A Ride Home

8/20

Getting to Vatia from Samoana

Lying in the bed of a truck, waiting for “5-10 minutes,” which has definitely been an at least an hour at this point. What the hell. Island time sucks. The uptight, productivity-obsessed American culture definitely gets to me, but I still appreciate a little timeliness. Sitting next to reeking football gear, with an unsupervised, bawling child in the cab. Could’ve gone to the damn library and used internet with a decent connection speed and had her call me when I’m done.
I came into town on the bus earlier today for a teachers’ workshop at Samoana High School, and I agreed to take a ride home from one of the other teachers. But from now on, I’m going to do everything possible to avoid getting rides from people. It doesn’t mean anything but inevitable delays. At least with a bus you know what you’re going to get—a bumpy ride, some blasting music, the smell of the canneries, and a $2 fare. None of this being taken on errands, waiting for people in meetings. I should have been home an hour ago, knocking out lesson plans and quizzes for tomorrow so I could have a little time to unwind with the house to myself, but no.
And then her kids climb into the back of the truck with me, and things aren’t so bad. There’s something serene, something that puts my frayed nerves at ease, about having this kid here, sharing my boredom, wanting to sit next to me on the tailgate just because I’m something new and different. There’s also something awesome about seeing a two year old who can’t speak take a swig of cold Mountain Dew and exhale with a big “ahhh!” After trying to make small talk with the kids for a while, the meeting finally ended and we got on the road. Seeing American Samoa from the back of a pickup truck is a great thing, and began to make up for the long delays in our departure. But then, of course, we stop for another half hour to rent a movie.
In the end, when I got home at seven, from my workshop that ended at four, I wasn’t at all upset. The cool air on the ride home, seeing the harbor and the mountains in the failing light, sitting in the back of the pickup with those kids—it made none of the delays matter. And I realized that if I lived here permanently, the lack of punctuality would probably drive me crazy eventually, but for the time that I’m here I think I can learn to live with it if it means forcing me to take time to sit back and stop worrying so much about time.