Pisupo

As you may have guessed by now, the blessed day came when our “ship came in.” On October 2, we finally got our stuff—washer, dryer, dishes, computer, but most helpful, our car. It is such a blessing to have a car that fits our family, keeps us dry in the rain, and gets from point A to B with AC.

While we didn’t have our car, our friend Mark Hales was kind enough to lend us his truck affectionately known as “Pisupo”. I’ll explain the name, then I’ll explain the truck. Pisupo (pea-soup-o) is what Samoans call one of their favorite dishes: corned beef in a can. I’m not really sure why they call corned beef pisupo. Are pea soup and corned beef synonymous? No. Similar? Not really. I could theorize a logical explanation, but instead I’ll just accept it as another interesting Samoan quirk.

This Pisupo is a black 94 Toyota truck. The odometer stopped (over a year ago) at 240K miles. When Mark dropped the truck off, he ran down the list of things that were broken: the drivers tail light, the parking brake (it’s a standard), the radio, the tailgate, and the rear suspension. Then he ran down the list of things that were almost broken. One tire had a slow leak and needed air once a week. The radiator coolant leaked, so the car overheated and needed water at every stop. The drivers door opened from the inside only. The passengers door opened from the outside only. I could probably go on, but you get the idea.

In spite of it all, Pisupo was a joy to drive. With those wheels we could go to the beach, the store, across the island, and to the ice cream shop. How liberating! People assumed we were “locals” cruising in the battered beast with it’s-nighttime-in-here tinting. And thanks to loose enforcement of seatbelt laws, the truck was a great family car. Ephraim drove, Ella sat in the middle and Isaac sat on my lap.

One evening when we were driving home from KS Mart, Ella and I sat in the back with all the groceries. Riding with no roof, no windows, no restraints, with the constant risk of things flying out of or into the truckbed—riding as cargo basically—for me is always a fantastic feeling. I’ve felt that before, but this time was special because although it was night and we were driving, it was warm. Warm night breeze, no jacket, no blanket, no chill. Just the stars, moon, and swaying leaves overhead. Dogs running, folks waving, cars whooshing by. And cuddled next to me, my cute little 3-year old snitching chocolate chip cookies. That's a feeling I hope to remember when I remember Samoa.

I think it’s because of trucks like Pisupo that we moved here.

P.S. I regret to inform you that Pisupo has sadly moved on to truck heaven. But it’s okay because so has Mark. He’s in Utah.