I went to Pasifika. Man, it was hot. Ideally I would have gone there with an entourage holding a parasol over me and fanning me. Instead I had to make do with a sun hat and fanning myself with the information brochure.
As usually, there was plenty to see and do and eat (including fresh dognuts). I was on the look out for arts and crafts, and ended up getting a ceramic jandal.
One of the stages had an open mike singing situation. One singer came up and had this banter with the emcee.
Emcee: And where are you from?
Singer: (In a loud, proud voice) Yo, yo, I be representing Westside! Yee-yah!
Emcee: All right. Whereabouts out west?
Singer: (Sheepishly) Um… Massey?
I came a across an area where some guys were having traditional Samoan tattoos chiselled into their legs and backs. It looks so painful, but none of the guys showed any signs of pain. In fact, the most painful part of the experience was the improvised rapping coming from an nearby stage.
I was handed a flyer for an upcoming movie called The Tattooist. It’s a thriller about an American tattoo artist who rips off ethnic designs, but learns a lesson when he steals a Samoan tattooing tool and angers the gods or something. It sounds AWESOME.
At one point I felt really dehydrated so I got a drink and made a beeline for the nearest shady tree. While I was resting, I heard a song being performed about how, yo, everyone should get drunk in the ghetto, and that you don’t stop until it comes back up.
There were heaps of parody T-shirts there. I couldn’t decide between “Samoa’s Most Wanted” and “My Uncle Can Smash You”.
I ended up with a sunburnt neck (a red neck?), so I was glad when an air-conditioned bus took me to Newmarket, where I saw the delightful and charming “The Science of Sleep” in air-conditioned comfort.