Pago Pago harbour is said to be the safest natural harbour in the Pacific. Not surprising as it's in the crater of a hopefully extinct volcano.

Safest, that is with the exception of tsunamis. Back in 2009 much of the low lying town was pretty much washed away so today, all the original German colonial architecture is replaced by new build, some of it quite modern - well, typically, the government buildings are. Good old taxpayers again.

It's a fishing port, quite industrial with the large purse seine fishing boats feeding the remaining two of original four canning factories that line one side of the harbour. Best to keep upwind! 80% of the island population is employed through fishing or fish processing. Having seen the economic wastelands of coastal southern Spain and Portugal after they'd fished the tuna to near extinction, long may the tuna last as unlike the Iberian peninsula, tourism way out here is unlikely to fill the gap.

So, yesterday, nursing my sore back we headed off to explore the local environs. Along the way we spotted a hairdressers, so in we popped for a quick whiz around my bonce with the old clippers. Not enough hair left for scissors although it seems that's a dying art anyway.

Part way through the three minutes it was going to take I'm asked, "would Sir like a massage?"

A quick look around didn't suggest their was going to be much in the way of facilities, given I'd just had my sweaty head washed in her kitchen sink, and noting just a bed in the corner of the shop it didn't look like much of a spa. Certainly no Enya playing.

Well, given I needed some attention and Anne was sick of me moaning and making. "Old People" noises every time I moved, Sir took the plunge and said "OK". (Old People Noises - According to my pal Terry, these are where you find yourself making an involuntary grunt, ooof, or sigh when you undertake serious effort, such as getting up out a chair, bend to tie your shoe laces or climbing a particularly high step.)

"Come with me" she beckoned. "You too" our Chinese host says to Anne and we're led up three stairs, through a curtain and into her bedroom. Whoa! Heard about these places. However, all was ok. A narrow divan on stilts was obviously going to serve as the massage table while Anne was invited to relax on her bed.

Shorts and shirt off, I laid out like a sacrificial offering on a slab and was then duly oiled ready for either Gas Mark 5 or a massage. Without the air con unit it would have been the former. Fortunately it was the latter.

A talker.

Not that I'm anti social and I can be quite chatty at times, but I can't stand it when hairdressers and masseuse want to chat. Even worse when it's in Pekinglish. Fortunately Anne was there to translate or at least fill in the silences.

After twenty minutes of basting I'm asked to relocate to the double bed, face down.

Next there's a clinking of glasss and I'm thinking, "great, we're getting a drink". But no. This is the Michael Phelps treatment - or indeed Anne in the desert fallen off her camel treatment. - cupping. Ancient Chinese remedy or trendy mumbo jumbo?

Alcohol (what a waste) soaked cotton wool was lit, dropped in an old jam jar which was inverted and placed on my back. Again and again until I rattled like a xylophone. A coupe of wiggles and I could play the intro to Tubular Bells lll.

Nearly two hours later, having again forgotten at the outset to ask the magic question, "and how much will that be?" we paid a load of cash and slipped out the shop leaving a snail like trail of oil and sweat to walk the two miles back to the boat.

And more pain killers.