by Alan L. Moss
Looking over his left shoulder, he spotted a beautiful young girl who appeared to be no more than sixteen. She wore white slacks and a pink blouse. Her hair was in a ponytail, adding to her youthful image.
“I am Malia. I work with Stephanie at the Visitors Information Bureau,” she said.
“Hi, Malia. It was nice of you to meet me this afternoon. Do I have a ride to the lodge?”
She advanced toward him.
“Please follow me to the parking lot. Stephanie picked up your rental car and she’ll drive you to the Parrot and Porpoise. I’ll follow in my car and give her a ride back.”
“That’s great,” Michael said, and they stepped into the crowded lot.
When they reached a gray Ford Escort, Malia pointed to the trunk and Stephanie popped the latch. After loading his luggage, Bloom thanked Malia and told her they’d likely see more of each other later in the week. She blushed and walked to her car.
Michael opened the passenger door and sat down. He looked to Stephanie, who continued to look straight ahead.
“Thank you. I really appreciate your help.”
She turned to him and he gazed into her large, dark brown eyes. The description of Stephanie’s beauty volunteered by another Labor Department economist proved no exaggeration. She had high cheekbones and golden skin, like the models Michael flipped past in the New York Times Magazine. Her lips were full and lustful. Her hair was deep brown with a reddish tint, pulled back in a tight bun. Dressed in a white blouse and dark blue shorts, her figure was that of a twenty-five-year-old, even though he knew she was in her forties.
Her body language made it clear she knew her looks were stunning. Rather than responding to his thanks, she asked if his flights were okay.
“They were good,” he said. “How old is Malia? She looks like a teenager.”
Stephanie began maneuvering the car through the lot.
“I know, I know,” she said. “Would you believe she’s already a mother twice? She’s so good around the office, I don’t think I could get along without her.”
Stephanie pulled out of the parking lot and proceeded toward the Parrot and Porpoise Lodge. The roads consisted of crude black top with plenty of potholes. She identified landmarks in a matter-of-fact tone — churches, cemetery monuments, and fales—the round, open houses of traditional Samoans.
As they passed a golf course entrance and went into a residential area, Michael spotted a faded billboard of a porpoise jumping out of a wave, a parrot suspended overhead. The sign pointed to the Parrot and Porpoise Lodge and Stephanie turned left down a long winding hill. At the bottom sat the Pacific. Huge waves crashed on to black volcanic rocks just off the shore.
She turned right at the beach and started down a dirt road surrounded by vegetation.
After a quarter of a mile, two dogs rushed the car and began jumping up at the driver’s side window, barking viciously. The fear that rushed into Michael’s belly was muted by the fatigue he felt from the journey.
“Sorry about that,” Stephanie said, maintaining her cool. “We have a problem with wild dogs on the Island. Best thing to do is to raise your window and keep going. They’ll give up eventually.”
After passing a section of the trail covered with pink flower petals, Stephanie said they were almost there. The road curved to the left. They passed what looked like an Island estate and pulled up to the lodge just beyond.
“The Parrot and Porpoise is composed of two buildings,” Stephanie said, assuming her role as a Visitors Bureau spokeswoman. “The old house, built in the 1980s by the Reed family, is still in excellent condition. Its front porch overlooks Larson’s Cove, which includes one of a number of blowholes, the Pacific’s answer to Old Faithful. About a quarter of a mile to the west, the jagged rocks give way to a beach surrounded by exotic plants and trees. To the east is nothing but the Pacific Ocean.”
Stephanie shifted her position to face him and Michael could see the fullness of her breasts. He wondered what it would be like to hold this woman in his arms.
“Behind the old house is a new, more elegant structure, the building we just passed. It’s home to Ed and Georgia Reed, and includes a couple of rooms they rent to guests. A collage of balconies and walkways leads to a pool and grass tennis courts.”
Stephanie glanced in the rearview mirror, spotting Malia’s arrival.
“Just beyond the tennis court is another cove, steep and kind of scary. A wood bench placed on the edge dares you to take a chance in exchange for a spectacular view of the ocean. I’ve made my way over there and it’s definitely worth it.”
Sensing she had more to say and feeling the Island heat, Michael lowered the passenger door window.
“Ed Reed built the original house when his mother gave him ten acres along the sea. A hurricane left some damage a few years ago and he built the new structure and converted the old house into the lodge. Ed’s wife, Georgia, runs the lodge and cooks for special affairs.
“Georgia knows that most visitors on your flight need to catch up on their sleep before enjoying the Island. She said it would be fine for you to come by the new house in the morning and check in. Your room is up the stairs and to the left. You’ll have the lodge to yourself until the rest arrive for the hearings on Friday.”
“Thanks again for all your help and information,” Michael said. “I’ll stop by your office in a day or two and we can discuss the hearings.”
“Best of luck to you,” she said, exiting Michael’s rental. Stephanie got into Malia’s car and they pulled away.
***
After lugging his bags upstairs to the deck, Michael opened a screen door to the lodge’s second floor. A small kitchen and a large open area with couches, a desk as well as a computer and printer greeted him.
At the rear were two bedroom doors, one open. Michael walked through the open door to find a large bathroom in the back. Since he had the only room with a private bath, this had to be his.
Tired, but feeling somewhat exhilarated, he unpacked and climbed into the king-sized bed, his head pressed into a down pillow against the headboard. After playing with a couple of nearby switches, he turned on a ceiling fan. The windows were already open and moist Island air flowed into the room. He reached for a paperback he picked up at the Dulles terminal.
Heart of the Ocean is a story of whalers who sailed from New England to the South Pacific to find their prey. They endured rough seas and difficult conditions for up to two years at a time. Their objective was to hunt and harpoon whales, savagely dismembering these giant mammals for the valuable oil found deep in their carcasses.
The central event of the story occurs when a huge whale, outraged at witnessing the death of her family, charges and sinks an invading whaling ship. Taking refuge in lifeboats, thirty sailors suffer unspeakable hardships while seeking a friendly port.
In the old days, the beautiful South Pacific could be a dangerous place.
***
A’esu is a deserted village at the foot of Slaughter Bay. Twelve men from the crew of La Perone’s ships, La Boussele and Astrolab, were massacred there as they came ashore on Samoa, December 12, 1788. This pitch black night, as Michael slept, three Samoan teens stood around an obscure monument commemorating the loss of the European crew members.
Each boy had thick, black hair brushed straight back. Two of them wore thin moustaches making them look older than their seventeen years. The other boy, the tallest of the three and clean-shaven, had a black leather band around his right wrist. They wore shorts and sweatshirts with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder. From a distance, their tan skin shone clear in the light reflected by the full moon. Close up, the scars, burns, and breaks which robbed them of their childhood became visible.
It was muggy and they were sweating from the hike down the steep trail to the village. Two of the boys sat on the trunk of a downed tree. The tall one stood facing them, holding a large wad of bills in his right hand.
“Look, bro, we got bundle from our ace. He brick! A few m
o’ and we be ballin’ in States. No mo’ outcast. No mo’ rock. That cool bang we did. That sap lay in hospital. I pull that tube out his nose and slice his neck. He stare at me with dying eyes … tried to scream but nothin’ but blood came out. That devil was dead man walking since he goes after Big M. Now he brown head.”
They had no thoughts about what they were doing; there was no questioning of morals, the law, or fear of punishment.
One of the boys sitting on the trunk had a thin scar across his left cheek. He held the handle of a gray machete and looked at his comrades.
“We invincible! We Samoa’s savages!”
The third boy, joining in the congratulatory session, shouted with his fist held high in the air.
“We R.I.D. posse!”
With that, their leader called for a bake break and each chulo lit up, dreaming of their favorite beef and the bank that would come from their next do.
CHAPTER 11
SETTLING
May 31, 2001
Pago Pago, American Samoa
The next two days saw Michael working on the deck refining his testimony and searching for holes that could be exploited by the opposition. He was surrounded by beauty instead of the chaos and opposition of the administration in Washington. It was a relief to enjoy his work for a change.
After reviewing his revised material, he concluded it was tight. The simple facts were that in the past seventeen years, tuna processing on the Island had consistently expanded, the cost of living increased, and real wages, wages adjusted for inflation, fell. The result was a steady and baneful increase in poverty.
Even without such supporting evidence, the law required that unless employment was declining, which it wasn’t, the minimum wage was to increase until it reached the minimum wage of the U.S. Mainland. If the law was followed, Michael believed the Samoan workers would receive a meaningful increase.
He spent his first night in Samoa with a senior Justice Department attorney staying in the Reed’s house. After drinking martinis on Michael’s deck and enjoying the incredible view, Michael and Glenda drove to the Tai Hotel, where they enjoyed basic island fare and too many Vailima’s, local beer brewed in Western Samoa. She warned Michael to beware of George Partain. “He was hired because he knows more about the seedy side of Samoa than anyone else,” she said. Her bottom line was he could not be trusted.
The next day, Michael followed the attorney into Pago Pago, Samoa’s capital city. Once through the neatly maintained village of Vaitogi, they turned right and drove past the Nu’uuli Shopping Center, a pink strip mall with a movie theater, Chinese restaurant, and various shops. After a few more miles, they encountered a white church in the village of Matuo. It had two intricate spires fronting an all-white building with rows of clear windows along the sides. Then, they passed the Flower Pot Rocks, Futi and Fatu. These are large lava outcroppings sitting about two-hundred yards off the shore, standing three-to-four-stories high and covered by green and yellow vegetation.
As they approached Pago Pago, they got behind a number of colorful buses that take workers to the tuna cannery and residents to shops and church on Sunday. They looked like dilapidated pickup trucks with bus frames attached. With no doors and only an opening at the front, Michael could see mothers holding onto their small children so they wouldn’t bounce out.
In Pago Pago, they passed the sleek Government Center on their left. It was a concrete building with two stories and three rows of windows across the front. If it weren’t for chickens roaming the front lawn, this structure could have been mistaken for local government buildings in many U.S. cities.
Just down the road on the right was the Fono, where the Island’s legislature met. It was a complex of three oval buildings with thatched roofs. One building was for representatives, who were popularly elected; one for senators, who were chiefs chosen via the traditional matai system; and the third was where legislative sessions were conducted.
The minimum wage hearings would take place there beginning Monday morning. Michael stared at the building, wondering if he was up to the challenge.
Across the street from the Fono, Michael saw the Island’s main shopping area, including a post office, bank, and a number of stores. Set back from the retail buildings was the High Court of American Samoa. It was a white, wooden structure of two stories with a balcony that surrounded the front and both sides of the second floor.
As they approached the eastern end of the city, Glenda slowed and turned into the parking lot behind a three-story office building. Michael followed and parked next to her Honda. A rain shower came out of nowhere and they rushed into a first floor café.
After an enjoyable breakfast of juice, eggs, and toast, Michael explained he had stops to make in town and wanted to drive down Route No. 1 to explore the eastern end of the Island. On his way out, he noticed two women laughing, following him with their eyes. Stephanie and Malia were sitting at a small table in a corner of the room. Michael approached.
“Hi, I didn’t see you. How are you? Thanks again for getting me to the Parrot and Porpoise.”
“We’re doing just fine,” Stephanie said. “We take our break each morning at this time. Our office is on the third floor.”
“Didn’t know that,” Michael answered. “Later this week, I hope you’ll be available to discuss the hearings.”
“We’ll do anything we can to help.”
Michael couldn’t help being drawn into the grasp of Stephanie’s warm eyes.
“By the way, I’m going to the rental office to get you off the hook for my car,” he said with a smile.
“To be truthful, none of us thought you were much of a risk,” Stephanie said, returning his smile.
Michael said goodbye and walked back to his car. In reality, he never intended to discuss the hearings or the Island’s economy with Stephanie. While she seemed to be a good person, in their many phone conversations, she never spoke of Samoa’s poverty. From what he could tell, her job placed Stephanie in the employer camp.
From his viewpoint, American Samoa was a small, underdeveloped country disguised as an unincorporated U.S. Territory. Its economy depended on the export of one product — processed fish. Its levels of investment, except in tuna processing, remained extremely low. While the pristine areas of the Island and the surrounding water appeared strikingly beautiful, they couldn’t conceal the territory’s crumbling roads, polluted harbor, and chickens and sick dogs wandering everywhere.
***
Michael found the car rental office in a three-story building across the street and just down the road from where they ate breakfast. The building was undergoing renovation and it took some doing to find his way up to the second floor. Once the rental clerk came to the counter things went smoothly.
With that business done, Michael headed back down Route No. 1 to the Government Center. He pulled around to the rear of the building and into a visitor parking place. Walking toward the building, he could see children in white uniforms playing soccer on a green field next to a nearby elementary school.
Once in the Government Center, he made his way to the second floor and the suite of offices designated for the Governor and his staff.
“May I help you?” a friendly Samoan receptionist asked from behind an information desk.
“My name is Michael Bloom and I’m here to see Joseph Schmuckler.”
“Welcome, Mr. Bloom. Please take a seat and I’ll let Mr. Schmuckler know.”
Thumbing through a sailing magazine, Michael wondered what kind of attorney walks around with a name like Schmuckler. Certainly, he would know how easy it would be to change it to Saunders or something else that wouldn’t bring smiles every time he’s introduced.
On the other hand, who in Samoa would be familiar with the term?
In a few minutes, a tall, pudgy man wearing Bermuda shorts walked in with an outstretched hand.
“Hi, Michael, it’s great to meet you in person. I’m Joe Schmuckler.”
Michael got u
p from his chair and firmly grasped Schmuckler’s hand.
“Thanks, Joe. It’s nice to meet you in person.”
“Well,” Schmuckler said, “what can I do for you today?”
“I’d like to go to the Fono and make arrangements for the hearings.”
“Not a problem,” Schmuckler answered. “By the way, the Governor sends his regards and wants you to know he’d be happy to be your first speaker on Monday. He’ll be off-Island until then but is looking forward to the hearings.”
“Excellent, thank you,” Michael said.
“Come back to my office and we can go over to the Fono as soon as I tie up a few loose ends.”
Schmuckler led Michael back to his desk. He apologized for the heat in the building and his informal attire. "The building’s air conditioning goes out in the middle of heat waves," he explained, "so most workers wear shorts or work out of their homes during these times."
After he returned a few phone calls, Schmuckler drove them across Route No. 1 to the Fono building and parked in the Governor’s reserved space. The legislature was not in session so only a few members and staffers were present.
The two men walked up narrow back stairs to meet Maria, secretary to the Senate President. A sweet Samoan lady, her enthusiasm and knowledge of the building would be an asset. In addition to volunteering to photocopy his testimony, she would open the building at seven each morning and be glad to stay late to take care of any after-hours assignments. The Senate President agreed to let Michael use his office during the hearings.
Michael checked out the hearing room. It was large, with a fifty-foot-long conference table. The wall along one side of the oval room was all windows, while the other side contained audio-visual equipment to record legislative sessions. A balcony above the recording area could accommodate one-hundred spectators.
If I can hold it together, my experience in the U.S. Senate should help me here.
