Fantasy Islands - Part II

The story of our next stop, Pago Pago, American Samoa,  begins with a Panama Canal cruise we took over a year ago. 

As our ship waited it's turn to enter the first lock of the canal, we stood on the deck with Carol and Linda, two brilliant ladies we'd met at the LGBTQIA+ meet-and-greet most cruises have at least once during the journey.  I kind of miss the days when cruise lines felt the need to be more discreet with promoting these gatherings. I don't miss the necessity, I miss the name: Friends of Dorothy (referring to Dorothy Gale as portrayed by Judy Garland). They still use the euphemism "Friends of Bill W." for AA - I know, because invariably someone, upon learning my name is Bill Watt, will ask if I'm the Bill W. hosting the daily gatherings. 

But I digress...

Linda and Carol were alternating between multiple cameras, snapping away - not at the locks, but at the trees lining the shore. We discovered that they were experienced birders - and passionate about teaching their hobby to others.  They were so generous with their time - pointing out where to focus our attention; what we were looking for and why. I love it when people tell me of their passions... well, passionately. Someone might be telling me the plot of Beowulf in olde English - "... syopan hie paes ladan last sceawedon, wergen gast.." - and if there's passion behind their words, a fire in their eyes, I'm all in - even if "last" is the only word I understand.

But Linda and Carol didn't use words from olde English, nor the Latin names of the birds. Both natural-born teachers, they made the un-accessed accessible. Gary and I were smitten.

It was during this cruise that world cruises appeared on our radar. Many of our fellow Panama Canal passengers were not disembarking at Los Angeles, but were continuing on for another ninety days as the ship headed around the world. The idea of being on such a cruise took hold of us, and we shared our budding interest with Carol and Linda. They asked us to stay in touch, and to let them know if we did decide to book a world cruise, as they might be interested as well - if itinerary included Pago Pago, American Samoa. That may seem both kind of specific and a little bit random (oxymoron aside), like someone saying they'll go with you to Costco, but only if they small boxes of Kirkland raisins. But their interest wasn't random at all, and was specific because Carol and Linda had been to all but a handful of the national parks, and American Samoa's was one of them.

When we settled on the cruise we're now on, we were thrilled that one of the stops was, indeed, Pago Pago; maybe Linda and Carol would join us. But when we sent them the information, it seems that 180 days is too long for some people to be away from the home; especially if they have pets, and they demurred. But then about a month later, they notified us that they had booked the first two legs of the cruise - Los Angeles to Sydney.

Hooray! We were going to spend time in the orbit of two new friends, and they were going to check another park off their bucket list. Only one problem. The National Park of American Samoa was closed on Sundays, and we would be arriving in Pago Pago... on a Sunday. This did not come as a surprise to Carol and Linda, who had done their research. Linda designed a sign to be brought out and unfurled just outside the park, at which point a picture would be taken and "that will be that." Which brings us to DAY 22, the day of our arrival to Pago Pago.

It was drizzling when we disembarked the ship, but that was not enough to dampen our spirits, especially as it was a warm drizzle (as discussed in my previous post, everything in the South Pacific Islands is, if not hot, very warm). At the end of the gangway, we were met by representatives from The National Park Service. The National Park Service that was closed. Only it wasn't. It seems that the people of American Samoa do not think it's fair for cruise passengers who have the misfortune of arriving on a Sunday. So although Sunday is a very sacred day on the island (we would discover that most South Pacific Islands are very devout), people had volunteered to staff the Park Center for a few hours so that we might visit.

That's the kind of hospitality we were met with over the next two weeks.

Carol asked all who were there to greet us if they had any children at home. When two answered in the affirmative, she gave each a box of crayons she carries in her shoulder bag when traveling for just such occasions. Feeling sheepish that all we had to offer was a protein bar that I wasn't willing to part with, Gary and I slunk over to the side and waited for Carol and Linda, who were now taking photos with our gracious hosts.

It was approximately one and a quarter miles to the park center, and with every few steps the rain increased a little - in volume, if not intensity. But just as we neared the shelter of the National Park building, the rain stopped - and, despite a forecast to the contrary, would not return.

The Center was small, but very

informative with great displays.

We watched a move about the making of Siapo, the traditional fabric of the Samoan people. It's an arduous process that starts with the scraping of the bark of the paper mulberry tree, wetting, layering and drying multiple times. For dye, the barks of the Blood Tree, the Lipstick Tree, and the kernel of the Candlenut are used for browns, reds, and blacks, respectively.

The result is beautiful in it's simplicity.

There were exhibits featuring the wildlife of the territory, as well as the topography of the island. There was also an exhibit about the tsunami that hit in 2009 when two major earthquakes hit between American Samoa and Samoa, killing at least 192 people and causing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of damage.

Having taken in all that the visitor center had to offer (plus purchasing one or five souvenirs), Carol, Linda, Gary and I headed to the entrance of the National Park itself. Well, not THE entrance to the park; that was closed due to damage from a cyclone earlier in the year. Another entrance to the park located approximately two miles from the visitor center. Lucky for us, all trace of rain had disappeared. In its place: sunshine. Unpredicted, unexpected, unrelenting sunshine. What was a rather warm day made slightly tolerable by overcast skies and drizzle was now a sauna. We walked along the main road of Pago Pago, stopping every so often to catch the rare whisper of a breeze. We reached a sign pointing across the road that said "park trail entrance," yet when we crossed the street, we found only a pile of branches next to an unfinished driveway and a laundromat. We popped in the latter to discover how lost we might be. The young lady working inside confirmed that the park entrance was right there... somewhere. And it was. After we climbed over a collapsed, rusted rail and quite a bit of deadfall, we did indeed find a trail of sorts. It was cluttered with rotting coconuts, ruts, and about a gazillion little black lizards. And it was steep. Very steep.

Needless to say, we didn't make it very far. The temperature was now in the mid-nineties, with a heat index well over one hundred. We were all quite sweaty, but I was truly drenched. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that I could have refilled all of our water bottles by ringing out my shirt.

Feeling defeated, we headed back down the trail, where we discovered what we'd missed on the way up - a rusted-out sign warning "Do Not Enter."

The day did have multiple victories. Carol and Linda got to check a park off their list. We got to experience first-hand the generosity of the Samoan people. We learned quite a bit about a territory we'd known very little about. And I discovered what I actually weigh wringing wet.

Our next port was Apia, Samoa, DAY 23, which could also be considered Day 24, as we crossed the International Date Line.

Bit of trivia. In 2011, Samoa changed its time zone from UTC (Universal Time Coordinated) - 11 to UTC +13 by shifting the date line to the west and removing December 30, 2011 from the calendar. They did this to facilitate trade with Australia and New Zealand. American Samoa, with more ties to the US, did not follow suit, thus it's a different day just 137 miles away, except for one hour - 11:00 pm to midnight UCT -11.

When our ship arrived in Apia, we were met by a joyous, choreographed traditional dance with of a cast of close to one-hundred. The forecast had called for rain, so many of us who might have been on deck were in our state rooms or finishing up breakfast in one of the dining rooms - but the sound of coming from the dock brought us all out.

The tears I found in my eyes may have been due to the celebratory dance done so exuberantly, or maybe it was surprise. As an American, I'm used to have locals look happier upon my departure than upon my arrival.

Later, while departing the port for a tour of the island, our guide told us that these performers, all volunteers, had been rehearsing for weeks. When asked what would have happened if it'd been pouring, - the predicted rain did not make an appearance - our guide assured us that they would have performed nonetheless. "Nothing could have stopped them from doing something so important."

Our first stop was to a lovely church with an altar and pulpit made of volcanic rock - perhaps meant as a visual reminder of both God's wrath and great mercy. Or maybe they were just making due with material that was at hand.

We next went to Falefa Falls. In order to reach the falls, we had to descend about sixty steps, eliciting groans from those realizing that meant a return trip up the stairs on what was becoming another hot, sticky day. The grounds surrounding the falls boasted a beautiful garden. It was here that, as I snapped pics of one bloom, then another, I realized that I often take multiple photos of flowers and churches. Most likely because there is a guarantee of it being, if not dramatic, at least pleasing to the eye. But this resulted coming home with dozens of pics that may be pretty to look at, but don't evoke a memory of when it was taken. "This is beautiful, Bill. Where was it taken?" "Ummm... It was taken... in a garden...? I think...? Somewhere...?"

I made a vow to take less photos of both flowers and churches.

A expansive, beautifully manicured lawn of a private home hosted our next stop, where we were treated to traditional Samoan food. It began with a demonstration of how coconuts were harvested. A young man (or so we thought, as he was both wiry and muscular - but he was in actuality our age) quickly climbed up the side of a tree, as one might climb a ladder, and hacked the coconuts down with a machete.

Our meal consisted of breadfruit, plantain, banana, pineapple, potato, and coconut milk. It was so delicious, I went back for seconds.

Our last stop was Fugalei Market, a large open-air market in Apia. One third of the market was produce for locals, one third was home goods and clothing, and the final third was for tchotchkes for tourists like us. Gary and I managed to escape without buying anything we didn't need.

Our last tropical port of the South Pacific was Suva, Fiji - DAY 25. The weather report was again calling for rain all day, and the fogged-in island that greeted us on our morning arrival promised just that.

Luckily for Gary and I, our excursion was a hike through a rainforest. A rainforest without the rain is like Disneyland without the Disney - just land. We came prepared for the weather with lightweight plastic ponchos that could be "worn in the hottest of weather." Notice the word "comfortably" does not appear on the advert. The plastic of the ponchos acted like tin foil wrapped around a potato - it made sure we were well-cooked.

Of course, it was worth if if it kept the rain off of us. The rain that started just as we arrived at Suva Forest and stopped just five minutes into our hour-long hike. In no time at all, the inside of our poncho held in more water than the outside kept out. It didn't take long for us to decide to peel the ponchos off.

The verdant path descended into a valley, a stream intermittently dissecting our path, forcing us to cross it. Once, while doing so, my "perfect for hiking on all kinds of surfaces" shoes I'd bought for just such an occasion proved to be completely unsuitable for wet rocks. I began to lose my footing, and as I felt gravity begin to take over, I knew I had a decision to make: Either fight it and end up flying backwards, possibly bashing my head against the sharp rocks jutting out of the water, or give in, knowing that scraped knees heal. Luckily, I didn't scrape my knee, as wounds can quickly fester in the tropics. I DID manage to splash those closest to me, but as the stream water was refreshingly cool, I think everyone I splashed was appreciative of my clumsiness.

The trail ended at a swimming hole fed by a waterfall. Those so inclined could strip down to their swim suits (preplanning was expected) and bathe in the exotic locale.

This was a risk I was not willing to take, and neither was Gary once I explained my reticence. (I won't go into details here - just Google "Katharine Hepburn," "Summertime," "Venice Canal," and "Life-long eye infection.")

After a fifteen minute respite next to the natural pool, we took the less-scenic but faster route back to our starting point. Along the way, we were met by a group of young men heading in the direction from which we came. Members of the Fiji boxing team, they were about to begin an afternoon of training which included running up and down the stairs we'd just climbed. They paused to say hello and pose for a few photos. When we arrived back at our bus we were treated to ice-cold water or Orange Crush. I found it rather peculiar that so many people were posing for photos with their water bottles until I realized that we'd been given Fiji-brand water. (Riding back on the bus, when I finally put two-and-two together, I quickly deleted the photo I'd taken of my can of Orange Crush, thinking maybe it was a latest trend I wasn't up on,)

Three days later, DAY 28, we made our first stop of our New Zealand itinerary: Bay of Islands.

We had been to New Zealand once before, and had visited all the scheduled ports except this one. If we return to New Zealand - and we would love to some day - we will definitely make sure that Bay of Islands is included in our plans.

The weather forecast once again called for rain on and off all day, and once again the weather gods smiled down upon us.

We first visited a very important historical site - the Waitangi Treaty Grounds. The Bay of Islands is not only beautiful, it was a perfect harbor for Dutch, Portuguese, French and English explorers to set up trading posts. A Dutch explorer was the first European to visit the area, which he erroneously believed to be Australia, Staten Land. Cartographers later changed the name to Nova Zeelandia, which Captain Cook later changed to New Zealand. With so many countries trying to colonize the area, the nations that made an agreement with the powerful Maori chiefs would come to dominate the area, and this gave the Maori powerful bargaining power.

The Waitangi Treaty, an 1840 Treaty between 43 Maori chiefs and the British Crown, provided protection for the Maoris to continue their way of life, living in New Zealand as Maoris, while granting The Crown the right to govern New Zealand. Unlike the United States abysmal record of honoring treaties with indigenous people, the Waitangi Treaty did as promised.

At the Treaty Grounds, we toured the restored home in which the treaty was signed. We also toured the outside of the Whare Runanga, a carved Maori meeting house built in 1940 to commemorate the centennial of the treaty's signing. A beautifully carved Maori canoe, or waka, was housed under a similarly carved open-air boat house.

We were given twenty minutes to stroll around the beautiful grounds that sloped towards the bay. I found myself furiously taking photos of the beautiful flora of the area, completely forgetting my pledge from three days earlier.

Our next stop was The Kerikeri Mission Station, established in 1819 by Maori chiefs who invited visitors to live among them. Aside from the beautiful grounds, the focal points of the station are the Stone Store, the oldest surviving commercial building in New Zealand, and the Mission House, which housed the first missionary to the area.

It was at the Mission House that I discovered that Samuel Marsden, a relative on my Grandma Watt's side, was responsible for building up trust between the missionaries and the Maoris. Not surprisingly, I resemblance between Grandma Watt and Reverend Marsden. From all accounts, he was an honorable man who respected the Maoris - a Christian in the true sense of the word.

Grandma Watt would have stood at the crest of the Mission Hill, martini in hand, and yelled, "Get off my lawn before I call the Red Coats!"

The rest of our time in Bay of Islands was spent exploring the square mile surrounding the cruise port. It was gorgeous, and, as you can see from the pics, a glorious day to enjoy the scenery.

Not a drop of rain in sight.

Next up - The rest of New Zealand.

As always, please forgive any and all typos/errors in grammar. This has been our first sea day in a week and a half, and I truly pushed to get this done before entering communist China's waters tomorrow.