THE HEART OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC

23.9.2000, Saturday

I am in a backpacker hostel in APIA, the capital of Western Samoa on the island of UPOLU.

Today I plan to search for the Heart of Samoa. I want to impose myself on Samoans in a remote village and find out how they react.

In my folding bag I carry a pair of undies, a Lavalava (wrap around), washing gear, my camera and some TALA, the local currency. Then I take a taxi to the central bus station next to the fish market. The driver drops me at the bus to the village of SALANI at the eastern end of UPOLU. It is the last bus of the day and will not return to Apia. It means that I will get stuck there for the weekend not knowing where I will sleep. That is what I want.

In three weeks I have seen only two Europeans who travelled on the local buses. Most tourists rent cars and don’t mix with Samoans. It takes two and a half hours before the bus departs. In the meantime I sit by the window and admire the life around me like a cultural movie. There are lots of young people on the bus enjoying the contents of the beer bottles in their hands. They laugh and sing while the bus travels along the coast and climbs up the winding road onto the mountain range in the centre of UPOLU, the main island of Samoa.

After two hours the road is finished and the bus ends up jumping and dancing through plantations and rain forest. The wooden bench of the bus does not hurt my behind. I took an air cushion along. Finally we end up on another stretch of sealed road.

I had asked the driver if he will return to Apia. He said “Yes”, but not on which day. A Samoan lady asks me where I want to get off. I reply: “At the end station where the driver gets off.” – She: “It is the last bus of the day. It will return to Apia only on Monday.” – I ask: “Great. Do you have a bed for me in your house?” She is married and refuses. But she tells me to ask the pastor in SALANI for help. I thank her for this advice. I am married too.

After some more villages and lots of bends on the winding road we finally reach SALANI. I notice some huts of a luxury resort built on stilts in the mouth of the river. It is a favourite haunt for young Americans who come here for surfing. A German built the resort, married a girl from the village, took her to Germany and sold the place to an American.

Just for fun I ask for the cost of a bed for the night. The manager leans back in his arm chair, plants his legs on the table and says: “65 US-Dollars without surfing.” I reply that we are in independent Samoa where bills get paid with TALA and that I prefer to give my money to Samoans. “Have a happy day” I remark and head for the house of the village mayor.

Note: Further East is PAGO PAGO (American Samoa), an American colony for the last 100 years. A Samoan told me that the locals there get treated like second class people. “Uncle Tom” sends his regards.

The PULENU’U (village mayor) sits in his shop behind an electric fan and does not even get up when I introduce myself. He has an interpreter who tells me that there is no cheaper accommodation in Salani. Tourists have to pay in US-Dollars. That is village policy.

At this moment the very last bus of the day arrives and stops at the shop. I imagine that the Americans have the mayor on their payroll. Without saying good-bye I walk to the bus and ask the driver if there is a family which takes in paying guests. I know already that the going rate is Tala 20.00 per night. “Come with me” replies the driver. A few minutes later I sit with him at a table in his house and with the fingers eat PALUSAMI (spinach and corned beef), drink black tea. His wife is sick, rests on a chair and does not seem to notice what is going on around her.

Two adolescent sons, an older daughter and a nine year old daughter introduce themselves. They understand very little English. It gives me a chance to use my few words of Tongan. Tongan and Samoan are related like German and Dutch. I take the Bible, the only book in the house, and read the story of the creation in Samoan. Everybody listens quietly. Then they give me an orange, probably imported from Australia.

The name of my host is TAALA. He is a MATAI (Chief) and 56 years old. For the last ten years he has driven the bus three times a day to Apia, for very modest wages, six days per week and up to ten hours per day.

FEALOFANI, the little daughter, asks me to write the names of my wife and children on a piece of paper and sticks it into a school book like a treasure. She squats at my feet, massages my feet and legs. And she blows big bubbles with the chewing gums I gave her. Until my departure she stays near me like a little pussy cat and fulfils every wish, patiently fans me with her palm leaf fan in the oppressive heat near the Equator.

After dinner I walk with SAUAO, one of the brothers, along the beach. At one stage we have to swim through the mouth of the river which is not wide but fast flowing. SAUAO holds my camera and wallet in a plastic bag high above the water. Does he want to test if I trust him?

Back in the house we watch a video of the TEAUILA festival, an annual festival which is the reason why I am in Samoa. I have enjoyed many of the dance performances and take a video of it back to Australia.

The house has brick walls, louver windows and a tin roof and consists of one room of about 12 by 6 metres. In the centre of each long side is a door. It is living room, kitchen and bedroom at the same time. Stereo equipment, TV and video player were sent by relatives in New Zealand. Shower and toilet are separate rooms near the house. TAALA hangs a light bulb there. Else I might fall off the stairs behind the house and stumble over dogs and pigs which sleep out there. I also receive the best mattress in the house and clean bed sheets. I mention that I am an honorary chief in Tonga, called MATAI in Samoa and MATAPULE in Tonga. So I receive the same food. It is rather fat. But I carry stomach tablets to pacify gall and liver.

24.9.2000, Sunday

It is the Day of the Lord. After breakfast my host gives me a white Lavalava, a white shirt and a necktie. With the Bible and book of songs in hand we head for the Methodist Church. I count about 30 people who attend. The others are probably in New Zealand and Australia to earn some money. I notice that the women in their white dresses are wearing beautiful hats, kneel in front of the benches and turn their behinds to the Pastor while they pray. If I were the Pastor it would distract me from my prayers.

Fealofani with breakfast   Taala and Manfred go                                                       to Church

FEALOFANI, my little friend, takes a coin and scrapes the word “MAN” on the freshly painted wooden bench, a short form of “MANFRED.” The Pastor in English welcomes the PALANGI (foreigner) in his church. He assumes that I have been sent to Samoa by a foreign government to conduct important business, and he apologizes for the long Samoan prayers. The children around me are very surprised when they hear me singing the songs in Samoan. Fealofani puts her coin in the collection tin. Afterwards the Pastor gives it back to her. No Bank will take it. It is an American coin.

After the service I join the people who have a meal on the patio of the Pastor’s house. A dozen visitors sit cross-legged on mats along the walls. The food gets served on palm leaves on the floor. Everybody looks at me. Will the Palangi eat without knife and fork? No problem for me. The crust of fried breadfruit serves as a spoon. I earn smiles of approval.

Prior to the church service I give TAALA most of my money – TALA 100.00. He says: “This is a lot of money. I should not take it.” I reply: “I am not paying you. If we would be in Tonga I would give you a TAPA cloth (made from mulberry tree bark) or would give you a mat. I am sorry. I only have some money.” Half of my money TAALA hands to the Pastor and gives some more notes to members of the church board.

I tell the Pastor how deeply I am moved by the Samoan hospitality. He replies: “You Palangis build stone boxes with little windows and thick doors with locks to hide from other people, hardly know your neighbours. Our houses have no walls, and our arms and hearts are open for visitors – be they Palangis or Samoans. We don’t expect any money for our hospitality. God gives everything. He will take care of us.”

I spend a few more hours in Church. Children are taught songs and dances. It is great entertainment and reminds me of our own Polynesian Dance Group in Sydney.

Afterwards a young lady walks along the beach with me. There are no Adult shops or fashion shop windows here like on Kurfürstendamm in Berlin. But one can admire the sunset, the warm sand under the feet and the gentle murmur of the waves rolling up the beach while the evening breeze dries the sweat caused by the tropical sun during daytime. A metal rod makes the propane gas bottle hanging outside the church sound like a bell. There is no money for a real bell. The Pastor noisily clears his throat and spits on the church stairs to get ready for the evening prayers.

In the dark I walk along the road with two American Peace Corps volunteers.  Suddenly a big conch shell gets blown on, a warning sound. We rush into the home of the Americans. The sound of the shell means that everybody has to attend evening prayers for half an hour with his family. The guy who does the blow job is a kind of police officer. He collects a couple of dollars as a fine from “Non-believers” who stay on the road. Later on the conch shell gets blown again indicating that the road is free to be used. I say to the Americans: “It is like Berlin before and after the bomb raids in 1944.” One of the girls gives me a juicy apple for that remark. Welcome to Paradise!

Back on the road I meet FEALOFANI who was looking for me. She takes my hand and guides me home while the moon smiles on us.

Before I fall asleep I enjoy the night life of SALANI, flick bugs and insects from my pillow, watch cockroaches marching up and down the walls, smile about the giggling of the geckos on the ceiling and enjoy the honking of the pigs fighting around the house. Dogs conduct territorial fights. They are yelping when one of them loses some of his fur or part of an ear in the struggle. Roosters in the village and surroundings seem to sleep only short periods. Then one of them starts crowing. From all directions come the replies, loud and soft depending on the distance, one rooster crowing at a time. Under my bed I have “green tigers” and “double rabbits” – incense coils to repel mosquitos. The blood suckers have to struggle hard for every drop of my blood.

25.9.2000, Monday

In the morning at 6.30 a.m. TAALA climbs into his bus. He is ready for another trip to APIA. Before we leave he presents me with a beautiful Lavalava and a shirt with TAPA design. He does not take any money from me for the trip. We hold our hands and in South Sea style press the cheeks together.

I was searching for the Heart of Samoa and found the Soul of the South Pacific.

( postcard)

PS.: The Surf Resort and most of the houses of Salani were washed away by a Tsunami on 30.9.2009. The resort has since been rebuilt. See Google: “Latest news from Salani, Samoa.” But what happened to my friends? Did they drown?