Samoa, the land of abundance always and again
The air of the southern hills of paradise, is innocent in the morning.
If you look at the mountains, you will see the mist leaving before the sun rises.
You sense a serenade between palm trees, banana leaves, breadfruits trees, and bright yellow and red flowers. And you are forced to smile, if you are not gleeful already. It is a state of being in love with your island, every day.
The children heading to school in the dim light are an inspiration. I wish each of them gold from the moment of rise to their sleep each day.
When I look at the clouds, traveling like a family in the clear blue sky, I smile. And the emerald sea below seems to beckon us as if we are timid birds looking for fish to eat.
Everything we are and wish for, are depicted by our surroundings. But the story of abundance in paradise seems to have been stolen, if not gone with the mist. When you sit quietly, you will see the world slowly passing by. And you will feel the ground, crumbling.
The youth of Samoa are staggering without guidance. Well, a lot of them, sit aimless in prisons, if they have not escaped to prove it. Old men and young sit together, facing the walls of despair in there. How come, this is where they came to, though born under the sun of grace and the land of plenty?
Unlike ancient days when our superb distinct skills were shown in war, in the way we made tools and homes, today is a different kind of dance. We are battling invincible ghosts, as families, as individuals, as chiefly people. Is it morals or rather the lack thereof? Is it the spirits of old agonizing over us? Is it regret?
But I want to offer you a landscape of history from the past. Those thatched homes our grand-parents built; the dirt roads they braved to walk miles through, to plant, to weed, to up-heave an ant hill too; in the heat of the sun, the fishing tools sparingly used, as they were masterly made by a patient old man. These are sweet things. They are the sacrifice, we so lovingly profess of the simple days.
I imagine, all of that, and more are lingering in the air we breathe today. If you are in Apia, care free as I am at times, the national library is a reminder of dusty shelves, plenty books, and the allure of modernity.
While it is a place to be lost in love with knowledge for the Pacific ocean and ourselves, that is, if you are really searching, you tend to think of the town clock sitting it the middle of our capital. It is also a gift to us, did you know?
As much as I love whales for knowing and seeing any things under the sea, I adore the town clock of Apia too. But I cannot help but wonder of this generation, what use is it all, if not to shower the same on all our children, whom await our gifts to unfold?
To begin with, we must notice the boiling currents of frustrated young people, lurking in crime and violence.
To ignore it, is to be naïve or worse to be ignorant of the pain of others. Working ourselves to the bone is hard enough, but nurturing a loving generation, will see us to the land of abundance not just in quiet times of recalling our past, but always and again.