The linoleum floor had peeled away like an orange skin, and his pamphlets included a stained and tattered copy of Life in Australia, published in 2007. Yes, Lotu smiled, he’d been to New Zealand. ‘I went there on 3 April, 2008.’ The date lit up his face. His first thought on seeing Auckland: ‘Wow.’ He was there for two years as a volunteer for the Mormon Church, knocking on doors from ten a.m. to nine p.m. in Henderson, Ōtara, Manurewa and Waterview. It was strange listening to him recite the names of unglamorous Auckland suburbs with real enthusiasm in his office in tropical Apia. He was so fervent. ‘I love New Zealand,’ he said. Why? He thought about it, smiled with even more enthusiasm, and said, ‘It’s the best for food, uh. I miss the Chinese takeaways. KFC! Oh, man.’
I left Lotu’s offices and headed for water. ‘I rest,’ Lealafia Tolai said. He was sitting by himself in a lovely green reserve by Apia’s sea wall. ‘On 13 September this year I am fifty-two. Is too old, uh.’ He had a heavily bandaged foot and was blind in one eye. He wore an All Blacks cap. ‘A souvenir from one of my uncles. He go New Zealand.’ He took it off and stroked it, loving his only possession. It was early in the morning. What was he going to do all day? He said, ‘I rest.’
Further along the sea wall I was apprehended by 20-year-old Asofa Suti. ‘Don’t miss this one chance,’ she nagged, over and over, as she harped on about the wonders of the Samoa Worship Centre Church. Her manner was sharper and more anxious than anyone I met in Samoa; in fact, she was an American Samoan.
She was with two 18-year-old girls from Apia, Hattesah Saseve Sellsin and Leala Kaisara, both born-again, both lovely and happy and round-figured. Asofa was thin-lipped, unsmiling, unhappy. ‘This is a bad place,’ she said. She meant Apia, with its beautiful harbour, its two or three sets of traffic lights, its boisterous nightclubs. ‘Drinking. Smoking.’ What else? Hattesah and Leala giggled but Asofa, pious and simmering beneath the coconut trees, ignored the question and opened her bible.
I had cause to remember her a few days later when I stopped and talked to Isaac Warren, 29, who was sweeping leaves from the mango tree in his front yard. His kids played at his feet. Their names – Benedict and Nelda Andronicus – were clues to his mania. ‘Right now I’m clean because I gave my life to Christ,’ he said. ‘I tell you, sir, it was either die or go to jail for me. I’m telling you this from my heart, uh. When I drink, I destroy everything. Very bad. Violent. I was working as bartender. I was in fight. An accident happen to me. I use sepalu.’ He put down his broom, picked up his bush knife, and swished it through the air. ‘Oh, man. I nearly am sent to jail. But my wife was telling me the good news, uh. And then I listen and have been saved for two years now. Do you know the Worship Centre Church?’
The biggest news story of the week was the appearance of anonymous pamphlets, billboards and newspaper ads stating that the Second Coming was just around the corner. The end, yet again, was nigh. Or, as the front page of The Sunday Samoan put it: HOW WORLD WILL END?
The exact date being put about was May 21, 2011. The alarmist was apparently Christian fanatic Harold Camping, 89, of Colorado. Camping’s prophecy was the subject of sermons throughout Samoa. Ministers sought to soothe their anxious congregations. I went to hear Reverend Nu’uausala Siaosi Si’utaia at the downtown Apia Protestant Church. He called his sermon ‘Resurrection of the Dead’. He advised against panic. He called for reason. He said there was work to do. Last Sunday the church had collected $2,026; today’s target was $3,300.
How did parishioners afford to give as much as a tālā? When I ambled into the waiting room in the prime minister’s department I met Sina Setefano, 49, and Grete Purcell, 21. The two women had been at a job interview. The position was for a cashier. It paid an annual salary of 7,000 tālā. ‘I wish, I wish I get the job,’ said the voluptuous Grete. ‘I live in village in the east. We lose eight people in the tsunami. My nephew. Only three. So sad.’ A panel of three government officials had conducted the interview. How did she think she had got on? She said, ‘Ahhhh! I was panic.’
Sina, the older woman, who lived on Savai’i, was calm, mature, sad. I asked about her New Zealand accent. She said her parents had sent her to Lower Hutt when she was ten, and she had been adopted by a Presbyterian minister and his wife. ‘I miss New Zealand. I call it my home.’ She talked with real feeling about Panmure.
What was she doing back in Samoa? ‘I left my husband. He had an affair with a girl in Wellington. I couldn’t have children. But I came back because my mum was sick. I look after her. Poor Mum! But it’s hard for me to live the village life,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult. Very difficult.’ What did she do all day? ‘Good question. Well, I get up at six a.m. and cook breakfast for Mum. We have an electric oven, but the power bills are too high so I chop firewood and burn leaves to cook. Then I do the washing and…’ She patted her hair. ‘There are a lot of unpaid hours in a day.’
The prime minister’s department was an assortment of cracked wooden desks and antique computers, and the paintwork was chipped and smudged. I followed the women downstairs. It was lunchtime and they were partial to the pineapple pies on
