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Travel The Accidental Hitchhiker “Are you going far?” the Samoan man asked as he leaned into my creaky rental car. We were under the shade of an avocado tree. His bulk filled the entire space of my open window. When he’d flagged me down, I’d thought he was an elder collecting a “customs fee,” the few dollars it costs to use village roads that lead to many of Samoa’s sights. He’d been sitting idly in a greying roadside shack built for such occasions, but he wasn’t asking for money; he was trying to hitch a ride. I didn’t want to pick him up, but I’d already stopped and I needed directions. “I’m trying to get to Pulemelei Mound,” I said, trying not to sound as lost as I was. “Do you know how to get there?” “Mmm,” he said, raising his eyebrows in the classic Polynesian gesture for yes. “I need to pick up my car at the mechanic but no hurry, I’ll take you there first if you want.” Normally I wouldn’t pick up a hitchhiker, especially not such a huge one, but this man had such a gentle expression that I sensed he was OK. Having spent 15 years in and around Tahiti, which has a similar culture, I knew Polynesians pretty well - many hulks had the temperament of bunny rabbits. Plus, if he knew where Pulemelei Mound was, I’d just gotten closer to living out a dream. I’d wanted to go to Pulemelei since I’d heard it mentioned in an archaeology class years ago. The “mound” is actually a pyramid 40 feet high and roughly 200 feet across at its base—a little over one-third the height of the Kukulkan pyramid in Chichen Itza, Mexico, and slightly wider. Like many of the world’s pyramids, Pulemelei is oriented to the cardinal directions. It was built some time around 1300 AD and no one knows what it was used for. But one thing is certain: It’s the largest ancient structure in Polynesia. You’d think that a giant pyramid would be a major sight, or 28 Kzn Lifestyle Magazine • Issue 31 at least something many people had heard of, but it isn’t. My accidental hitchhiker’s affirmative raise of the eyebrows was the most promising prospect I’d had in a week. “Hop in,” I told him. We rattled along the road in silence for a few minutes. A half dozen chickens squawked and ran into a hibiscus hedge next to an orange and blue house. The hot air mixed with a hint of smoke from burning leaves. In the distance, I could hear women’s laughter. Then my new friend broke the silence and, simultaneously, my hopes. “I’ve never been to Pulemelei,” he said as we bumped over a particularly big pothole. “It’s funny, I’ve lived here almost a year but I never thought of going.” His arm hung limply out the open passenger seat window and he gazed with a half smile toward the bleached grey road in front of us. “Damn,” I thought, maybe he had no idea how to get there. “Where are you from then?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat. “I lived in New Zealand for over 30 years,” he said. “But I grew up in Apia.” Apia is the capital of Samoa, so he was a city kid, not the earth-under-his-feet farmer I had assumed. The 30 years in New Zealand explained his fantastic English. “Ah,” he said, “it’s here to the right.” He pointed with his thumb towards an unmarked track. As I maneuvered the car onto the narrow, rocky trail, he sat leaning forward like an eager kid. We bumped over the rough road till we reached a clear, calfdeep stream. We parked and got out, then waded across the water. Shortly beyond the river, the terrain became waist-high grass. The air was thick and smelled of wet plants. We picked our way through the brush, and my friend told me about himself. He was a church youth-group leader and was taking a bunch of local kids on a hike up the island’s tallest mountain the next day. “Maybe I can bring them here, too, one day if we find it,” he said hopefully. A fallen rotted tree blocked our path, and we tucked under broken branches and found our way around through brambles. We trekked on another a halfmile and I was feeling pretty skeptical. Then we hit an area of tall, lush grass surrounded by mature mango trees. A faded sign was nailed to one of the trees and I could just make out the word “Parking.” Yes, at one time, maybe 10 or more years ago and before the land disputes began (apparently between a foreign company and a local family), this road had been made for vehicles. People could simply drive here. We came to another board on a tree that was nearly engulfed by skinny yellow vines. There, barely visible, were the words: “Pulemelei Mound 150m.” We’d found it! In the hot shade, this realization barely seemed real. Read full story here
How a Taxi Ride Changed a Travel Writer’s Life One afternoon in May 2007, Layne Mosler left a tango parlor in Buenos Aires and asked a taxi driver to take her to his favorite steakhouse. She didn’t know what to expect, but the resulting meal was so magical, it transformed Mosler’s life. She began going on weekly “taxi adventures,” chronicling her experiences on her blog, Taxi Gourmet. Two years later, she moved to New York City and became a taxi driver herself. Then she embarked on the ultimate taxi odyssey: marrying a taxi driver in Berlin. Her memoir, Driving Hungry, just hit bookstores. I caught up with Mosler by phone at her home in Berlin to ask about her taxi adventures and her quest to become a “life artist.” World Hum: You’re from California but moved to Buenos Aires. What was it about the Argentine capital that called to you? Layne Mosler: One thing I didn’t realize before going to Buenos Aires was that it’s a city of people who love literature, and who love reading. It’s a wonderful place for a writer. I’ll never forget that I was reading a book by [Milan] Kundera on the subway and this woman said, “Oh, if you like Kundera you should read this Polish author, and have you read Kundera’s early stuff?” And then she suddenly hopped off the subway and said, “Now I have to go make lentil stew.” People there really impressed me. And city streets are named for poets and philosophers and tango composers. Also, for a writer, being out of your element is a healthy thing. You’re forced to pay attention in a way that you might not if you were in a place that’s familiar to you. I felt that I always needed to be aware of what was going on around me in Buenos Aires. There was an edge to the city. I thought, this is the perfect place for a writer, or a person who wants to develop into a writer. You’d been living there for two years before you launched Taxi Gourmet. How did that come about? I was doing some freelance writing, and I got this job at an Argentine satellite company. And I was developing my food writing on the side. But I knew I wanted to do something bigger. At the time, I was dancing tango and taking a lot of taxis and having a lot of conversations with taxi drivers, and I was learning more about Buenos Aires from the taxistas (drivers) than from anyone else. They’d tell you these beautiful stories about their relationship to the city. Most taxi drivers in Buenos Aires were born there and will tell you they’ll die there and they’re happy about that. I had this awful episode on the dance floor where I basically bit the dust and had to leave the tango parlor in humiliation, but I was starving. I hopped in a cab and asked the driver to take me to his favorite place to eat and Read full story here ended up at this wonderful steakhouse, which, to this day, is still one of the best steakhouses I’ve ever visited. Everything flowed so easily. The taxi driver was really kind. The men next to me were telling me all of the things I should order. I’d been in Buenos Aires for two years, but it was as if I was tapping into another side of the city. You can’t engineer serendipity but it was the closest I’ve come. I thought, there’s something magical about this, and I wanted to keep doing it. So I started to get into a taxicab every week. And then you moved to New York City and became a taxi driver yourself? Yes. After two years of writing the blog, I was getting a little restless. I knew from the beginning that I didn’t want to stay in Buenos Aires. I wanted to move the project to New York. I never planned on driving a taxi. I met these two women who drove cabs in New York. The first was Nidia, who calls herself a “Nuyorican”—a Puerto Rican in New York. She’s a night taxi driver and I was just blown away. She’d grown up in a house where her father abused her and she ran away when she was 13 and she lived on the subway and just had a really hard life. But she was resilient. I never thought I could do what she did. But a month later, I met Mary Jo, a petite, tiny-waisted, purple-wearing woman who was going to nursing school at night and driving a taxi during the day. Her taxi driving was driven by her faith, and I thought, if Mary Jo can drive a taxi, then I can, too. Also, I’d studied anthropology in college, and one of the principles of anthropology is that as an observer you can only come so far. At some point, you have to participate in whatever you’re studying or you’re not going to have a complete understanding. So all of those things came together. Kzn Lifestyle Magazine • Issue 31 29
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