We left American Samoa and headed for independent Samoa. The distance between Pago Pago on Tutuila and Apia on Upolu is only around eighty to ninety nautical miles, so after all the long passages we had already done, this one should have been almost routine — little more than half a day at sea.
The only complication was that the International Date Line runs between the two Samoas.
In 2011, Samoa moved to the western side of the date line in order to align itself more closely with Australia and New Zealand, while American Samoa remained on the eastern side. As a result, at the time of our trip there was a full 24-hour difference between the two places. Geographically, they are almost neighbors. On the calendar, they are a whole day apart.
We left in the evening. We spent only about fifteen hours at sea, but we departed on Monday and arrived on Wednesday.
Tuesday simply disappeared.
We reached Upolu in the morning and entered the marina near Apia shortly before noon. Before going ashore, we contacted immigration and customs and waited for the officials to come aboard, inspect the boat and issue the necessary permits.
Among them was one younger customs officer, probably in his early twenties, who moved around the boat with the confidence of someone who had just bought half the yacht.
At one point he disappeared into the cabin and discovered a box full of Damjan’s snacks. Not only did he find it, he opened Damjan’s favorite bag of chips and started eating.
A few minutes later he came back on deck, still holding the bag, and announced that the chips were very good.
Damjan looked at him.
“Yes, yes. Help yourself.”
The irony did not seem to register.
After the chips, the man got thirsty and asked if we had anything to drink. I told him there was Coca-Cola in the fridge. Damjan had not heard that part of the conversation, so when he saw the customs officer confidently opening our refrigerator, he became genuinely worried that after the chips he might also eat his sandwich.
In the end, entry into Samoa cost us a very reasonable price: one bag of chips and two Coca-Colas.
We got the paperwork and were finally free to go ashore.
Near the exit from the marina I met an older American, short and clearly furious. He asked whether immigration had just left our boat.
I said yes.
He muttered something, then repeated more loudly:
“They took my shotgun. They took my fucking shotgun. What am I going to do without my shotgun?”
I did not have a particularly useful answer.
I simply thought it was probably best to let the man deal with his own tragedy and moved on.
Later we discovered that he was not the only unhappy sailor. We met several crews in the marina whom we already knew from earlier stages of the voyage, including Stuart and Natalie from Australia, who had been sailing for years with their children aboard Neverland, as well as an American named Dennis and his wife.
Everyone had some story about customs. Something had been taken from one boat, something else from another, and the biggest drama naturally revolved around the American shotgun.
In the end we all agreed that there was little point in making too much trouble. In our case the damage amounted to a bag of chips and a couple of drinks, which seemed fairly minor compared with the man who had lost his beloved firearm.
We spent the rest of the day exploring Apia.
The difference from Pago Pago was obvious almost immediately. Tutuila and Upolu are only a few hours apart by boat and belong to the same wider Samoan cultural world, yet the two places felt completely different. Pago Pago was full of American influence — pickup trucks, shops, prefabricated houses, McDonald’s. Apia had a very different atmosphere. The architecture, the people, the streets and the general rhythm of the place felt much closer to the Polynesia we had expected.
That contrast makes more sense when you look at the history.
By the end of the nineteenth century, the Samoan archipelago had become the object of rivalry between Germany, the United States and Britain. In 1899, the islands were effectively divided without much concern for what the Samoans themselves wanted. The United States took the eastern islands, including Tutuila and the strategic harbor of Pago Pago, while Upolu, Savaiʻi and the western islands came under German control.
German rule lasted until the beginning of the First World War, when New Zealand occupied Samoa in 1914 with almost no resistance. New Zealand then administered the islands until 1962. That period left painful memories, including the devastating influenza epidemic of 1918, which killed a huge proportion of the population, and the rise of the Mau movement, a major Samoan campaign for independence.
On 1 January 1962, Samoa became the first Pacific island nation in the modern era to regain its independence.
Perhaps that is why the contrast with American Samoa is so interesting. One side of the same archipelago remained an American territory, while the other became an independent state after decades of colonial rule, resistance and political struggle.
The next day we did some shopping and then headed toward Vailima, the former home of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Like most people, I had first known Stevenson through Treasure Island, Kidnapped and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. What I had known much less about was the fact that he spent the final years of his life in Samoa.
The Scottish writer left Europe in the late 1880s, partly because of his poor health, and spent several years travelling across the Pacific. He eventually became so attached to Samoa that he built a house at Vailima, above Apia, and lived there with his family for the last years of his life.
The Samoans called him Tusitala, meaning “teller of tales” or “storyteller.”
He did not live there as a detached European observer. Stevenson became deeply interested in local politics and openly criticized the way the colonial powers were treating the Samoan people. He developed close relationships with local chiefs and involved himself in political disputes to a degree that occasionally caused trouble with European officials.
His house is now a museum. We took the full guided tour, saw the rooms, photographs, personal belongings and the places where he worked, and then spent some time exploring the grounds on our own.
Stevenson died in 1894 at only forty-four years old. He was buried on the summit of Mount Vaea, above his home. A trail through the forest leads to his grave, which still looks down over the landscape he chose as his final home.
Afterwards we returned to town and that evening even went to the cinema.
That turned out to be an experience in itself. The cinema looked as if someone back home had locked the doors sometime in the 1980s and reopened them especially for our arrival. Compared with the modern multiplexes we were used to, everything felt old-fashioned, but that was exactly what made it enjoyable.
The following day we decided to rent a car and make a complete circuit of Upolu.
We found a small rental company and took the smallest and cheapest car they had. That was when they explained that we were supposed to buy a temporary local driving permit.
Samoa had switched to driving on the left side of the road a few years earlier, so everything was the opposite of what we were used to.
The whole permit system sounded fairly amusing to us: if we paid extra for a piece of paper, apparently we knew how to drive on the left. If we did not pay, apparently we did not.
We decided that we knew how to drive without the paper.
The woman at the rental company even gave us a backup explanation in case the police stopped us: we should say that she had temporarily run out of the forms needed to issue the permit.
It sounded like a solid plan.
So we set off around the island.
Upolu is not a huge island, but it is incredibly green. As soon as you leave Apia, the road passes through small villages, plantations and dense tropical vegetation, while the interior is full of rivers, ravines and waterfalls. In the course of a single day you can move from the urban surroundings of Apia through the mountainous interior and all the way to the tropical southern coast.
One of our stops was Fuipisia Falls, a waterfall around fifty-five metres high, dropping from a green cliff into the valley below. The upper river looks almost harmless before it reaches the edge.
That was where we met two local boys.
They were playing in the water practically on the lip of the waterfall.
While I was carefully watching where I placed my feet and thinking about how slippery the rocks were, the two of them were walking barefoot through the stream as if they were playing in a village creek.
They were also reaching between the rocks and catching small freshwater prawns.
One would pull something out of the water and proudly show it off, then immediately go back to searching for another.
Below them was a drop of roughly fifty metres.
They could not have cared less.
Completely normal afternoon.
I found the whole scene much more stressful than they did, but after a while I realized that the only person worrying about their safety clearly was not their parent.
We continued toward one of Upolu’s most famous natural attractions, To-Sua Ocean Trench, near Lotofaga.
The name To-Sua roughly means “big swimming hole” in Samoan, which is a fairly accurate description. In front of you opens a deep, almost perfectly round green sinkhole, around thirty metres down, with dark blue seawater at the bottom. The pool is connected to the open ocean through underground passages.
In photographs it looks idyllic.
Then you see the ladder.
To reach the water, you have to descend a long wooden ladder that drops almost vertically down the side of the trench to a small platform. Everything is damp, the wood is slippery, and there is almost nothing resembling a serious safety barrier.
In Europe, this place would probably be classified as a major accident black spot, surrounded by several layers of railings, twenty warning signs and someone making you sign a form confirming that you understand ladders are dangerous.
Here the system is simpler.
The water is down there.
The ladder is here.
Good luck.
Naturally, we went down.
I held onto the rungs as if my life depended on it, which was probably not entirely an exaggeration. Once you reach the platform at the bottom, however, the entire climb becomes worth it. Green walls covered with tropical vegetation rise above you, while below is deep, clear seawater connected to the ocean.
It is one of those places that photographs never quite manage to reproduce the way it feels when you are standing inside it.
Along the southern side of the island we visited several other waterfalls and viewpoints. Upolu is full of them.
Sopoʻaga Falls drops through a dense tropical valley and is best seen from a viewpoint across the gorge. Papapapaitai Falls, around a hundred metres high, disappears into a deep green ravine. Togitogiga Falls is completely different — lower, easier to reach, and surrounded by natural pools where people can swim.
We also stopped at the Savaia Giant Clam Sanctuary, a protected section of lagoon where enormous giant clams are grown and preserved. You swim out from the shore through shallow water, and only when you get close do you realize how strange these animals really are.
Some have mantles glowing in green, blue and purple shades and look almost more like living coral than shellfish.
More or less.
By the end of the day we had made almost a full circuit of Upolu and seen just how much the island changes over a relatively short distance — Apia, mountains, jungle, villages, waterfalls, black volcanic rock, white beaches and lagoons.
Toward evening we started driving back.
Naturally, that was when the police stopped us.
The officer asked for our documents.
We handed over everything we had.
Then he asked for the temporary driving permit we had decided we did not really need.
I explained that the woman at the rental company had run out of the forms.
Judging by his expression, I was clearly not the first tourist to tell him exactly that story.
He was not rude. Quite the opposite.
He calmly explained that he understood we were tourists and that his country wanted visitors to feel welcome, but that being tourists was not a reason to ignore local rules. If we came to his country, we were expected to respect its laws.
Then the lecture began.
At some point Damjan, instead of supporting me, practically joined the policeman.
So now I had one on my left and one on my right.
The lecture lasted almost forty minutes.
My contribution to the conversation was reduced to:
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I will not do it again, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Over and over again.
In the end he let us go without a fine, but with a very clear request that we not repeat it.
We returned to the marina with one useful lesson:
Apparently the local permit was not just a tourist tax after all.
Over the following days we spent more time with our neighbors in the marina and slowly began planning the next leg of the voyage.
One thing we also noticed in Samoa was the custom known as Sa, which probably shows better than anything else how Christianity and traditional fa’a Samoa have merged into everyday life.
Toward evening, a gong, church bell or another signal sounds in the villages and for ten or twenty minutes life almost comes to a halt. Families gather for evening prayer, and people passing through are expected not to walk around the village or make unnecessary noise.
After another signal, normal life resumes.
Sa is not some modern curfew. The word itself carries the meaning of something sacred or forbidden, and the custom is part of the broader Samoan social system in which family, village and community play a central role.
When Christian missionaries began transforming religious life in Samoa during the nineteenth century, Christianity was largely absorbed into existing village structures rather than simply replacing them. That is one reason why Christian practice and fa’a Samoa remain so closely intertwined today.
What I found most interesting was the suddenness of it.
The gong sounds, and within minutes an entire village becomes quiet.
Then another signal comes, and life simply continues.
As if someone briefly pressed pause.
After several days in Apia, we began talking seriously about the next destination.
Ahead of us was the Kingdom of Tonga, and the plan was to head toward Niuatoputapu, one of the remote islands in the northern part of the archipelago.
Several boats in the marina were heading in the same direction, so we agreed to leave at roughly the same time. Some boats were faster, some slower, and we were among the slower ones, so we decided to leave a little earlier in the hope that we would all arrive at approximately the same time.
In just a few days, Upolu had shown us far more than the postcard version of Samoa. Behind the waterfalls, beaches and lagoons was an island with a powerful sense of identity, a history shaped by German and New Zealand rule, traditional Samoan social structures that survived all those changes, and people who had somehow managed to turn all of it into something still unmistakably their own.
Samoa.
We prepared the boat and set off toward the northern islands of the Kingdom of Tonga.