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.
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