Apia-Samoa - a true confession
Apia, Samoa: a true confession Let me begin with a confession: I’ve reached the age where birthdays feel less like milestones and more like archaeological digs. Seventy-four years old, and yet—thanks to the tropical climate of Samoa—I now possess the vitality of a sloth on viagra. *Happy birthday to me.* The day began with the subtlety of a steam bath. Stepping off the ship into Apia’s 30° C embrace, my glasses fogged up so thoroughly I briefly mistook a tuna boat for the Eiffel Tower. There it was: the Queen Anne, gleaming like a diamond tiara in a pile of old cutlery, surrounded by Chinese-registered vessels with names so imaginative (*Tuna Lane No. 1*, anyone?) they could only have been dreamed up by a bureaucrat with a fish fetish . Apia’s humidity doesn’t just cling to you—it colonises. By the time we’d shuffled past the makeshift market (a symphony of floral dresses and “temporary” structures that looked older than my knees), I was sweating in...
