All Over the Map

by Laura Fraser

  As he began roughing my breasts, a calmness and clarity washed over me. A movie I’d seen, maybe one of those high school gym class movies about self-defense, started playing in my mind. I followed it, as in a trance. I went limp and could feel him relax his grip in response. Then I gathered up all my strength at once, an energy bolt through my body, and shoved the palm of my hand straight up his nose. He reeled back, surprised. I stepped forward and, with all my sturdy-legged force, shoved a knee into his groin. He fell down, doubling over in the sand, and I had an instant to make a decision.

  I’ve always been strong but slow, good on endurance but not speed. If I ran, this lithe Egyptian would get up, follow, catch me, and that would be that. He could kill me. I looked at the waves. If I swam, I might make it. I would make it. I ran to the ocean, dived in, slipped off my shoes, untangled my shirt over my head, and swam for my life.

  I swam and swam, my heart pounding in my ears, pulling with all my strength, until I dared to turn around and see if he was swimming after me, trying to catch my toes. But he was way back on the shore, back on his feet, and I could barely make out his yelling: “How much for you?”

  I swam all the way back, around the outcropping, past the bluff where I had first seen the man, until finally in the far distance I could spot Edie, sunning herself. I was relieved that she was all right and angry at myself for leaving her side. When I finally stumbled out of the water, collapsing on the sand, I let go, sobbing. Edie gave me water and a reassuring arm. She screamed about the men in that country, pigs who treat women like sheep. I said I might wish the guy were dead, but it was a different culture, not a culture I’d want to live in, but I was walking alone on their sand in an outfit that had a different meaning for them, and I should’ve known. I was stupid.

  We walked back to town, my bare feet bleeding by the time we arrived at the hotel. I showered, changed, and took the next bus back to Cairo, where I immediately cashed my dwindling traveler’s checks and booked a flight to a country I’d never visited, where I didn’t speak the language, but where I knew I’d feel more at home: Italy.

  That experience should have made me wary. Sure, I hadn’t walked alone on the beach in a Muslim country since. But actually, it gave me an outsized sense of my strength, my ability to protect myself in a pinch. I had fought off a rapist and escaped. I still walk around streets alone, in Naples or the Tenderloin, thinking I have a secret weapon, a bolt of energy, the ability to escape from trouble and just swim away.

  I hear the Samoan man on the beach call out, and flinch. I glance at the water, but Samoans are strong swimmers, so I whirl back toward the hotel. He calls, I don’t know what he’s saying, and then I see a little girl run out of the bushes and catch up to him. The man scoops her up, puts her on his shoulders, and continues walking. They pass me. “Talofa,” I say softly, eyes looking down.

  “Talofa,” he replies, and his little daughter waves with a big, bright smile.

  IN THE MORNING, in the moist heat, I throw on a lavalava and make my way over to the big house for breakfast, sitting at a table on a wooden porch with a view of the sea. I’m amazed that the waiter, Rinaldo, brings me a good cappuccino and that he’s half Italian. Here, out on a remote Samoan island, I’ve found Italian coffee to drink with a view of the most beautiful beach, waves breaking on the coral reef a quarter mile out.

  After breakfast, Rinaldo brings out a map of the island and shows me some places to go. I take off in the old Toyota I’ve rented, my ultimate destination the village where the principal said Tara, the fa’afafine, lives. I circle the island, stopping where Rinaldo suggested—caves, a canopy walk over a forest of ferns and banyan trees, blowholes spraying in the lava rock. I follow the map to the village of Safolava and find Tara’s parents’ open-air house, where pigs graze in the front yard. Inside, her mother weaves straw mats on the floor. No one speaks any English; when I say the name “Tara,” her niece starts giggling. “Auntie,” she says.

  Tara wanders in, wearing a lavalava and a white shirt that any man might wear. Gentle and intelligent, she has short hair and a quiet femininity. She asks if we can meet tomorrow, if I could come talk to her students in English; then we can go out with another fa’afafine, a friend who lives on a plantation.

  On the way back, I make one last stop at the Satuita Falls. I climb the narrow, steep trail, picking my way over rocks, until I hear and then see breathtaking jungle falls, Tarzan falls, a hypnotic gush of water crashing down from the high rain forest into a peaceful pool carved deep into the rock. The water is so clear light blue it’s possible to see all the way to the bottom, and the bottom is a long way down. I dive in for a swim, dry myself with my sarong, and think that so far this has been one of the best days ever, this is why I love to travel.

  THE NEXT DAY I put on a dress, pack my beach things, and drive to Tara’s school. About thirty kids are out on recess in the sunny school-yard garden, exuberant with candy-striped plumeria, white ginger, and catwhisker flowers. Shy at first, the braver boys ask me to take their pictures; then they all surround me, smiling and waving. Tara walks across the yard, and the children come to order. “Thanks for coming,” she says, looking me up and down. “I love your dress.”

  In the open-air classroom, Tara introduces me as a friend visiting from America and tells the children to ask me questions in English. They raise their hands and, as best they can, ask where I’m from, if I have brothers and sisters, and how I like Samoa. Tara points to the map of the world to show them where San Francisco is, and they can’t imagine anything that far away; most of them have never been off the island. I talk about buildings as high as a waterfall and subways that run in tunnels underground and a tall golden bridge that serves as a big gate to the bay that surrounds the city. The kids ask where my husband and children are and are more confused when I say I don’t have any than they are about the subways and bridges.

  “Auntie,” one little boy says, and the boy next to him giggles. The word spreads through the room, and all the kids are covering their mouths to hide their laughter.

  AFTER SCHOOL, TARA and I pull over to a shaded spot under some coconut trees. From a trail deep in the jungle emerges a thin, weathered fa’afafine with ratty bleached hair and a ragged tank top that shows her hard biceps. Tara introduces Lucy, who squats by the side of the road and rolls a cigarette. Tara explains that I’m writing about fa’afafine, and Lucy brags about all the beauty pageants she won years ago. She is almost as famous as Sonia, she says. “I have a lot of shiny dresses.” She takes a drag on her cigarette and smooths her hair.

  Tara and Lucy talk about how difficult it is to be a fa’afafine on the island—no place to go, nowhere to dress up. Lucy disappears to her hut and comes back with a pineapple she cuts with a knife, the sweetest pineapple I’ve ever tasted. I ask how old they were when they knew they were fa’afafine.

  “I changed my life when I was seven,” says Tara. “We used to go to Sunday school, and we had to weed the plantation for the pastor, we were out in the weeds with the boys.” She looks out across the field. “I still remember the boy that did it to me, he was older than me. After that boy did it to me, then other boys would do it to me in the weeds.” She laughs, and I wonder how she can laugh.

  Lucy wipes her mouth on her shirt. “I changed my life when I was ten. It was my brother-in-law,” she says. “When my father would beat me at home because I wanted to wear dresses and dance, I would run away to my sister’s house. She had a husband, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and when we went out to feed the pigs one night, he did it to me there. He showed me what was in his pants, and I didn’t know what to do, and he grabbed me and pulled me down.” She takes a bite of her pineapple.

  “Were you scared?” I ask.

  “No, I didn’t tell anyone,” says Lucy. “I could never speak of it to my sister, and my father would have beat me. I didn’t know I was a fa’afafine then, but my brother-in-law kept doing it to me in the fields, and then other older boys would do it to me, to
o.”

  Lucy and Tara finish the pineapple, but I’ve lost my appetite.

  “Let’s go to the surfer bar,” Lucy says, eyeing the car.

  THE MAGOGO BEACH club is the center of the local surfer scene, with huts on the beach to rent, camping supplies for sale, and a bar. Young Australian and New Zealander surfers, tanned and tattooed, pound down the beers after a long day riding the waves. Tara and Lucy find a table, and the waitress, a trendy-looking Samoan woman in her forties, takes their order for beers. “Big ones,” says Lucy.

  The first Vailimas are served, and before the waitress leaves the table, Lucy orders another round. She and Tara drink as if they don’t know when in life they’ll find another palagi to foot the bill, and I lose track of the rounds. The drunker they get, the less English they speak. I drink because I’m getting bored, tinged with sadness at these two fa’afafine and their gaiety, which now seems so forced.

  At a nearby table, the young palagi surfers, blond and buff, are becoming raucous. “Hey,” Lucy yells over in their direction. “Why don’t you guys come on over and buy us a drink?” One of the young men glances over in our direction, nudges a buddy, and they all laugh uproariously.

  Undeterred, Lucy swings her way over to their table and sits down. The young men seem greatly amused by her presence, and she acts as if she is wildly entertaining, not the butt of their jokes. “Come sit on my lap, baby,” one says in his thick Australian accent, and the others double over laughing. Lucy slides onto his lap, and he makes obscene pumping motions, holding her waist. He pinches her breast, hard. “Are these real?” he asks, and while the others laugh at her, Lucy beams like a child.

  “You’re cute,” she says, throwing her arms around his neck. The joke has gone too far, and he pushes her, roughly, off his lap. In her inebriated state, Lucy falls off the edge of the bench. She picks herself up, dusting sand off, stunned, and then, just as others might cry, she bursts into laughter. The surfers have lost their appetite for her, for the joke, and have returned to talking about the killer waves. They ignore her as she makes her way back to our table.

  “Did you see that?” Lucy asks Tara. “I haven’t lost it.” She slumps back into her seat.

  The sun fades, and the waitress lights some electric tiki torches inside the thatched hut bar. I take off my Italian sunglasses and set them on the table.

  A strong young Samoan man with a tattooed armband approaches our table and pulls up a chair. “Malo,” he says, greeting Lucy, whom he seems to know. The young man turns his attention to me. “You’re American?” he asks, flashing a smile the same dingy white as the big shark’s tooth around his neck, a talisman surfers wear to protect them from sharks.

  The waitress delivers three more big Vailimas. She eyes me. “Be careful with these,” she whispers, glancing around the table, but I wave on another beer. I can take care of myself. I study Tara and Lucy, who are joking about sex and boyfriends to cover up the loneliness in their lives stretching out in front of them like the endless sea. I knock over my beer, and it drips all over my sandals and dress. It’s sticky and I need air.

  “I’m going over there,” I say, pointing to the ocean and pushing back from the table. “Splash some water.” I walk away in the sand, and the fa’afafine nod, barely registering. Their heads are low to the table, whispering to each other.

  “Me, too,” says the Samoan surfer, following, and I don’t care, whatever. I wander by some camping huts to the edge of the water, dip my feet in, and wash away the beer. I look up at the stars, so bright, and a wave comes up, startling me, pushing me onto my seat, my dress now sopping and sandy.

  “Here,” says the Samoan man, taking my hand and pulling me up. How nice that he’s helping.

  “Look.” I gesture at my dress helplessly. “Look what happened.” He keeps my hand in his, pulling me away from the water, pulling me along the beach.

  I drop his hand. “Stay there,” I command and giggle and go to the other side of some brush to pee. I lift my skirt and squat; it’s hard to balance when you’ve had a few drinks. Men have it easy. Emerging from the bush, I don’t see the surfer guy, which is good. I just need to sit, to breathe, I don’t feel so good. Sit awhile and then find some water to drink.

  There’s the surfer guy, coming toward me. He sits down, and then he is too close. “Baby, I want you,” he says out of the blue and puts an arm around me. Where did he get that line, this silly surfer? I push him away.

  “I want to lick you,” the Samoan guy says, more urgently, and he starts pawing around. “Go away,” I say, pushing him more strongly.

  I start to get up, and he pushes me down into the sand. “Really,” I say, angry now. “Leave me alone.”

  “I want to fuck you, baby.”

  “No!” He is ridiculous. I make a mighty effort to get up, and he puts his hand on my hip to keep my down. Red alarms go off in my head, and I summon all my will, my strength, that bolt of energy to fight him off, and his hand pushes harder on my hip bone and he laughs at me, drunkenly enjoying the game. He still thinks I want to kiss him, fucking moron. No, I say, turning my head into the sand and closing my eyes. No.

  I WAKE UP, curled in a fetal position. I have no idea how much time has passed. I brush sand from my mouth and look to see if the Samoan guy has gone. I push myself up to sitting and then lean over again. I heave up everything, the beer, the pineapple. I vomit until it’s bitter and my throat is raw and there is nothing left, but I can’t stop heaving. I close my eyes and try to breathe in deep. Some people would not be in this situation. Some people would be back in their hut, in bed with a book. Some people would not have gotten so fucking drunk with a bunch of drag queens in Samoa. But I am an idiot, I am a mess. In the sand I notice the shark’s tooth the surfer was wearing, the leather cord ripped apart.

  I stand up, nearly sober, and walk back to the water’s edge. After a hard wave, there is a calm pooling of water. I rinse my face, then walk into the warm water in my dress, dunking my head, swimming under, washing everything, rubbing my skin until I feel clean. When I surface, I am alert enough to realize I should get out of the water. I wish I had a towel.

  Back to the bar, Tara and Lucy are still at the table, their heads resting on their arms on the table. I tap them, and it takes a few minutes for them to register my presence. “There you are,” says Tara, rousing herself.

  “Did you go for a little swim?” Lucy asks. “Did the surfer make you all wet?” Lucy laughs, but Tara notices my pale face and straightens up.

  I locate my beach bag and go into the restroom, where I rinse my face and cup my hands to drink as much water as I can. I change into my sarong, clean again.

  “Let’s go,” I say, back at the table.

  “School tomorrow,” Tara says, struggling to her feet, giving her head a shake to get rid of the drunkenness.

  Turning to leave, I remember something. “My sunglasses!” I search the table, my bag, and turn to Lucy. “Did you see my sunglasses? They were right here on the table.” Those were my favorite sunglasses. I found them in Rome, paid more for them than anyone should pay for shoes, much less sunglasses, but they’d been worth it, they were cool, women stopped me on the street to ask where I got those sunglasses. And now some drunk fa’afafine bitch has them hiding in her pockets. “Fuck!” I say, and Tara looks away, embarrassed.

  It is not Tara’s fault. Forget it. But my favorite sunglasses. They’re gone.

  “Let’s go,” I say, wishing we could leave Lucy behind. We speed back toward Lucy’s plantation and drop her off without saying good-bye. I slow down when it’s just Tara in the car, and she’s apologizing for the glasses, for their drunkenness, and I reassure her, no, no, it’s all fine. When I get to Tara’s village, the open-sided house, I can see the sleeping forms of her mother and father in the corner on the mats. I say good-bye to Tara, and then offer her the wet dress in my bag, which I never want to see again. “It needs a wash,” I say, “but it might fit you.”

  “Fa’afe
tei,” says Tara and gives me a gentle hug.

  WHEN I FINALLY get out of bed in the morning, I stumble as I stand up. I rub the crease where my hip meets my leg, tender and sore deep inside. I must have strained it somehow. My head is pounding. I stand under the lukewarm shower until I am as awake as I’m going to get.

  Coffee will help. I walk over to the main house and sit on the porch. The view of the waves is soothing.

  A van of surfers pulls up. The driver’s tanned arm, leaning out the window, has a tattoo around it. My stomach jumps. The Samoan surfer climbs out of the van with some tourists, chatty New Zealanders, who are climbing the stairs to the porch. I want to bolt, but there’s no way to leave without walking straight past them. I put my head down and hide my face behind my coffee cup, wishing for my sunglasses. I will myself invisible as they settle into their table. I think I’m safe and then sense something or someone standing in front of me. The waiter with breakfast. I lift my head, and it’s the surfer. I cover my face with my hand and pretend it is a bad hallucination that will go away.

  “I’m sorry,” I hear him say, and I cannot speak. I’m frozen, still as an animal whose only defense is to blend into the background. After a couple of beats, he moves, I hear him go down the stairs, and then, in the distance, the van door opening and closing.

  I get up to settle my bill. I can’t eat breakfast, I have got to catch my plane. In a moment I’m driving away.

  When I climb the stairs to the plane, my hip twinges sharply. I take my seat in the cramped plane and suddenly feel there isn’t enough air, the space is too enclosed. I close my eyes and breathe slowly. After the plane takes off, I peer out at the island, at its sultry greenness, and at the Falealupo Peninsula, the edge of the earth, entrance to the underworld with its evil spirits.