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American Samoa, Uncle Sam’s split in the three-cornered deal of 1900, I did not survey until my Pacific adventures were nearing a close, although after 1926 I visited it briefly every year. The reason for my delay is simple; I had to wait for Uncle Sam’s invitation. Working so long on the other side of the line and rather feeling the American lack of interest in an American enterprise, I’m afraid that I was rather prejudiced against the administration of our lovely little possession, centered in Pago Pago.
In many ways I was happily disappointed when I came at last to make a short survey—all in spite of the fact that I was annoyed by the unfairness of our home folks in their comparison of the two Samoas. So many sweet lady-tourists from Boston and Keokuk have sailed into Pago Pago’s bright waters, which lie smooth as a lake inside the leafy oval of a dead volcano. There’s the old Flag again and our gallant sailors in white. Why, this is the naughty land of Miss Sadie Thompson! Why, we’ve all seen that lovely, wicked play called “Rain”—but the scenery doesn’t do Pago Pago anything like justice.... It’s all so peaceful and orderly, isn’t it? Quite different from Western Samoa over there, where they’ve certainly made a hash of it. See the handsome Commandant, who seems to boss Pago Pago with a velvet glove. Let’s call him “Uncle Samoa”!
This is a sort of autopropaganda, born of national pride. Overnight trippers cannot see—how can they?—that Uncle Sam has guinea-pigged a race, or that part of a race which is identical to the people on the western islands. The tourists haven’t had time to find out that the New Zealand Administration, working against great odds with a population about four times as large as that which America controls, is a shining example of government for the people who must be governed. And in spite of the Mau Rebellion, New Zealand is building up a better racial spirit. The people in their Samoa are better educated, better prepared to meet civilized conditions. They speak better English and are far, far better mannered.
Uncle Samoa, in fact, is an honest quarterdeck hero. His real interest in his share of the islands is to maintain a naval base; and that, in all common sense, is extremely necessary. He salutes the Regulations and does the best he can. It is certainly no fault of his if some antediluvian chapter in the book limits his service to eighteen months and orders him to sea duty or paper work or rolling hoops. Orders is orders, and tomorrow he’ll be saluting the next man that comes along to hang his cap on the official hat-rack. It’s the same all down the line. The Governor is just getting the swing of his job, then he’s off; the Chief Medical Officer is just beginning to organize his theories of native diseases—then good-by. In the schools there’s a continual change of teachers, hence a general sloppiness of instruction. The impermanence affects the enlisted man, often not unpleasantly. He chooses a temporary mate, raises a few children, and when the time comes to sail back to the States he hands his family over to some newly arrived buddy. Pago Pago is full of wistful college widows, scanning the sea with dreamy Samoan eyes and wondering what the next ship will bring.
A great many of our “administered” natives, I found, were enlisted in the Marines with the same pay as American boys. The results were often unfortunate. Certainly it was another move toward taking away the Samoan’s national character.
This is all on the black side of the slate,—to mix a metaphor,—the white side showed a great deal to American credit. In 1918 our Navy successfully quarantined influenza when it was almost decimating Western Samoa. But I must remind you that only one ship arrived in our Samoa during that year, whereas the New Zealanders’ group had the job of overhauling vessels from all the Seven Seas. However, our work was thorough and promptly quelled the scourge.
It was remarkable to me how well the Navy’s medicos carried on, in spite of handicaps. The newcomer would pick up his predecessor’s unfinished business, work it out in his own way, and hand the job over to the next one. Of the twelve thousand inhabitants whom he was there to supervise he would find twelve thousand spoiled by coddling on the one hand, unexplained discipline on the other. We had been pursuing the American way, serving them large doses of democracy overnight, forgetting that democracy to the aristocratic Samoan is like raw whisky to a newborn babe. From the chiefs down to the humblest kanakas a “Hello, buddy” attitude was all too general. Nobody could tell the natives anything. False prosperity had come with the Navy’s colossal expenditures, and among a people to whom a handful of pennies had once meant fortune this easy money was demoralizing. The native official and the native houseworker clamored for higher pay and shorter hours. The “gimme” habit was an ubiquitous nuisance.
Four Chief Medical Officers, coming and going, had developed some good teamwork. The first of the four had very sensibly framed a policy he could hand on to the next one, and the results were good. The indifference of the people was always a stumbling block. It was up to the Navy to install a decent latrine system, and no native would lend a helping hand. They expected everything to be done for them—and it was.
I admired the field and hospital work of the chief pharmacists’ mates and the petty officers under them. Most of them were university graduates, technicians in dentistry, entomology, pathology, bacteriology, X-ray and all the other necessaries. Watching their performance, you had to bulge your chest and say, “That’s a Navy job. No American parents could ask a better training for their sons.”