In the morning, we were woken by the sound of the returned villagers sweeping the beach of fallen banana leaves and accumulated debris. Their life is in no way primitive; it is simply traditional, an important distinction. For instance, although our fale was constructed mainly from coconut-trunk spars and woven palm leaves, the cross-spars in the roof were made from pieces of shipping pallet and the banana leaves were sewn together with string and what appeared to be magnetic cassette tape. As well as the tarpaulin used in bad weather, each fale also boasted a small corrugated iron cap. This motif was repeated wherever we went; the traditional methods were preferred, but if some modern invention could do the traditional job better, then it was used.

We paddled out along the reef break to the next island, crossing a rather turbid channel with quite a noticeable rip, and ran the kayaks up onto a coral beach. Steps led up to an automatic lighthouse, from which we watched boobies and frigate brids gracefully riding the breeze. After a brisk swim in the surf, eerie with the never-ending pounding of the reef break just a few hundred metres away, we returned to the fale for lunch.

Returning home, Matz and I decided to go out through the break into the open sea. This was an awesome experience, for the channel was only about ten metres wide and on either side the rolling surf built up to an enormous height before crashing thunderously on the reef below. It was a strange feeling indeed to watch the tubes form and the waves rear high above on either side, while we bobbed reasonably placidly on a piece of lightly choppy ocean between them.

We were just about to turn around and go back in, when a large leathery green turtle surfaced right in front of me. Looking out to sea, it had no idea that I was right behind it and I held my breath as it paddled slowly along with its enormously elongated front flippers. Unlike it's smaller brethren, when it finally did see me, it didn't swim like hell, it just floated gracefully down to a metre or so under my boat, a stunning view through the crystal clear water.

After an interesting ride home in which we ran first out of diesel and then out of coolant, necessitating some roadside bartering to keep us on the road, Matz dropped us at the Millennium, a bit upmarket from the Seaside Hotel, where a porter whisked away our ragbag of sacks and bundles and installed them in our room, where we leapt into the shower.

It was Bronwyn's birthday and a taxi was waiting to take us to Apia's top restaurant, Sails, nestled amongst the churches on the waterfront. On the way out of the hotel, Bronwyn got waylaid by a receptionist who wanted copies of our passports or something, but I carried on outside to make sure the taxi was still waiting.

Sure enough, there he was, so I got into the back and explained that we needed to wait for my wife. He smiled and nodded his head vigorously; 'Wife,' he said, and started the engine and drove off. Suddenly realising that he hadn't understood a word that I'd said, I opened the door and bailed out. The car stopped, and there was a pause. The driver unfolded himself slowly from the driver's seat and stared across the car roof at me, until a delighted smile broke out across his face and he erupted into peals of laughter. 'Your wife! Your wife!'

Once we were both safely installed, we drove the kilometre or so back into town and decanted outside the restaurant. Bronwyn went up to secure our table (we'd booked it on the internet months before, so we weren't 100% sure that everything was going to be OK) while I jogged down the road to the Green Turtle to collect our aeroplane and bus tour tickets for the following day.

The guy in the shop handed me our tickets, but kept a grasp on them while he leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, 'Can you take something to Savai'i for me?' I looked at him with what I hoped was a deadpan look, but which was likely horrified dismay, and said, 'What is it?' He burst out into laughter. 'Something very important,' and handed me the pay cheque for the bus operator at the other end.

Sails billed itself as 'The Last Restaurant in the World to Close, Every Night', a commentary on Samoa's proximity to the dateline that had already caused us so much confusion (A couple of days later, we found ourselves in the bar of the International Dateline Hotel in Tonga, which billed itself as 'The First Bar that opens in the World')
Our table turned out to be the best in the house, out on the veranda overlooking the harbour sunset. The margaritas were excellent, and the food was astonishing; their Commodore Sashimi alone is worth travelling halfway round the world for.

The next morning, we were up before dawn and into the waitress' boyfriend's taxi to the airport, where we were hoping to catch a flight to Samoa's second island, Savai'i. Everybody said that we should allow an hour for the thirty-minute drive, but we didn't run into any problems. Even before first light, though, the roads were lined with Samoans dozing in their little roadside fale, waiting for a bus to come along; this seems to be a national pastime.

At the tiny airport, we watched as some international travellers checked in, each clambering solemnly onto the luggage conveyor so that their weight could be noted down. Going through our own check-in, we seemed to be the only domestic customers, but we weren't too surprised as it is only a short hop in a light plane. However, we still had to go through an xray, which revealed the penknife that lives in my daypack. The customs officers portentiously decided that it was far too dangerous to allow it on the plane, so I excused myself for a moment and wandered back across the tin shed to the checkin, where I asked if they could hand it to the pilot. They looked a bit bewildered, but agreed to do it. I shrugged and headed back to the departure gate; either I'd see it again, or I wouldn't.

Out on the tarmac stood a little eight-seater twin-prop. We squeezed in with a handful of missionaries, and then the Kiwi pilot clambered in alongside us. With a wide grin, he introduced himself and said, 'Safety Announcement. The Emergency Exit is the same door that you came in. Please fasten your seatbelt. Thankyou' and then we were rolling.

The Virtual Reinhard Archive

Pseudemys

16.11.06 Front Page

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