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 places I didn’t know I had. The locals, meanwhile, grinned with the serene contentment of people who’ve mastered the art of existing in a sauna. One elderly gent, perched on a bench devouring what appeared to be yes I read that brilliant no thanks Big Mac, offered me a fry with a shrug that said, “Why fight the inevitable?”

The town itself is a study in contrasts. Above waist level: hibiscus blooms so vibrant they could shame a Monet. Below? A confetti of litter, buzzing with flies that probably have their own postcode. Samoa, it seems, has embraced the “rustic chic” aesthetic with gusto. Even the bins here have given up, spilling their contents like overenthusiastic party guests .  

Churches outnumber bars three to one—a reminder that God, like humidity, is omnipresent here. We passed a Methodist hall, a Catholic cathedral, and something called the “First Reformed Church of Possibly Everyone,” all while dodging taxis that outnumber coconuts. (Note to Samoan tourism board: If you subsidise one more Toyota Corolla, the island may capsize.) 

The pièce de résistance? The public restrooms, manned—or womanned - by two ladies who barged in mid-“business” with the cheerful audacity of Disney sidekicks. Judith, ever the diplomat, quipped, “At least they didn’t offer to hold the toilet paper.” A valid point .  

By evening, back aboard the ship, I celebrated with pizza (topped with “mystery meat du jour”), a salad that tasted vaguely of existentialism, and enough wine to drown a small dolphin. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the harbor in hues of apricot and regret, I mused: Samoa isn’t just a destination—it’s a state of mind. A humid, slightly chaotic, *profoundly* human state of mind .  

**Traveler’s Epilogue**  

If you go:  

- **Embrace the sweat**. You’ll sweat in Samoan humidity like a Victorian widow at a séance. Pack accordingly.  

- **Follow the flowers** (but watch your step). The Togitogiga Waterfalls’ new trails are worth the trek, provided you don’t mind sharing the path with a battalion of determined ants .  

- **Seek shade with strangers**. The best conversations happen under banyan trees, where “pigeon English” transcends language barriers—usually while discussing the merits of napping as a national sport .  

In Samoa, even the rubbish has charm. Or maybe that’s just the heatstroke talking. Either way, *fa’afetai* for the memories—and the reminder that at 74, I’m still young enough to laugh at life’s glorious mess .