Church, on island time
The sparkling turquoise waters of the Pacific is the drawcard of Samoa. In the pristine bays of Upolu (the small island) and Savai’i (the big island) travellers can swim amongst sea turtles, spy giant clams and frolic with schools of painted fish. Onshore, beachside villages offer relaxation and seclusion, with stretches of pure white sand and palm trees leaning against azure skies. Family owned fales (wooden huts) are idyllic abodes and are dotted throughout the archipelago. Meanwhile, in the mountainous interior, Samoa is drenched in luscious foliage. The impenetrable tropical rainforests cover ancient volcanic craters and host roaring waterfalls and an abundance of insects. In the rainy season, clouds blanket the forest canopies, blurring the line between the earth and the ethereal. The evening skies in Samoa are, ‘like a storm of light over a black depthless sea,’ according to Theroux, who even in Africa had never seen ‘such a profusion of stars.’
Asau Bay, on Samoa’s big island of Savai’i
Theroux arrived in Samoa on a Sunday, a ‘day of obstacles,’ at least for a traveller, when public transport ceases, stores close, and tourism pauses. On a Sunday in Samoa, there is only one place where the crowds assemble, where families gather, and where you can immerse yourself in the culture. On a Sunday in Samoa, you go to church.
In the village of Manase, I wake to the gentle caress of waves breaking on the shoreline. They lap softly against the sand, leaving shell fragments and pebbles in their wake. The morning sun breaks behind brooding storm clouds, as it slowly illuminates the enormous blue sky. Inside the fale, there is no escape from the elements, and a gentle breeze blows through the shack as the world outside brightens. After a dip in the ocean, and a breakfast of pancakes drizzled with honey, I set off to find a church. From Manase I drive south, past the Lava Fields of Sale’aula and across the Maliolio River. The road traverses the coastline, veers inland, then moves back towards the coast. Along the way the storm clouds unleash. Aboard a motorbike there is no protection from the elements, and the raindrops feel like a thousand needles being fired from above. They spray my body and pepper my helmet, rat-a-tat-a-tat. Within minutes my shirt is soaked through. Fortunately, the assault is short lived. The sun reemerges, breaking through and then dispersing the rainclouds. It is an ongoing tussle between the elements that will last throughout the morning.
Storm clouds over Manase
I soon arrive in the village of Pu’apu’a and spy a congregation gathered at the front of a church. There are men and boys wearing white shirts, black ties and lavalava, the traditional dress of Polynesian men. The women and girls strike a contrast in their brightly coloured dresses, decorated with floral insignia. A group of boys welcome me at the entrance, all of them shaking my hand as I walk in. Overhead, the sun brightens, shining down on the pointed spire atop the building. Like the rest of the building, it is pure white, washed clean from the heavenly downpour. A sign on the front of the building reads ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Visitors Welcome.’
The Mormons first arrived in Samoa in the late 19th century and spread rapidly throughout the islands of Polynesia. Their numbers and influence grew throughout the decades as they built temples, schools, and had their scripture translated into local language. Today, the LDS church claims that 40% of Samoans are adherents to the faith, while official census data estimates 15 – 20%.
Inside the temple, I sit on a pew at the back, wanting only to be an observer. The interior of the hall is as clean as the outside, and in keeping with the austere nature of Mormons, is all white except for some wooden panelling around the pulpit. In the minutes before the service begins, children are restless and stray dogs wander through the hall. The children twist and turn in their seats and wander in the aisles. They are shooshed by their elder siblings or parents and urged to remain seated. The dogs are shooed outside, cowering at the threat of a raised hand.
Sunday morning at the LDS church in Pu’apu’a, Samoa
The Mormons are a punctual lot, and the trait has survived even in Polynesia. At precisely 9:00am the opening notes from an electronic keyboard echo throughout the hall. A rotund man moves to the pulpit and after the musical prelude, delivers the first sermon of the morning. His opening remarks are followed by another tune on the keyboard and the first hymn of the morning. A young girl stands at the front, hymn book in her left hand as leads the congregation in song. Her right hand is waiving aimlessly, in vague, undefined and uncertain directions. Her imitation of a conductor is endearing, yet at the same time completely pointless. Polynesians need no direction in song. Singing is the essence of these islands. It’s what makes their soul fly, their spirits soar, their hearts warm. The Polynesian affinity for song is perhaps part of the reason that Christianity, in its many forms, melded itself so well throughout the Pacific Islands.
Distribution of the eucharist, Pu’apu’a, Samoa
As the hour long service progresses, the cycle of sermon and song repeats many times. My attention drifts and my enthusiasm wanes, and I am not alone. The children continue to squirm in their seats and wander the aisles. One young rogue is fascinated by a balloon that he continuously bounces into the air and off the top of the pews, much to the frustration of his father. Meanwhile, the attention of others is diverted to their phones as they consume modern day scriptures on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok. When the session concludes, at the stroke of 10:00 o’clock, the women corral the children to adjoining classrooms and the men stay seated inside the hall.
Those who remain span several generations, from teenage boys to village chiefs and greying elders. A man with a comically long tie and rolled up magazine in his hand paces the aisle. He speaks off the cuff, and without pause, for nearly half an hour. His speech is peppered with jokes, strategically placed pauses, and rhetorical questions. His ability to speak for so long, and without notes, is impressive. However, the longer he speaks, the less it resonates as a philosophy for the good life, and the more it sounds like a headmaster lecturing students in detention. Again, my attention drifts, as it does for many of the men who are again scrolling their phones or staring blankly out the window. Outside the hall, a child has wandered from the classroom and is standing under a drainpipe, catching drops of rainwater in her mouth. Another chases a dog with a stick, imitating an adult. The boy with the balloon has escaped the clutches of his mother. Free again, he is bouncing his balloon in the air, captivated, enthralled.
At 11:00am the service ends, and it arrives not a moment too soon. Restless children pour from their classrooms, spilling out onto the immaculate front lawn of the compound. Finally freed from the confines of the classroom they run, jump and play noisily. Inside the main hall, the man with the comically long tie concludes his lecture with a Jerry Springer like final thought. One last nugget of wisdom to depart with. The men, who have been sitting on wooden pews for two hours, rush outside almost as quickly as the children.
Outside the LDS church in Pu’apu’a, Samoa
Outside, in the midday sun, it feels as though a tension has been released. Samoans are a social and talkative people, and sitting indoors, listening to lectures for two hours feels unnatural. With the formalities over, the volume of laughter, chatter and children’s voices is noticeably louder. Mothers and daughters pose for selfies in front of the church, smiling and giggling. Young boys pile into the back pick-up trucks to ride home for lunch, climbing on top of each other and jostling for space. The baritones of men deep in discussion resound, and the boy with the balloon is running free across the lawn. Untethered, his eyes sparkle with youthful wonder as he bounces his balloon through the air. Theroux observes that ‘Pacific Christians are neither pacific nor Christian,’ so while the LDS church may lay claim to 40% the Samoan population, I wonder for how many it means anything substantial.
It’s all smiles when church is finished!
