Savai’i island: the quieter, considerably larger of the two main landmasses that make up Samoa. The place one heads to for some peaceful, undisturbed beach time in simple huts or fales (traditional, open-sided shelters with, or without, palm frond screens) right on the sand, or in some cases, over the water. The kind of place to lose oneself in a book or with a snorkel. To enjoy simple, rustic dinners and early nights listening to the gentle lap of the waves, and perhaps the reassuring click of a gecko.
That’s one interpretation.
‘Why don’t you join these ladies?’ asked one of the hotel restaurant staff, whose name I didn’t catch, as I settled myself at the adjacent table to two young Australian girls. Close enough to appear friendly without foisting myself upon an unwilling audience, while leaving plenty of room for any retreat that became necessary.
‘Of course! Come and join us!’ One of them pulled out the chair next to her. The table was set for four. I hesitated, smiled, shrugged and moved across.
Chat came easily, as it does with Australians. They had arrived early the same day and had also enjoyed an entertaining transfer with Nu’u, who invited them (though not me) to see a local band later in the evening. I’d finished my one beer, which is one more than my current budget allows, but it was Saturday night. I’d ordered a substantial meal, and drinking after eating is as much of a No as is a night out without alcohol, especially when everybody else is going hell-for-leather. I hadn’t planned it, and I hadn’t dressed for it. I couldn’t afford it.
All this was waved away when Nu’u appeared, with his friend Si, to collect the girls. Both agreed that yes, absolutely, I must come along too.
‘You pay the entrance fee – ten tala – and we take care of the drinks, OK?’ he offered.
I’d paid him enough to feed a family for a month when he’d transported me in his battered old van across the island from the ferry, so I reckoned this was fair enough.
The venue was a fifteen-minute drive along the northern coast road, and we arrived at what looked like a Highland village hall, with rough parking outside; inside, a large, empty space serving as a dance floor. At one end was the stage, populated by five or six band members and a variety of instruments I couldn’t identify in the gloom; at the other, on a raised platform, a bar and a pool table. Tables and chairs lined the room, mostly empty except for those at the far end, where a handful of women huddled. They wore colourful, shapely dresses and each had a flower in her hair. By comparison, I was wearing a sack.
In an all-too-familiar pattern it seemed that the women chatted, while the men drank. Preconceptions ended there, however, as figures began making their way to the dance floor: solitary men, each in their own trance-like bubble, moving in their individual ways to the music.
Whether they were enjoying it or not was difficult to tell. We couldn’t hear each other speak, and were communicating using our eyebrows, nods, and amused (occasionally appreciative) gestures in the direction of any noteworthy dancing technique. Protests at the continual supply of Taula beer, soon progressing from small bottles to large, and eventually from the usual green label to the stronger red, fell on deaf ears, regardless of volume. I drank what I could, then switched my full bottles, when they appeared, with Nu’s empties. Perhaps I was responsible for his end-of-night condition, but it was self-defence, I swear.
The band proceeded through various cover versions intermingled with local numbers which may have been their own, but were more likely interpretations of popular Samoan hits. The small crowd acted indifferent until the lady vocalist belted out a confident rendition of Hopelessly Devoted to You. As we joined in with the chorus, with abandon, I agreed with Nu’u: it was, indeed, perfect.
While not exactly a dance number, it filled the floor. Through a reggae remastered Top of the World and other tunes familiar, yet unplaced, they emerged from the sidelines: the small man with huge, red Crocs at least three sizes too big for him; the tall, bear-like man in a red lavalava (sarong) which slipped down to reveal his backside, intentional or otherwise; the seated figure, his back to the band, contorting into what could have been yoga poses, and a rugby-sized collection who seemed to be performing the haka.
Samoans are big. Tall, muscular and in many cases, rather fat. In fact, it’s one of the few places I’ve travelled where I actually feel quite slim by comparison, although they are a good-looking people, especially the women with their thick, lustrous hair and beautiful, clear-skinned smiles. The reason for their size surprised me: rather than the extraordinary volume of meat and butter in their diet being the sole culprit, an estimated 50% have a rare gene which predisposes them to obesity but more specifically, allows their muscles to keep growing. They are strong! I watched their haka-like moves from a distance; I’m no fighter.
At some point a tall, slender figure in a long, red and white floral sarong and a bushy, yellow garland around the neck, sporting inappropriately high heels, began what can only be described as a pole-dance around one of the pillars at the edge of the dance floor. Biologically male, beyond a doubt, they were then joined by a petite boy, dressed conventionally, with a women’s style handbag over his shoulder. Together they walked towards the bar, and I lost them in the crowd. Nobody took any notice; I was much more of a curiosity, travelling by myself.
Later I learned that in Samoa, while homosexuality is officially illegal, punishment is not enforced. In addition, they traditionally recognise four genders: male; female; feminine male, fa’afafine, and masculine female, fa’afatama. Which, if either, of the two dancers was a fa’afafine, I am not sure. But it was interesting and satisfying to see them comfortable in their own skin.
We had made the rule: if one dances, we all dance. Together. Mostly, we had stuck to that. Until suddenly I felt myself being lifted and dragged towards the floor by the revealing red sarong-wearing bear-man, going by the unlikely name of Martin. The band played a strange tune, neither fast nor slow, and I had little idea how to begin dancing to it. ‘Martin’ grabbed my hands and placed them around his neck. Each time I tried to move them somewhere else – onto his shoulder, perhaps, for decency – he put them back again. He began to talk but I couldn’t hear a word at first. All I could grasp was one breathless sentence:
‘How old are you? I love you. My father passed away, my brother passed away, I am just here all alone on Savai’i island.’
This was followed by something indecipherable, ending in ‘…if you want.’
I didn’t. Though I suppose it was nice to be asked. I remembered the married lady on the bus to the wharf, telling me that I shouldn’t be worried, travelling alone in Samoa. The men, she assured me, wouldn’t bother me. They’re very respectful.
The girls had had enough and were ready to leave. Persuading Si and N’u to come with us was trickier. We went outside to the car, and waited. After some time, I was sent back in to find the men. Nu’u was at the bar. I dragged him out by the hand and he obliged sheepishly, still clutching a beer. I felt slightly guilty because it was a special night for them, with their favourite local band performing in their village on Easter Saturday. They’d asked us along, and we were being churlish for wanting to go home early while they were still having fun.
‘So,’ I ventured, on the journey home, relieved that Hannah had got into the driving seat. ‘When did you last see the band? How often do they play?’ Hoping the answer wasn’t going to be, only at Easter.
‘Every week,’ Nu’u shrugged.
When we arrived safely back at camp, the girls had the munchies and asked Si to crack a couple of coconuts for them. I went off to bed with crazy tunes, truly undanceable, ringing in my ears. In the morning, I stepped out of my hut to find cleanly-scraped coconut shells and two empty beer bottles on the grass outside my door. All I had been aware of as I drifted off to sleep, smiling, was the sound of the sea.