In Samoa it was hot enough to sweat myself awake every morning.

In Samoa I almost got into a fistfight over some banana doughnuts, and I don’t even like bananas.

In Samoa I spoke a lot of Italian.

In Samoa we sat in the back of the shuttle the first night on the way to the fales from Apia, holding hands and looking out at the beach, at the open-walled houses, at the coconut palms and the frangipani trees, unable to believe we were really there, smiling and smiling.

In Samoa I rededicated myself, fully and unreservedly, to the idea that men should wear skirts.

In Samoa we went snorkeling every day, sometimes twice. The face of the sea was cool and calm but underneath was a whole world on the reef, with its own business and bustle. There was a long sort of olive green fish there that we could not stop talking about: was the green fish going to be there this morning after breakfast when we went in? Would we be attempting to catch the green fish and eat it for lunch? Would we merely be visiting it and perhaps inviting it to have a cup of tea? I was also enamored of this crazy flock of purple-brown-and-blue fish that had this crazy coral feeding frenzy one day (I was all “Calm DOWN it’s CORAL it’s not GOING ANYWHERE”) and this other type that had very cute blue and yellow spots and a fake eye on its tail to deceive predators. I usually saw these guys in twos (”Awwwww,” I thought) but occasionally in threesomes (”No judgment here, fish,” I assured them) and one time I saw two threesomes just a few inches away from each other, didging and dipping in the coral, and I wondered why they didn’t all just hang out together as a big group and then I was like, duh, awkward social situation, just move along.

In Samoa we took this bus ride from Apia back to Taufua that almost killed us but was still funny and cool. Like, first we had to find the bus itself, and that took a bit of doing as we wandered the streets of Apia in the pouring-down rain, and then we had to get seats on the bus, which sounds simple but wasn’t, because we had to find separate seats and squeeze in next to separate very nice ladies. And then we just waited on the bus for about an hour, just for fun I guess, very nicely and quietly until the driver decided to go; the bus schedule even said that “Bus departure time is at driver discretion.” And then we went to the flea market, which was across the street, and then we went back to the bus depot and hung out some more, and then we drove out of town and stopped for gas at a minimart (where I, on a hot tip from the nice lady besides whom I was sitting, got some fantastic coconut rolls just like I had in Raro) and then sort of toodled along, stopping whenever someone tapped gently on the window to signal that they wanted to get off. Everyone on the bus seemed to think we were a little dim and feel a little sorry for us; when we started giving each other worried looks and whispering Hey Do You Recognize This Part Of The Road the people near us started saying things, in slow, clear English, like: Would You Like To Get Off? Just Tell The Driver. Just Tell Him! Tap On The Window And He Will Let You Off The Bus! And Then You Pay Him! It’s Easy, You Can Do It! and then they tapped on the window for us anyway. Also, there was a deeply hilarious CD on repeat during the whole four hours of this journey, the highlight of which was two songs re-interpreted by a Samoan band: “The Hokey Pokey” and “Nikita,” by Elton John. Our bus was just plain white with a flower or something painted on it, but a lot of the other buses were all pimped out. Sadly I neglected to take a picture of this mind-blowing airbrushed Bon Jovi-themed public bus, and I have not stopped kicking myself for that yet.

In Samoa they have two-dollar bills, which, I think you will agree, is awesome.

In Samoa I tried and tried and tried to get some koko Samoa so I could bring it back with me to the States and make koko rice. Ha. Oh, ha ha ha ha. I asked the tiny store down the road and I asked them in the staff kitchen and I asked at the flea market and people would smile politely and go “What? You’re looking for what?” and I’d go, “You know, the special cocoa that you make the special koko rice with?” and they’d go “Huh, yeah, I don’t know where you get that,” and I never did get any, although one morning there was koko rice (yay!) for breakfast.

In Samoa the showers were just pipes coming out from the wall so I was basically just minimally rinsing the salt off every day, leaving my hair an anarchy.

In Samoa there was this gigantic pig (called, of course, Piggy) that ran around all day and was sort of a pet. He would say “Ciao porchetta!” whenever we saw it, and I felt sort of bad when there was a small whole roast piglet for lunch on Sunday afternoon.

In Samoa we made friends with two little cousins who lived there, four and five years old, and took them down the beach for ice cream one afternoon. They were completely bilingual and wanted piggyback rides and to try on our flippers and to be whirled around and then one of them threw up in the sea and some silver fish came along and ate the vomit and then we were like, okay kids, time for you to go home.

In Samoa I wore bare feet and my favorite blue sundress.

In Samoa when I left for my midnight flight the staff hugged me and wished me luck and gave me a little blue bracelet and told me to come back next year. I felt for the bracelet on my wrist, thinking about the beach, the green fish, the whole dark dry strange trip back to America.

Posted on May 30th, 2008 by Chiara
Filed under: Everything, Traveling