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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
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.
, 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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Day 09: Tsunami Alert!
Last night I slept horribly, the worst I’ve done since arriving in
BZzzzzzzzzz. BZzzzzzzzz. My hand lazily swatted around my face. I quickly turned over and fell back into slumber. Than again the pesky fly came buzzing around my head, shifting from one ear to the other. Again I threw my hands in the air dissuading the persistent bug away from me. Over and over he came back, and in my half conscience state I was unable to fight against him effectively. Instead I kept on swatting my hands and pillow lazily in the air wondering the entire time whether the fly was attacking me in my dreams or in real life.
Persistent and constant were the attacks. I had become quite tired and annoyed early on in this game. This bug, no bigger than a toenail clipping, was embarrassing me worse than Dale does at right foot left foot. And as my aimless flails flung fruitlessly, I began to perceive the next noise that would further hinder my sleep.
A long deep howl haunting the night repeated itself again and again somewhere far off on the small
In response to this treacherous call to the gods other creatures took onto reciting the same prayer. From all directions the noises came, some close, some far, but none as pronounced and as powerful as the first. Cleary, I thought with a groggy mind, this is no country for light sleepers.
I tossed and turned, swatted and swung. But no matter what I did the torments would not cease. All through the devils night I went from dream to wake, not knowing which was which. The full moon, as I supposed it must have been, shone a dark deep blue shadow across the land for what seemed both a day and a night combined. And when it was finally ushered away behind the tree covered mountains calmness once again returned to my side of the world.
In replace of this serenity was light; Big blasting beams of light crashing through my windows, practically burning the paper thin drapes to nothing. As if God himself had flicked a switch, my room was invaded by light like a wave coming down on a sand castle. It was morning, and with the first peace I’d felt all night it was time to wake up. Though I fought against it for as many minutes as I could, it was inevitable. I was up.
I wake to find I am not the only thing stirring at such an early hour. The phone rings, and its Dale’s newspaper. “Heading in early?” I ask him, but find the reality to be quite the opposite. “No man, they told me to stay home… there’s a tsunami warning for 
I continue to make breakfast, which turns out deliciously, while Dale checks for updates on the internet. As I flip the eggs over and get the ham and onion ready for a quick sizzling, Dale is busy finding out just how much danger we might be in.
“Good news Hart” he tells me as I bring the sandwiches and fruit bowls out to the table. “The
“Well they don’t have any updates posted yet, probably because their internets out again… or just still out.” we both have a laugh. As if just to add to the joke Dale will find out later this same day that the phones are out of order as well.
After breakfast Dale gets the call for a story to do while I laze around the house enjoying another day off. My agenda consists of studying, a little Naruto watching, an episode of The Sopranos in Spanish, and a little tedious computer troubleshooting. Not as fun as going to the beach, which was the original plan, but a good day none the less.
To finish off the night we do some grocery shopping, get delicious creamy coconut buns, and live a few more hours in the lives of
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Day Four: Wiley At O’Riley’s
For the fourth consecutive night me and Dale both wake up earlier than a motherfucker. Today we reach our longest sleep in yet, 8:30am. I’m wandering around the house just a few minutes before Dale rises, and I soon find out it’s because my room gets face blasted with light every single morning the sun rises.
Waddling into the kitchen proves very boring as we don’t have any pots, pans, utensils, cups, or cupboards full of anything but empty. In the way of basic household items we’re flat broke. But we were prepared for this, and have already sought the appropriate advice. The name of the store is: RB Patels, and they sell: everything… Dirt cheap.
The best way I can give you an idea of RB Patels is to compare it to Honest Eds. The size itself is no where near that of the famous Toronto department store, but it is similar in its other fashions. For example, the quality of merchandise is low to the point that it seems home made by someone with no idea how to manufacture such things.
So far we’ve bought two soccer balls from them. One is right now the shape of an eggplant while the other is flat and forgotten. Actually, I later cut out the two Arsenal symbols from the ball (how it ultimately became flat) and sewed one of them onto my travel bag.
However, much like Honest Eds, the store is full of brilliant finds. Our paper thin frying pan, which twists and bends every time we clean it, costs about five Canadian dollars and cooks like a million bucks. Also, the fan we bought kills the heat and was bought at a great price.
45 minutes in the store with the help of some stinky employees and we have a full kitchen set complete with two beer mugs and the most manual can opener to ever exist in the world. We leave happy customers and look no where else for basic household items.
Enough about shopping already though, that’s not the fun part. Everyone just wants to hear about the night life, and we my friends, experienced the Fiji night life wonderfully. A nice pre drink leaves us feeling limber and agile. We head out the door with a great buzz.
At the bar it doesn’t seem like anyone considers checking ID, which we couldn’t agree with more. Enough with all the rigid rules that regulate everything back in Canada, its time to just let loose and let it be.
Outside everything is lively underneath the watchful moon. People are roaming the streets in numbers, laughing, joking, hanging off each other in brotherly love. Music is echoing from the park just down the street; the banging of steel drums ricochets at piercing speeds off walls and water, blasting into the fresh night air, mixing around and creating the smell of harmony.
It’s almost a shame to leave this scene and enter into the dark chambers of O’Riley’s night club. Once inside the rhythmic island jams fade into the past as the bass banging dance crave sets in. The flavour is a mix of heavy reggae and North American club music. Dead center is a square bar, each face having a full stock of Fiji’s finest and second rate impostored brands.
The bar itself is in essence a square as well, so you can basically walk in circles and get a taste of the flavour of each side. They all differ slightly yet converge in unison as each has the same goal: to party. In some places people are playing pool or watching rugby on the big screen. Not far from them is a seated area where thick wood tables host gangs of bottles. At O’Riley’s the beer is always half full.
In other spots people are getting their groove on. This is the part of the floor where people venture into uninhibited. Their arms fly one way while their hips the other. Their hair sways side to side splashing sweat across the floor as it flicks in a sharp change of direction. As the bodies move in a blur, listening only to the beat, other busy bodies mingle endlessly all through the night.
In the middle of it all is me and Dale approaching a group of girls. “Hey, you girls look Canadian, am I right?” They look up and giggle and so we score some introductions. Some are in fact from Australia, England and Scotland, which provides a nice range of diversity.
With the new crew in hand we drink the night away, have a few laughs and even hit the dance floor. I stay here longer than Dale as his ankle makes his dancing awkward, kind of like Elaine’s moves from the classic Seinfeld episode. The dance floor, however, goes on.
Sweat is pouring out of every crevice as the body moves without rules. Under the gloomy shadows of the night club time almost feels like its fallen asleep. Time, for once, is the only one tired while we’re rearing to keep at it. Of course nothing lasts forever, and this night makes no exception to the rule.
As if waking up from a dream the lights are switched on and the music quieted. People look around awkwardly, once again remembering themselves. The entire dance floor ceases as Saturday night fever is flushed out of the system. Its time for people to leave and go to bed – well for most people it is.
We on the other hand come up with a brilliant idea. Where is music still playing in Suva, and where is beer and food still being served? The answer is Dale and Hart’s first ever after party! We load up into cabs and get rollin
g.
At the house the speakers are set to max, everyone is holding a beer and our cupboards are being pillaged of all things edible. Everything that was promised is being delivered. I bust out some freestyles to get the crowd going (see Fiji TV Cribs), and soon enough it’s a mad house. Girls are jumping on beds, breaking plates in the kitchen while guys wrestle in the sitting room or blast the soccer ball against our infamous ball wall (Also see Fiji TV Cribs).
By the time it dies down its just nearing 4am in the morning. Already our little coffee table is littered with empties, and our kitchen looks like a family of racoons have been living in it for weeks. It seems time has indeed caught up to us and we now seek rest in place of recklessness. We see the guests out of the house, and lock the gates behind us, cause this is Suva; can’t trust anyone.
Waddling into the kitchen proves very boring as we don’t have any pots, pans, utensils, cups, or cupboards full of anything but empty. In the way of basic household items we’re flat broke. But we were prepared for this, and have already sought the appropriate advice. The name of the store is: RB Patels, and they sell: everything… Dirt cheap.
The best way I can give you an idea of RB Patels is to compare it to Honest Eds. The size itself is no where near that of the famous Toronto department store, but it is similar in its other fashions. For example, the quality of merchandise is low to the point that it seems home made by someone with no idea how to manufacture such things.
So far we’ve bought two soccer balls from them. One is right now the shape of an eggplant while the other is flat and forgotten. Actually, I later cut out the two Arsenal symbols from the ball (how it ultimately became flat) and sewed one of them onto my travel bag.
However, much like Honest Eds, the store is full of brilliant finds. Our paper thin frying pan, which twists and bends every time we clean it, costs about five Canadian dollars and cooks like a million bucks. Also, the fan we bought kills the heat and was bought at a great price.
45 minutes in the store with the help of some stinky employees and we have a full kitchen set complete with two beer mugs and the most manual can opener to ever exist in the world. We leave happy customers and look no where else for basic household items.
Enough about shopping already though, that’s not the fun part. Everyone just wants to hear about the night life, and we my friends, experienced the Fiji night life wonderfully. A nice pre drink leaves us feeling limber and agile. We head out the door with a great buzz.
At the bar it doesn’t seem like anyone considers checking ID, which we couldn’t agree with more. Enough with all the rigid rules that regulate everything back in Canada, its time to just let loose and let it be.
Outside everything is lively underneath the watchful moon. People are roaming the streets in numbers, laughing, joking, hanging off each other in brotherly love. Music is echoing from the park just down the street; the banging of steel drums ricochets at piercing speeds off walls and water, blasting into the fresh night air, mixing around and creating the smell of harmony.
It’s almost a shame to leave this scene and enter into the dark chambers of O’Riley’s night club. Once inside the rhythmic island jams fade into the past as the bass banging dance crave sets in. The flavour is a mix of heavy reggae and North American club music. Dead center is a square bar, each face having a full stock of Fiji’s finest and second rate impostored brands.
The bar itself is in essence a square as well, so you can basically walk in circles and get a taste of the flavour of each side. They all differ slightly yet converge in unison as each has the same goal: to party. In some places people are playing pool or watching rugby on the big screen. Not far from them is a seated area where thick wood tables host gangs of bottles. At O’Riley’s the beer is always half full.
In other spots people are getting their groove on. This is the part of the floor where people venture into uninhibited. Their arms fly one way while their hips the other. Their hair sways side to side splashing sweat across the floor as it flicks in a sharp change of direction. As the bodies move in a blur, listening only to the beat, other busy bodies mingle endlessly all through the night.
In the middle of it all is me and Dale approaching a group of girls. “Hey, you girls look Canadian, am I right?” They look up and giggle and so we score some introductions. Some are in fact from Australia, England and Scotland, which provides a nice range of diversity.
With the new crew in hand we drink the night away, have a few laughs and even hit the dance floor. I stay here longer than Dale as his ankle makes his dancing awkward, kind of like Elaine’s moves from the classic Seinfeld episode. The dance floor, however, goes on.
Sweat is pouring out of every crevice as the body moves without rules. Under the gloomy shadows of the night club time almost feels like its fallen asleep. Time, for once, is the only one tired while we’re rearing to keep at it. Of course nothing lasts forever, and this night makes no exception to the rule.
As if waking up from a dream the lights are switched on and the music quieted. People look around awkwardly, once again remembering themselves. The entire dance floor ceases as Saturday night fever is flushed out of the system. Its time for people to leave and go to bed – well for most people it is.
We on the other hand come up with a brilliant idea. Where is music still playing in Suva, and where is beer and food still being served? The answer is Dale and Hart’s first ever after party! We load up into cabs and get rollin
g.At the house the speakers are set to max, everyone is holding a beer and our cupboards are being pillaged of all things edible. Everything that was promised is being delivered. I bust out some freestyles to get the crowd going (see Fiji TV Cribs), and soon enough it’s a mad house. Girls are jumping on beds, breaking plates in the kitchen while guys wrestle in the sitting room or blast the soccer ball against our infamous ball wall (Also see Fiji TV Cribs).
By the time it dies down its just nearing 4am in the morning. Already our little coffee table is littered with empties, and our kitchen looks like a family of racoons have been living in it for weeks. It seems time has indeed caught up to us and we now seek rest in place of recklessness. We see the guests out of the house, and lock the gates behind us, cause this is Suva; can’t trust anyone.
Day Three: Soccer Anyone?
Here’s what makes today so exciting; after two days of constant pillaging and poor service we pack our bags and leave the holiday inn for good. The total bill comes to a whopping seven hundred, forty four dollars and eighty cents. Consider now that this very amount of money is just around half a months rent for only two days lodging. The only thing that we will miss is the morning complimentary breakfast. Wait. Were those two breakfasts really complimentary?
So we’ve eaten now, we’ve packed, and we’ve checked out, and are now waiting downstairs for our agent Ohannah who promised to come and bring us to the new place. She said she had to squeeze us into her schedule as she had a few appointments that morning. But already running 45 minutes late we were getting pretty worried. After five more minutes we can’t take it anymore and resolve to call David, a local driver we came to know during our house hunting.
With only a number written down on a piece of paper we had to petition help from hotel, but I guess after taking so much from us the Holiday Inn decided it was time to give back. “You want to make a phone call to a cell phone?” the young lady at the front counter asks. I assure her this is the case. “Well those phone calls aren’t free you know”. At this point I can only imagine.
She swings the phone over to me and when I pick up the receiver she presses nine; I return her a disgruntled smile. Our guy answers, but just as this is happening Ohannah pulls up, and Basil it seems as well. “You know what, if we still need the lift I’ll ring you back. Ciao buddy.” I hand over a 20, the smallest bill I have, expecting to pay a buck or two. She returns a ten and a five and smiles smugly. At this point we can only shake our heads and leave defeated.
At the new house Mr. Singh hasn’t yet arrived so we take our luggage up into the house where it gets locked away in the third storage bedroom. After this we wait outside with our agents. Our flat is attached to others. The design is square, but the architecture unique.
At the front apartment the entrance goes into a narrow shaft heading upward. This is a support beam as he has a 2nd floor apartment, but mostly there is no 1st floor below. Under the pad is where people hang their clothes to dry, and where some excess furniture, like some chairs and a table, are kept.
Following past his house leads to our second level flat. The other two are situated underneath us. These two units are more or less two opposing rectangles, the length end of one heads into the far end of the width side of the other > _|. And finally below there is a basement apartment of a neighbour we have yet to meet.
The concrete walls are all painted white giving it a light and upbeat appearance. The broken down cars in the neighbour’s backyard, along with the rummaging street dogs constantly running amuck, contrast with the more modern look of where we live.
When Singh arrives we hand him the two envelopes, which he hands off to our agents to be counted. In each envelope are 30 fifty dollar bills, counted and recounted again and again. He has his money, so he’s happy, and we have a place to live away from that damn hotel, so we are as well. Now all we have to do is waste some time while the place gets furnished, which won’t be hard since there is a beach nearby; looks like see ya city, and hello sun!
The beach ends up being a lot closer than we thought. The bus driver stops and yells for us to get off, Dale speeds ahead, leaving me with a flimsy Styrofoam container leaking grease from the sides and spilling chicken bone and cassava over our seat. He looks back and has a laugh, only to bash his head on the bus ceiling a moment later. Everyone just stares with looks of obvious confusion.
With a hurting head and slightly damaged egos we make it to the beach only three days into the trip; having overcame every hurdle thus far made us feel invincible, and ready for some good old downtime. With sunglasses, sun screen and plenty of sunbeams we round the corner and walk down to the beach front; it was time to find out why Fiji is considered one of the most beautiful paradises in the world.
As a gentle breeze brushes over top burrowing waves, weaving salty sand into the air, our eyes freeze open in wonderment. Halfway across the earths surface, hidden away on a remote tropical island, under a fresh ripe sun we’d somehow found a beach that makes Port Stanley look like a five star resort. Our sinking hearts plunge into our stomachs extinguishing our hunger
The waves spill onto a sandless beach, washing away our hopeful hearts deep into the cold waters of the pacific. With a deep breath in and a slow release out we accept the situation. Disregarding the horrid conditions we walk across the far stretching sand bars and soak up the sun, which is the only tropical thing existent on this dismal beach front.
We look over and laugh at a stove slowly melting into the ocean, and begin to wonder, in technical terms, what it is exactly that makes a beach a beach. After a short time we easily walk away, determined to win back the day before nightfall.
Over at the flat Singh and the boys are hustling to get our palace ready. Floors are being cleaned, beds already being delivered. Curtains hung, and lights fastened to the walls. Upon returning things begin to shift in favour of a promising finish. The plan tonight; find a game of pick up soccer.
Back at the flat the order got fucked up, and another curve ball is thrown our way. “Maybe you guys get to share a bed tonight,” Sonsingh jokes with us. “look, were out of here, just make it happen,” we tell him, and sporting matching old south soccer jerseys we head to the pitch by the holiday inn, as if still searching for a single good thing to come from that place.
While making our way to the field we see many games being played at every pitch we pass. Either soccer or rugby games seem to be constantly going on, and especially in the late afternoons under the coolness of the fading sun. Winding down the road we guess which way to go and eventually make it to our destination, in front of us, instead of a broken down abandoned beach, we behold a field of grass covered in sweat, beaten down by foot prints.
Heading for the best looking game were greeted warmly. I do a few minutes of stretching while Dale kneels down and says a prayer for his last lingering ligament. We have a good run, and although were over match worse than we’ve ever experienced we earn merit through hustle and hard work. We also probably played that game harder than usual in an attempt to make up for the fact we both fell on our asses within only the first five minutes of play.
We play pass sunlight until we can barely see the ball anymore. Drenched in sweat we run the field chasing a fleeting white fuzz flying through the air, until finally someone puts their hands together and claps. The game is done. On Thursdays, as we will later come to learn, everyone sticks around a little longer for a cool down stretch and, with all our hands covering the game ball, a prayer. Today I am elected to lead the prayer. Amen.
It really gets dark in Fiji, and it does so astonishingly fast. We only know the downtown core and find ourselves guessing which ill lit side street leads home. With a random twist here and turn there we find ourselves lost, and even worse, the night begins to play tricks with us. At one intersection we stand in horror while viewing the monstrous creatures the country produces.
I jump back as I yell, “it’s a giant frog!” We circle around cautiously until our throats tighten as it slowly moves. Because were both too scared to approach the ghastly beast it takes us a good minute to realise it’s just a plastic bag. Further down that same road we find ourselves being driven back by a dog idling just outside the gate to its house.
Shrouded in fear and doubt we guess one more turn and are greeted by a familiar site! Still fumbling with navigation we begin to get a solid concept of where we are, and soon enough are en route home. The darkness seems less consuming now, and the street lights just that much brighter. By the time we get onto Rewa were feeling pretty damn good. Spotted from a distance, at what must be close to nine at night, we see a truly magical site; from out of a big yellow rup`s truck the boys are unloading the second bed into our flat. Sorry Dale, but looks like you’ll have to do without my company tonight.
So we’ve eaten now, we’ve packed, and we’ve checked out, and are now waiting downstairs for our agent Ohannah who promised to come and bring us to the new place. She said she had to squeeze us into her schedule as she had a few appointments that morning. But already running 45 minutes late we were getting pretty worried. After five more minutes we can’t take it anymore and resolve to call David, a local driver we came to know during our house hunting.
With only a number written down on a piece of paper we had to petition help from hotel, but I guess after taking so much from us the Holiday Inn decided it was time to give back. “You want to make a phone call to a cell phone?” the young lady at the front counter asks. I assure her this is the case. “Well those phone calls aren’t free you know”. At this point I can only imagine.
She swings the phone over to me and when I pick up the receiver she presses nine; I return her a disgruntled smile. Our guy answers, but just as this is happening Ohannah pulls up, and Basil it seems as well. “You know what, if we still need the lift I’ll ring you back. Ciao buddy.” I hand over a 20, the smallest bill I have, expecting to pay a buck or two. She returns a ten and a five and smiles smugly. At this point we can only shake our heads and leave defeated.
At the new house Mr. Singh hasn’t yet arrived so we take our luggage up into the house where it gets locked away in the third storage bedroom. After this we wait outside with our agents. Our flat is attached to others. The design is square, but the architecture unique.
At the front apartment the entrance goes into a narrow shaft heading upward. This is a support beam as he has a 2nd floor apartment, but mostly there is no 1st floor below. Under the pad is where people hang their clothes to dry, and where some excess furniture, like some chairs and a table, are kept.
Following past his house leads to our second level flat. The other two are situated underneath us. These two units are more or less two opposing rectangles, the length end of one heads into the far end of the width side of the other > _|. And finally below there is a basement apartment of a neighbour we have yet to meet.
The concrete walls are all painted white giving it a light and upbeat appearance. The broken down cars in the neighbour’s backyard, along with the rummaging street dogs constantly running amuck, contrast with the more modern look of where we live.
When Singh arrives we hand him the two envelopes, which he hands off to our agents to be counted. In each envelope are 30 fifty dollar bills, counted and recounted again and again. He has his money, so he’s happy, and we have a place to live away from that damn hotel, so we are as well. Now all we have to do is waste some time while the place gets furnished, which won’t be hard since there is a beach nearby; looks like see ya city, and hello sun!
The beach ends up being a lot closer than we thought. The bus driver stops and yells for us to get off, Dale speeds ahead, leaving me with a flimsy Styrofoam container leaking grease from the sides and spilling chicken bone and cassava over our seat. He looks back and has a laugh, only to bash his head on the bus ceiling a moment later. Everyone just stares with looks of obvious confusion.
With a hurting head and slightly damaged egos we make it to the beach only three days into the trip; having overcame every hurdle thus far made us feel invincible, and ready for some good old downtime. With sunglasses, sun screen and plenty of sunbeams we round the corner and walk down to the beach front; it was time to find out why Fiji is considered one of the most beautiful paradises in the world.
As a gentle breeze brushes over top burrowing waves, weaving salty sand into the air, our eyes freeze open in wonderment. Halfway across the earths surface, hidden away on a remote tropical island, under a fresh ripe sun we’d somehow found a beach that makes Port Stanley look like a five star resort. Our sinking hearts plunge into our stomachs extinguishing our hunger
The waves spill onto a sandless beach, washing away our hopeful hearts deep into the cold waters of the pacific. With a deep breath in and a slow release out we accept the situation. Disregarding the horrid conditions we walk across the far stretching sand bars and soak up the sun, which is the only tropical thing existent on this dismal beach front.
We look over and laugh at a stove slowly melting into the ocean, and begin to wonder, in technical terms, what it is exactly that makes a beach a beach. After a short time we easily walk away, determined to win back the day before nightfall.
Over at the flat Singh and the boys are hustling to get our palace ready. Floors are being cleaned, beds already being delivered. Curtains hung, and lights fastened to the walls. Upon returning things begin to shift in favour of a promising finish. The plan tonight; find a game of pick up soccer.
Back at the flat the order got fucked up, and another curve ball is thrown our way. “Maybe you guys get to share a bed tonight,” Sonsingh jokes with us. “look, were out of here, just make it happen,” we tell him, and sporting matching old south soccer jerseys we head to the pitch by the holiday inn, as if still searching for a single good thing to come from that place.
While making our way to the field we see many games being played at every pitch we pass. Either soccer or rugby games seem to be constantly going on, and especially in the late afternoons under the coolness of the fading sun. Winding down the road we guess which way to go and eventually make it to our destination, in front of us, instead of a broken down abandoned beach, we behold a field of grass covered in sweat, beaten down by foot prints.
Heading for the best looking game were greeted warmly. I do a few minutes of stretching while Dale kneels down and says a prayer for his last lingering ligament. We have a good run, and although were over match worse than we’ve ever experienced we earn merit through hustle and hard work. We also probably played that game harder than usual in an attempt to make up for the fact we both fell on our asses within only the first five minutes of play.
We play pass sunlight until we can barely see the ball anymore. Drenched in sweat we run the field chasing a fleeting white fuzz flying through the air, until finally someone puts their hands together and claps. The game is done. On Thursdays, as we will later come to learn, everyone sticks around a little longer for a cool down stretch and, with all our hands covering the game ball, a prayer. Today I am elected to lead the prayer. Amen.
It really gets dark in Fiji, and it does so astonishingly fast. We only know the downtown core and find ourselves guessing which ill lit side street leads home. With a random twist here and turn there we find ourselves lost, and even worse, the night begins to play tricks with us. At one intersection we stand in horror while viewing the monstrous creatures the country produces.
I jump back as I yell, “it’s a giant frog!” We circle around cautiously until our throats tighten as it slowly moves. Because were both too scared to approach the ghastly beast it takes us a good minute to realise it’s just a plastic bag. Further down that same road we find ourselves being driven back by a dog idling just outside the gate to its house.
Shrouded in fear and doubt we guess one more turn and are greeted by a familiar site! Still fumbling with navigation we begin to get a solid concept of where we are, and soon enough are en route home. The darkness seems less consuming now, and the street lights just that much brighter. By the time we get onto Rewa were feeling pretty damn good. Spotted from a distance, at what must be close to nine at night, we see a truly magical site; from out of a big yellow rup`s truck the boys are unloading the second bed into our flat. Sorry Dale, but looks like you’ll have to do without my company tonight.
Day Two: Big Bank Business
Getting up early today me and Dale are eager to take a second look at the two places we were still interested in. Though I thought that both had an equal shot, Dale seemed very adamant about taking the larger more expensive flat. We get up and do our respective morning routines. Not wanting to be late for our apartment viewing appointments we were both dressed and ready to go with ample time to spare.
9:00 O’clock was the agreed upon time to meet up. We wandered downstairs but saw no sign of our agents. I can no longer remember what we did between 9:00 and 11:00 when they finally arrived, but none the less after two hours of waiting we went off to 32 Rewa St. to haggle a price for our future home.
Mr. Singh is the owner of this flat, though we have yet to meet him. So far we’ve only met the younger “SonSingh” as we have come to call him. He is of course the assumed son of his property owning father. His general attitude is laid back. He doesn’t care much for haggling or making executive decisions. It seems that he is told a price, and that’s what he offers.
Dale and I of course came ready to play some hard ball. Along with furnishing we wanted some cutlery too, though we didn’t get it. We needed a washing machine to do laundry, but didn’t get that either. We asked for queen size mattresses but got doubles. We demand the house be properly cleaned and so “the boys” are sent in with nothing more than napkins and elbow grease.
Request after request gets denied. Finally we demand that the electricity be taken care of. It seemed though that every pitch we throw at them they can throw one back even harder. “How about we keep the electricity in our name so you don’t have to register with the electrical company who requires a 500 FJD dollar deposit.” So it seems they can play too.
But no, we refused to let this one go. “That’s a bully tactic” I burst, than Dale backs me up with, “Not to mention that we don’t even own a TV so there’s no way the bill will be very high” We could tell they were getting onto our side of the fence. “Ok fine” I continue, not wanting to lose control of the ball again, “how about this, you will agree to pay the bill up to and no higher than 50 bucks. Anything after that and we’ll take care of it.”
SonSingh still somehow seems disinterested in anything but the original deal, and he even looks a bit perturbed at having to haggle at all. “Ok” he says after some quiet deliberation, “but I’ll have to talk it over with my father”, and so we go our separate ways. Him to talk business with his father; our agents presumably to show flats to other clients… or drink kava; and finally Dale and me to go get some spicy tuna wraps from the local street vendor.
Though we haven’t discovered them yet, the 1 dollar spicy tuna wraps will prove to become a quick favourite of our trip. We refuse the ride offered by our agents and decide instead to take a walk downtown, first to discover the mouth burning tuna wraps, and later to use the internet and take care of some important window shopping.
After having had another event filled day we rest back at the hotel. We get word from our agents within an hour of arriving and are pleased to hear that Mr. Singh has agreed to our terms. To finalize the deal we simply need to get him the first months rent and a security deposit for tomorrow so that he can get the boys working on getting the flat ready for us…
Sounds simple enough, but for security reasons most of Dale’s money is locked away in an inaccessible savings account, while mine is being blockaded by a withdrawal limit. We currently need to hand over 3`000 Fijian dollars, while we only have access to maybe half that. After much pondering and worrying we resolve to call the bank.
Our first idea is to call through the hotel phone, though we were understandably concerned that the call could easily cost us another 3`000 more just to get access to that very amount of money. Our second idea is to use Skype, which has been known to cut out at times and become useless.
Regardless we sign up for another hour of internet and dial out the 1-800 number. Dale is asked to enter his bank card number but soon realizes he’s not using a touch tone phone, but instead a computer. We wait impatiently and with diminishing hope that we might get transferred…
Eventually that does happen and we are filled with glee when the other line asks how they can help us. We answer excitedly “Please don’t hang up were calling from Fiji”. But we neglect to take the phone delay into consideration: the other line has already gone dead. Mierda!
On our second attempt we get the guys attention and proceed with the problem. Already there are notable problems in the connection. Were repeating things twice and we can tell in the guy’s voice that he’s losing patience with us.
Until giving the card number everything was looking doable, at this point however the phone call falls to pieces. “Hello” he repeats over and over again. Though we try our hardest to communicate, skype just won’t let it happen. We plea with him over and over to remain on the line, but finally with an apology the line goes dead. The room falls deaf; we sink in defeat.
We try a third time but with my computer now and all our previous troubles wash away like the low tied washes into the ocean. Dale ups his daily withdrawal limit and connects his savings account to his checking so that it can be accessed instantly.
Than all of a sudden she can no longer hear us. We try desperately but to no avail. We talk louder, and into every part of the keyboard but fail to be heard on the other line. We give up, it’s not possible, it’s just not meant to be, than from the computer we hear the most beautiful words. “Thank you Mr. Carruthers for using TD, I hope you can still hear me. I have changed your withdrawal limit and connected your savings and checking accounts. Have a wonderful stay in Fiji. ” Victory!
We suit up for big business before heading to the bank. It’s now night time, we’re in a foreign country, and were about to have excess of 3’000 Fijian dollars on our persons. I wear a money belt underneath my brown jeans and am practising using the zippers while Dale gets his gear together. Feeling well prepared we get going.
The first danger we perceive happens shortly after leaving the hotel. While walking past a small, dark empty park we both notice a figure creep from behind a tree and begin to follow our path. We quickly pick up the pace without looking back and take refuge in a local McDonalds. While inside we’re amused to find out that they sell chicken drumsticks at the Micky dees in Fiji!
Having averted that danger we cross the street and walk another few blocks to the AZN bank of Australia. We scope out where police are stationed and a nice hidden nook where we plan to stash the money in my pouch. Just as were feeling comfortable some motley looking chara
cters cross the street horizontal like towards the same machines we were planning to use.
We quickly divert from the transaction and head around the corner where a couple officers just happen to be arriving. “Bula” they say, and we respond likewise. “Where are you guys from?” We tell them were from Canada and that were doing some writing while staying in Suva. “Oh really, for how long”, we stay here and conversate with them for a few minutes
During the convo I peek around the corner and notice the two dudes just hanging around and talking to a street beggar nearby the cash machines. ‘That’s weird’ I think to myself. After a few minutes the two officers continue their walk, scaring off the two hoodlums in the process.
The machine spits out the first 2’000 dollars and I quickly shovel it into my pouch and zip it up, though I fumble with the zipper a little. After the first transaction I go to make mine. I put my pin in, select current account and type the amount in; 1’200. I look over my shoulders cautiously and than back at the ATM screen; Transaction exceeds daily withdrawal limit. Mierda!
The only option is to go back to the holiday inn, buy another internet session from the thieving hotel, and gain access to the money. Tired and annoyed we get along with it. At the end of the night we place 3’000 Fijian dollars in the safe and turn out the lights.
9:00 O’clock was the agreed upon time to meet up. We wandered downstairs but saw no sign of our agents. I can no longer remember what we did between 9:00 and 11:00 when they finally arrived, but none the less after two hours of waiting we went off to 32 Rewa St. to haggle a price for our future home.
Mr. Singh is the owner of this flat, though we have yet to meet him. So far we’ve only met the younger “SonSingh” as we have come to call him. He is of course the assumed son of his property owning father. His general attitude is laid back. He doesn’t care much for haggling or making executive decisions. It seems that he is told a price, and that’s what he offers.
Dale and I of course came ready to play some hard ball. Along with furnishing we wanted some cutlery too, though we didn’t get it. We needed a washing machine to do laundry, but didn’t get that either. We asked for queen size mattresses but got doubles. We demand the house be properly cleaned and so “the boys” are sent in with nothing more than napkins and elbow grease.
Request after request gets denied. Finally we demand that the electricity be taken care of. It seemed though that every pitch we throw at them they can throw one back even harder. “How about we keep the electricity in our name so you don’t have to register with the electrical company who requires a 500 FJD dollar deposit.” So it seems they can play too.
But no, we refused to let this one go. “That’s a bully tactic” I burst, than Dale backs me up with, “Not to mention that we don’t even own a TV so there’s no way the bill will be very high” We could tell they were getting onto our side of the fence. “Ok fine” I continue, not wanting to lose control of the ball again, “how about this, you will agree to pay the bill up to and no higher than 50 bucks. Anything after that and we’ll take care of it.”
SonSingh still somehow seems disinterested in anything but the original deal, and he even looks a bit perturbed at having to haggle at all. “Ok” he says after some quiet deliberation, “but I’ll have to talk it over with my father”, and so we go our separate ways. Him to talk business with his father; our agents presumably to show flats to other clients… or drink kava; and finally Dale and me to go get some spicy tuna wraps from the local street vendor.
Though we haven’t discovered them yet, the 1 dollar spicy tuna wraps will prove to become a quick favourite of our trip. We refuse the ride offered by our agents and decide instead to take a walk downtown, first to discover the mouth burning tuna wraps, and later to use the internet and take care of some important window shopping.
After having had another event filled day we rest back at the hotel. We get word from our agents within an hour of arriving and are pleased to hear that Mr. Singh has agreed to our terms. To finalize the deal we simply need to get him the first months rent and a security deposit for tomorrow so that he can get the boys working on getting the flat ready for us…
Sounds simple enough, but for security reasons most of Dale’s money is locked away in an inaccessible savings account, while mine is being blockaded by a withdrawal limit. We currently need to hand over 3`000 Fijian dollars, while we only have access to maybe half that. After much pondering and worrying we resolve to call the bank.
Our first idea is to call through the hotel phone, though we were understandably concerned that the call could easily cost us another 3`000 more just to get access to that very amount of money. Our second idea is to use Skype, which has been known to cut out at times and become useless.
Regardless we sign up for another hour of internet and dial out the 1-800 number. Dale is asked to enter his bank card number but soon realizes he’s not using a touch tone phone, but instead a computer. We wait impatiently and with diminishing hope that we might get transferred…
Eventually that does happen and we are filled with glee when the other line asks how they can help us. We answer excitedly “Please don’t hang up were calling from Fiji”. But we neglect to take the phone delay into consideration: the other line has already gone dead. Mierda!
On our second attempt we get the guys attention and proceed with the problem. Already there are notable problems in the connection. Were repeating things twice and we can tell in the guy’s voice that he’s losing patience with us.
Until giving the card number everything was looking doable, at this point however the phone call falls to pieces. “Hello” he repeats over and over again. Though we try our hardest to communicate, skype just won’t let it happen. We plea with him over and over to remain on the line, but finally with an apology the line goes dead. The room falls deaf; we sink in defeat.
We try a third time but with my computer now and all our previous troubles wash away like the low tied washes into the ocean. Dale ups his daily withdrawal limit and connects his savings account to his checking so that it can be accessed instantly.
Than all of a sudden she can no longer hear us. We try desperately but to no avail. We talk louder, and into every part of the keyboard but fail to be heard on the other line. We give up, it’s not possible, it’s just not meant to be, than from the computer we hear the most beautiful words. “Thank you Mr. Carruthers for using TD, I hope you can still hear me. I have changed your withdrawal limit and connected your savings and checking accounts. Have a wonderful stay in Fiji. ” Victory!
We suit up for big business before heading to the bank. It’s now night time, we’re in a foreign country, and were about to have excess of 3’000 Fijian dollars on our persons. I wear a money belt underneath my brown jeans and am practising using the zippers while Dale gets his gear together. Feeling well prepared we get going.
The first danger we perceive happens shortly after leaving the hotel. While walking past a small, dark empty park we both notice a figure creep from behind a tree and begin to follow our path. We quickly pick up the pace without looking back and take refuge in a local McDonalds. While inside we’re amused to find out that they sell chicken drumsticks at the Micky dees in Fiji!
Having averted that danger we cross the street and walk another few blocks to the AZN bank of Australia. We scope out where police are stationed and a nice hidden nook where we plan to stash the money in my pouch. Just as were feeling comfortable some motley looking chara
cters cross the street horizontal like towards the same machines we were planning to use.We quickly divert from the transaction and head around the corner where a couple officers just happen to be arriving. “Bula” they say, and we respond likewise. “Where are you guys from?” We tell them were from Canada and that were doing some writing while staying in Suva. “Oh really, for how long”, we stay here and conversate with them for a few minutes
During the convo I peek around the corner and notice the two dudes just hanging around and talking to a street beggar nearby the cash machines. ‘That’s weird’ I think to myself. After a few minutes the two officers continue their walk, scaring off the two hoodlums in the process.
The machine spits out the first 2’000 dollars and I quickly shovel it into my pouch and zip it up, though I fumble with the zipper a little. After the first transaction I go to make mine. I put my pin in, select current account and type the amount in; 1’200. I look over my shoulders cautiously and than back at the ATM screen; Transaction exceeds daily withdrawal limit. Mierda!
The only option is to go back to the holiday inn, buy another internet session from the thieving hotel, and gain access to the money. Tired and annoyed we get along with it. At the end of the night we place 3’000 Fijian dollars in the safe and turn out the lights.
Day One: The fight against jet lag
It’s not the first flight that gets you. You get on, eat a bite of food, indulge in some complimentary orange juice portions and relax to an annoyingly bad movie. Not as bad as the likes of ‘Drag Me to Hell’ but something delivering a similar numbness. When you leave that plane you realize the real journey begins. It’s already 11:45 p.m. in your head, although a clock is claiming the actual time to be 45 past 9, and there are still two more hours until the next flight leaves making it seven hours of total travelled time from the point of the next take off. What was just endured therefore is only about 1/3rd of the entire trip.
Seat straight up for take off please, dinner trays in their upright positions. An exit here, and another one there. Apply the oxygen mask like this, and pull the life jacket strings as I’m doing now. Be careful to only pull one at first and than the second one when you exit the plane. An hour turns into two hours of travel time and it is noticed; Two hours turns into three and its account is once again registered. Going from three to four hours is a little bit shakier. After this points it’s just minutes ticking away on a clock, the second hand running lap after lap after lap.
Twelve hours time is more than ample to become accustomed to the view of the back of the chair ahead of you. The food is mediocre, the personal video screen choppy, while the audio is altogether unavailable. The legs are cramped and the lining up and waiting are still far from over. Still waiting ahead is getting off the plane and retrieving checked baggage in order to go through final customs so a price for a cab for the last three hour leg can be haggled. Don’t worry about being tired now because not too far ahead exhaustion is waiting patiently. “Whenever you’re ready” he says nonchalantly.
“Bula” they say with big smiles and open arms. So early, I think. It’s so early. Current Fiji time is 5:00am on a cloudy Tuesday morning, though we’re still stuck in the past, about 20 hours or so to be exact. However the plane leg of the journey is finally over, and the rest will be traveled by either bus or car.
“How much does a cab cost?”
“Where can we get the bus headed for Suva?”
We say $100 even and they laugh. They insist $180 and we disagree. We talk to one group of people and than move onto the next. It looks like were gonna be saving some money by taking the bus after all. 10 Fiji dollars, which is equal to about $5.50 Canadian, is a deal that’s hard to pass up.
After some bus inquiries we find ourselves once again haggling for a cab. This time a price is agreed upon. Things are looking great. I go convert some U.S. currency into local Fijian bills while Dale investigates an accepted offer of 130 for the ride. The driver’s plates are white. The embassy warns us not to get into any vehicle not bearing the registered yellow plates.
I can’t tell you what would happen if one were to venture into a car as such, but what can be said by our experience is that going with the advice you’re given can get you a safe cab ride where you need to go, and by being firm you can do so for a lower price. Though we didn’t know it at the time – 140 dollars for a three hour drive is an extremely fruitful day for a local Fijian cab driver. With the car loaded, were ready to go.
I can’t properly explain the landscape as we drive down a windy road alongside a hilly terrain. The great ocean peaks out intermittently to our right while great forested mountain ranges, which are nestled comfortably to our left, sit untouchably far off in the horizon. We bought some duty free beers at the airport, and even though it’s just peaking at six in the morning we’re feeling rather thirsty, just not sure if it’s legal or not.
“Is it legal for us to drink beers right now?”
The driver looks back and gives us an answer that will prove to repeat itself in the future. “It’s legal if you don’t get caught and it’s not legal if you do”. Satisfied with the answer we crack open some brews.
Our tired brains are livened by the sites of this new land. The sun finally peeks out from behind the clouds. Were cruising along making good time when all of a sudden, and definitely without warning, the cab pulls over to the side of the road at what looks like a bus shelter. As if completely normal, a man waiting there gets into share our cab. The cab driver greets him and starts down the road again while we look at each other uncertainly.
Not wanting to be rude we greet our new guest, and than make a video to document the event. His name is Bobo and he is an engineer on his way to work. For him it’s scarcely seven a.m. on a Tuesday morning while for us it’s still sometime mid-afternoon on Monday. Between the time zones we moved through travelling to the west coast and than the International Date Line en route to Fiji it’s hard to have a solid concept of time at all. Although our internal clocks are off our spirits are bang on.
We chat light heartedly as we move along the road. Another bottle is cracked and beer drank. Bobo eventually gets out but not before handing us a number. If we’re ever visiting where he’s from he advises us on where to stay. “I will get you the local rate” he tells us, and off to work he goes. Once again it’s just us and the driver, or at least for the time being.
We finish our remaining beers as the sun escapes behind large clouds. The rain begins to come down in a constant pour. Not long after the rain begins, our driver stops to pick up a female passenger – this time less surprising to both of us. In a short while she too is dropped off. The rain patters against the car as the road goes by, and eventually our heads rest into a slumber.
We awake in Suva, a lively industrial center that’s littered with paint chipped buildings, unkept storefronts and strange and new funky smells. We realise without saying so that this is no paradise. But does such a thing even exist? It’s only yet to become paradise because we haven’t had the time to make it into such a thing. Good-bye driver and random passengers on the way, and hello Suva.
We check into a hotel where Dale almost forgets to ask the price for staying. This is Fiji and it’s bound to be cheap. She smiles and says it will cost 225$, which is roughly 150 Canadian. Already were getting ripped off. Though it’s unknown to us right now the hotel will slowly be picking away at our wallets with everything we do aside from breathing. Internet – extra cost, local calls – extra cost, incoming calls – extra cost, long distance calls – EXTRA COST.
Though very perplexing to them, we spent most of our time at the hotel ordering extra towels. Not wanting to be left completely broke after our stay we had to entertain ourselves with the few things that didn’t cost any money. Ordering extra towels was one of those things. Having built up a decent sized collection we set off to explore our new city, and so we trek off onto the streets of Suva, Fiji.
To our one side are the long beaches with the infinite ocean behind it, taking a quick note here that these beaches are far from the pristine beaches you may have in mind, and to our other side downtown Suva. Between the dull colored sand, riddled with rocks and branches, and the absolute vacancy of any people it wasn’t looking like a place where we’d be spending much time.
Continuing down the street we find ourselves almost run over by a car leaving a parking lot, and than again just a short time later while crossing the street. There was even an elderly women walking beside us the second time. We promptly conclude that we wouldn’t be fighting cars for the right of way while in Fiji.
During the walk an old man joins us offering some friendly insights. We chat and walk and soon enough he is pulling out things to sell us. He tries his hardest to get all the money we have with little avail. We take a souvenir from his bag and leave him with eight Fijian dollars and a sullen looking face. He has been hit by the sadness.
We stop in at the local Australian bank and try and set up accounts. Without addresses not much can be done and we too find ourselves struck by the sadness. Deciding that it’s been a good first outing we head on home. En route we stop in to buy some items we didn’t pack, a little food and even do some window shopping.
When we don’t make a purchase we start to notice a melancholy sadness deeply effecting whoever wasn’t able to take possession of our money. At a surf shop we enquire about prices and places yet leave without a surf board in our hands. The shop keeper is stunned by our decision and remains motionless as we exit. Having our own agendas to keep we can’t wait around and see how long the sadness lasts for; instead, we are forced to wonder if these people will ever recover.
It turns out there is a name for the syndrome: Tourist window shopping depression (TWSD). To us, it seems to have struck more swiftly than the swine flu in Mexico, but for all we know it may have been terrorizing local Fijians for years past. Though shopping was fun we have much more important business to conduct.
Next thing on the list is finding a place to live. We make the appropriate calls and take some much needed rest while we wait to meet with our real estate agent, Basil. Waking up from a good nap we dress and go to meet him downstairs. We wait in the lobby almost half an hour later than we agreed upon, but see no sign of the missing agent. Tired and annoyed we become fidgety. After almost reaching our limits we figure out what the problem is: We’re on Standard punctual Canadian time, and well, he’s on “when I get there island Fiji time.”
He does eventually get to our hotel and with that we take off to look at apartments. The first place is big and furnished but in a bad area. The first red light came up when Dale asked if the area is safe, the owner, with no emotion in his face, responds “it’s safe in here.” He was being serious and that ended any further discussion.
The next few flats are nowhere near our Canadian living standards. One had a small bathroom with a showerhead right in the middle and a drain underneath. The entire bathroom WAS the shower. Though not the best start, we do finally see a couple of apartments that show good promise. We discuss the terms and the last thing remaining is to see them both again and make a final decision. Our first day in Fiji is almost done, but not before an introduction to the much anticipated Kava.
For those who have never sampled the Fijian delicacy, it’s a drink that’s described as “comfortably numb.” With a small hand scooper portions are handed out of a bigger basin. Our first experience was at our real estate agent’s house. We sit around the basin with Basil and his friends while listening to Indian style tunes. One guy is the scooper while everyone else waits to be served. Guests are served first, and than the others. Everybody claps when a drink is taken. As I take a chug of the brew I ask if it’s ever served hot to which I’m told, “Oh yah! It’s always served hot”. We all have as laugh as we drink down the cold kava.
With a numb mouth and throat we get dropped off at our hotel, but with adventurous spirits yearning to discover more of what secrets lay within the Kava we head out downtown. Walking up and down the main street renders no results, and we soon give up and head home. While stopping for some brownies to munch on at a local variety we unexpectedly encounter what we just gave up on seeking: Kava. We hand over five dollars and than sit in a narrow, sweaty and poorly ventilated backroom. Again, listening to melodic Indian music, and again sipping down the cool liquid contents.
With the owners and some other old Fijians already in the back, under unknown circumstances, we sit around and have kava. This time it’s served in a plastic bucket, instead of the nicely wood carved basin from before. Dale and I later joke that it should have “kava” written on the side. One guy sits there the entire time without saying anything. We thought he was going to a few times, but in the end no words were ever uttered.
As seems to be the culture, we sit around listening to music, share a laugh and, of course, get numb. While splitting a brownie in half Dale drops his piece on the ground. We both look at each other and break into laughter, after which the piece is consumed. Finally we get kava to go, and finish off the night poolside back at the hotel – this time with our own music playing. Selected by Dale, and quite fittingly, we end our first day in Fiji, after 25 hours of traveling and 36 hours without sleeping, to “comfortably numb” by Pink Floyd. Bula
Seat straight up for take off please, dinner trays in their upright positions. An exit here, and another one there. Apply the oxygen mask like this, and pull the life jacket strings as I’m doing now. Be careful to only pull one at first and than the second one when you exit the plane. An hour turns into two hours of travel time and it is noticed; Two hours turns into three and its account is once again registered. Going from three to four hours is a little bit shakier. After this points it’s just minutes ticking away on a clock, the second hand running lap after lap after lap.
Twelve hours time is more than ample to become accustomed to the view of the back of the chair ahead of you. The food is mediocre, the personal video screen choppy, while the audio is altogether unavailable. The legs are cramped and the lining up and waiting are still far from over. Still waiting ahead is getting off the plane and retrieving checked baggage in order to go through final customs so a price for a cab for the last three hour leg can be haggled. Don’t worry about being tired now because not too far ahead exhaustion is waiting patiently. “Whenever you’re ready” he says nonchalantly.
“Bula” they say with big smiles and open arms. So early, I think. It’s so early. Current Fiji time is 5:00am on a cloudy Tuesday morning, though we’re still stuck in the past, about 20 hours or so to be exact. However the plane leg of the journey is finally over, and the rest will be traveled by either bus or car.
“How much does a cab cost?”
“Where can we get the bus headed for Suva?”
We say $100 even and they laugh. They insist $180 and we disagree. We talk to one group of people and than move onto the next. It looks like were gonna be saving some money by taking the bus after all. 10 Fiji dollars, which is equal to about $5.50 Canadian, is a deal that’s hard to pass up.
After some bus inquiries we find ourselves once again haggling for a cab. This time a price is agreed upon. Things are looking great. I go convert some U.S. currency into local Fijian bills while Dale investigates an accepted offer of 130 for the ride. The driver’s plates are white. The embassy warns us not to get into any vehicle not bearing the registered yellow plates.
I can’t tell you what would happen if one were to venture into a car as such, but what can be said by our experience is that going with the advice you’re given can get you a safe cab ride where you need to go, and by being firm you can do so for a lower price. Though we didn’t know it at the time – 140 dollars for a three hour drive is an extremely fruitful day for a local Fijian cab driver. With the car loaded, were ready to go.
I can’t properly explain the landscape as we drive down a windy road alongside a hilly terrain. The great ocean peaks out intermittently to our right while great forested mountain ranges, which are nestled comfortably to our left, sit untouchably far off in the horizon. We bought some duty free beers at the airport, and even though it’s just peaking at six in the morning we’re feeling rather thirsty, just not sure if it’s legal or not.
“Is it legal for us to drink beers right now?”
The driver looks back and gives us an answer that will prove to repeat itself in the future. “It’s legal if you don’t get caught and it’s not legal if you do”. Satisfied with the answer we crack open some brews.
Our tired brains are livened by the sites of this new land. The sun finally peeks out from behind the clouds. Were cruising along making good time when all of a sudden, and definitely without warning, the cab pulls over to the side of the road at what looks like a bus shelter. As if completely normal, a man waiting there gets into share our cab. The cab driver greets him and starts down the road again while we look at each other uncertainly.
Not wanting to be rude we greet our new guest, and than make a video to document the event. His name is Bobo and he is an engineer on his way to work. For him it’s scarcely seven a.m. on a Tuesday morning while for us it’s still sometime mid-afternoon on Monday. Between the time zones we moved through travelling to the west coast and than the International Date Line en route to Fiji it’s hard to have a solid concept of time at all. Although our internal clocks are off our spirits are bang on.
We chat light heartedly as we move along the road. Another bottle is cracked and beer drank. Bobo eventually gets out but not before handing us a number. If we’re ever visiting where he’s from he advises us on where to stay. “I will get you the local rate” he tells us, and off to work he goes. Once again it’s just us and the driver, or at least for the time being.
We finish our remaining beers as the sun escapes behind large clouds. The rain begins to come down in a constant pour. Not long after the rain begins, our driver stops to pick up a female passenger – this time less surprising to both of us. In a short while she too is dropped off. The rain patters against the car as the road goes by, and eventually our heads rest into a slumber.
We awake in Suva, a lively industrial center that’s littered with paint chipped buildings, unkept storefronts and strange and new funky smells. We realise without saying so that this is no paradise. But does such a thing even exist? It’s only yet to become paradise because we haven’t had the time to make it into such a thing. Good-bye driver and random passengers on the way, and hello Suva.
We check into a hotel where Dale almost forgets to ask the price for staying. This is Fiji and it’s bound to be cheap. She smiles and says it will cost 225$, which is roughly 150 Canadian. Already were getting ripped off. Though it’s unknown to us right now the hotel will slowly be picking away at our wallets with everything we do aside from breathing. Internet – extra cost, local calls – extra cost, incoming calls – extra cost, long distance calls – EXTRA COST.
Though very perplexing to them, we spent most of our time at the hotel ordering extra towels. Not wanting to be left completely broke after our stay we had to entertain ourselves with the few things that didn’t cost any money. Ordering extra towels was one of those things. Having built up a decent sized collection we set off to explore our new city, and so we trek off onto the streets of Suva, Fiji.
To our one side are the long beaches with the infinite ocean behind it, taking a quick note here that these beaches are far from the pristine beaches you may have in mind, and to our other side downtown Suva. Between the dull colored sand, riddled with rocks and branches, and the absolute vacancy of any people it wasn’t looking like a place where we’d be spending much time.
Continuing down the street we find ourselves almost run over by a car leaving a parking lot, and than again just a short time later while crossing the street. There was even an elderly women walking beside us the second time. We promptly conclude that we wouldn’t be fighting cars for the right of way while in Fiji.
During the walk an old man joins us offering some friendly insights. We chat and walk and soon enough he is pulling out things to sell us. He tries his hardest to get all the money we have with little avail. We take a souvenir from his bag and leave him with eight Fijian dollars and a sullen looking face. He has been hit by the sadness.
We stop in at the local Australian bank and try and set up accounts. Without addresses not much can be done and we too find ourselves struck by the sadness. Deciding that it’s been a good first outing we head on home. En route we stop in to buy some items we didn’t pack, a little food and even do some window shopping.
When we don’t make a purchase we start to notice a melancholy sadness deeply effecting whoever wasn’t able to take possession of our money. At a surf shop we enquire about prices and places yet leave without a surf board in our hands. The shop keeper is stunned by our decision and remains motionless as we exit. Having our own agendas to keep we can’t wait around and see how long the sadness lasts for; instead, we are forced to wonder if these people will ever recover.
It turns out there is a name for the syndrome: Tourist window shopping depression (TWSD). To us, it seems to have struck more swiftly than the swine flu in Mexico, but for all we know it may have been terrorizing local Fijians for years past. Though shopping was fun we have much more important business to conduct.
Next thing on the list is finding a place to live. We make the appropriate calls and take some much needed rest while we wait to meet with our real estate agent, Basil. Waking up from a good nap we dress and go to meet him downstairs. We wait in the lobby almost half an hour later than we agreed upon, but see no sign of the missing agent. Tired and annoyed we become fidgety. After almost reaching our limits we figure out what the problem is: We’re on Standard punctual Canadian time, and well, he’s on “when I get there island Fiji time.”
He does eventually get to our hotel and with that we take off to look at apartments. The first place is big and furnished but in a bad area. The first red light came up when Dale asked if the area is safe, the owner, with no emotion in his face, responds “it’s safe in here.” He was being serious and that ended any further discussion.
The next few flats are nowhere near our Canadian living standards. One had a small bathroom with a showerhead right in the middle and a drain underneath. The entire bathroom WAS the shower. Though not the best start, we do finally see a couple of apartments that show good promise. We discuss the terms and the last thing remaining is to see them both again and make a final decision. Our first day in Fiji is almost done, but not before an introduction to the much anticipated Kava.
For those who have never sampled the Fijian delicacy, it’s a drink that’s described as “comfortably numb.” With a small hand scooper portions are handed out of a bigger basin. Our first experience was at our real estate agent’s house. We sit around the basin with Basil and his friends while listening to Indian style tunes. One guy is the scooper while everyone else waits to be served. Guests are served first, and than the others. Everybody claps when a drink is taken. As I take a chug of the brew I ask if it’s ever served hot to which I’m told, “Oh yah! It’s always served hot”. We all have as laugh as we drink down the cold kava.
With a numb mouth and throat we get dropped off at our hotel, but with adventurous spirits yearning to discover more of what secrets lay within the Kava we head out downtown. Walking up and down the main street renders no results, and we soon give up and head home. While stopping for some brownies to munch on at a local variety we unexpectedly encounter what we just gave up on seeking: Kava. We hand over five dollars and than sit in a narrow, sweaty and poorly ventilated backroom. Again, listening to melodic Indian music, and again sipping down the cool liquid contents.
With the owners and some other old Fijians already in the back, under unknown circumstances, we sit around and have kava. This time it’s served in a plastic bucket, instead of the nicely wood carved basin from before. Dale and I later joke that it should have “kava” written on the side. One guy sits there the entire time without saying anything. We thought he was going to a few times, but in the end no words were ever uttered.
As seems to be the culture, we sit around listening to music, share a laugh and, of course, get numb. While splitting a brownie in half Dale drops his piece on the ground. We both look at each other and break into laughter, after which the piece is consumed. Finally we get kava to go, and finish off the night poolside back at the hotel – this time with our own music playing. Selected by Dale, and quite fittingly, we end our first day in Fiji, after 25 hours of traveling and 36 hours without sleeping, to “comfortably numb” by Pink Floyd. Bula
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