Samoan paradise gone
Posted: Tuesday, October 06, 2009 11:11 AM
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On Assignment
By Lee Cowan, NBC News correspondent
APIA, Samoa – Robert Louis Stevenson, the author of "Treasure Island" called the Samoan Islands home. He died here, at only 44 and was later buried on a hilltop overlooking the Pacific. But as gifted a writer as he was, even he might be at a loss for words to describe his beloved Samoa now.
Once called Western Samoa, it is a dot in the South Pacific, barely the size of Rhode Island; a paradise rich in ancient tradition, natural beauty and peace and quiet.
Most of the island escaped last week’s tsunami, and life goes on almost without a care. Tourists are arriving, music is playing, and rum is flowing.
But along Samoa’s southern coast, once home to some of the most beautiful beaches in this hemisphere, the massive wave struck, creating an unimaginable scar several miles long.
The villages along the pristine coastline never stood a chance. The tsunami itself was described to me as a giant wall of black moving at some 30 miles an hour – which brought with it a sound, as terrible as its countenance.
Within minutes, everything in its path was obliterated. The debris is scattered in such a way that it’s hard to get one’s mind around how terribly violent it must have been. Or how silent the land was, once the wave returned from whence it came.
It seemed to target the most vulnerable: the elderly, and the very young. Standing at a small hospital, now a clearinghouse for the dead, I watched a father wrap his 5-year-old son in a blue plastic tarp, and drive away to lay him to rest next to his other son, who perished as well.
In the end, the difference between life and death was a matter of inches. Those who could find high ground, just 30 feet or so up a hill, survived without a scratch. Those who fell short were lost, not for lack of swimming abilities, but because they were likely pummeled by swirling debris.
Samoans have long buried family members close to them, often in their front yards. It’s a sign of respect, honor, and a reverence for their ancestors. But now, the wave has taken that too.
Many now don’t have a home to bury their dead. The land itself seems hardly fitting anyway, with wreckage scattered like garbage. With the tropical heat, and the morgues full, the government here has no choice but to bury as many as 100 in a mass grave, foregoing tradition in favor of expediency.
Disease is now the worry, with thousands living in makeshift homes. The idea of rebuilding seems too daunting, and frankly too frightening a prospect for many. Survivors, who saw that wall are afraid to return from the hills that saved them.
Back on the north shore, as we prepare to leave, the airport looks as I imagine it always does, with children running around after their parents in their colorful tourist garb, with dreams of sandcastles and gentle surf running through their minds.
But it’s an uncomfortable dichotomy. Just over the peak of this volcanic uprising, a different world exists. Robert Louis Stevenson’s Samoa is now a tale of two islands, one drenched in more than its fair share of beauty, while the other now endures more than its fair share of misery.
