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ROYAL WELCOME IN SAMOA
by
Jack Goldfarb
Samoa, that tiny paradise island in the South Pacific, has always meant Robert Louis Stevenson to me.
Here the celebrated 19th Century Scottish author ( Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Treasure Island, Kidnapped), after years of wandering through Europe and America with his family, settled down in a sprawling mansion house at the foot of Mt. Vaea, Samoa's highest mountain.. In accordance with his oft-stated wish., when Stevenson died of a stroke in 1894, he was buried atop this peak. But it wasn't easy to take him up there. No road existed through the thick jungled terrain. Scores of Samoan friends had to toil arduously through an entire night to hack a path to the summit where their beloved Tusitala (“Story Teller”) was laid to rest..
My trip to Samoa was mainly a pilgrimage to visit Stevenson's gravesite. My wife, Simone, and my 11 year-old son, Adam were eager to come along. I asked the receptionist at our hotel in Apia, how much of a climb it was to the mountain top. “About forty-five mee-tis,” she replied in a soft Polynesian accent. It sounded like “forty-five meters.” Only much later did I realize she had meant “forty-five minutes.”Tom, our chatty and solicitous taxi driver, ferried us to the base of the mountain and promised to wait no matter how long it took for our expedition. (Waiting time: 15 talas an hour).
Simone, Adam and I began clambering up the steep slope, picking our way through dense tropical foliage. Tree ferns, giant hardwood trees, tangled vines. Scant signs of any track. Doused in sweat, I soon peeled off my sport shirt
In a slow file we struggled, then almost crawled, upward. Finally, breaching through clumps of shrubbery and bushes we came alongside the concrete plinth of Stevenson's stark white tomb. 
On a weathered bronze plaque read the eloquent words of his Requiem:
On a weathered bronze plaque read the eloquent words of his Requiem: “…Here he lies where he longed to be
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill. “
The descent from the mountaintop was a comparatively easy jaunt. Except for a few slips, luckily with just a few scrapes, we made the 15-minute hike down in fast-forward mode.
Tom, the taximan, was waiting for us with a wide smile. Delighted when we told him we had made it to the top, he had a suggestion, “Now, would you like to see the house of Mr. Stevenson?”
I had been told it was closed to the public, it now being the residence of the King of Samoa (whose official title was “Head of State”). “Of course,” we chorused.
Tom drove toward the outer boundary of the grounds of the distant white mansion. . The guard at the perimeter entrance turned out to be Tom's nephew and we were waved through. Suddenly Tom braked the car to a halt.
“There's the King and Queen,” he blurted, nodding reverently. Somewhat awestruck, we stared at the two tall, gray-headed personages in Samoan dress, standing on the lawn. Having never been introduced to royalty before, I decided to do the honor myself. Our state of attire was bedraggled to say the least: Simone's reddish hair disheveled, her pink dress straps askew; Adam in a sassy-worded T-shirt and sawed-off denim shorts; and me, in a sweat-drenched state of scruffiness presented a grungy trio of trespassers.
I bounded across the grass, trailed reluctantly by Simone and Adam.
“Good morning, your Highness,” I grinned. “My name is Jack Goldfarb…I'm a writer from New York…I just wanted to say Hello to you…” I introduced the hesitant Simone and Adam. Tom had prudently remained in the taxi, disassociating himself from the brash papalagi foreigners. But His Highness and Her Highness responded graciously with warm smiles and polite handshakes. After a few moments of strained small talk, His Highness invited us to come inside and join them for tea.
HIGHNESS HEAD OF STATE
SUSUGA MALIETOA TANUMAFILI II
The royal couple, Susuga Malietoa Tunamafili II and Masiofo Lili Malietoa, led the way upstairs to a second floor lounge. In the spacious room, the wide open windows did little to dispel the sultry air. Stripping off his well-tailored jacket, and perching on a simple chair in his cuff-linked white shirt and dark lavalava male skirt, His Highness immediately put us at ease with his informal friendly manner. Her Highness, robed in an ankle-length, lemon-colored puletasi, settled on a sofa. The red-cummerbunded, barefoot butlers were instructed to bring tea and sandwiches. “And for you, young man, said the King to Adam, “we have chocolate cake.” Her Highness offered Simone a fragrant yellow frangipani flower for her hair, while she fastened a matching one behind her own ear.
Seated on the plush red divans, sipping tea out of Noritake china cups, we listened to His highness tell amusing stories about himself. A relaxed, informal ruler accustomed to the open Samoan society, he related how he was so often “overprotected” by armed security guards when he traveled abroad. Attending the Los Angeles Olympics, for instance, he was so exasperated by bodyguards that he retreated to his hotel room to watch the events on television. But that didn't stop the dozen security agents camped in the corridor from pounding on his door regularly to check on his well-being. He told of sending his eldest son abroad for a Western education . “After years of schooling in New Zealand and Australia,” His Highness chuckled, “the boy returned home half a kiwi, half a kangaroo.”
The room we were sitting in had been Robert Louis Stevenson's lounge. The antiquated writing table and faded photographs of the Stevenson family posed with their loyal Samoan servants preserved the author's presence here.
As Adam was relishing the last of his chocolate cake and Simone had finished exchanging orange marmalade recipes with the Queen, we brought our visit to a close. We took leave of our hosts, thanking them again for their spontaneous hospitality. The King asked us to please come again “whenever you are in Samoa.”
On the way out we looked in on the great Dining Hall downstairs, where Stevenson had often entertained dozens of guests around an enormous table. I imagined the scene: surrounded by family, devoted Samoan friends and loyal servants, tall, gaunt Robert Louis Stevenson stood there intoning one of his self-composed prayers before the meal began.
As we emerged from the house a husky Samoan policeman in blue cap and starched white skirt strode briskly up to me. “Are you a detective from New York ?” he asked. Bewildered and wary, but encouraged by his smile, I answered simply that I was from New York. A puzzled look crossed his face.
Back in the taxi, Tom provided an explanation: when we had been seen going into the official residence with the King and Queen, the single policeman on duty nearby had not acted quickly enough to check up on us. He quickly went to Tom and questioned him anxiously: `Who were these people who had gone inside?'
“I told him not to worry,” Tom boasted. “I said you were a detective from New York - and also an agent
for Scotland Yard.”
I winced. Even Robert Louis Stevenson with his fertile imagination wouldn't have thought of that one.
*Jack Goldfarb has been writing about travel for over 30 years. He has lived in Europe and the Middle East and has visited about 110 countries.
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