usesBuses:Samoa's biggest attractionText: Mateja A. Hrastar photography: Mateja A. Hrastar, profimediaYou notice them immediately. Just wait longenough by the side of the road, staring at the sea,and they'll appear. Thundering down the emptyroad like colourful illusions. In the glare of theblinding sun and the reflection of the turquoisesea, they are a veritable apparition. The unusualshapes, the wonderful colours. Then they stop,right in the middle of the street, with no markingsor signs… anywhere someone happens to bestanding by the side of the road. Thus begins yourSamoan journey by bus.My bus was the Lady Willima. Because its name is so similarto that of a Samoan beer – Vailima – everybody calls it the"Beer Bus". It travels three or four times a day from the village ofSalapanga towards the capital of Samoa, Apia. It's an hourand-a-halfride that's nearly an odyssey…. or at the very leasta short story. Like all the buses in Samoa, it is colourful anddoes not run on a fixed timetable. Twice in the morning, thenonce at noon, once in the afternoon, and a final trip homeat around four. Everything else is left to chance and the passengers'wishes. The family that runs this bus route has twobuses. Both were purchased from dealers in Apia. All the busesin Samoa are imported from the USA. In fact, the entire publictransport system is based on old American school buses.Rickety and wooden.That's exactly what the Lady Willima was like. A charmingold dame who "farts" unabashedly, but nonetheless neverfails to leave you enthused. Waiting for the bus marks thestart of the journey. It can easily happen that you end upwaiting a whole hour. The local residents can generally tellyou when it's supposed to arrive, but in these parts, time is arelative, undefined unit. For my last ride to the capital, I waita little over an hour. Just long enough for me to learn all thedetails and gossip from the life of one of the families in thevillage whose mother is also waiting for the bus. The OldDame finally puttered her way down the road. But being acapricious old dame, she didn't want to stop. The crowd ofpeople waiting in the stifling heat panted after the bus as itmercilessly continued on its way, not letting itself be caught."Oh, it's just going to get Leota, it'll be coming back," gaspeda plump Samoan woman named Sei, out of breath afterrunning several metres. And so it was. A good 15 minuteslater, the Lady Willima came back in the opposite direction.Carrying a single passenger – Leota, who lives at the end ofthe village. Only then did the bus turn around in the directionof the capital. Because Samoan buses are essentiallyalso taxis. They stop at any number of stops. They can alsostop at every house if it suits the villagers and the driver.Sei pushed me into a seat in the first row, while she herselftook a seat on a bench in the middle of the bus, which wascompletely empty at the start of the trip.An American flag hung prominentlyabove the driver's head, and anenormous picture of Bruce Leespread out over the back of the bus.At least I thought it was him. Laterthe villagers convinced me that itwas in fact Jesus in the picture.I only had a chance to look at it for a moment. Already at thenext village, the bus filled beyond capacity with teenagersleaving the local college for their homes in the nearby village.The passengers sat on top of one another. Literally. And everytime a new passenger came on, they changed seats. Therules governing the seating order on Samoan buses are evenworse than those on Saudi buses. Older women and motherswith small children sit up front. And white people. Importantvillage leaders and other eminent men sit in the middle. Everybodyelse sits at the back. Every time a new passenger gets on,all the other passengers rearrange themselves in accordancewith the seating hierarchy. They piece their bodies togetherlike a puzzle, and they never run out of space.Somewhere during the middle of the ride it begins to rain.Just another short bout of rain typical of the start of the rainyseason. PVC curtains are drawn over the bus's otherwiseopen windows. It feels like you're in a condom – sticky andwarm. As soon as it stops raining, they open the curtains, andas the bus putters its way up a 1,000-metre-high pass in theinterior of the island, at least a little bit of air finds its way intothe bus once again. In the meantime the passengers are stillchanging seats, and the closer we get to the capital, the moreurban our surroundings become. And the more people get off.Squeezing their way through sweaty bodies, stepping on thebaggage placed between the seats, they squeeze the changeinto the driver's hand (a whole 30 sene for the entire trip) andjump onto the streets of the capital, which is hardly a town, letalone a city. At the end of the journey, the Lady Willima joinsten or so similar buses parked at the main station in Apia. Agood ten minutes later and her return journey will begin, overthe mountains to that remote village with its divine sandybeach. With all those passengers and piles of bags stowed inits wooden entrails.82
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