The fisherman is rich…
The sunrise of the world begins in Samoa.
I do not see the sky of Samoa without expecting the horizon to soothe me. If that does not say much about purpose, then nothing else could.
But we are blessed with a magical peacefulness like the wealthier countries are at their best. The thing is, we do not really know it, well, it seems that way.
But other than the chickens’ outcry of poverty and possibly the pigs soon, we are with the cash economy, filling our fridges and food cabinets with junk.
So if the chickens and pigs are seemingly infected, we may as well expect the umu to taste as if cooked in the dishwasher.
You know, 60% umu and 40% pots and pans, as the dishwasher owners would know.
Speaking more to healthy living, ever wonder if there will one day be a creative counteract to alcohol ads and fast food ads on television and the local radio stations?
Where is the soothing “fagogo” and all the content of wealth for the mind that used to be both entertainment and sound ideas?
Do we really have to rub the plastic life into the faces of the children too?
If I was fourteen again, and I grew up as a chicken and pork eater not by choice, I would like to see ads about the “ Peking Duck is not nice” menu, and I would laugh out loud if a disc jockey of Samoan heritage would say, “ I learn-ed Mandarin from eh book.”
But 0f authenticity, the fisherman is the rich one. It is he who is standing alone at the reef, casting his net, as a flying fish would paint the rainbow of life for him. His canoe is tied to a brick under the reef on a sandy pit.
An octopus lurks, though it is too small to be eaten yet. Sometime during the magic morning, he will get enough to feed his children. He will paddle along the reef to mesmerize audiences like me. He will share with his neighbors, or sell the rest of his catch to the beach fales accommodation he passes along the way home. The evening may excite him with a game of cards with other fishermen, few though they may be, a drink of spicy vodka or a sit alone on the front of the house moment, watching the world pass by.
But that is the story of a simple man who is bound to his land, as the land is bound to him till one day, God willing, he will go peacefully to his maker.
Then there are filing personnel who work with the cash economy. Depending on their posts, they can all be called King booga booga should they forget their purpose too.
The file I am interested in is the one that is politely called, “ Things I do not really care about.” I think that in the cash economy, that that is the most dangerous file of all.
And like any country with corrupted personnel, this is the file that is overfilled, and hidden in the corner for fear of the light is there too. If one brave soul would unhide the file, he would discover at will that on top of the file is the fisherman’s plea for a better education, a better health care, a better standard of living for his children.
And when that was unmet, the fisherman wrote with his stone made knives the words, “ Everything crumbles but love.”
Notice I have not mentioned the church?
Well, it is not perfect as all things human are not.
But if God made it, then we know from the fisherman that without love, that too crumbles.