|
Location: Apia, Samoa, Pacific Ocean
The bus lumbered around sharp corners as it climbed into the
hills above Apia, Samoa. The driver clearly possessed
a six sense, which allowed him to see through the seventeen
bobble head dolls lining the front dash, and the thick red
shag that encircled the front windshield. Decorative pineapple
lights, which were poorly spliced in to the lighting panels,
ran parallel down the interior sides of the bus, perfectly
matching the mood set by the reggae music blasting out the
surprisingly excellent speakers.
There is nothing common about public transportation in Samoa.
I noticed this as soon as I climbed on to the bus labeled
Queen Suzanne, which, by rumor, was supposed to take me up
to the Vailima Estate, the last home of Robert Luis
Stevenson. The seats and walls are all wooden, which can
be uncomfortable because the shocks appeared to be wooden
as well. Every bus is outlandishly decorated to match the
tastes of the driver, which always means lots of shag, Bob
Marley posters, and things that bounce when the bus strikes
a pothole, which is frequently.
Samoa is the only place in the world I have been where the
local term for "foreigner" is not derogatory. "Palagi"
in Samoan means "descended from heaven." After boarding
the Queen Suzanne, I immediately noticed that it was packed
with people, bags of flour, and a few chickens. Upon seeing
me, the passengers immediately responded. Bags were shifted,
children were taken onto parent's laps, and one young boy
even lowered a window and sat on it, with his legs inside
the bus, and his upper body outside. I now had a prime seat
at the front available, with a great view of the drivers exquisitely
decorated dash.
I tried to politely remain standing, but ten sets of hands
told me otherwise. I sat in the recently vacated seat, uncomfortable
with all the attention. The man next to me sensed my confusion,
and explained. In broken English, he told me "All of
our foreign visitors are guests of honor. We always find seat
for them. No matter how crowded bus is, you always get sit."
He then proceeded to ask me about my family back home, which
is always of great interest to Samoans. The love to hear about
other peoples families.
The bus ventured further towards the home of my boyhood idol.
Occasionally, we came upon on a Samoan riding a bike. Now,
it is well known that Samoans are quite large. With that impressive
size, comes a distinct inability to maintain a good center
of balance on a moving object. Even without pressure, they
proceed slowly and unsteadily on bicycles. When they are surprised
by the loud horn of a Rastafarian bus, they jerk the handlebars
violently to the left and right, and plough head first into
a tree.
The first instance of this I witnessed, I was startled and
stood up in panic, wanting to stop and help the cyclist. The
chorus of laughter around me, and the wide grin of the bus
driver in front of me, told me that this was not an accident,
but a pastime. The next crash I witnessed was a man into a
picket fence, and my tepid laughter was rewarded with smiles
and a pat on the back from my fellow riders.
A week later, in a rental car on the island of Savaii,
a short blast from my horn caused a Samoan teenager to swerve
into a pile of discarded coconut shells. My friends stared
at me in horror as I laughed gleefully. They did not understand
as they had not yet been introduced to the sport. |
Travel Writers: Adventures in Samoan Mass Transit by
Jeremy Norton
