SIDELIGHTS OF SAMOA

Auckland Star, Volume LIII, Issue 78, 1 April 1922, Page 17

SIDELIGHTS OF SAMOA

ISLES OF PERFUMED EASE. IBy Ti: TANA j The Mc- oi Perfumed Ease arc svithin live day.-' steam of New Zealand. On the sixth, the t-eventh, the fourteenth day you arc >till in the midst of them. Low islands, J112.11 inlands, and atolls; there they arc, tiie fairy lands of our childhood, the lotus lands of the poet, and the mo>t fascinating sights of any ocean, the most wonderful and at the same time :-imple of Nature's works. They elude portrayal by pen or film or brush. No mind van grasp their symmetry or _race. or seize more than a fragment cf their alluring form or hint of their admirable colours. Ravishing r-crncs from a beat deck and marvels ot construction and hue, when on them they arc southing bits of Paradise weighed down with perfumed air, the very breathing of which, sweet, charming, subtle, makes a man's soul tranquil and at peace with /.he world. Circles, ovals, horse slues, rocky bastioned peaks, they arc 'essentially the 1.-a me—-man-grove-fringed lagoon, reef, palms, hills, and crystal vicar water tumbling in warm torrents. On the mountain tops beneath the water the coral insect buiit up the atolls and the "low" islands until they stand in their wondrous shapes splendid examples of Nature's selfarrested labours, structures of unbelievable brilliancy. The true volcanic islands, those of hill and valley or scarred rocky walls. nave fought a ceaseless war against the sea Irom the time of dead and gone age?, fought and won.

A dreamy, white little town is Apia, in Samoa, its bungalows straggling along the dusty coral "beach" and its palms fluttering in gentle trade winds. A river—the Yuisigano —meanders along. It is used a? a common wash-house, and the Samoans sing songs about it. On the reef in front of the town are all the beauties of a marine garden. Turtles laze on the surface and white-sailed canoes Hit about in the sun glare like moths in a radiance of flame. The blue waters creeping up to tiie tiny jetties are warm and limpid, and tiie souls of the natives are in harm my. The vivid green of -.he palm-covered slopes, splashes of colour from brilliant flowering shrubs, blazing sunlight and deep nooks of shade makes the little tropical town rival a gorgeous stage setting. But much of the romance associated with Apia has gone into the limbo of things. Gone are the soft-eyed singing girls of Stevenson's lime, and in their place the maiden of the country swaggers along the "beach" in the latest of Auckland or Sydney dress creations. You could search the town from end to end these days and not find a single runaway sailor, "black-birder" or'•beachcomber.'' Pearl oysters on the reef are a myth and there is more gin in Ashburton than in Apia. Policemen with brown faces and quaint uniforms patrol the shady places with all the stolidity of our own men on the beat. Still there is a dash of garish colour in the streets. The lava-lava clad Samoans as they saunter through the town command attention by their splendid physique. They are in striking contrast with the under-sized Chinese coolies, who seem to predominate. Europeans in starched white drills drift idly about fanning away the swarms of pestering flies and seeking cool liquid refreshment. The oniy relic of the bad old days is the remnant of the German gunboat Adler, tossed on the reef by the hurricane which gave Westport coal such an advertisement in saving the Calliope during the blow. Truly the sunshine is there; the scarlet hibiscus still blooms, but the frangipanni perfume is being overwhelmed by the smell of benzine from motor cars. Even the casual tourist in his nicely creased white drills is but a shade of his former self. In his stead come elderly spinsters wearing hornrimmed glasses, and old bald-headed men who curse the heat and mosquitoes at nights while simmering in the humidity. Modern Apia is as unroinantie as a wash-tub.

When the mixed civilisation of Apia palls, the island of Tutuila offers I solace- The United .States of America I controls the tiny territory-, and in Pago fago, the finest harbour in the South Seas, the Stars and Stripes flutter over a naval station. Imagine sailing an | ocean liner right into the cleft side of an j extinct volcano; sailing her in on a line ! tangent to the rim of the old crater,! and once inside being able to navigate ! all round the basin, a lagoon, sheltered from wind and wave completely. Those | tales of pirate rendezvous and smuggler's neat retreats or submarine bases , on unfrequented coasts all pale into hon- ' ourable insignificance beside this snugslip into which great liners may disappear without a trace. It was necessary that the land supporting a mighty extinct volcano sink below its -altitude in active archaic days, and before doing so that a stupendous explosion had riven a narrow sector from one side of the cup. Then ages must have filed by in silence! Tutuila, in the Samoan group, is the site of just such an aeon old geological transformation: its crater harbour is Pago Pago, a sparkling gem in a South Sea setting. As you steam slowly in, swinging all the time the waters around churn up blue aud white; sea birds scream and flutt-er between you and the dense green foliage wherein land birds echo their noise; castles ot' rock pile skywards, soaring tower above tower, and battlement over rocky bastions, flying fish scuttle hurriedly aside; naked Samoans in tiny outrigger canoes meet you in flotillas. Once within, lovelier cocoanut palms, bread fruit trees, titanic green bowl brimming with tropical luxuriance, never met your eye. ißanana plants, competing, shouldering, crowding everywhere. Tiny native huts peep primitively from under the fringing trees of the shore—there shows forth a red and white mission house, yonder another. The efficient looking wharf comes into view with white clad natal officers eagerly walking the water's edge., and groups of all but unclad gazing dumb, wondering admiration- The mid-day tropic heat cannot overcome that impatient anticipation of every islander in tiie settlement : men and women and children, t«hev are all down here for steamer day.

Orange trees are everywhere, in plantations, lining the village streets, and in hidden nooks which overlook the blue sweep of the Pacific surges. The natives live on love and oranges. Tbe people rlirt anc". makes eyes and eat the citrons, and are happy.* The whols country seems to be an orange grove, and the island is littered with peel. The short is covered with freshly-fallen fruit. If the perfumed ease of the tropics has you iv its grip and you are 100 weary to stoop, you can pluck your (■ranges from overhead. And all day the sunshine flashes golden, and a gentle trade wind hums its song in the palm tops. Pago Pago, I stand with my hat in mv hand to thee- . ,