The heat goes on in Samoa

Joe flexed his muscle-building bar while on border duty.

Our resort at Lalomanu Beach in Samoa is in a turf war with the rival next door. Guests saunter across the line in the sand, and Joe's job is to eject them. Trouble is, the guards would sometimes bail up their own guests by mistake. One collared me an hour after carrying our bags to the beachside fale but then urged me to enjoy my stay. Funnily enough, I did.

Samoa throws up these little challenges. Survivor, the reality TV show, was filming in the islands as we holidayed. If there's such a thing as location typecasting, Survivor Samoa is it.

Two days earlier my tribe had shuffled off the plane at 3am after a long lecture about swine flu from ominously masked Samoan health officials. They bustled us disease-riddled foreigners through formalities and we were soon in a taxi to our accommodation, lurching over speed bumps placed by a government trying to slow traffic down before the switch from right to left-hand driving next month. Quite why you would want to switch is a mystery to all. The locals are steamed enough to vote their own government off the island.

Our tribe soon faced another challenge: how the lovely family room booked on the internet could morph into a grotty dorm that would spark a riot in Cellblock 9? We were too tired to argue the toss, and instead tossed until dawn amid traffic noise, barking dogs and mould munching its way across the ceiling. Our next challenge began after breakfast dodging Apia taxi drivers, who divebomb any walking foreigner, tooting their horns. I wish Dimp would market a "cabbie repellent".

Samoa is blighted by a mercenary view of tourists. Natural attractions come tagged with a "custom" fee. Apia's Palolo marine reserve introduces the shakedown. You pay to enter, another local dollar to use a shack to change in, and then find the snorkelling starts at a pole way out towards the horizon. Few people do the swim.

The downtown market was also a letdown not a single ukulele made from a coconut shell. It rocks your faith in souvenir tat. But I wouldn't judge the country on Apia God forbid that any visitor thinks Auckland typifies New Zealand. Early the next day, after a standoff with our double-booking rogue of a host, we skedaddled for Lalomanu.

Border guards aside, this was my sort of challenge: sun, white sand, terrific snorkelling, good food, icy drinks. I suffered on behalf of workmates back in wintry Nelson. Then I flopped over every 15 minutes and suffered some more.

We ventured afield to chase a dream of swimming with turtles. Namua Island took our money, loaded us into a small tinnie and pointed to dark blobs on the seabed that bolted as we approached.

Turtles are fast in their element. So are some locals.

Back at Lalomanu, we steeled ourselves for another day of snorkelling and sunbathing. With the obligatory sunburn, we returned to Apia, shoehorned luggage into a tiny hire car and headed for the neglected island of Savaii. Pods of dolphins buzzed the ferry an auspicious omen. Lunch was in Salelologa, the ferry town with a name that should be breathalysed. Passing the most unnecessary set of traffic lights on the planet, we tootled up the coast.

Another challenge to avoid crashing the car because the scenery is so achingly beautiful. Pristine villages skirt the lagoon, where outriggers glide like swans.

Half an hour later, we stepped into the water of a large enclosure to paddle with turtles. The big lugs nuzzle round your legs. Tamed they may be, but it was still a humbling encounter, and their shells are exquisite. Hopeless for a uke, though.

Our beachside fale at Manase was another treat. We retired primed for a memorable last day: a drive round the island back to the ferry, then a firedance show in Apia before our 2am flight home.

The round-island jaunt was a letdown. One after another the attractions toppled: rainforest canopy walkway closed for some time; sea arches no signs so we missed them; "Lovers Leap", ditto. We even drove past the world's best blowholes (Lonely Planet).

We doubled back and the woman at the store in Taga said, "Oh, the sign blew down." There it was across the road an information panel blackened with spraypaint, and the sign lying where it had fallen, possibly months ago.

The little Getz bounced down a rutted track. We paid the "custom" S$20 and were immediately accosted by an old codger offering to toss coconuts into the blowholes, where they shoot out like mortar shells. Impressive. The shyster then stuck his paw out, demanded $20 and hounded us back to the car when he was rebuffed.

We arrived back at Sale ... Sale ... the ferry town with three hours to spare and a readiness to vote ourselves off these islands. Next time we'll go back to the Cooks, pearl of the Pacific by a long stretch.

- © Fairfax NZ News