The bus artists inspire and those false promises

The rain drops on the road, pot holes, running children in front of the open houses, mothers and sisters sweeping the aftermath in the mornings and boys idly standing by, till the rubbish of leaves and dirt are ready to be collected. 

These are sightings in the mornings from the south coast into Apia, where the rain is emotional. It falls and stops, depending on the mood of the sky. 

School children have walked through dawn to be lighted by the one lamp post in the middle of nowhere, if you measure the distance of the walk. Umbrella or no, they have made it to and fro, somehow each day. There are buses of course, the lit up ones with art work on the back side to mimic the American movies which have been in our homes, owning our artistry and minds for things of color and pleasure, to date. 

Rambo, Commando, mermaids and coral, the color of rainbows cover the art work’s inspirational themes.

Sometimes, the odd waterfall with a sweet romantic phrase emanates the longing for simpler days. What art there is to go on the back of the bus, is often seen randomly and to my superstition’s satisfaction unless I see the truck with the words, “ Hi Babe” on it. It is only then that I simply laugh. The shock of life is a hearty content.

But those are simple things to appreciate on mundane things to think about in our paradise island. Is this culture?  If you think of the music on the buses, they are almost all the same, as one song would rule the minds of simple people, till the next one grabs us. Is it a lot like synchronizing clapping in our songs that keep us moved to the beat or the lyrics? Perhaps it is both, as they all steer towards a unity of thought, a communal reminder for the mesmerizing ideal of togetherness, oneness, and yes pride. 

Speaking of pride, what of the internet fiascos? 

“I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, only vaulting ambition,” said Macbeth. The ruin of Macbeth is in the greed for power. That story alone reminds me of the internet fiascos, and all the gory details of a predictable outcome. When the ego of man is at haywire, well, expect nothing but tragedy. 

What I would like to say about it, is that it is not easy to be a grown citizen of a country whose dignity falls apart in front of you, and you have no idea what to do with it except to pray for peace and tranquility to return. One day, when all the things are said and done, we may remember the softness and genteel nature of our ancestors, in times of deep tribulation. One day!

But there are false promises to be mentioned, if you think of the school children. Day in and out they are told to school, formally, so that one day they will bring the better life home. Do they all succeed? Well, dear reader, the measure of success if you ask me is to be done as derivatives in mathematics, where in finding the source of the subject is to go backward. So we must question the things the children discarded for the promise of a better education. 

There are heaps, but to begin with, traditions in all aspects of traditional living will be a good start. It will help us weave between the current problems of uncertainties, the decay or moral values, the frustrated youth, the escaped prisoners from open prisons, the pigs thrown to decipher the outcry of activism, the fading voices of women in the echoing cries of their unsecured children. Well, the list goes on, because there are compounding problems in a complex world. 

To end this rag, I would rethink the bus artists and their modern depiction of a contemporary life. 

A bus artist inspires me as a good view of Rambo and a laugh at the mermaids jumping into the waterfalls, distract us for a few minutes, and only to have us carry on with this heart breaking life, unfazed by their devoted inspirations to their own art.

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