Samoa: An Unexpected Cockup

Sitting in Wellington Airport and waiting for my connection to (hopefully sunnier) Auckland, it seems like the idea time to sit down and relay the journey / ordeal of our visit to Samoa. Many of you will have heard the story already, but if you want to hear it again because you're avoiding doing the cleaning or you just have a terrible memory, then do read on.

We began our journey waiting in Auckland Airport for longer than expected - a young man was escorted onto the plane by police before everyone else got on. This set the tone for the remainder of the flight. Of course, we were seated just in front of this potentially psychotic criminal. This is presumably because we were a young couple with no children and therefore perfectly able to fight him off should he randomly attack us with the blunt airline cutlery midway through the flight. I expect he was just being deported because he'd been in a drunken fight or overstayed his welcome, but for the sake of adding drama to the proceedings, let's leave it there.

It turned out we were sandwiched between Samoa's Most Wanted and an enormous man with his daughter. He really was vast, there is no other way to describe him other than by saying when I walked past him on the plane I almost couldn't walk past him on the plane. I graciously let Gordon take the seat behind the daughter, and wedged myself into the seat behind the giant. He thought it prudent to lean his seat right back for most of the flight so that when my tray table was down, it almost sliced me in half. Four hours well spent. The daughter wasn't a lot better. Fidgeting in childish excitement for most of the flight, the fiftieth time she slammed her back into the seat and almost sent the laptop and cups of water water colliding into a disastrous union, we got a little peeved.

Anyway, we got off the flight onto a humid airstrip and went through 'Immigration', which consisted of a couple of bored looking officers indicated by a sign of varying fonts that had been printed off of Word. A traditional Samoan band greeted us with some 'choons' as we lugged our stuff from the conveyor belt. Things took more of a comedy turn from this point on.

We got into the Arrivals Hall and my senses were overloaded. There were whole families waiting to pick up one person, car rental companies (ha... should have paid more attention to them – read later on), taxi drivers shouting and hollering and all manner of God knows what going on. I have never seen anything like it. I thought about it a while after, and I don't think I have ever visited a non-Westernised country before. I went to Brunei, when I was about eight years old, but that was to visit English friends and we mainly hung about at ex-pat locations. So although I could make an educated guess on what I was about to face, I wasn't 100% sure of the protocol. All sensible and logical thought eluded me, however, as I was wiped out from all the driving and the late flight, and just wanted to get to the resort as quickly as possible. I should mention here that I did bugger all preparation for this part of the trip, preferring to do the 'spontaneous idiot' thing and leave it all up to fate. Samoa is a well-travelled Pacific Island, what could possibly go wrong? Plenty, apparently.

So it was that I was immediately spotted gawping about like a tourist idiot by a pretty dodgy looking taxi tout who shoved us in the general direction of an eight-seater bus. Without really thinking about protesting, we mumbled something about what we expected to pay for the journey. He quoted us double – not because he was shafting us (well maybe a bit) but simply because it was that much; we really had no idea quite how far away this resort was. I had us booked into an open fronted fale at Lalomanu Beach, allegedly the best beach on Samoa (jolly good) but also the furthest possible point from Apia airport, unless you count New Zealand. We waited until the taxi was full, then drove off in a direction that could have been anywhere as far as I know.

We got chatting to two Samoan women who had been in Auckland for a church related event, but soon hustled off the taxi as they lived in Apia. They wished us well, and I felt an impending sense of doom. One of them said they reckoned we would be there in about an hour. This actually turned out to be about two and a half.

Another British couple were dropped off at Aggie Grey's, the most famous and distinctly posh resort in Apia, and we were left alone with our amiable, but impossible to understand, taxi driver. The oil light was on from the start of the journey, and we made several trips to the only petrol station on the island (yep, really) to fill up both the oil and petrol tanks. After what seemed like an hour of going round in circles, we finally started heading towards Lalomanu Beach. Apparently.

An hour passed. We narrowly avoided wild pigs, dogs and children just hanging out by the roads. The driver (shamefully I can't recall his name) chatted to us every now and again, but I was knackered, worrying about how long the journey was taking, and generally in a bit of a strop. I assumed the island looked beautiful by day, but as it was pitch black outside we were missing out. It certainly smelt beautiful, in the main, with island food cooking on sizzling hot plates at shop windows in Apia, and tropical flowers scenting the air once we got to the country roads outside the city.

What felt like another hour passed. I shook off all British reluctance and asked outright how much longer the journey was expected to take. I was told we would arrive there around 4am. It said something like 2.30am on the taxi's dashboard clock. Later, this clock turned out to be obviously wrong, and it was something like 3.45am really, but for that moment at least, I had a panic. I had no idea where we were, or how long it would really take, and all I wanted at that moment was a bed for the night that preferably wasn't in an eight seater van.

We finally escaped the van after the driver pulled in under a large palm tree next to a big sign indicating 'Taufua Fales, Lalomanu Beach'. Well, at least we were in the right place.

We paid, grabbed our bags and were pointed in the general direction of the fale by the 'night security', who was presumably someone's brother or uncle. Taufua is totally run by family and different members hang out there at various parts of the day.

Our fale was clean and very basic, with a mattress, a mozzie net and a light that worked from solar energy, so helpfully didn't work at the point when we really needed it. I didn't care, it had a mattress and a sheet, so I dived straight onto that and fell promptly asleep.

Piercing sunlight woke us up in the next few hours. I assumed we had fallen asleep until mid afternoon, but it turned out to only be 9.30am. We wandered sheepishly into the covered but open kitchen and dining area next to our fale. There was a large chap sat on a laptop on top of a table covered in lino, who it later turned out was acting as reception, but in my 'Island Time' state I wandered over to the serving hatch instead and asked about breakfast. We were told we would be served at the table, and porridge, honey and bread with peanut butter were brought across momentarily. I ate as much as possible, not knowing what would happen for lunch, and generally lolled about in my seat.

We shuffled over to the slightly scary looking man on the laptop, who regarded us with vague disdain and turned out to be called George. Our conversation went something like this:

George: 'Checking in?'

Me: (squeaking) Um... yes... we arrived at 4.30 this morning haha!

George: 'Mmm. We didn't want to wake you up too early for breakfast so we let you lie in.' (I was wondering at this point why we would be woken up early anyway, surely it's up to us to turn up on time)

Me: 'Oh well – thanks.'

George: (launches into short explanation of 'facilities' at Taufua Fales, punctuated by yawns and apologies for being hungover).

'You can snorkel here on the beach, but since the tsunami, most of the coral has been destroyed. So it's not that exciting.'

Me: 'OK... can we hire snorkelling gear from here?'

George: 'No'

Me: 'Are there any ATMs round here?'

George: 'The only ATMs are in Apia.'

And so on and so forth. We soon discovered that, should we actually want to do anything besides lie around, we should have really got a hire car.

This left us in a state of limbo, but meant that all we could really do was swim or lie on the beach, with occasional breaks for organised eating time. Now, this is hardly cause for a sob story. For some, that's a perfect holiday. But for the most fidgety person in the world (Gordon) and the second most fidgety person in the world (me), this concept was a bit like being trapped under a giant UV lamp and sellotaped to some sand. I had come to Samoa to sit about on a beach, sure, but I also wanted to see the island and do some activities. Rule number one, it's all about preparation, and no more so than when you're doing a trip to a very laid back Pacific island, where public transportation is more of a concept than a reality.

We met a pleasant older couple, vets Tracey and Brian from Wellington, during our first day at Taufua, who were enjoying soaking up the sun and taking some time off from their busy veteranarian jobs. They had been staying at the resort for a few days and had made several abortive attempts to catch the bus into Apia. Apparently, you had to call the bus driver to see if he was going to bother to make the trip that day. Gordon and I looked at each other; there was no way the two people worst designed for hot country living ever were going to stand in 40+ heat and humidity to wait for a bus that might not turn up at all. So it was that we decided to stay put for a couple of days, as we were only there for a short time anyway.

A short time after breakfast, we were called in for lunch. You literally didn't have to think for yourself; every meal was announced and you were almost ushered in to sit down for food. As it was Sunday, we had a special lunch included of traditional Samoan foods. A particular favourite was leaves filled with coconut cream, which were delicious, everything else I could pretty much take or leave.

After a bit of lunch and light chat to Tracey and Brian, we took our leave and went for a walk along the road to the next village. We saw wild pigs and their piglets roaming about, which was very exciting for me, and heard some church services going on. As people piled out of church, some greeted us and some invited us to join a service. As neither of us could be described as devout Christians, we decided to give it a miss (although it looked like they might have air conditioning in there, and that was mighty tempting).

After our strenuous walk we rolled back into the resort in time for some swimming, lying about and napping, before being called in for dinner.

Dinner was a fairly raucous affair, with various dishes presented to us, tapas style, and got us chatting to a couple of friendly Aussie girls, Larissa and Andrea, who were taking a holiday from their high powered jobs to lie about in the sun and have a few well-earned drinks, as well as visit their friend who was working in Apia. They kindly offered to take us to the airport the following Tuesday when they heard about our lack of transport, an offer we happily accepted, until I found out I had got the departure dates wrong (more on this later).

Well I may as well tell you this story now, as the rest of the holiday involved lying on the beach or swimming around the not-that-exciting coral.

On the Monday afternoon, while reading my book and waiting for Gordon to appear from the shower, I was gripped by a sudden fear that I had forgotten something. This usually means I have left something vital in a shop, or that I have neglected to ask the neighbour to feed the cat while I go for a two week holiday somewhere. I decided to check our flight details over, just to alleviate myself of the worry.

When I opened up the printout of the flight details, my heart gave a sudden lurch. Our flight was at 2.00am on Tuesday, which meant (obviously) that we had to leave the resort on Monday night, so in about five hours from the time I discovered my mistake. I'm glad I checked, but when I presented Gordon with the printout, I braced myself for a bollocking. To his credit, he looked at the piece of paper, said 'oh yes, you're right' and that was about it. I think by this point, after all the lack of planning, there was little I could throw at him that would have elicted a heartfelt reaction.

Tail between my legs, I went to the Aussie girls and thanked them for their generous offer of a lift, then admitted that it wouldn't be entirely necessary as we were leaving sooner than anticipated. They were very sweet but must have thought, quite fairly, that I was an utter retard.

We packed our stuff, sand and all, after the sum total of two nights at the resort, and managed to secure a lift to Apia with a taxi after dinner. Fortunately this time we knew we had hours ahead of us in the car, so we attempted to keep conversation flowing while we passed various villages, the open rooms of their fales lit with fluorescent glows in the night.

When we got to the airport, we were told our hand luggage was too heavy, even though it was deemed fine on the way out and we hadn't purchased anything else. After a bit of squashing various items into our already-overstuffed suitcases, we managed to appease the cranky man at the desk and attempted to find somewhere to pay our 'exit tax' of 60 tala each. The 'security' section seemed to be totally unmanned apart from a couple of people having a chat, and it turned out they only opened it once it got dangerously close to the departure time. Classic Samoa! Anyway, they seemed happy to boot us out the country, and so we got onto what was to be one of the worst flights of all time. Leaving at 2am and arriving at 5am NZ time was never going to be a picnic though, let's face it. Screeching children, ancient coughing pensioners, random 'bing' seatbelt-alert noises squeaking from the aircraft at intermittent periods even though nothing was happening – it all combined to bring out the worst in both of us. I breathed a sigh of relief once we touched down on NZ soil.

Most of that day was an attempt to stay awake, so we decided to visit Auckland Zoo once we'd got hold of our hire car. It was actually a pretty good zoo, and did an ok job of keeping us in motion, until we had a 'little sit down' outside an eagle cage and both fell asleep, leaning on each other's shoulders. I only woke up when an old couple walked by us, laughing.

We met Kati for a drink in town, so it was good to see her and catch up for a bit in the aptly named bar 'The Darby', on Darby St of all places. Our misfortunes continued when we parted ways, and discovered we were late back for the car. Of course, we got fined. Forseeing hundred-dollar fines, I sighed inwardly and wondered if I would make it out of New Zealand wih any money at all. Fortunately it was only $15, but it was still annoying that they were so vigilant. So if you're in a foreign country & thinking of skipping paying that last 15 min of parking time, don't.

That evening we were lucky enough to stay at Justine and Al's in luxury accommodation compared to our previous 3 weeks, and had a great dinner with the family on the following night, before I had to take Gordon back to the airport. It was like being back at Heathrow on 26^th June 2012, only in reverse. It wasn't fun to say goodbye, but it was certainly easier knowing I was returning to familar territory.

Daisy was there to greet me at Queenstown airport four days later, which was a complete surprise as I'd been anticipating grabbing the bus in a bit of a morose self-reflective cloud. Waving a giant, hand-fashioned banner with 'Chlamydia Buttermilk aka Laura Darby' written on it (don't ask), she thrust three lillies into my hand. 'Welcome back mate!!' she bellowed, hugging me so tightly I wasn't sure when it was a good time to breathe.

With such a welcome, I knew I'd made the right choice coming back to Queenstown rather than moving on sooner, and we fell back into easy chatting about what had gone down at home and away for the last few weeks, managing to hitch into town with a kindly older gent. I think he felt sorry for us; we were ignored by most other drivers, probably keen to avoid taking two cackling women with a giant backpack and a bunch of lilies into their cars.

Once I was esconsed back into the dungeon, I felt like I'd never been away and had been gone for ages at the same time. It was great to catch up with Sophie, and soon it was business as usual, toilet scrubbing, bed-making and serving food ahoy in my Queenstown enclave. Happy days, as a well-known TV chef might say.