Apia

Apia runs on fa'a Samoa — the Samoan way — which orders life by family, village and church more surely than any clock: houses are fale, open ovals without walls because life here has nothing to hide; Sundays stop the country for singing that rattles the roof beams; and the to'ona'i lunch afterward comes from an umu of hot stones. Above the town, on Mount Vaea, lies the adopted Samoan the islands still mourn by his chiefly name: Tusitala, teller of tales — Robert Louis Stevenson.

The traveller climbs to Vailima, Stevenson's verandaed home turned museum, then up the rainforest path to his tomb and its requiem — 'home is the sailor, home from sea' — with Apia's harbour spread below; watches the world's gentlest police brass band raise the flag at dawn; swims the To Sua ocean trench, a garden-rimmed cylinder of impossible blue entered by ladder; and joins a fia fia night where the siva is danced with hands that tell stories and fire knives that tell taller ones.

The Guide's practical counsel: Sunday is sacred — plan a slow one, go to church for the singing if invited, and book the to'ona'i —; villages are private land under matai chiefs, so ask before crossing or swimming and expect a small custom fee as courtesy, not toll; dress modestly away from resorts; the cyclone months are November to April; and 'talofa' with a smile is the entire visa the culture actually checks.