Upolu Island - Samoa
The Los Angeles Times
Imagine this. It's pitch dark and you have just arrived on a remote South Pacific island. You haven't a clue what to expect because, truth is, Americans don't know much about the tiny, remote country of Samoa.
So here's a quick sketch: Robert Louis Stevenson died here, Margaret Mead created a scandal here, the local television station began operating in 1993 and the first traffic light was installed in the capital in 1996. An estimated 75% of the islanders are clinically obese, making Samoa one of the few nations to trounce the United States on the portly paradigm. These Rubenesque peoples are elaborately tattooed, welcoming and jovially indolent. The bulk of them are subsistence farmers. The country has competition-class surfing, it is the last place on earth to see the sun slip away, and it has the sort of scenic extravagance that summons the muse in poets. Its location smack in the middle of the Pacific means the hordes have not yet descended. Just my kind of place.
We were there for the waves. My husband, Greg, is one of those improbable baby boomers who plays at CEO all week and then metamorphoses into a determined beach bum on weekends. Our vacations, therefore, typically involve three sacred words: World Class Surf. Because I do not fancy spending every vacation pacing the high-tide mark of Pipeline in Hawaii, I scour the world for places where the waves are "pumping," the nature spectacular and the culture as untouched as is likely in the second millennium. What little literature I could find on Samoa indicated it had all of the above.
The flight from Los Angeles direct to Samoa took about 10 1/2 hours. We reached the island about 2:30 a.m., then faced a 45-minute minivan drive to our hotel on the southern side of the island. Weary, I breathed deeply and was greeted by an unidentifiable but tantalizing fragrance - salty and faintly syrupy. The smell of fecundity. The smell of relaxation. The luggage was loaded on the roof of the vehicle, desperately teetering, tied with rope that once must have been beach flotsam. Driving through the night, I tried not to imagine my suitcase careening off, though this seemed like the sort of place where you could replace your entire wardrobe with a single piece of cloth, as this appeared to be all the locals wore. Even in the darkness, I could see roads free of the litter that plagues most developing countries. I saw tended gardens, mowed lawns, whitewashed rocks neatly lining the streets, pathways of bleached shells, towering palm trees and numerous ornate, candy- colored churches. Gradually we began to pass small houses set among luxuriant foliage, some illuminated with a fluorescent bulb, others glowing by the light of the television. There were mats on the floor humped with sleeping bodies, the occasional chair, the odd dresser. It took me a moment to realize we were looking right through the homes; there were absolutely no walls. These peoples' lives and possessions were on display under a roof of corrugated tin or palm thatching held up by carved wooden posts and bound together with coconut fiber. These open structures are known as fales. We could see where families cook, eat, sleep, socialize. I wondered briefly where they change, where they bathe. I also wondered about the crime rate. Obviously, there wasn't much of one. I smiled. So far, so good.
Nigh on 4 a.m., we arrived at Coconuts Beach Club, a place with an extraordinary story attributed to its founding. It goes like this: Once upon a time there was a couple in Los Angeles. They enjoyed a life people in Russia think all Americans have. They were both lawyers - he in private practice, she employed by a major TV network. They were young and beautiful. They had houses, Harleys and sports cars galore. Their main abode was in Beverly Hills, although they were rarely there, so busy were they with gala openings and celebrity screenings. They were even called the Roses, Jennifer and Barry. Life was perfect. And then something went horribly wrong at the network and, in a nasty dispute, Jennifer departed. By this point the Roses were tired of Hollywood, and, really, they didn't need the money anymore, so they tossed around the idea of selling up and moving to paradise. But how, exactly, does one go about identifying paradise? They bought a 63-foot yacht, stocked it with an Italian crew, charts and red wine and set forth to discover Antigua in the Caribbean. A year later they gave up, disgusted by the racism and criminal drug element of the region. They flew to the world's other tropical areas - Indonesia, Maldives, Melanesia, Mauritius, Seychelles. Nothing lived up to their expectations. They then approached the problem methodically, building a computer program and massive database, submitting information on islands the world over. They compiled a list of 60 weighted criteria. For example: Paradise could not be rife with tropical diseases. It should be politically stable, have friendly nationals who are willing to work for Westerners and have a religion that preferably does not perpetrate violence on infidels. There should be no drug smuggling or pirates in the territory. It should offer maximum sunshine, few hurricanes, white or pink sand and palm trees. Fresh fruit and vegetables must be plentiful, and there ought to be an abundant supply of fish in the surrounding waters. It should be large enough to provide a variety of landscapes, but not so remote that outside contact is impossible . . . .
Finally, the computer spat out 10 or 12 possible paradises, Samoa among them. The Roses visited all and settled on Samoa. Upolu, to be exact, the main of the two islands composing what was then still Western Samoa. It had a population of 160,000 peace-loving people, none of whom lived below the poverty line, in a country about the size of Rhode Island. It had swaths of white coral beaches, vegetation aplenty, waterfalls, lava rock outcroppings, rain forests, jungle-covered mountains, high country plains and a tepid azure ocean teeming with sea life. There was almost no crime, no malaria, no pollution, no military, a government based on the British parliamentary system, and it was largely corruption-free. And it was said to have one of the more intact Polynesian cultures in the South Pacific.
Thus, in 1991, came Coconuts Beach Club, owned by L.A.-escapees Barry and Jennifer Rose. "It sounds cliched, but Samoa has continued to exceed our expectations," says Barry Rose. "We thought we had chosen a place where the traditions are strong - not just a show for tourists and visitors - and in fact, we were right. We were terrified that we would move there, to paradise, and find it wasn't such a paradise at all."
The villagers in April will give Barry Rose the title of tautai matapalapala, which gives Rose "the honor of sitting with the chiefs solving village problems. I take this very seriously, this marvelous quality of tradition." Since the Roses' arrival, the population of Samoa has swelled to 171,000, bringing with it a small increase in crime (while we were there, newspapers devoted ample space to the hubcaps stolen off an official's car). Also, the traditional fales are beginning to give way to modern cement block houses, especially near the capital, Apia. There are more cars, a few more traffic lights, and the youngsters are emigrating in search of the bright lights and big paychecks of New Zealand - my own native country. Most families have several children living in New Zealand, which has a Samoan population of about 80,000.
Our first morning at coconuts, we stumbled along for breakfast and met Mika, the enigmatic and delightfully crazed restaurant manager and chef. An ex-New Yorker, he is a superb cook and has driven the Samoan dining experience to new heights. Samoa is an Eden of plenty when it comes to fruits of the land and sea. He recommended that we rent an SUV (Coconuts has them on the property) and make a beeline for Togitogiga Falls with a picnic lunch and swimsuits. But we had other plans. As we shoved the surfboard into the Suzuki, three tanned, bleach-headed surfer dudes swaggered over. "Gidday mate," they greeted Greg in an accent instantly recognizable as Aussie. "See yer got a board there," one said, ignoring me, the Sheila. "Yer gettin in the water? Yea, well, yer can cum with us if yer loik." I am fully aware that surfing alone is dangerous and less fun, but I had been looking forward to spending a rare day with my husband. However, I have been married long enough to recognize the death of my best-laid plans.
The blokes took us to Aganoa, which apparently had a "bonza left break" called Boulders. Hiking through the long grass to reach the beach, I felt my irritation lift. Stretched out before me was an empty crescent of sand, a variegated sea that licked lazily at its edge, and thick, green foliage speared with brilliant flowers. At the tip of the arc, glassy tubes barreled in over the reef. It's difficult to say anything original about a gorgeous tropical beach. What rapturous prose hasn't been written a million times before about virgin sand, lapping waves, dipping palms . . . . So you just have to trust me, this sight was truly, absolutely stunning. And we were there alone.
But for the blokes.
"Beaut!" one of them yelled, exploding from the grass. "Get yer kit on mates, we're 'orizon-bound."
"Goodonyermate."
"Crash hot!"
I was stupefied. It's not often one encounters adults who speak solely in idioms. Greg turned to wave at me as he trotted toward the water, at one with his surfie brethren, content as a pig in mud.
I sat under a palm, happily reading, while the men zigzagged the 8- foot waves. Then I looked up to see the Aussies paddling furiously toward the beach, coming in straight over the sharp, shallow reef. Something was wrong. Greg was behind and had headed for the nearby rocky point. I ran down. "Bloody oath," one of the men said, panting. "Saw a flamin' giant fin out there. 'Struth. Headin' straight for us. Bloody great shark."
Later I asked a dive master what the chances were of the fin belonging to a man-eating shark. He snorted. "None. I've never seen anything more than reef sharks in these waters. Probably a dolphin." I couldn't resist a mean-spirited snicker. This specter, however, kept neither the blokes nor Greg out of the water on subsequent days.
We did make it to Togitogiga Falls the next day. A short walk though a muggy rain forest brought us to a series of swimming holes flowing into wide, smooth waterfalls. It was idyllic. Again, there was no one there. We swam, we lolled, we tested our mettle jumping from the tops of the waterfalls.
Upolu is filled with spots like this. And Savaii, the other, larger island, supposedly has even more. This is the magnificence of Samoa. In most other places there would have been entry fees and fences and crowds at these swimming holes. In Samoa, you merely have to brave the deplorable roads to be alone and away, surrounded by some of nature's more salubrious creations. Each day (apres surf), we drove to some new site. It is possible to circle Upolu in a few hours, although it takes an entire day to absorb its full drama - the blowholes on the Lava Coast, stunning Fagaloa Bay, the popular Lalomanu beach and, of course, Vailima, Robert Louis Stevenson's house and grave site. RLS came here to die, living the last years of his life among the people whom he called "easy, merry and leisure- loving."
Other than RLS, Margaret Mead was the one who put Samoa on the map when she published her 1928 work "Coming of Age in Samoa," positing that female teenagers had sexual carte blanche without social consequence. In brief, it has been suggested that Mead was hoaxed by her case studies, who, apparently wanting to please the foreign lady, said what they thought she was there to hear. In truth, Samoan social life was, and is, rigorous in its respect of mores.
An important concept to grasp before stepping foot in Samoa is fa'a Samoa, "the Samoan way," which basically means that if it takes another 45 minutes to get your luggage off the car roof after your predawn arrival at your hotel, they are moving as fast as is necessary. Or, when you go to get something done and the person helping you spends 20 minutes commemorating his niece's christening - relax, this is fa'a Samoa. For those of us coming from a society where we get snippy if there are three people in a Starbucks line, try to consider it a lesson in equanimity.
Fa'a Samoa is based on a very close extended family and the unconditional welcoming of visitors, meaning there is a great deal of sitting about and chewing the fat, if you'll pardon the expression. Although there is a well-run central government, it is the matais, or chiefs, who still rule in the villages. There are several to a village, all of whom play a different role and command overriding deference.
Until recently, Samoa was known as the Independent State of Western Samoa. In 1997, the prime minster decided to ax the "Western," causing a tidal wave of ill sentiment among neighbors. There are, in fact, two Samoan nations: Samoa and American Samoa, easily confused by foreigners. Only 60 miles east of the Samoa we are concerned with here lies American Samoa, similar in all respects - until the Americans arrived. Despite having a smaller population, American Samoa is more Westernized, more developed and has a higher crime rate than the doggedly traditional Independent Samoa to the west.
As is typical of banana republic politics, the reason for this island chain being cut in half has tangled colonial roots dating to the 1800s. In precis: After 1850, many Europeans came to the Samoan islands to establish trade ties or convert the native people to Christianity. Odd as it seems, the Germans won the trade war and established a flourishing colony (somehow imagining the punctilious Germans among these blissfully lackadaisical people is a stretch). The Brits and Americans also struggled to achieve dominance in the region. In 1872, the high chief of the tribes of the eastern islands gave America permission to establish a naval base in exchange for military protection, naturally infuriating the Brits and the Germans.
Throughout this period, a bitter feud also raged between two Samoan kings, one eastern, one western. To obtain weapons with which to massacre one another, the Samoan people sold land to the Europeans, cementing the hold of foreigners over their nation. In 1899, a treaty between Germany, America and Britain gave Western Samoa to the Germans and Eastern Samoa to the Americans. Britain bowed out altogether. However, when World War I began, New Zealand, a British ally, rushed in to snatch Western Samoa from the Germans. Western Samoa remained a protectorate of New Zealand until 1962, when it became independent and immediately enforced a policy that made it difficult for foreigners to own land. The eastern part of the region remains in the hands of the Americans.
There are many speculations as to why Samoans have a genetic disposition toward heft. One is that those who survived the long sea voyages to reach these islands had stockpiles of fat. And it is true that, on average, they simply eat more than Americans do. I offer this in evidence: One day I decided I must see Paradise Beach, the spot immortalized in "Return to Paradise," the 1953 film (based on James Michener's book) picturing Gary Cooper and Roberta Haynes falling in love on a perfect, lonesome coast. I took a local guide with me. Samoans are surprisingly sensitive on the topic of weight. Take our guide, who was among the more slender of his people, clocking in at around 240 pounds and standing about 5 feet, 10 inches. Midafternoon he asked if I was hungry and would like a snack. No thanks, I said, I'd just eaten.
Although he too had eaten lunch, he was feeling a bit peckish, so we stopped at a roadside shop. While the traditional diet consists of coconut, banana, taro, yams and fish, the products on the shelves were potato chips, sodas, salted peanuts, canned spaghetti and loaves of white bread. My guide bought a loaf, a quarter-pound stick of butter and a two-liter bottle of Fanta. He split the loaf lengthwise, smeared the entire stick of butter on it and ate it in its entirety. Then he polished off the Fanta.
The Samoans are wonderful singers, and a Sunday church service is a memory that will linger long. Most Samoans are Congregational or Catholic, and their innate air of contentment has permeated these religions, softening them into something a little more celebratory than they appear in the West, welcoming strangers and nonbelievers alike.
As far as lodging, I would recommend skipping Apia. A day trip would suffice. Visit the market to snap up some tapa cloth or wood carvings, and lunch at the historic hotel Aggie Grey's, even if it's a little long in the tooth these days. There are resorts of varying quality on both Upolu and Savaii, ranging from highly romantic beach fales, sans walls, renting for about $20 a night, to the Sinalei Reef Resort and the Coconuts Beach Club. The latter are the only two fancy beach resorts in Samoa. And when I say fancy, let me hasten to add that neither is the Ritz. But they are far better than anything I expected of the South Pacific.
Coconuts has seven free-standing beach fales, two over-the-water fales and 15 non-beachfront rooms. You may be pleased to note that all of them have walls. We had rejected the over-the-water fales and opted for a beach fale, a good decision. Ours was large and airy, with a sitting area filled with bamboo furniture. The bathrooms were, well, unique. It was an indoor-outdoor sort of arrangement, with the shower open to the air and surrounded by a lava rock wall. The good news - there was no telephone and no television. In fact, there is a single phone servicing the entire hotel, so any thoughts of going there and remaining wired are pretty much out of the question.
Next door to Coconuts is the new Sinalei Reef Resort, owned by a distinguished Samoan man named Joe Annandale. It is far grander than Coconuts in that it is bigger, has a golf course, tennis courts, a posher restaurant and a slicker pool. Their beachside fales are lovely, with enormous decks and Jacuzzi tubs. But still, I don't know that I would have traded the bare-footed funkiness of Coconuts for the slightly stiffer feel of Sinalei. My advice: If you are taking your in-laws or you demand five-star luxury, well, then you should probably go for a beachside fale at Sinalei. If you are more of the refined-casual kind of person, go with a beach fale at Coconuts. And if both of those are beyond your reach, there are many other choices, like Fao-Fao Beach Fales on lovely Saleapaga beach, owned by a gregarious Samoan family who keep you entertained as well as overfed and comfortable.
It would be remiss of me not to mention that Samoans are also world champion fire-knife dancers. Fire dancing elicits a groan from those who have seen the cheesy tourist performances in Hawaii. But Samoans are too ingenuous to know what perfunctory performance art is. Fire dancing is an integral (and wholly dangerous) part of their fiafia, or feast ceremonies. We witnessed the performance of a remarkable family, all 12 children - ages 5 to 18 - effecting horrifying acts with flames and knives. There was authenticity, there was flamboyance, there was passion, there was respect. But mostly there was an unabashed pride. And in this purity I found a sentiment befitting the entire nation of Independent Samoa.