In American Samoa, the jungle grows thick enough to hide more than trees, and the ocean sighs with the weight of old promises. In the deep valleys and misted peaks, the aitu still walk — spirits bound to the land, moving unseen but never unfelt. Along the coastal cliffs, the earth cradles ancient sacred grounds, where the stones remember names too old for living tongues to pronounce.
The telesā still linger near the roots of banyan trees, waiting for those foolish enough to forget to show respect, and in the black caves where the sea carves its breath into the island, the boundary between the living and the dead wears thin. Even in the heat of day, the air hums with footsteps that never quite fade away.
Here, they say “Samoa, Muamua Le Atua” — Let God Be First —
but in the heavy dark of the forest and the endless pull of the sea, you may wonder if someone else is already waiting in line ahead of you.