in Samoa and I am very excited to say it is located exceptionally close to our house. We take a break from this nightmare and muster up all courage and walk to the gelati shop. Now, when I say we must up all our courage, there is a reason why walking is somewhat of a dodgy exercise here in Samoa. The dogs. There are two types of dogs here in Samoa; the feral dogs that roam the streets and villages and the ‘pet’ dogs that roam the streets and villages. Both will chase you and if they get the chance they will bite you. It is recommended that you carry either a large stick or umbrella when you are walking to defend yourself against said dogs. It must be noted here that the dog problem in Samoa has been addressed by the Government and is not as bad as it used to be – apparently it was awful. Another tactic is you pick up a big rock and throw it at the dogs if they come charging up to you, even pretending to do this causes the dogs to run away. Like I said, we walk to the gelati shop and ... nothing happens (phew) except we eat some friggin awesome gelati. Honestly this gelati rivals the gelati we have eaten in Australia, this was well worth the adrenalin rush. I think we may have found our new ‘local’. Mother’s Day rolls around. What a very odd experience, it feels weird to have the day to decide what I want to do! Every other year it is a battle between my parent’s and my in-laws. Not this year baby, not this year. However, I feel kind of empty and don’t know what to do, must be because there is no drama, no constant threat of argument. After deliberating for practically the whole day we take a short drive to the Botanical Gardens and take a walk around, so relaxing, so peaceful. Oh look the Robert Louis Stevenson tomb walk! Apparently it is only a 45min walk up and back and after the girls pester us to do it we start the gentle walk to the top of Mt Vaea. It quickly turns into a slippery, steep and not so gentle walk, but we have come this far and walking back down seems more dangerous. We decide to keep going. As we are hiking I start to get that dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach, that oily gut wrenching feeling of a panic attack that is about to start and rip out the front of my chest a la Aliens. Keep it together, the girls are seemingly enjoying themselves and no one else has the look of fatal terror on their face so why do I? We finally make it to the top and it is a beautiful view. For me I am just relieved that no one broke an ankle and we sit and contemplate the marvel of nature. I see that the loop walk is meant to be longer but obviously less steep, so it is decided we take that path back down because it is better ... right? WRONG OH SO MUCH WRONG! This is the path from hell. Yes, granted it is not steep, however the path is in many places roughly 30cm wide, slippery with a sheer drop on one side to certain doom and in most places, it isn’t even a path, more of a rocky river of sludge. I feel the Alien making a come back and this time I can’t stop the panic attack... here it comes! My husband takes the front, the two girls in the middle and me at the back ready to catch any small child that may slip and fall down. Apparently certain doom is not on the children’s radar because ‘this is great’. I am not convinced, in fact all I can think of is: it’s late, the sun is setting, this track is fucking treacherous, we have no first aid kit and I am shitting myself! At one point I nearly cry, I am going to be totally honest with you I was that panicked. There were some moments of wonder though, for instance: Why are there so many broken flip flops on this path? Who the hell is wearing flip flops while hiking up this mountain? And how is it possible for that strapping young man (who is shirtless btw) able to run past us up the mountain? It felt like it took for ever, I’m not lying here when I say I was eager to get to the bottom of this track. The husband turned into Grug from The Croods – every five seconds he would say with his hand up in a stop sign: “Wait ...... ok. Wait ...... ok”. The girls thought it was hilarious, if I wasn’t so scared I would have laughed too. We make it to the bottom and I can finally breathe. That was terrifying, I am never doing that hike again. I know this hike would have been nothing to most people, in fact they would have found it enjoyable, but I am not one of those people. As I always knew, I’m more of a sit on the beach with a mimosa type of person, you know low key. Happy Mother’s Day, now who is up for some GELATI! I’m still very reluctant to eat much as I recover from the ‘spew bug’ and the husbands’ mad rush of a shopping trip meant that we still didn’t have much in the house to cook a proper meal. The children are behaving remarkably well, maybe even too well – I get the sneaking suspicion they are planning something or building up to an almighty emotional outburst, considering we have just relocated to a new country, one that is so drastically different to white middle class suburban Australia, I am predicting the mother of all meltdowns very soon.
The house is ‘basic’ only in relation to the brand-new houses we were shown that are obviously marketed to the high-end expat community – unfortunately I don’t think we will ever be high end I just don’t have the OCD to maintain that lifestyle, hell I can’t even be bother shaving my pits or waxing my mo anymore! I am calling my house charmingly rustic. There are high lofted ceilings with fans in every room so that the heat can escape, louvered windows which we were told ‘you only close these when there is a cyclone’ (cyclones, I keep forgetting about that, mental note read the handbook on preparations for cyclones), 3 bedrooms, open plan kitchen dining and living area with basic furniture and two bathrooms. Thankfully the landlord agreed to leave a few items such as beds, couch, dining table and the following:
Just like any rental property, I have a shit load of cleaning to do. Let’s all go on a shopping trip! To buy cleaning supplies! We find the two major supermarkets Farmer Joe’s and Frankie’s and spend a fortune on cleaning products, basic food supplies and bottled water. The supermarkets have an interesting combination of clothing, furniture and food products. I get distracted by the 20L tubs of lard, surely restaurants are buying this right? Buying fresh fruit and vegetables in the supermarkets is very expensive and limited. They stock imported goods such as apples, broccoli, lettuce etc are, usually from New Zealand. So not only are they expensive, they have seen better days not to mention food miles. We still need to figure out where the local produce markets are because there is no way we can keep this up, and we want to buy local fruits and veg. The area where they keep the chilled goods is .... hmm how do I say this in the politest terms .... it is different. The frozen goods, eggs, dairy goods, fruit and vegetables are in the same area as the butcher, so the smell is an interesting mixture of raw meat and earthy vegetable smells. I am so sensitive to smells right now my stomach does a flip and I have to evacuate the area, but the bakery certainly makes up for it..... someone get me something deep fried and covered in chocolate! After a couple of days, I notice that the toilet in the ensuite (I know fancy right! An ensuite) is leaking ... from the poo evacuation pipe. That can not be good for our health. Ok everyone stop using the toilet in the ensuite! I wonder, what part of stop using the crapper because it is leaking don’t children understand? Also why aren’t they using their own toilet? Maybe I need to order some police tape to cordon off the area because they is not understand the words that be coming out of the mouth. As the house hasn’t been lived in for a while, I spend a long time cleaning and eradicating the swarms of disease carrying mosquitoes. Ok I might be overreacting here, but for me I would rather have a house full of cockroaches right now than the swarming mass of potentially deadly mosquitoes in my house. The children still haven’t registered the fact that these bastards are killers and that getting bitten by one isn’t just an itchy annoyance like back home. I feel like me running after the kids with insect repellent will be a constant – must I use shock tactics to get them to listen? The landlord replaces the toilet after a couple of days. We had to wait for a new toilet to be ordered in as there was no toilet with the appropriate pipe connection on the whole island, lucky we have that second bathroom right? I just stepped on gecko shit – now there’s a first line! I’ve just stepped on gecko shit for the 100th time since moving into our rental property and it never gets old, it is also followed by ‘ah FFS! Where are the tissues?’
Oh, tropical paradise you are nothing like the brochures make you out to be. To be fair, there is a gaping chasm between holidaying on a tropical island, staying in a lush resort having your every need and want pampered for and living here. Thus, begins my story. It has been eight weeks since our family moved to Beautiful Samoa – the website and all it’s amazing tropical pornography was the only thing that got me through the shit storm of a move here; I would visit it often and daydream about my life in paradise. You would think that at the ripe old age of 39 my cynicism would have shielded me from wistful daydreams, that I would have more sense, and less naivety – HA! Such an idiot. But how did we get here? I won’t bore you with the minutia of our decision to change lifestyles; we’ve all been there, wanting to get out of the rat race, to live a life that would have a positive impact on this planet blah blah blah. Suffice to say there was a job in Samoa and we agreed to check out of white middle class suburbia (the children didn’t really get a say due to their ages, but they were involved in the discussion and seemed excited about living a life like Moana – thank you Disney). But it’s not like Moana (thanks Disney) because Moana isn’t real and the world she inhabits doesn’t and never really existed – only in a beautiful composition that resulted in one of the best Disney movies so far. I’m going to take you back... back to when we arrived in Samoa (insert wavy memory image here) to where our story begins. Week 1 – Arrived 5am at Faleolo International Airport after travelling for only 6 hours from Australia we all feel like crap. S is over her illness, E is at the tail end of the stomach bug and I am starting to feel a little unwell. Yay children the vectors of all things snotty, spewy and pooey. The airport is small and basic (due to upgrading construction), if I wasn’t so tired I would have enjoyed the traditional band that was playing to greet us, as it was we spent a long time getting our passports and visas checked, and fatigue had now turned to exhaustion. Why am I wearing jeans? It is so damn hot and humid. We are picked up at the airport by G’s work, thank God they have a mini bus otherwise we would have struggled to get all 6 suitcases to our hotel. It’s pitch black and I can’t really make out where we are going, how we are getting there or our surroundings. I have a sharp stabbing pain in my stomach and I can’t keep my eyes open let along start small talk with our driver and HR staff member, however my sensibilities kick in and I start to ask banal questions about the weather, the different churches we pass and the speed limit (because I am not sure what that is exactly) – turns out it is a rough guide – good to know. For such a small island the drive to the hotel feels like it takes forever, I’m trying desperately to log landmarks such as supermarkets and petrol stations for future reference, but I know that is a futile exercise. When we get to the hotel we are all so tired and bedraggled that the bright sun is burning our retinas now and I can only assume that the rest of my family feels the same as me – where is the bed? After sleeping for pretty much the whole day it was time to hit the pool! This is what I have been waiting for; sun lotion, bathers, pools, blue skies, palm trees and a fresh coconut by the water. Yet, these stabbing pains are getting worse and now I am vomiting .... a lot! In between the vomiting (which is happening more frequently than I would like) G and I are continually telling the children mosquitoes are not your friends, put your repellent on! Mosquitoes can kill! Nothing like a bit of hysteria to get the message across. Not sure what the long-term effects of DEET are, but according to the travel doctor we saw before we left, it isn’t as bad as contracting Dengue Fever, Chikungunya, or Zika so for now we are bathing in the stuff. G starts work straight away, and I am now alone with two children in a hotel room too sick to even leave the bed this is going to be interesting.... Room service it is, and it looks like a visit from a doctor! The Doctor prescribes antibiotics for a mystery illness either caused by something I ate, drunk or the weather and medicine to stop me from puking all day (scary internal thought ... Am I Pregnant?). The staff are so sweet, and their constant fussing over my health and the children is truly touching, I want this to last forever, surly this is the life we are going to immerse ourselves in and love for the rest of our lives. The medicine starts working and I give in to the children’s constant begging to swim in the pool – ahhh this is heaven. Back again to lounging by the pool, drinking tropical fruit smoothies, eating – remember eating? Actually putting food into your mouth, swallowing and keeping it down? (nah not pregnant, surely not pregnant right? Can NOT be pregnant). I am dislodged from my holiday bliss by the fact that:
The mystery illness makes a comeback and we still haven’t found a house yet .... clock is ticking. Remarkably G finds a rental property that won’t leave us struggling to buy food every week. Many of the houses they showed G were in expat compounds and something lifted out of a display home catalogue for desperate housewives! Thankfully, G decides to rent a property that is in our budget. As I am perched over my sick bowl praying that this vomiting with stop, G describes our new house and uses the term ‘basic’ many times; I get the feeling he is trying to brace me for something. The day we leave, I can barely make it to the hotel room door, but we have suitcases packed and a rental car on its way, so I must get my arse moving and there is no way I am going to be sick forever. I’m too sick and after dumping our stuff in our new ‘basic’ home I’m being driven to hospital and there is where we spend the next 5 hours being moved from the Emergency Department to the out-patients department and finally seeing a doctor. My middle-class sensibilities are being assaulted by the standard of cleanliness and lack of equipment I am witnessing as I fade in and out consciousness. I am sent to a room that can only be described as a room out of the SAW movie series to give a urine sample – if the sight alone didn’t make me puke then the smell of festering urine certainly did. I pee as quickly as humanly possible into a sample jar and barely do my pants up as I stumble out of ‘the room’. After being moved from seat to seat, I see the Doctor who was amazing. His genuine concern and help was heart warming and he also tells me I am NOT PREGNANT (I nearly cry). After a brief discussion about not drinking the water unless it is bottled, not eating food in certain places and how the weather can also make one feel this way, I am prescribed another dose of antibiotics and finally a beautiful injection into the butt to stop the vomiting. In retrospect my experience at the hospital was at the time confronting, yet it made me realise the amazing work of the staff as they care for patients with limited resources and constraints that us privileged douche canoes wouldn’t understand – I am such a dick wad. |
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