Samoa

The flight to Samoa was unremarkable, mostly because I was asleep throughout: we left Auckland at 7.30am, meaning that I was up at 4.30 and so was glad of the opportunity to catch up on sleep for the duration of the 4 hour flight. On arrival, the time was exactly what it would have been in Auckland, save that instead of being 13 hours ahead of GMT, we were now 11 hours behind: I had gained a day, and could live the 12th of March 2008 all over again.
Upon my landing in Samoa, I was approached by a customs officer who cheerfully informed me that they are trying to train up their drug sniffer dog – would I mind having some cocaine or crystal meth (it was unclear whether I was allowed a choice of class A drug) placed somewhere about my person and then waiting in line for customs clearance? The dog would then attempt to sniff me out.
Now: there are a number of reasons why a lone traveler, raised by his parents and circumstances to be suspicious of bureaucrats, waiting at the very back of a line (I had not filled out my landing declaration due to being asleep) to clear customs in a country 17,000 kilometres away from home might not want to have a quantity of drugs doubtless sufficient to be convicted of intent to supply (and thus carrying a maximum sentence of life imprisonment in a Samoan jail) placed on one's person without any friendly witnesses in the vicinity. The bizarre flimsiness of the explanation for the way in which the drugs ended up in my pocket would not help matters (why not train dogs using paid actors? police officers? inanimate bags belonging to the police?). “Are you completely f-ing insane?” seemed to sum up most of the reasons in one pithy word-burst, though I diplomatically restrained myself and limited my reply to pointing out that, although I had never been to the West Coast, I had been reliably informed that the sniffer dogs at LAX are sufficiently trained on volunteers (in all senses of the word) to make it undesirable for me to attempt to clear US customs in a few days' time carrying (by definition discernible) traces of coke either on my bag or my clothes. While I would presumably not be beaten (since I am not black), I would at least be guaranteed a cavity search from LA's finest, something I am (again, I must admit, through hearsay only) keen to avoid.
To his credit, the Samoan customs officer did not show by his facial expression whether he thought me unduly picky in matters of hands-in-bum searches by police, but moved on to find another victim (for those that care: he found one, traveling with his girlfriend; the dog found the drugs and it was all entirely legit; none of this makes me think that I was wrong to have declined the offer).
After this welcome and a rather thorough grilling from customs (“How long are you here for? Are you here on holiday?” “No, I have come from the UK with my British passport to live out my days sponging off the Samoan welfare system”), I was finally in the airport, to be surrounded by a thousand taxi-drivers, none of whom would take “no” for an answer. I was unsure whether I needed a cab – I had, stupidly, not researched whether there are other ways of getting into Apia, the capital – but after saying “no” twelve times, I was sure as hell going to walk rather than use one of the cab drivers that surrounded me. In the end, I did need one, and found a sufficiently quiet one in the corner to take me there (I do not doubt that this lesson in obstinate Western psychology and PR was entirely wasted on all present).
In Apia, I had about 90 minutes to kill before the transfer bus from my resort picked me up, so I used the time to have a quick look round the city (thankfully, I could leave my suitcase at the Tourist Information Desk, towering like a wardrobe over the ergonomic and well-travelled back-packs of my fellow travellers). The city is not huge and the main street runs parallel to the (northern) coast of the main island, where Apia stands. Apia has three fewer obvious landmarks than Auckland – though the people are very friendly and the flea market is fascinating (though once only) and the food market, behind it, plentiful. The supermarkets, although badly lit and drab, have pretty much everything one could need: instead of 12 brands of washing powder they have 2, but it's certainly enough. The usual third-world rule of “if a restaurant's door is open, it means that they're open and welcoming – but have no aircon” applies here as well, with the proviso that “if a restaurant's door is locked, they are open and welcoming of Westerners, have aircon and beautiful bathrooms”.
The resort where I am staying (the “Virgin Cove”, doubtless named by a Freudian) is actually on the other side of the island and the transfer there took a good hour. My fale (“hut”) is right on the beach (“one of the top thirty beaches in the world”, according to “Islands” magazine (“Islands”??)) and costs me the princely sum of £28 per night, half board (this is a superior, “secluded” fale; I could have got away with £25). It is the best value that anything has ever been. True, one needs to GET to Samoa, and should be rewarded once one has done so (it is certainly the most remote place I have ever been in – or am likely to find myself in in the near future – I hope), but even so. At high tide, the beach is two metres from my porch. The sun is unfailing. The water is a clear blue, with the reef against which the waves break just visible on the horizon (there be tiger sharks there, too – but not in the lagoon), providing enough wave action on the shore to be interesting, but never really enough to be too boisterous for bathing. The only slight complaint is the wind, which is – although not overly strong (not strong enough to lift sand off the beach, for example) is pretty constant throughout the day and wholly absent at night. That said, I suspect that it is only this that makes the 30+ degree heat bearable and quite pleasant.
The food is somewhat remarkable in its boringness: the fruit is always fresh, but that's about it. Given the presence of a number of types of free fish in the sea, which could be simply and superbly grilled every day and night without a word of complaint from all present, it seems odd that we're served overcooked (pre-frozen?) tuna and dull (though fresh) chicken. Still - £28. While I would happily pay more for better, I don't (other than here) grumble. I have spent three days in the company of Gore Vidal and Bryan Appleyard (and it's quite a menage...) and am toying with the idea of letting Thomas Pynchon join in. I am doing no sightseeing. I move to the beach, splash about in the sea, and languidly move back to my hut (inside: double bed (foam mattress), mosquito net, plywood locker with padlock. Two light bulbs and one power point (and only by virtue of my fale's seclusion - the cheaper ones have no electricity). C'est tout. The walls are actually blinds oven of palm-tree leaves, to be lowered or raised at will.)
**
After a pause in the narrative, it is now the last evening in Samoa (or, rather, MY last evening). Went to Robert Louis Stevenson's house and grave this morning – interesting, though I am forced to make some observations for those that will be tasked with arranging my final resting place:
1)Try and balance the importance of having a view against the difficulties that the climb is likely to cause those wishing to pay homage. One does not necessarily want to make it TOO easy, but one also doesn't want them to arrive at graveside sweaty, top off, dehydrated, covered in mud and with shoes requiring resoling. Hypothetically. It's not dignified.
2)Generally on the subject of accessibility – if you go to the lengths of situating the place more than a few thousand miles from the nearest town of over 50,000 people, dispense with the hill. Really – if they want to visit THAT much, they must have earned it.
3)If you DO bury me on a hill, perhaps do not inscribe the tomb with any couplet ending “the hunter is home from the hill”.
4)Minimalist is good. Carrara marble is better.