COLD STEEL
by William Thomas
Fa’a Samoa — the Way of Samoa — where TVs flicker blue fire from open-sided fale (fa-leh) huts, and medicine men carrying bundles of sacred herbs follow white-coated physicians through the Tropical Medical Center…
Fa’a Samoa — where disgruntled motorists open fire on a road crew, and a cop runs a motorcyclist into a ditch to cite her for “reckless driving”…
Employed as a local newsman, I discover how American values have poisoned their resentful “possession”.
Under the gagging reek from canneries across the harbour, scenic Pago Pago (pahn-go pahn-go) seems shrouded in evil. The heat is brutal and cholera occasionally runs from the taps.
Local vibes are not good. “Good-bye” jeer the kids to white honky palagis (pa-long-ees), while their fathers’ muttered asides carry darker undertones. For the first time, I experience the anxiety of a racial minority in an angry land not my own.
Stoning is the preferred punishment for speeders, wives who take the Pill, Korean fishermen and feral dogs. Tails drooping, the lean-ribbed beasts patrol like slobbering hyenas. Scarred, starving and dreaming of revenge.
Never turn your back on them.
In Pago Park one sweltering afternoon, a dogpack lazing a hundred yards away catches sight of a lone palagi. Instantly, they are bounding toward me through low brush. In the awful silence of their intent, I know the panic of prey about to be torn to pieces.
RUN! RUN! RUN! screams every fiber of my being. FAR, FAR AWAY!
And die! Summoning every scrap of willpower, I stand and face the oncoming pack.
My flesh cringes. My mind gibbers. It looks like game over for our captain!
With a paralyzing snarl, the leader leaps for my throat.
But my body has already switched into million-year-old self-preservation mode.
Flash of bared teeth…
And Tiger’s gift is in my hand.
In the instant before my jugular is shredded, my right hand has dived into my pants pocket to unerringly grasp the boatknife I’ve completely forgotten. As the orange plastic folder emerges in an upwards arc, my left hand sweeps across and pulls open the blade.
Without conscious thought, I slash at the alpha male’s snout, a resurgent atavistic savagery lusting for the gush of hot red blood over my hand and wrist.
Wrenched from a place I never knew existed comes my own bared-fang howl of fear and rage…
As surprised as myself, the pack leader twists aside. But I am being outflanked. If one of those dingoes gets behind me, he’ll sever my hamstrings and drag me down. And I’ll be dog food.
Snaking cold steel from side-to-side, I slowly back away, splashing across a small creek. This must be their boundary because the pack turns and runs off — to the disappointment of the Samoan men who have been watching the palagi’s predicament with keen interest.
I walk aimlessly for hours, high on adrenaline and a move so perfect in its fluid grace, I can only marvel at whoever made it. It sure as hell wasn’t “me”.
Nearly four decades later, I do not feel dressed without a clasp knife in my pocket.
This story first appeared in my column, "From The Crows Nest" in the Island Grapevine
Photo Credit
Thea returns from work in Pago Pago -"Randy" Will Thomas photo