A Tale from the Islands: “What the hell are you doing in this picture?”

While living in the Marshall Islands, I had many unusual, dream-like and surreal experiences. This is one of them:
Every year the Magical Samoan Circus comes to Majuro. This is the equivalent to a junior high musical with bad costumes and mediocre magic tricks. But we take what we can get. In 2004, when the circus came, I was ready for magic (Samoan-style) and was willing to go out and get it myself if I had to…and I did.
My friends and I were so excited for the ‘magic’, we decided to sneak a peak and see how the preparations were coming along. And, you know, see if they needed a hand with anything. We dropped by the site at around 4am. We figured they’d be up having orgies and would welcome us into their tents. As it turns out, circus people actually sleep at night, so we decided to let ourselves in to have a look around.
What we saw was the usual popcorn stand, some stacks of hay, and some bleachers. While we were there I thought it might be of help to make sure the midget’s tricycle was well oiled and the seat comfortable, so I hopped on for a test drive. The steering was a bit off, and the shocks were a little weak. Being the little helper that I am, I kept track of my findings and continued riding. I was about 1/20 of the way around the track when it happened.
Out of nowhere, or a small sleeping cave, came two Samoan men adorning mid-thigh grass skirts and carrying spears. Yes, spears. Now because I’m a small girl, and a pretty one at that, I didn’t think they’d come after me. I foolishly assumed they’d attack and torture one of my less attractive, delicate friends. I was wrong, and the words these men yelled at me will forever taunt my dreams.
“That is not for you. That is for the baby. You are not the baby.”
Still today chills run down my spine. I couldn’t think fast enough to get off the tricycle, and because the pedal span was about the size of my knee-cap, a speedy getaway was impossible. Still I tried. My pedaling was an arrhythmic battle, and my feet kept jerking out of the stirrups. As I neared the 3ft fence that led to my freedom I felt my heart race. My pulse was enough to tip the bike over and spill me to a certain death. However, my fate was secured when I noticed the confused faces of my Australian friends, and heard one of them say, “What tha fuck’ya doin’, mate, geddoff tha dame boyke”. Good point.
I got off the tricycle, stepped over the fence, and then I think we had hotdogs. Later that weekend I ran into the “baby”. We had a few beers and I let him touch my butt. Samoan-style magic? Mission: Accomplished.

And that's what-the-hell I’m doing in this picture.