Day 39: Only the Freshest Fruit will do

The river is calm; motionless. The long narrow motor boat cuts into the soft, butter like water, breaking the surface like a weak yoke. The salt doesn’t pollute these waters, and the spray that sprinkles our faces is fresh and relieving.

In the boat alongside us sit six Fijians, one of them is Lupe, another is her sister. The others are family and friends. In my boat Dale sits ahead of me, his dark brown shades deflecting the suns constant stare. Three others share this boat with us. Robert sits at the front.

At first the river is open. It widens about a half kilometer across banking abruptly where grass and trees border. The two boats race each other jokingly, like two kittens play fighting than licking each others wounds. First our boat pulls ahead, and than theirs as we laugh and wave across to each other.

As we near Lupe’s village we head onto a side road spanning only about 30 feet wide. It feels like trekking deep into a rain forest. The trees are covered with vines, their branches loom past the shoreline like a kid peeking over the edge of a cliff. The motor slows to a sputter in the shallow water as we tiptoe all the way to the entrance of the village. We dismount the boat and enter.

After meeting and greeting the villagers, aunts and cousins of Lupe, we head off to the beach for a splendid soaking in the sun. Me and Dale lead the pack by some 20 feet even though we don’t know where to go. Simply we follow the obvious path and look back for reassurance.

About halfway to the beach we pass through another small village. Smaller than the one we just came from, this one has fewer tin huts and less people. Two young girls silently watch us with the cautious curiosity of a cat, half smiling half uncertain.

Seeing as no tourists at all come to this place, and only people who are invited are allowed, I sympathise with them. Dale with his cool cream brown shades, and me with my blank white t-shirt tucked into my shorts, walk by coolly, smiling to the silent unwavering expressions.

My feet, wild and bare, trek across a stonier surface, but as to not diminish my image I am careful to show that I am already resistant to the rock-strewn path. My feet, free from socks shoes and sandals, pretend that it doesn’t hurt. The pinching pain of small pebbles feels so good against the bottoms of my rather tender feet.

Across tree roots and soft dead grass, through twigs tucked into sand all the way to the ocean my two feet breath in the freedom of the surrounding world. Every ache and pain is a testament to that freedom; a thing with which I have come to find abundant on the small Fiji island. A liberated sun bares witness as my toes poke up with excitement.

Not much time later I am further freed as I gallop with Dale alongside me into crashing waves. They start at first like a parabola, rising round and even, than the top becomes sharp and thin like paper ice as it tucks in towards its belly, exhaling finally a great big crashing release of breath back into the ocean. The curling breeze sends us barrelling upside down and sideways as we wash back closer to shore with the pushing hand of forceful waters.

After being sent landward, we get up and swim back out further, charging into the waves at their various stages. Head on into the foamy break. Straight through the curvature of its womanly shape, and up and over the rising table top.

With each leap jump and dive I grasp a second of freedom, and the deeper I go the longer I can hold onto the slipping second. When the wave passes by the feeling leaves me as well. And every time I feel it wiggle through my fingers my breath is caught, surprised each time by the tiny taste of excitement.

Dripping wet we exit the beach. Out of breathe we head back to the village. Hungry we walk down the same path, and eagerly wait for food to be served. It’s a lot of sea food, fresh fish, oysters, delicious delicacies that are uncommon back home, but are simply extracted from the ocean only a mile away.

Most people sit cross legged when we do eat, and everybody eats without utensils. Rock cassava chunks are washed down with freshly made fruit juice. The taste of fish is mixed with the taste of ripley picked pineapples. The food is so free of preservatives its unreal to the taste buds, its like taking a purified water shower.

After we finish we feel as if we had taken that shower. Fresh, refreshed, relaxed and calm, with smiling faces and slow movements we say our farewells; hugs and kisses and multitudes of waves goodbye. Soon after our boat, this time a larger one which fits all of us, speeds off into the jungle and towards home.

When we are out of sight and there are no more people to wave to we sit and watch. The clouds in the sky look anorexic and stretched. They move quickly by barely blocking the sun as they shield the crimson red eye for short minutes at time.

This time we sit quietly in mindful awareness of the surrounding peacefulness. I sit deep in thought trying to connect myself to the nature around me. As of now I am a spectator. I know the fish are swimming below the water, and see the birds floating synchronized in the sky, but I am separate from them. I enjoy the peaceful beauty but do not partake in its excellence.

As the boat slices a continuous path, shaking the water below like an earthquake rocking a bookshelf, the air becomes silent. I breathe in its freshness but lose sight of its motion, feel its breeze yet can only imagine the softness of its warm touch. When an experience releases you from the torture of searching for purpose, as this one has done for me, it is a moment to cherish. Here the reason is togetherness. The point is sharing, and the ‘prize’ is the strengthened connection to nature and fellow man. For the few hours we spent at the village, talking, swimming and eating together, this is what was accomplished. The freedom that was felt was not outwardly, being the waves the small pinches along the paths, but instead relief of being confined to looking somewhere else for what is already right there. It is a freedom I hope to find across the snow covered highways of my native country once I return.

Day 33: A Surly Start

We figured that back at home everybody’s’ mental picture of our trip is something you’d see out of a book. White sand beaches that burn your feet under a hot mid-afternoon sun. Clear blue waters washing gently up the shoreline while Fiji girls dance to melodic drum beats magically emanating from someplace out in the ocean.


Me and Dale sun tanning on beach towels, sipping on beers, or in Dale’s case a strong Mai Tai. Our sun glasses hide the eyes that watch girls in bikinis running along the beach, playing volleyball, or otherwise asking question about where we are from; there skin as dark as shade, while ours as burnt as a tomato.


That is what Fiji is right? The paradise so wonderful that people on vacation, come here to vacation from their vacation. Of course people have thought such things, I mean even Dale and I had some fantastical ideas about how the trip would be; ideas that failed to bear any fruit.


But after a full month on the island we planned to pick some of the fruits of paradise. The resort is called Uprising and you’ve heard the name mentioned before if you’ve kept up to date with all of my blogs. You have also seen me posing with the resort’s rugby team, to which I sadly admit I still have yet to play with.


Our plan is simple, swim in the ocean, get drunk, mingle with the people, drink more, swim more, and if there is enough time left, get some rest. It’s what we set out to do, and what we intent to accomplish. First on the agenda is to get back in the ocean for the second time.


There is a certain quality about the ocean, about this massive pool of water expanding as deep as it does wide. The waves come from a watery infinity stretching beyond the horizon as far as where it was once presumed to be the end of the world.


Above, on the never resting surface, the water is like a bumpy, unpaved road. The water splashes into the eyes, up the nose and down the throat as it continually moves from half way across the world to the shoreline we are swimming near right now.


We look around at the silhouettes of nearby islands, and joke about swimming to them. Though already looking like an impossible to reach speck, they truly are just the beginning of a never ending road to nowhere. Beyond them, and below the shallow depths swims timelessness; vast dark shadows in space living in the shadows of other colossal worlds.


After our swim its time to satisfy the second goal; food, and of course what meal is complete without a pitcher of Fiji Gold; Fiji’s only and finest beer. After this meal I make a mistake. I am curious towards the likes of Woodstock’s pre mixed bourbon tall cans. From the second I finish this fine specimen of cheap mixed drink I begin to feel surly.


Before we start on our own stash of Gin and Gatorade we both take a nap. I’m hoping that this time out will rejuvenate me and put to rest the anxious evil that the bourbon has awakened. But as I stir from my slumber no more rested than before I know that something inside me is eager to be released.


Upon returning to the bar, where the music is now on loudly, things are already picking up. It’s about nine now, and is 9:30 when we finish the next pitcher. Inside the demon is restless; it shakes its cage while calling out to be freed.


Another hour passes another pitcher consumed. Now inside me the cage is being wailed on by stone fists. Smoke rises from the black skin of the short, but stocky beast. Its white teeth show as the hinges of the cage begin to weaken.


Another pitcher, another hour. As he hurls his body one last time into the door it flies open. He calmly walks outside. At this point the night is now both mine and his to share.


Dale and I see a dice game happening a few tables over, so we grab a fresh pitcher and join in. They are playing a drinking game called 3-man. It’s very basic, you roll two dice and drink varying amounts based on the numbers rolled. If a three shows on either of the dice the 3-man drinks; whoever rolls a one and a two becomes the new 3-man.


Now we get along with the guys fine during the game, but the girls don’t take a liking to us. For me it’s because of my drunken demeanour, occasional slurring of words, and lack of my usual, natural charm. Dale on the other hand simply isn’t buying into any of their bullshit; neither their comments with aggressive undertones, snobby attitudes, nor their bitterness towards us.


We order some wings and when they arrive we pause the game and chow down. Dale tosses one of the bones into a nearby bush, and of course a snotty girl takes this as invitation for confrontation. With a hotty tone she demands Dale go and pick it out of the bush. His thoughts on the matter differ from hers, “what, look, I’m not crawling through the bushes in the middle of the night looking for a discarded chicken bone, but I will put the next one in the bone bowl”.


Soon after this we decide we’ve had enough of the games. We wish the gentlemen at the table a good night, trade scowls with the ladies, and head off to the bar. It’s here that the demon inside me assumes control. I am soon overtaken with a feeling of surly aggressiveness.


While talking at the bar Dale walks off and leaves me with a pitcher, so I grab it and head wherever the Devil inside guides me. One of the Fijians in the group Dale was conversing with catches up to me demanding I give back the stolen pitcher.


“What stolen pitcher? Did you pay for this pitcher?” His attitude begins to shift. He gets mad, than I get angry, and finally he gets sorry. I storm off from him as Dale explains that we are friends. “But does he not like me anymore” he pouts to Dale who does his best to console the grieving Fijian.


Where I went and what I did for the next little while is a mystery. About the next memory I have is me, sitting at a table with a cute Fijian girl, away from the party, behind a jet ski rental hut next to the ocean. The gentle waves must have lulled the beast to sleep as I am now filled with a new found tranquility.


We sit and laugh under a star filled night. The music from the bar now just a murmur in the background creating the perfect atmosphere for romance. In such a peaceful environment it is not words, but nature that deceives the emotions; and against this setting, there is no fear of logical up-rise.


After spending a good hour together we meet back up at the bar where Dale, with a stronger ankle than before, is busting dance moves that would put the king of disco, John Travolta, to shame.


As Dale wows the crowd with a spinning windmill I begin hiccupping. So now I’m drunk, surly, and hiccupping’ I have become the stereotypical drunk. This is no problem since I know the solution to hiccups which is Vinegar.

A barman in Toronto once witnessed me ailing from the illness and brewed me up a shot of vinegar. It instantly put an end to my sickness. Hoping for a similar result I order myself up a sweet shot. “What the hell are you talking about you won’t give me one? Man, get a shot glass, get some vinegar and serve me up my shot!”


To this day I don’t understand his refusal to cure me, but I nonetheless end up spending the better part of half an hour trying to convince him. The only other thing that I can think of that will cure me is a midnight swim in the ocean, and even though it’s already 1am I imagine the effect will be the same.


We suit up and take a mad run into the blackened salty waters of the Pacific Ocean splashing wildly and yelling up towards a glittering sky. At night the ocean is like the world, as gigantic as it continues being, its true immensity cannot be seen.


The water gently cradles us back and forth with the forceful pull of passing waves. In every direction lies only more opaqueness while across the sky shooting stars zip through the universe in intergalactic travel. Down here on the earth we enjoy a lasting moment of freedom; from our lives, from the world, from ourselves.


After a quick shower I notice that Dale is gone, and the Fijian girl I’m with, who goes by the identity ‘Towels’, has lost the memory chip in her phone, so we head back to a vacant bar which is now being swept.


I’ve already given up but give a lazy look around out of respect. In time Towels also deserts the hopeless search, and just as were about to leave Dale bursts in looking for cups. The tender, very unimpressed with all the late night happenings yells for him to get out. Seeing as he won’t be any help Dale uses his long reaching arms to swipe a few glasses from right under the nose of the disgruntled barman. I still have the hiccups.


After some late night-early morning night caps we’re finally ready to concede to time. We have a final cheers to the good times and leave our separate ways. At approximately 5am we fall asleep, which happens with great ease.


I will clear up one thing that I failed to mention earlier on in the story. Just before we went for our late night swim I stumbled to a near-by tree and buried our room key thinking it was an ingenious idea. The key was never recovered, we had to be let into our room by security, and there was a 30 dollar fee which was added to our bill.

Day 23: Kids With Guns

The theme of today’s blog is light. The providers of these lights are kids; little ones; gangs of them all across Fiji breaking the darkness of the night like lightning. Groups of little bodies horde backyards, streets and parks igniting bright flashes of blazing fireballs freely about.


Back at home there are few nights when I remember getting to stay up late. The most infamous of which being New years eve, where beyond staying awake well beyond my bed time it wasn’t uncommon to sample fine champagne with the rents.


Well in Fiji Diwali is this type of holiday, except that instead of drinking bubbly kids get to shoot fireworks into the sky under the lazy supervision of on looking adults. Dale and I had never previously experienced the Indian holiday, first hearing about it just nights before when we covered a Diwali celebration at Krishna Hall. Dale got a good story out of the event, and I got free food; spoils of a posing cameraman.


Diwali is mainly celebrated at night, though I do think there were some day time festivities being held downtown. At about seven we leave our apartment. Our downstairs neighbour, Ron, or more popularly known as ‘The Educator’, is the principal of a small school called the learning center. After befriending him we were granted an invitation to a Diwali celebration at his school.


We met him one fine evening when me and Dale were bored on a Saturday night. We were having a drink outside our apartment when we noticed him sitting on his front stoop on the lower level of the unit. Paint chips fell off the white metal gate as we opened it to ascend the stairs down to his dwelling.


We cracked some beers sat down and chatted about where we were from, and what we were doing. After that the ball was in his court, and he chatted non stop about his school, the superior teaching methods he helped develop; about the advantages of smaller class sizes as well as charities and awareness programs that his school is involved in.


He went on about newspapers, mainly the Fiji Times, that posted advertisements for these events for free, and discussed the possibilities of doing the same with the Daily Post. It became apparent very early on that this man was not going to change the subject on his own.


Me and Dale endeavoured to re-direct the flow by commenting on how everybody drinks grog in Fiji, to which he responded, “well you know my school has a kava bowl as well.” We tried to bring up music to which he proudly stated, “All the students at my school have recorders.”


I than brought up that I am currently learning Spanish and he happily retorted, “Well we teach languages at my school, maybe you could come and learn.” At some point in the night we got talking about Diwali and, of course, his school happened to be having a Diwali celebration. This is how we ultimately ended up with the invitation.

So me and Dale set off to the school. Still being early we decide to walk in lieu of a cab. Strolling down the street we get lost in conversation until about four or five blocks from our house two girls we pass by ask us where were from.


We start to notice that in Fiji it isn’t uncommon for a girl to stop a guy in the street and flirt with him. At first I thought it was just because we were tourists, or because we were such handsome tourists, but it was becoming clear that these weren’t the only two factors weighing in.


The two girls, who appeared in light blue coloured old school ski jackets with rips all over the place, weren’t the most homely types. We remained pleasant none the less until they bothered off. We laughed about them as they trailed further and further behind us.


Very suddenly they are somehow crossing the street about a half block ahead of us. They had no way getting there so fast and without us noticing. Fearing witch craft we both stop with the jokes, and nothing bad, so far, has befallen on us. Soon after this encounter we find ourselves lost and teetering on tardiness. It seems the time that we held in abundance, that lead us to walk, has been slowly sneaking off into the shadows of the night.

We know no street names and the cabs we stop know nothing about our destination. Not knowing whether we have already walked too far or not we decide its best to head back, and worse comes to worse we can simply re track our steps and head into the right direction.


We begin guessing side streets, walk block after block into dead ends, end up back at the main road only to pick another street to walk down. How long must we be so lost we think to ourselves as we head off the main street back into uncertainty.


This time we guess right, and far down the street we can already hear the explosions of fireworks at the finally nearby school as flaming balls rock the starry night.


None of the noise could have prepared us for it. It was like a war scene right out of a movie. A hundred or more kids all stand at the edge of a rectangle school yard. Almost every single one is holding a roman candle; and they are all firing them under minimum supervision.


Larger bottle rockets are going off in the mean time, and Dale and myself are stunned, star struck, by the utter mayhem. The smell of burnt powder is the only thing noticeable as we look through the large clouds of sitting smoke. The kids smile and laugh run through the middle with falling flames looming just overhead without a care in the world.


The event had to be sanctioned and so a fire truck was present with one the chiefs watching over things. I turn to him, “This doesn’t seem very safe to me, what do you think”. He chuckles at the comment, stating “no, safe isn’t what I’d call it either”. But safe or not, the anarchy continues.


At some point in the night, amidst the whining of fireballs and screaming of kids, we sneak into the school house for some dinner. On the way a little girl not paying much attention has a roman candle aimed towards Dale, and she watches in horror as the fireball whisks past his head just barely missing it.


After we stuff ourselves we take another look around the playground. The fireworks are running out now, and what were constant explosions before slow down to an intermittent yell, like the spinning of a fan after it’s shut off.


We take leave on this note, sneaking off without being noticed. As we walk away we see and hear the celebrations in the distance. We enjoy the night, and grow excited for when it will actually be Diwali, which is just three days away

Day 18: The Lost Dream of Tailevu

Upon waking up today the muscles move slow like syrup oozing out of a tipped over bottle. Aching legs struggle to lift a sore body to its swollen feet. Hunched backs make it near impossible to stand up straight.

At first we can’t bear to consider ourselves or look at each other so we simply nod off into the past recounting the gruesome tale that left us battered, bruised, trampled and beaten. Distracting the physical pains we suffer an alarm clock breaches past our ear drums rattling in our heads like a tab trapped inside a pop can.

We shuffle around wondering where our enthusiasm has gone; where our excitement and drive has been left. Listlessly players gather their gear in order to prepare for another round of morning exercises. Each player drags their feet towards their belongings like zombies roaming aimlessly through a deserted city.

The air smells like stale bread, and sits still like fallen mist on a deserted highway. Speechless, we slowly gather into a large circle together and once again give thanks to Jesus for all of his splendid gifts. In the gravity of the situation I am not asked to lead this prayer, which consists mainly of petitions to God to let the team be victorious in the following match.

After the walk we once again gather at the park. The team wants to play rugby with the futbal, but I insist that in the spirit of a proper warm-up we prepare for the upcoming game by using our feet. I know a perfect game for this, its called soccer. I’m wondering after the team’s last performance if they’ve ever heard of it.

The field is covered by coarse grass and the sky with thin clouds. The blades of grass are as dry as a well in the desert, and struggle to maintain a tinge of green. Today, knowing there would be no jogging, I wear only my sandals and at the field am forced to play in bear feet.

I rip across the field feeling the straw like pitch pass between my toes as I hunt down the ball with a new found swiftness that impresses my friends and team mates. Kicking the ball, running the field, and defending the net all feel natural in my new nakedness.

The nudity of any playing gear makes me feel nimble as my feet act as the strongest class of cleats a set of feet have ever known. My toes drive into the dry ground as my heels turn direction in an instant. If the grass is still indeed breathing air into its dry lungs than it’s surely living in fear of everything existing below my ankles. Kick pass shoot save. Kick save shoot pass.

We have a great warm up under the heat of a seven O’clock in the morning sun. Though it may sound mild the sun sets around 5:30 in Fiji and already the heat has actually picked up some. We work up a great sweat and head back to camp for breakfast and showers.

Shower, The Second Coming

This time I feel confident and even a little excited as I prepare for my shower. I get my gear once again and head out to the bathroom, knowing exactly where it is. As I round the corner I see the same player showering in the same trench, quite possibly still wearing the same underwear. We exchange greetings as I head past him to the fence, my old bathing ground.

I noticed right away that the hose is gone from the fence and feel sad for a moment. Just than a Fijian player comes out of the bathroom, I ask him as he walks past, “There any hot water still?” He stops and replies before leaving, “No, no water”. ‘Damn’ I think, can’t win em all.

Just as I enter the bathroom I realise I have no soap, but before I can even curse my forgetfulness I notice a bar sitting by the sink. This hand soap just became shower soap. With my new found luck I feel more chipper and am defiantly ready for a nice cold shower; and as I’m about to find out there aint a better time to take a cold shower than first thing in the morning.

The bathroom conditions are far from clean, as is common in developing countries, and I find it hard to place my clothes and towel in a clean place above the floor. Though there’s a shower head this is no shower bathroom. There is a single toilet stall at the far end, and a sink at the other end. In the middle is the shower head right out in the open.

I strip down naked and carefully hang my clothes up on the stall door; even the dirty ones are too good for the floor. Once they seem sturdy I grab the bar of soap and get ready to get wet. Eagerly I turn the tap and brace for the cold spray. Instead of a blast of freezing water I get blasted with cold air. I turn the taps again, but already know that the water supply has run dry.

I stand in shock for a moment with my hand resting on my chest. The dry sweat begins to steam off my body as I stand there naked trying to get a hold of the situation. Outside I can hear kids running in the distance, but inside only the hollow echoes of silence bouncing off the porcelain walls.

I look at my clothes and can’t bear the thought of redressing in them. I turn the tap again but get treated with only the smallest of tinkles of water. I pace around for a moment and re-consider my options.

My options are one. But better one than none, and if you’re thinking my one option is to wear my so fresh and so clean clothes over the dry sweat suit I’m already dressed in, than your wrong. My one and only singular option is to bath in the sink. It’s not glamorous, and won’t be fun, but with that sink and this bar of soap, I’m gonna be one squeaky clean Irish lad in no time.

Just in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation I’ll give you the run down of how this goes. You turn on the tap (which works than God) and cup water in your hand. You than throw that water onto the body part you wish to clean. Rub with soap than rinse soap suds away with water. Repeat if necessary.

Having a shower out of a sink is a process that leaves you feeling surprisingly refreshed. Though I wouldn’t recommend trying it where it’s not necessary, I do encourage anybody to give it a go if the situation calls for it.

After the shower everyone eats, prays, dresses, prays, heads down to the field for final words, and final prayers. Since I have a bus to catch back to Suva I unfortunately can’t stay for the game, but I none the less give a last prayer at their request, say good-bye to all the players and head on my way.

I keep in touch with the guys to see how they do, and find out that they also lost the second game, though by less points. Beyond this they also go on to lose their third and final match. In the end they never scored any goals. I can only imagine that the cook spent the rest of the weekend walking around cursing, “It’s all fucked up”, as he began to do shortly after the first loss.

Day 17: The Test Of Tailevu

Our team, along with all the others sleeping under the same conditions, slumber together, shoulder to shoulder, room to room. The moon beams down in a cloudless sky. One open blue eye watching endless space reach for infinity. Down below on the earth’s surface there are no sounds; no crickets, no blowing wind, nor even a single word of prayer. Only the expanding chests of hopeful players ingesting the Fiji night air, a pause than silent release.

Morning Routine:

I don’t know who it is who first awakes after such a restful night, but minutes before our 5am alarm sounds the weary and heavy heads shake themselves up and so the morning routine commences. Under the slowly rising tropical sun, humid less air pushes through the small cracks in the window and door frames, squeaking across the floor with the silence of a falling leaf.

---------------------------Prayer-----------------------------------

The coach has already outlined the our routine, and it starts with “a morning stroll”. I assume of course this means were going jogging, and so I prepare myself for my least favourite workout; and no I’m not talking about jogging, I’m talking about any workout in the wee hours of the morn.

As we descend the windy, grey stained asphalt road that connects the school grounds to the main street I impress the guys with my knowledge of the numbers 1 – 5 in Hindi. “One more one more!” they chant hilariously as I recite the first and only five numbers I know, “Ek, Doh, Teen, Char, Punch”.

“Again Brian, you say one more time”. And just to keep them entertained I go through it backwards with a certain rhyming elegance that is rarely seen even in the greatest of Canadian poetry. I turn and give them a prize fighters winning smile as we reach the bottom of the hill.

The shoulders of the road here are of gravel, and instead of walking across it we trek along the street itself. Every now and than a car passes by honking its horn while it barely steers out of the way. I stop here to note that there is no jogging. In fact the players walk so slow that I constantly have to stop myself from getting ahead of the pack. I guess this is early morning sports training in Fiji.

Upon returning we all steer off course to a small pitch where I get my first taste of Rugby. Again I question the method of training for a big soccer tournament, but the smiles on the guys faces makes it impossible to hold a grudge on them for this one.

In what might go down in sports history as my greatest athletic achievement I catch the ball passed off by my team mate Reji and run a nimble zig zag to the end zone. As I hear the wind brush past body after body my feet cut in and out of danger like the road runner swiftly dodging the Wiley coyote.

And as all hands fail to put an end to my super bowl touchdown, all I can hear in the back round is the halting of foot steps along with the shouting of “offside”. I bounce the soccer ball off the ground in a grand victory dance before composing myself in preparation for the gold medal ceremony. Tired and spilling over with laughter we gather around for a prayer before we head back to school for showers and breakfast.

Tired and sweaty I start to consider that we’re at a day school for kids no older than 12. My sticky white t-shirt clings to my body as I peel it off. I feel a moment of fear and anxiety as I wonder what the conditions for showering are going to be. I stand for a moment with my towel and clean clothes at hand looking around the room.

As I look at the mat I shared with a player named Achari, and all the other mats huddled together like the arms of patrons on a rush hour Mexico City subway I realise that it was a very good thing that Dale didn’t come along for this trip. Though the story for the paper would have been good, the sleeping conditions simply weren’t for him, and I doubt that he would have liked to face the same shower situation that I am about to confront.

Outside the sun is bright and unobstructed. The school yard is slowly filling up with happy kids, running as wild as their spirits, who unknowingly stitch personality into the monogamous school uniforms their little bodies fill. Beside the supposed showers at the back end of the yard, behind a 20 foot water tank, is a concrete trench at the side of the bathroom building. It has several faucets for water coming out of the wall.

Inside the trench is a player bathing himself in his undies. I mean the tighty whities, and I swallow hard as I think in which manner I am to clean myself. He smiles and points to the back of the building which is an alley way. On one side is the back wall of the bathroom and on the other is a chain linked fence looking out into the back yard of someone’s house some 40 feet off.

In the back yard a mother and her teenage daughter work around the house. They peek in and out of view as they manage their morning chores. Attached to the chain linked fence is a hose with water weakly flowing out onto the ground. I take my pants off and set them to the side. I than look around nervously as I strip naked and stand under the tinkling flow of water.

The experience is different, and I sum it up as a part of traveling. I soap as quickly as possible, dry up and get dressed. As I rub the towel in my hair I look up and notice what I perceive to be a grin from the young teenage girl who is currently hanging up clothes to dry.

Before I have a chance to think anything a door opposite my shower hose is flung open, and a man drying his hair walks out. As the door swings shut I notice a shower head in the back and instantly wonder to myself, ‘Was that where I was pointed to go?’ I turn back to the girl who is still watching and give her a big wave before heading back to home base for some pre-breakfast prayer. ‘I’m getting by’ is all I can think to myself, I’m getting by.

New jerseys are handed out after every one has eaten followed by the pre game speeches. I get handed a couple of t-shirts and last years jersey. Everyone fills in the new gear nicely. “Think of the sacrifice for getting these new kits” says the manager, “because they were not cheap and someone certainly paid for them”.

The words drone out of his mouth as we all listen respectfully. “Some people are missing work, others exams to be here”. We sit around him in a half circle as he kneels before us like our high school coach. “People are sending message all day of support, and I am sure more will come.” It’s a dry speech which reiterates many times over the fact that it’s important for the team to win.

My ears perk up suddenly when I hear the manger say that there is great hope for the team “because we went to the finals last year”. This is the first success story I’ve heard so far, and I start to think that I’m amongst greater talent than I previously thought. After the manager, Neel, says his piece I’m asked to say something. Again I wonder to what cause, but I none the less give it my best shot.

I’m proud to be amongst you guys”, followed by thoughtful silence. “You’ve all worked hard to get here”; Silence. I feel like there is nothing to say but get the hell onto that field and run your ass off. Don’t think, don’t breath, don’t tire, and don’t stop. Don’t do anything except play your heart out as if it mattered half as much as Neel made it out to.

Than in my silence I’m struck with a great idea. I clear my throat and re-gather the attention of the crowd. “Your game is a house. Each of you is in charge of building that house. You are all experts, you all have great ideas, and the only limits are the ones you set on yourselves”, I start.

“Your coach is the home builder; the man who subcontracts each expert to a certain job. One guy has a great idea for the chimney, and he makes it. Another builds the fire place and it looks fantastic. Another builds the frame and its magnificent while another yet constructs the roof which looks unlike any ever built before.” I continue talking to attention filled ears as I pace across the gazing crowd.

“Each piece is made so marvellous that people can hardly wait to see how the house will look. People expect it will be the nicest the city of Tailevu has ever seen. Throughout the whole process the home builder was never listened to. The experts ignored his directions and built the parts for this amazing house themselves.”

“When the day of construction came everyone was around to watch. But what was meant to be an amazing day turned out to be a disaster. Yelling and screaming was heard throughout the day as the construction crew were throwing tools and storming off site. The chimney doesn’t fit the roof, the roof doesn’t fit the frame, and the fire place doesn’t fit the chimney. And in the end all these beautifully crafted parts were useless.”

“Without the instruction of the home builder the skill of each expert is irrelevant. No matter how well you can build a roof it won’t matter if it doesn’t fit on the frame of the house. The same goes for the game. If what your doing doesn’t fit with the game plan and the rest of the team, regardless of the level of your talent, nothing will get built; no goals will get scored.

“Everyone here has tremendous talent, but the game is the house. If it’s gonna be built right you have to place your faith in your coach” the way you place your faith in God I think to myself. In awe and deep thought the team takes in the story as an eerie silence falls over them like when the drunken man makes a distasteful joke amongst a civilized crowd.

At the field now, under the blazing sun the team plays while me and the manager Neel watch from the bleachers. In the shade we talk about the team’s performance and in what areas they could stand to improve. Nearing the end a tsunami warning is sounded and the game stops twenty minutes short of finishing. Damn, I think, I wish I had a ham sandwich.

Losing 2 – 0 nothing Tailevu trudges heavy footed back to base to wait out the nearing threat. From the radio of a car, as school kids run around full of glee in the face of an early dismissal, we hear that the wave is no longer a danger. We turn around and head back to finish the game, but only to concede another goal before once again returning to the school.

The worst part is that between the entire 60 minutes of play, with the exception of one beautiful bicycle kick that sent the ball screaming wide, the team never actually had a decent chance to even score. With less shots on net than the other team had goals we head back defeated. It just wasn’t their time to win. But luckily it was time for lunch!

Already its almost time for the tournament’s opening ceremonies. The tournament itself will run from Wednesday until the final match on Sunday. Last years teams gather in rows across the fields to listen to boring speeches. Management decided it would be fun to dress me up in full goalie gear and send me out onto the field as well.

Though at first I love the idea, I start to get nervous since I don’t have a player card (obviously), and I don’t even have a ticket for the bleachers. I just bought the cheapest one which is only good for the outer grass hill area. Last in line I get to sweat the longest as I watch team mate after team mate make it into the illusive inner area.

The player ahead of me is under a similar stress as he is using someone else’s picture, though I’m certain he’ll get by no problem seeing how all Fijians look alike. Wrong. The door man stops him and investigates his card more thoroughly. Without hesitation I walk right by the security check and eventually onto the field. Upon looking back the poor guy never made it out to the ceremony. I will never forget his sacrifice.

In front of us are bleachers half filled with people eager to see the start of this great Fijian soccer tournament. All of the most important people are comfortably seated in the middle section of the bleachers.

I’m second to the front of the line of my team, dressed in green goalie gear with matching green cleats; one of two white people on the field. I sit cross legged while listening to boring speeches, sometimes even ones in Hindi, about how great the soccer here is, how great Fiji is, and how great Nadi is.

My legs are numb and sore from sitting so long and the speeches seem to just go on forever. The experience is priceless and will not be forgotten. I breath in what I experience to be deep breaths of fresh air as I watch the cameras capture it all, and wonder if I might be so lucky as to appear on tv.


The day is reserved for the lesser league games; at night is when the real excitement begins. The field is surrounded half by bleachers and half by hills. In the blaring flood lights people can be seen in every seat, and every plot of grass. No space goes unfilled, and no patron unpleased.

They have match after match, and I’m blown away at the skill level of the players. I mean, I’ve been to a handful of TFC games and none of them came close to the level of excitement experienced on this field in Nadi. Simply put the games are incredible.

Surging with excitement from the matches me and a team mate head out for a few drinks to cool down. The city life is non existent as I’m sure everyone is already at the field. Every store front is closed, and except for the food vendors across the street from the stadium and the bar we end up finding down a long deserted street, every where is lifeless. In the bar we start talking about the “gush”. Surprisingly he’s down like china town, stir fry with rice brown, and it happens as sure as crying girls in wedding gowns.

Everything except for Tailevu north’s poor performance is perfect that day. The weather, the sport, the mischief and the companionship; if only you all could have been there, but alas you had a Canadian winter to attend.

Day 16: Trailing Tailevu

The mission today, on a random Wednesday, is to travel to Nadi (pronounced Nandi) for the IDC – inter district competition. The team I’m traveling with, Tailevu north, is made up of some of the guys we player soccer with, and other people who I have yet to meet.

We rendezvous at one of the guys houses. Here everyone plunks there bags down and relaxes before the three hour bus ride from Suva to Nadi. The bus we ride in is old and cranky. Its interior looks like a school bus, but with small storage overhead. There are no doors on the storage; it’s just a shelf with a metal grill affixed to the front.

The exterior looks more like a city bus, a real old one though from the nineties. This bus has windows, but it’s very common for the city buses to not be equipped with glass over the windows. There is also no door; the entrance is simply cut out and you hop on and off thus.

As per usual the bus is blasting head banging reggae and Fijian music from the moment we leave until we arrive. At first, however, the play list takes a different approach; beginning with, ‘stand by me’. The crowd is enjoyable and loud the entire trip. Everyone’s pumped for the tournament.

Sleeping conditions:

It’s late when we arrive. We’re staying in a school room for the duration of the IDC. The school rooms remind me of those from little house on the prairie. They are all single storey buildings, each housing four to five classrooms back to back. Every building surrounds a courtyard that serves as the kid’s playground. Besides grass though there is anything that can be used to play on.

With legs scratching across the floor we move the desks over to one side of the room. Everyone lays out mats across the ground. A few people actually brought tents. I find great humour in watching someone set up a tent indoors. Once all the mats are set up along the walls everyone lets out a deep breathe of relief.

Before anything else can happen however, we gather around for a prayer; a practice that will repeat itself countless times this trip and will prove to annoy me untiringly. Now I really can’t be sure whether it’s the appeal of me being a foreigner that makes them want me to lead the prayer or if it’s the appeal of me being agnostic. What is certain is that I am endlessly asked to lead the holy ceremony.

Eating Conditions:

This is probably what I’ve been most uncertain about this trip: food. Already I’m hungry and really have no idea when food is gonna happen. I brought bananas, which I finished, and green beans – also long gone. It’s late, the school looks like it’s in the middle of nowhere, and the bus that brought us here has already disappeared. It almost looks like food is a topic for another day.

I’m quite happy to find out this isn’t the case. A man that reminds me of a red label beer bottle has come along as the chef. He has long greasy black hair that’s thinning with old age. The tone of his speech is low, and even a bit slurred, but in a sober way. This man does two things: he cooks three meals a day for the team, and he drinks grog. I do three things; I support and train with the team, eat the meals which are cooked for me, and occasionally dabble in some grog.

As of yet, no one has brought up any talk of tomorrow’s game in a serious manner. We just kind of lounge around half energetically waiting for it to be late enough to turn out the lights. I play Tetris on my gameboy and challenge others to beat my high level while slow guitar melodies are played and hindi songs are sung.

After dinner – and some more prayers lead by everyone’s favourite agnostic foreigner – we turn out the lights and begin a slow decent into dreamland. In the middle of the room a coil burns, slowly poisoning the air to rid it of the less poisonous pest: mosquitoes.

Just after prayers and before lights out I’m asked to give a motivational speech, and so I tell them to dream of bright white and beautiful soccer balls bouncing across bountiful grass fields. They turn to me like I can make a difference about how they’ll perform, and I think how neither my prayer nor my words will be the difference. Nonetheless, I offer the best I can yet all the while worrying if this team will be a contender in the least.

Day 10: Where My Real Beaches At

Today I meet Dale’s boss, Robert, for the first time. He is a retired school teacher of fifteen years, currently the editor at the Fiji Daily Post, and a man of many other experiences. Though a native Fijian he grew up in Australia and thus has a light accent. He’s a bigger fellow, but not too tall. His composure is very laid back which corresponds to his character quite well.

We meet at a local coffee shop just near the paper. The routine is to meet for brekky before heading into the office. Accompanying Robert is his wife Lupe, his long standing Australian friend Collin, and Collin’s wife Pauline. Collin is a very political jokester whose jests often cross the line.

Though I don’t find out till two weeks after meeting them, the only person that is actually employed by the paper is Dale’s boss Robert; all the other people that meet for breakfast do so for the social environment. We all drink our over priced coffees and snacks, have our hellos followed by goodbyes, and disperse our separate ways. For us, a drive down to the beach with Robert and Lupe, for the others, well, whatever it is they end up doing I guess.

The drive down is no problem. We pass along the country side zooming through some villages where fruits and various foods are sold roadside. We also see some nice hotels we wish we stayed at when we first arrived in Fiji. The trip each way takes about 45 minutes. As always the roads are very open making the drive easy.

Something that quickly becomes apparent is Lupe’s knack. And it becomes abundantly obvious with each new stop along the way. Before the beach we drop in at two hotel resorts, both of which Lupe has a relative who works there. The first one is geared towards single young adults like me and Dale, while the second for families or couples.

Uprising is the first stop. It’s a large resort whose owner inherited the property from his father. He is a young man about the same age as myself, and is an innovative thinker. As were driving in to take a look around we see a rugby team playing on the front field. We drive past as they jog around, kick their rugby ball down the open pitch and flip giant tires across the grass.


The team is made up of the caretakers of the resort. The workers took up this practice en lieu of their original sport; sitting around smoking and drinking. The team has met great success, already having played in England and Rome, and are currently training for a big tournament in Australia half way through the month.

Inside the place looks great, a pool, not that we need one with the Ocean just feet away, a volley ball net, a large bar with the beach just behind it. Dale’s editors inform us that generally it’s a resort for the youths, single ones Robert even adds. Though useless to Dale, that’s good news for me!

On the way out we decide to stop and speak with the Rugby team. As a car mostly full of journalists it looks like a great opportunity to find a story. And so we pull the car over and greet the guys from Uprising.

Dale is able to get interviews with the trainer and the team captain, though we unfortunately miss the owner himself. Both gentlemen are a pleasure to talk with, and afterwards we take some team photos and get some practice demonstrations.

After showing what we have with the 300 hundred pound tire lifts I smooth talk my way into the last available spot on the roster. I do have to warn them however that I can’t yet commit to the tournament in Australia pending any pertinent plans that may come up between now and than. I of course leave out that I have no clue how to play rugby, having not so much as watched it on tv for longer than five minutes straight.

Shortly after this, and a quick stop at the second resort, we continue on our way to the highlight of the day; the beach. Just before arriving the sun comes out in full force, and things start looking picture perfect. Pacific Harbour has exactly what we want, a fresh salt water ocean, warm beach sand, and a beautiful blazing sun sitting high up in the sky. We have a great swim, run around the beach for a while, and finally shower up and call it a day. I’d like to take a moment here and note that after ten days of being in the country there still have been no shark sightings.

We get ourselves back in the car and make way for home. On the way we try and find a place to eat. Lupe got us all excited on the way up about a great fish and chips restaurant that her friend owns, but when we get there they are all out of fish. I will stop again and take another note, that while asking about the fish, one of the cute Fijian girls working at the place asks Lupe, right in front of me, if I’m single. She asks in Fijian which I of course don’t understand, but none the less I am won over by the flattery. Unfortunately we had already left by the time I find this out.

Still with empty stomachs we take off. Luckily another friend of Lupe’s owns a small café just up the road and we make a second stop here to fill our empty bellies with food. We start off with sandwiches than move onto coffee and dessert. The combination leaves us very mellow as we sit on the small patio under a standing sun.

The rest of the drive is quiet. Out of my window I watch the immense landscapes pass by. Closer to me are the wide tree covered hillsides while behind them stand the great mountain ranges that reach up through a still mist into the heavens above. It seems theatrical and unreal. I reach out for it, but can only seem to touch it with my eyes, watch it pass by and wonder what mysteries remain hidden in its thick brush.

My second impulse is to grab the camera and capture this beautiful scenery on film, which I refrain from doing. Some things that we pass by in life, or which pass us by, don’t translate into photos the way meaning can be lost in the subtitles of a foreign film. A sight connects us to a view with an evoked emotion, and thus the memory becomes a stored feeling.

Thinking back I realise that already what I felt is lost to me. Perhaps the brute strength of beauty I beheld that day stirred my primal instincts, or even brought to the surface a short surge of raw adventurous spirit. Maybe the land spoke to me with images that whispered freedom, or an undiscovered fear of the immensity of the unknown.

It’s become like remembering a dream where I knew well at the time what happened but can’t for the life of me recall the details. Afterwards I might find myself staring out into the rolling landscapes of Fiji trying one last time to feel the same way. I stand there with respect for what I see before me and try and focus on memory.

I remember being in a car and driving down a road. I remember looking out a window at massive land masses far more powerful and longstanding than I can ever be. I remember being emotionally shifted by the refractions of light hitting the back of my retina; my eyes only saw what passed by, my conscience is what caught the emotion. I realise at some point that I could stand there staring forever, and in doing so discover a truth;

lost forever is the memory, but forever standing is the mountain.