Sunday is never a good day to arrive in any port,especially in a religious country like Samoa.Everything was closed. Not that I wanted to buy anything except postcards and stamps.Not on a Sunday in Samoa.There were some stalls on the quay with identical clothes, people were browsing.Not for me.
Robert Louis Stevenson,the author of The Treasure Island and my favourite book of his, Kidnapped,also a lovely film of the same name,arrived in Samoa in 1889,suffering from tuberculosis,and died there 5 years later,having built Villa Vailima at the foot of Mt Vaea on a plot of land he had purchased for £200.The wish of this "Tusitala" the teller of tales,to be buried at the top of the mountain,had been fulfilled by the Samoans,who cut the dense tropical undergrowth to the summit and the burial ceremony was almost a royal occasion.In the travel books Mr Stevenson is given a scant mention as if the travel writers had never been on Samoa and not see that Villa Vailima,now a museum,is the only place of any importance and value other than a protestant cathedral on Apia,anything else is just business created by tour companies.
In the 19th century Samoa was divided into American Samoa in the East [in 1872 the harbour of Pago Pago had been ceded to the US ] and German Samoa in the West [the Germans appropriated Villa Vailima for their use .]
The Western Samoa gained independence in 1962 and in 1997 changed its name to Samoa.
"There is a nice walk from the pier to the Mulinuu Peninsula,flower beds on the streets..."says the ship's guide to Apia.
There is nothing nice about the walk from the pier,no flower beds anywhere,the pavements and roads have more holes than Swiss cheese,in places covered by dirty threadbare carpet,yes,carpet,making the roads not only look absolutely ludicrous,but very dangerous to walk on,as one can see the deep dips only when one's foot twists into them.Ferocious heat does not help either,but for me the best way to get to know a place is by walking. So I walked for a good km and then negotiated a $40 ride to take me to the Stevenson museum and the Protestant cathedral.The museum grounds are beautifully kept,as is the museum,all furniture other than a safe, replicas, but done beautifully [The Germans had disposed of everything British,when they occupied Mr Stevenson's home. ]
The Sunday service just finished when we got to the cathedral,it is beautiful inside,simple, colourful.And then I invited the polite and helpful taxi driver for a glass of pineapple juice in the Sheraton hotel,he told me about his life and children and asked a lot about my life and then he dropped me off at the ship.Soaked to the skin from sweat,the heat was ferocious,I quickly changed,had a very pleasant lunch and took a $2 ride back to the Sheraton for some wi-fi therapy.I spent 2 blissful hours in the foyer with a lovely American couple and a waitress from the hotel,all of us sitting at the same table,occasionally smiling at each other.Then an English buffoon sat next to the waitress and started telling her about the most awful tour he had just come from.Our peace shattered.The girl was visibly uncomfortable,poor thing, the precious time communicating with her family in ruins,she got up and said she had to go back to work.The American couple followed. I did not even react when he turned his attention to me,just ordered another orange juice.
Hell is other people, said Jean Paul Sartre,the French philosopher.Yes, other people can be hell.
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