Talofa lava!

Over a couple of decades ago, I spent some time (with my boyfriend Martin Butler) wandering around Samoa, exploring, staying in villages, living with a family, living “fa’a Samoa” (the Samoan way). Homes were called ‘fales’, and were built on a coral base, with wooden poles supporting a coconut thatched roof. No walls. Each structure was a different room of the house – there was a kitchen fale, a sleeping fale, an eating fale, etc. At night we were given a woven mat to sleep on, and an old cotton sheet was strung up to give us palagis (foreigners) a modicum of privacy.

Honour was very important to the Samoans, a large, strong, beautiful people, to the point that we were never allowed to go anywhere without a host, usually one of the children, even to the toilet. This was not really a separate fale, but a small 3 sided enclosure with a hole in the ground. Our host would take us there, day or night, and wait patiently while we did our business and then escort us back. As going to the loo with someone standing there waiting for you to finish was not something we were particularly used to or comfortable with, we cut our drinking rations down considerably during those weeks!

They did not speak English and we were not particularly well-versed in Samoan, although we did learn quite a few key words and phrases. It helped that it was a similar language to Tongan, from whence we had come, and so we did have a good base to start with. Samoa was third world then, poor and limited. With our ‘family’ we ate a soup filled with little bits of algae that came off coral, roasted taro root, and bread fruit, bread fruit, bread fruit. The best was roasted and crushed cocoa, which, when cooked with hot water and a bit of sweetened condense milk, became a dark bitter hot chocolate. We were always fed first, with one of the women waving a fan to keep the flies off while we ate, and then the rest of the family would eat. We knew this was the way it was and it would be rude to argue, but it always felt odd.

On our last night, we were proudly told that we would have meat for dinner. Meat was expensive and rare, even tinned corned beef or tuna were not purchased by these villagers much. We expressed suitable awe and appreciation, and then happened to look across the compound to see one of the sons, with incredible aim, sent a stone to one of their few, very scrawny chickens, killing it stone dead. Meat for dinner.

Now here I am, 28 years later, and I am in Samoa again. American Samoa this time, on a honking big boat with a lot of big, white palagis, of which I am one. And yet, Samoa is not so changed after all.

No one here lives in fales, but rather in brightly coloured clapboard houses with metal rooves. There are fale-type structure for community events, but they are made of cement. Churches abound as before. Schools are attended by neatly uniformed students as before. The market is filled with breadfruit, as before.

There is a large tuna cannery across the harbour at Pago Pago (pronounced pango pango – the letter ‘g’ is said like ‘ng’ so there is no ‘g’ sound at all). The smell of tuna floating through the air goes right back to my memory of the islands – they all had tuna canneries, one of the largest exports. In American Samoa’s case, it is the largest export and employer, with 2,000 people working there. Oddly enough there are no sea birds squawking or hovering anywhere near the place.

 

The market has handicrafts made from coconut shells and sea shells, primarily. There are some wood carvings of turtles and war clubs. Lots of Hawaiian style shirts, dresses and lavalavas (just a long rectangle of fabric worn like a skirt). No different than yesteryear. I do spy a dilapidated yellow and red wooden building with a yellow double arch in front – Pago Pago has a McDonald’s then. There is also a coffee bar selling wifi capacity. That’s different too.

Taxi drivers and bus drivers call out to everyone to offer tours at exorbitant rates, compared to their usual fares. The buses are bright coloured, with hard wooden benches and clear plastic shields that can be raised against the rain. They also have incredible sound systems, and one hears an old pop or rock sound blaring out as one passes, and then a different one as another passes. I saw one bus driver with headphones – I am not sure if that is to protect his ears from the musical chaos or to infuse it deeper within his brain. Everyone talks and texts on their phones constantly.

I had something different in mind. I had read about a local bar and hang out joint called Tisa’s Barefoot Bar. It was something of a local legend, and located in a bay a few bays along the eastern coast. However, getting information from it or to it was impossible all summer, and I tried one last time a few days before we were destined to land in Samoa. Are you open? Can we just take a bus or taxi and show up?

A reply! Yes to the first but no to the second. Tisa was tired of getting hundreds of people showing  up, not buying a drink but swimming in their private beach and marine reserve and then getting in trouble with the undertow so she was only open on cruise ships days to people to booked and paid in advance. Okay – we will be two of those!

We got off the boat sharpish, ran the gauntlet of taxi drivers, but still had to wait for Tisa to show up. That island time approach is very Samoan. I was amazed to know that most of my few Samoan words were still there, and I was rewarded with smiles and replies. Tisa finally appeared and directed us to a small bus (guided by her grand-daughter ‘Princess’) while she waited for the others. An hour later, I went back and asked if we could check out the market while we were waiting. When we returned from the market, still no activity. So we went back – no Tisa. WTF? So we arranged to take a taxi for a 2 hour tour and then get dropped off at Tisa’s instead, so at least we’d be doing something and seeing something other than a damp Samoan parking lot.

We struck a bargain with Ole the taxi driver, who took us to see the flower pot islands,

and then to a flower shop where we surprised local ladies by asking if we could buy an orchid for our boat cabin. They gave us some lovely colourful leaves and took out photos as well – I guess not many palagis do this kind of thing. Then we drove all the way along the road that hugged the coastline along the very long, narrow harbour and out the other side,

passing Pago Pago, passing the cannery,

passing yet more churches,

passing camel rock,

and then to Tisa’s. One hour. Oh well, we pay him for the two hours and were able to join the 8 or so others who were lucky enough to get in on Tisa’s day pass.

We sat at a rickety, charming bar, at tables with bright tablecloths that looked out to the sea, a curve of fine beige sand just below. A fresh pina colada landed on our coconut mats laid on top of banana leaves. Tisa sang us Samoan songs accompanied with her ukulele, and Candyman attended to the lunch. After awhile we were called over to watch the unveiling of the umu. This is a pit that is used as an oven, lined with rocks that are heated for several hours until glowing red. Large leaves and blocks of wet wood line the oven to provide steam, and packets of food are added in layers. Pork, banana-leaf wrapped chicken, banana with tuna, papaya, sweet potato, coconut cream with taro leaves. And breadfruit. More leaves and stones are added in layers and the whole thing is left for hours. Candyman had gotten up at 4:30 to get it going and now it was ready.

Everything was peeled off and away, and our feast was revealed. Served on leaves, we ate with our hands. I was steeling myself for the breadfruit, a soft, starchy, tasteless tree fruit/vegetable with a thick rind. But Tisa poured her coconut cream and taro leave mixture on it and I have to say, it was excellent. I have never enjoyed eating breadfruit before, but I enjoyed eating that breadfruit. Even Mom appreciated the difference the condiment made.

While we ate and drank (Vailima beer – strong and familiar brew), poor travellers who did not know about Tisa’s new arrangement (and why would they – her website had nothing about it at all) came and knocked on her fence and were sent away. We paddled in the surf and watched three charming feral cats washing each other under the tables. And then – oh Samoa! I had forgotten your rain!

It came in a flood, a great pounding of water overhead, as we scrambled under the reasonably successful cover of the coconut matting roof. It bounced off the tables and the floors. It pockmarked the sand. It fell in sheets off the eaves. It soaked everything within seconds and we all laughed to see it and smell its loamy scent, feel its warmth. It rained for the rest of our time there, and we squelched our way back to the bus, dripped back to the boat and watched the bands of grey drift around the harbour as the rain fell and fell.

Tisa and Candyman

Fa’afetai, Samoa, - thank you. A memorable day and a little walk down a very soggy memory lane.