Secret Royalty On Tour

I have travelled a lot, mostly alone. This means I have become fluent in the particular language of solo navigation; there is always a second and sometimes third question so I don’t get stuck where the sun don’t shine, with no get out of jail card up my sleeve. 

This trip is different. This trip I have brought the Latino.

Samoa greeted us with The Smile. It is wide, it is warm, it is technically flawless, and it lands somewhere just past your left ear. It is the smile of someone who has heard your question, has processed that answering it would require effort, and has decided that a magnificent smile is an acceptable substitute for information.

It was Sunday so we wanted to go to church.

This felt like a reasonable ambition in what is, by every account, one of the most devout nations on earth. Sunday in Samoa is sacred in a way that is not metaphorical. Villages go quiet. Roads carry an expectant hush. The air itself seems to be listening for hymns. We’d been briefed on this: don’t expect much on a Sunday.

We asked at the desk. What time is the church service? Nine, she said, and smiled. We had heard there were services throughout the day. Oh yes, she said. Also two-thirty, or three. Which one, we asked. Two-thirty we think, she said. She smiled. The smile suggested she had done her part.

Could we get a lift? No. Could we call a cab? Yes. Could she call the cab?

The pause that followed was not a thinking pause. It was the pause of someone calculating the precise minimum of effort that would satisfy the social contract. Then she smiled, and reached for the phone, and we waited, and eventually a cab arrived, and we climbed in with the bright optimism of people who have not yet understood where they are.

The church was empty. Desolate in fact,  in the particular way of a building that has not been occupied for several hours and does not expect to be. The driver seemed untroubled by this and had plans to leave us there (in the rain I might add)  and speed off with the agreed fare. Another church? Sure. We went to three. A full trifecta, each standing with the kind of stoic dignity that suggested they had not been consulted about our itinerary and had no strong feelings either way.

The Latino was not finding this funny exactly. He was doing the thing he does, which is staying steady while watching me carefully for signs I am about to tip from amused into genuinely annoyed. Travelling alone I would have had no one to not-laugh with. I actually found that I loved not-laughing with him – to the point that it became funny.

We landed back at the resort. There was a new smiling person at reception. No church. Oh it’s at four he said.

We have six more days.