All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [33]
I hear the Samoan man on the beach call out, and flinch. I glance at the water, but Samoans are strong swimmers, so I whirl back toward the hotel. He calls, I don’t know what he’s saying, and then I see a little girl run out of the bushes and catch up to him. The man scoops her up, puts her on his shoulders, and continues walking. They pass me. “Talofa,” I say softly, eyes looking down.
“Talofa,” he replies, and his little daughter waves with a big, bright smile.
IN THE MORNING, in the moist heat, I throw on a lavalava and make my way over to the big house for breakfast, sitting at a table on a wooden porch with a view of the sea. I’m amazed that the waiter, Rinaldo, brings me a good cappuccino and that he’s half Italian. Here, out on a remote Samoan island, I’ve found Italian coffee to drink with a view of the most beautiful beach, waves breaking on the coral reef a quarter mile out.
After breakfast, Rinaldo brings out a map of the island and shows me some places to go. I take off in the old Toyota I’ve rented, my ultimate destination the village where the principal said Tara, the fa’afafine, lives. I circle the island, stopping where Rinaldo suggested—caves, a canopy walk over a forest of ferns and banyan trees, blowholes spraying in the lava rock. I follow the map to the village of Safolava and find Tara’s parents’ open-air house, where pigs graze in the front yard. Inside, her mother weaves straw mats on the floor. No one speaks any English; when I say the name “Tara,” her niece starts giggling. “Auntie,” she says.
Tara wanders in, wearing a lavalava and a white shirt that any man might wear. Gentle and intelligent, she has short hair and a quiet femininity. She asks if we can meet tomorrow, if I could come talk to her students in English; then we can go out with another fa’afafine, a friend who lives on a plantation.
On the way back, I make one last stop at the Satuita Falls. I climb the narrow, steep trail, picking my way over rocks, until I hear and then see breathtaking jungle falls, Tarzan falls, a hypnotic gush of water crashing down from the high rain forest into a peaceful pool carved deep into the rock. The water is so clear light blue it’s possible to see all the way to the bottom, and the bottom is a long way down. I dive in for a swim, dry myself with my sarong, and think that so far this has been one of the best days ever, this is why I love to travel.
THE NEXT DAY I put on a dress, pack my beach things, and drive to Tara’s school. About thirty kids are out on recess in the sunny school-yard garden, exuberant with candy-striped plumeria, white ginger, and catwhisker flowers. Shy at first, the braver boys ask me to take their pictures; then they all surround me, smiling and waving. Tara walks across the yard, and the children come to order. “Thanks for coming,” she says, looking me up and down. “I love your dress.”
In the open-air classroom, Tara introduces me as a friend visiting from America and tells the children to ask me questions in English. They raise their hands and, as best they can, ask where I’m from, if I have brothers and sisters, and how I like Samoa. Tara points to the map of the world to show them where San Francisco is, and they can’t imagine anything that far away; most of them have never been off the island. I talk about buildings as high as a waterfall and subways that run in tunnels underground and a tall golden bridge that serves as a big gate to the bay that surrounds the city. The kids ask where my husband and children are and are more confused when I say I don’t have any than they are about the subways and bridges.
“Auntie,” one little boy says, and the boy next to him giggles. The word spreads through the room, and all the kids are covering their mouths to