American Samoa

Our stop in Pago Pago, American Samoa, was just about guaranteed to be a dud. The storm that held us up in Punta Arenas, Chile, required itinerary changes that got us here a day late, which means we're here on Sunday, when all the stores are closed. A lot of people were planning on sending stuff like their Antarctic coats home from here, taking advantage of the American Post Office, which, of course, is also closed. Not only that, but the need to get to Sydney, Australia, on time means that the gangway will be coming up at 12:30pm, cutting short opportunities for tours.

At the foot of the gangway was an impromptu tourist gimcrack market shaded by blue and yellow striped plastic tents, and just to set foot on land, I wandered that. The humidity must have been as close to 100% as it can get without actively raining, and it was mildly interesting to see all the virile immigration guys in their Samoan skirts, but I was disinclined to spread any of my dollars around. One booth owner took down a wilting lei for my inspection. "Smell these flowers. They will make you feel cooler," she urged, and I did, and they did, but who needs wilting flowers?

OK, freeze that frame for a minute. I haven't written anything about the people I have dinner with every evening. There are seven of us at the moment, all traveling single. This morning at breakfast in the buffet restaurant, I was sitting with one of them, Paul, a retired salesman now living in Owls Head, Maine, which is irrelevant except that it's such a great town name I can't pass up the chance to share it. He was worried about another of our tablemates, Sue, a very frail woman who will be 90 in September, is fairly deaf, and walks very slowly with the aid of a cane and the help of anyone nearby and relatively able-bodied. "Do you know that Sue hasn't been off the ship since we left Florida?" Paul asked me. "We need to see to it that she gets a foot on land." We agreed to work on it, seeking a port with interesting stuff close to a gently sloping gangway on a day with mild and reliable weather.

Now cut back to this morning on Samoa. I decided to take a quick stroll toward town, figuring there must be more to Pago Pago* than the shipside market, even on a muggy Sunday. I had gone half a block when there she was, Sue, walking slowly toward me on the arm of a handsome young Samoan man. Turns out she had hoped to renew her supply of Aleve at a convenience store a couple blocks from the ship that, true to the code of convenience stores everywhere, was open on Sunday. As she tottered off the ship, a substantial Samoan woman at a tour booth near the gangway had ordered her son (or perhaps nephew or grandson) to accompany Sue, which he did. (Sue said she had tried to give the woman money but was refused.)

Sue looked exhausted by the heat and exertion. I gave her my hat, but clearly more was needed. So, as the stalwart young Samoan helped Sue back to his mother's (or aunt's or grandmother's) booth, I ran back and bought heat-busting leis for Sue and me, draped one around her neck, then helped her back to her cabin, where she declared her intention to "lie down for a little while."

As I walked with Sue and the young Samoan man before I went to get the leis, we passed a sign that said something in Samoan. I asked the young man for a translation, and, after thinking for a moment, he said, "It means 'Samoa is hospitality.'" After their generosity to Sue, I could only add a quick "Amen, brother."

*There has been a lively debate on board as to how to pronounce this name. Chief competitors have been the phonetic "pah-go pah-go" or "pay-go pay-go", and the alternatives "pahngo pahngo" and "pango pango", like "tango tango". Turns out we were all wrong, though I am stuck for how to represent the native pronunciation. They definitely get an 'n' sound in there, but sort of swallow it, the way the French swallow that sound, and they mash the 'g' into the 'n' in the process. And no, I will not try to convince anyone on board that I know what I'm talking about.