My Fiji Adventure

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 11

2009-06-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

Going on a Canyon Safari

After losing the track and wandering through the bamboo and long grass for so long, the logging trail was a wonderful and very welcome sight. According to the map, the logging road went north-east for a while before turning north-west and eventually reaching our desired location, a little town outside Lautoka directly north of us. There was another option. The streambed we'd been following had been, up to that point, wide with ample walking room on the banks. Following the stream would lead us directly north in a rather straight line, therefore being the shortest distance from point A to point B. The stream was also flat, while the logging road went up and over a series of small mountains. Our minds were made up and we walked north, following the slow-running water.

At first, the going was easy; we were able to simply walk along the streambed, following the creek. Soon, however, the walls of the valley closed in, slowly creating a narrow canyon. We went from walking on a streambed to walking on rocks to climbing over rocks. The canyon walls rose up in the form of sheer cliffs, about two hundred and fifty feet high, on either side of us. The boulders were both our obstacles and stepping stones; at times they were so large we had to find ways to climb over or between them while at the same time they were the only things keeping us from swimming up the creek, which had slowly gotten both wider and deeper.

As difficult as this portion of the trip was, I couldn't help but admire the beauty of the canyon. The grey-black cliffs boxing us in went straight up, hundreds of feet, reflecting the changing colors of the sun as it slowly made its way toward the horizon. The boulders added their own touch to the scene, scattered in all shapes and sizes like clouds on a summer day, the kind where you lay in the grass and pick out which ones look like a truck, or a big rock.

We passed each boulder until there were no more to climb over or under, but we found our course no easier. The boulders had been our stepping stones, and we had run out of places to put our feet. Kyle and I stood at the base of the last rock and turned as we heard someone going around the rock, through the water. To our amazement, Phil got out of the water and stood next to us, hands on his hips, wearing nothing but his tight boxer-briefs and a safari hat. He looked like a nearly-naked Theodore Roosevelt on safari in Africa. Going along with this theme, Jone emerged from around the boulder carrying Phil's backpack over his head like a porter.

After having a good laugh, Kyle and I turned to the problem at hand: how we were to go the fifty feet between where we stood and the bank on the other side of the deep, cliff to cliff section of creek before us. We had two options. First option: take off our clothes and carry all our stuff over our heads through the creek. Second option: The left side of the cliff looked climbable and Jone offered to toss our bags and sandals on the far streambank. Ever the adventurers, Kyle and I chose option two.

I set out first, searching for handholds and footholds, looking for the best way to traverse--or climb horizontally-- to the cliff to the streambed. At times it was difficult and I had to either reach far or climb up a bit, but I was making good progress. Suddenly, from behind me, I heard a quick burst of profanity, followed quickly by a splash. One of Kyle's handholds broke off and he was forced to swim to the other side. Shortly after Kyle's splash I found myself nice and dry on the stream bank. Proud of my mini-accomplishment, I put my sandals back on and joined the rest of the party, continuing ever northward.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 10

2009-06-03T08:17:00.000-07:00

Bamboo and Long Grass

Once again dipping into a valley, lunch time snuck up on us. We stopped at a stream crossing to get off our feet and down some food. The food that I had brought, however, was no longer being split up among our small group. There were now eleven of us. All of the lunch and dinner food was consumed in this one meal. The food was finished and I was left hungry and very frustrated. Ever the planner, I pulled an energy bar out of my pack and ate that to give me the calories I needed to continue. To add to the enjoyment of the meal, we had to yell at a dozen hungry, stinking dogs to stay away while we ate.

Soon after resuming our walk, the dogs and their owner split ways with us and the air cleared, letting me smell the pure air of the Fijian Highlands again. No more than a half hour after parting ways, I heard the dogs barking. Jone told me they were barking because they had found wild pigs. Apparently, the hunt was on. We, however, were not hunting on this particular excursion. So we continued on through the bamboo groves.

Before this trip, bamboo groves always brought to mind picturesque little scenes. In reality, yes it is pretty, but there is a dark side. Bamboo, at least in these groves, has some sort of miniscule spines portruding from all over. These spines are so small, they are unnoticable. Until, that is, you grasp a bamboo tree. Once that happens, dozens and dozens of splinters embed themselves in the victim's hand and they are a pain in the butt to get out. We soon learned not to grab the bamboo trees.

Frustrations also grew during this portion of the trek because it had become very evident we had lost the track and were now simply going in the "right direction." However, we persisted and emerged from the woods in one peace. We thought the difficulties had ended, but we were fooled. From a great distance, the tall yellow grass swaying in the wind is a pretty sight. From the middle of it, the picture is a bit different.

Ah, the long grass--the new bane of my existence. The grass was a dry yellow and about a foot taller than my 5'11". There were no tracks cutting through it, so we were left to follow Jone and Oro as they wove their way between the stalks, moving downhill and, supposedly, in the right direction. There are two key phrases from the previous sentence that I will elaborate on, and you will soon understand why.

"...wove their way between the stalks..." I am no tracker, but do have a fair bit of outdoor experience. Even I had significant difficulty following these two Fijians as they wove their way between the stalks, as in not breaking any of them. They barely left a ripple when they past through so we frequently found ourselves shouting for them to wait and finding out that we had veered a bit away from our leaders.

"...moving downhill.." is also a very important phrase here. If you have never walked through seven feet tall dry grass before, downhill, I don't enourage you to do so. There is no footing to be found on slippery dry grassy, so falling is a common event. My companion Kyle found this out over and over again, as evident from the steady stream of obscenities flowing from him. The laughing Fijians did little to comfort him. I also fell frequently, using the thick grass stems to grab onto to avoid hitting the ground and sliding. This was a necessary evil, though, for to avoid injury from falling I had to sustain dozens of tiny cuts to my hands from the sharp grass. My shredded ankles were not sad either when we finally emerged from the field.

We climbed down a bank and found ourselves in a streambed. This stream took us to an old logging trail.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 9

2009-06-03T04:44:00.000-07:00

Dancing, The Importance of Squatting Downwind, and Violent Trees

Once again I was left wondering the nutritional value of kava. To elaborate, it seems that Fijians occassionally forsake dinner for the revered kava. How many calories does it have? Is thare fiber in it? Protein? Fats? Whatever nutritional value it may have held was completely last on me. I had been hiking all day. I wanted food. All three of us vavalungis did, and asked Jone about it. After our inquiry, food was actually brought to us. We ate briefly after the initial sevusevu--the welcoming ceremony.

After filling our stomachs, the three of us rejoined to kava circle with all of the homestead's residents. We all visited while listening to the same cd play repeatedly on the boom box. As mentioned before, the kava there was strong. Being the guests, we drank more than anyone else and I soon found myself dancing with a local woman. I danced her around, spinning her and Phil did the same nearby, playing to the crowd. The song seemed a lot longer than I would have liked, but it eventually ended and we all returned to our seats to the sound of cheers. The drinking continued, but as it thinned out and quieted down I made my way to my gear against the wall and fell asleep.

It rained during the night. Normally, this would be welcome: the rain would cool everything off for a while. This isn't quite the case when you have a mountain to climb. We set off early, immediately after eating a quick crackers-and-cheese-and peanut butter-and jelly breakfast. Upon reaching the end of the homestead's boundary our party swelled to include eleven people and no less than a dozen stinking dogs. I wasn't very happy with this turn of events because I had planned on food for six people and already had more along than planned on.

We started off, Jone and I in front but well behind the pack of smelly dogs, and the rest of the group behind us. The going was difficult. It was like climbing a mudslide. At times it felt we slid back a step for each two we took uphill. The heat and humidity made things difficult and I was soon drenched in sweat. Jone carried Phil's pack fro him and we all slowly made our way up the mountain and out of the valley. About two hours later we had made it to the crest of the ridge when we decided to take a quick break.

Phil let us know that he would be walking into the woods and would be back in a few minutes. His mistake in the whole scenario was the direction he took when he walked off: upwind. Two minutes after he left, the smell followed the wind to where we were. The stink was terrible and the Fijians made sure to let Phil, who was still in the woods, know all about it with shouts of redicule.

Once he returned to the group we rounded the ridge and kept going. The track brought us up and down over hills and through jungle at times very dense. Not long after reaching the bottom of the mountains, we passed through one of these dense zones. The easiest way for me to go through these areas was to tilt my head down and let the brim of my hat brush aside the leaves and small branches. This tactic worked very well until I was punched in the face by a tree.

The limb had been hiding behind a cluster of innocent-looking leaves, so when I pushed through it hit me across my eye, nose, and mouth. It hurt really bad. I checked my nose and teeth and found everything to be as it should, with just a small amount of blood--nothing to be worried about. Once I was finished with my bout of profanity and answered the "Are you okay?" questions, we got moving again.

I was careful to watch where I was going.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 8

2009-05-13T11:36:00.000-07:00

Cow Patties and Short-Eared Dogs

We made our way down the steep, gravel covered trail leading to the small cluster of buildings in the valley below. From that distance, about a quarter of a mile away and 500 feet above the valley floor, the homestead looked like a tranquil place, almost idyllic. A half dozen buildings--a larger meeting building, a cooking shack, and four homes--were visible from above. The grass was green and a stream came from the mountains, filling a pond some ways away from the small cow pasture. The cow pasture lay between us and the homestead and was tucked up close to the human-occupied area.

Descending the sharp grade was slightly treacherous. I followed Jone and Oro closely, sliding a little bit once or twice on the loose gravel. Jone, however, slid nearly ten feet when he lost his footing. Oro was even less lucky, almost launching himself clear off the mountainside. He slipped at a turn in the switchback, catching himself on a bush before experiencing the drawbacks of gravity. Each incident left two of us laughing at the unfortunate third.

Once we got closer, the tranquility of the scene was slowly drowned out by the overwhelming smell of cow manure and the steady hum emanating from swarms of flies covering the pasture. I followed my local companions past the creatures while keeping a back eye on the bull that watched us the whole way. Our whole group made it safely through the swarm, herd, and crap-strewn minefield to jump the barbed-wire fence closest to the buildings.

We were met by Oro's uncle. He, Jone, and Oro immediately walked off in discussion, leaving the three white kids to fend for themselves. I decided it would be a good time to track our progress so far on the map, so I spent a few minutes comparing my handheld gps to the topographical map I had brought along. Soon after I had finished my little task, Oro's cousin led all of us on a small tour of the homestead. He showed us where the main hall was, to cooking shack, the dwellings, and their water supply. We followed the water to its source, a spring, and on the way saw something very interesting.

It was a kava plant. Not the kind of kava I see in the open-air market, which has stalks maybe as wide as my index finger. These kava plants had stalks with a circumfrence at least twice that of my thumb.

"This is very strong kava," Oro said, "The older it is, the stronger it is." A fact I would find experience soon.

We returned to the main hall, a big empty building about the size of half a basketball court, where we waited for the welcoming ceremony. On our way there, I noticed several dogs wandering around. All of them smelled horrible and looked just as bad, but some had ears that were quite obviously cut off. I turned to Jone.

"What happened to their ears?" I asked.

"Those dogs are for hunting," He answered, "And people cut off the floppy ears so they can hear better."

How did canines ever survive in the wild before humans came along to cut off their ears, I thought, That is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard. Instead of voicing my thoughts, I said:

"What do they hunt?"

"Wild pig," he said, "Very dangerous. Sometimes dogs get killed. People sometimes get cut real bad here." He drew a line with his finger going up his calf.

"That does sound pretty dangerous," I remarked. He nodded.

We walked into the main hall and sat on the floor to wait.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 7

2009-05-08T11:47:00.000-07:00

Wild Horses

There are dozens, if not hundreds of environments a trail can pass through: forest, fields, parks, wetlands, and so on and so forth. Out of all these surroundings, my favorite, by far is the ridge trail. For me, there's nothing like the feeling of walking from peak to peak able to see for miles on either side. Fiji did not disappoint.

Fields fell away to either side of the ridge, blending into the forest, as my pace slowly led me farther and farther ahead of the group. Before long the track dropped just below the ridge and travelled around a summit. The rest of my group was out of sight, something that stayed consistent for nearly half an hour until we regrouped for a rest. My solitude turned out to be a stroke of luck.

While hiking solo I made my way around a summit and found myself no more than fifty feet from seven grown horses and one foal, no humans to be seen. I froze where I stood when eight pairs of equine eyes locked onto me. Six of the adults were brown the remaining one and the foal were both white, the color of slightly dirty snow. When they diverted their gaze I inched forward. They let me get within twenty feet before all eight of them turned and trotted away, further up the trail, then down a gradual slope that led away from it. The foal followed close behind it's mother as they vanished from sight.

I smiled to myself and kept walking. Soon after, the rest of the group slowly caught up as we stopped at a treeline for a bit of a break. While the rest of us rested on the ground, our barefoot local companion climbed a nearby tree to heights that I wouldn't certainly wouldn't attempt. Not so much was it the height, but he was out walking on too-narrow limbs while he kicked down big green fruits, slightly larger than a softball. According to Jone, they were Fijian grapefruits. The pink ones were delicious and satiated the hunger for just a little while longer. We ate and moved on.

The short trail took us to the dirt road we would follow for a few miles before turning off. One rounded just one bend before we came across the driveway to a single home. As it turned out, unsurprisingly, a local in our party knew who lived there. We stopped for lunch and filled our waterbottles before moving on. A few more miles on the road, another couple on a trail, and the last half of one switchbacking down a steep slope saw us arriving at our goal: the homestead belonging to Oro's uncle.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 6

2009-05-08T07:26:00.000-07:00

Onward and Upward

The following morning began early, about two hours after the first roosters began their relentless torture of those wishing to sleep. I slid out from under the covers, made the bed, and rolled up the mosquito net before the chief stirred in the adjacent bed. Walking through the village in the early morning mist, I made my way to the Rustic Pathways bure.

Breakfast was, yet again, crackers with your choice of peanut butter, jelly, and/or cheese. We ate, divided the food between the packs of Kyle, Phil, and myself and left the village before the sun had fully breached the mountains of the east.

Our expedition group consisted of nine individuals: Jone, Jason, Oro, three other locals in their teens whose names I never caught, Kyle, Phil, and I. One of the locals remained barefoot throughout the excursion, which I couldn't begin to conceive doing.

We passed the rugby field and met the trail at the base of our first mountain where it carved into the steeply sloped side. The switchbacks seemed to continue without end as we made our way towards the summit. Within the first hour the sun cleared the eastern mountains and beat down on us immediately and mercilessly. Over time our group spread out, from Jone and I in the front to Phil and some of the teenaged locals in the rear. The first break came well before lunch. Phil seemed to be struggling and Jone took up his pack. We set off again, Jone and I in the lead.

Not long after we began this last leg to the top, Jone stopped in front of a medium sized, maybe 5 or 6 feet long, place where the trail had been washed out.

"This is where I fell with my horse," he said, "I held on to a bush, but my horse, he died." And began walking again. I looked down the steep slope, a few degrees from 90, and imagined a horse falling hundreds of feet to the jungle floor below. I shuddered and moved on.

Jone and I reached the summit and waited for the others. Kyle the photographer snapped some shots of both the scenery and the adventurers as we took in our surroundings. The mountain was well into the highlands of the largest island in the Fijian chain, so the sea was far out of sight behind the surrounding summits. Green and gold were the colors dominating the vista: the trees covered nearly the whole surface area of the slopes, but here and there were beautiful slanted fields of golden grass waving in the wind. From a great distance the grass was beautiful, but I would learn later that it would put us through much misery. The only signs of human life came from the village we had left that morning. A view lacking in man-made structures is my favorite type.

The time was 11:00am. Lunch would come later. Phil regained his pack and we all took to our feet. The next section of the trail followed the ridge and was in plain sight, so I decided to take the lead.

Solo Fiji Trek

2008-09-12T08:27:00.000-07:00

Once again, I take a break from my group backpacking trip to put into words an adventure I never want to forget. And, due to my less-than-perfect memory I decided that sooner was better than later. After all, if I want to recall the backpacking trip, I need only to contact some of my fellow travelers. When it comes to tackling the Sleeping Giant, it's only me.

A Fine Line
I was on the side of a cliff. Looking down, I knew it was a hell of a drop if I fell. I was unafraid, sure of myself and sure of my ability to accomplish the task at hand. I had no harness, no spotter, and was putting all my faith in a tree at the top of the cliff. I needed to trust my hands to grasp the line, my feet to find purchase, and my judgment to tell me when I was taking it too far—to tell me when I was crossing that fine line between acceptable risk and unnecessary risk. That fine line occasionally becomes hazy.

Setting Forth
6:30am that very same day saw me at the bus stop, pack on my back, hat on my head, and machete in my hand. Back home, in the States, had I attempted to board a bus with a two foot machete, I would be tased and tackled, no questions asked. In Fiji, though, it was normal.

I dug the proper fare from my pack for the bus ride from Nabila to Nadi. Bo the mutt stood at my side, thinking he was coming. I had to leave him, though. No dogs on the bus. Besides, dogs can’t climb cliffs.

The bus came, Bo wandered off and I was headed to Nadi along with all the uniformed high school students headed the same way. I found a seat near the back of the bus. Along the way we picked up more students at each stop. The bus filled to capacity and kids finally had to sit next to me, the only foreigner on the bus. They had avoided it for as long as they could. Not because I had a machete (it was tucked nicely between the seat and the wall. Besides, each of these boys probably had two of their own.), but because I was the vavalungi on the bus. No one, however, was ever offensive.

I arrived in Nadi ready for breakfast. Two coconut rolls (a baked good similar to a cinnamon roll) later and I was wandering among the carriers (pickup truck taxis), asking how much it would cost to charter a ride to base of The Sleeping Giant because I was told there was no bus that went out that far. I was given the price of sixty dollars one way. I’m sure this was inflated due to my vavalungi status (it is assumed all whites are tourists and have full bank accounts. I wasn’t a tourist and had a nearly empty bank account) and made my way to the buses. I figured that my best course of action would be to take a bus to Sabeto Road and hitchhike my way to the mountain.

Sabeto Road
I got on a bus headed to Latoka and got off halfway there, at Sabeto Road. Along the way I had my headphones on and was listening to the Into The Wild soundtrack, by Eddie Veder. Call it cliche, but I felt it was appropriate music for the adventure at hand.

I walked for a while along the road. According to my map I had covered about two kilometers before I got a ride with two guys in a pickup truck. The map I carried was a topographic map of the area. It showed roads and elevation changes, but the tracks were not included in the map’s drawing. My plan was to travel nearly the length of the Sleeping Giant—a short mountain range that strongly resembled a giant sleeping on it’s back—climb to the top of his feet and make my way along the ridge to me goal. This goal, one I had kept for the majority of my time in Fiji, was to stand on the giant’s nose.

I threw my pack and machete into the bed of the truck and climbed into the back of the crew cab. The driver said he could take me about seven kilometers down the road, but he was turning off there to go home. I said that was great, it was seven kilometers less that I would have to walk.

They dropped me off at the intersection and I resumed my walk east along Sabeto Road. Soon, I found myself crossing paths with an elderly Indian man. His hair was grey, nearly white. He had a thin beard of the same color.

“Hello,” I said to him.

“Hello,” he said to me.

I offered my hand to him. “My name’s Craig.”

He shook it. “I am Abdul. Where are you going? To the resort?” There was a backpacker resort along the road, named Rustic Retreat, or something else along the same vein that would catch the ear of the wandering, and thrifty, tourist.

“I am going to climb The Sleeping Giant,” I told him, motioning to the mountains behind me.

“Ah,” he said. Then, with the kindness these countrymen are renowned for, he said, “Would you like to join me for tea?”

I thought about it, but only briefly. I was tempted, for I knew how good the tea was, but I could not afford to spend any of my daylight time doing anything but trekking.

“I’ve very sorry,” I said, “But I need to hike as much as I can because I need to be out of the forest before dark. Thank you very much for your offer. I’m very sorry I cannot join you. Maybe on my way back.”

He nodded, seeming slightly disappointed but understanding.

“Well, good luck. I live at the end of that road,” He pointed up the road next to us. I noted that directly across from the turn was a marker that said 4km.

“Thank you. Maybe I’ll see you this evening”

With that he resumed walking.

I did the same. We walked in opposite directions—Abdul towards his home, me towards my goal.

Finding Tracks
Christian Camp, the sign said, pointing left. I was excited. According to the map, this road led directly to the base of The Sleeping Giant. I knew that by following this road, I would be deviating from my original plan. However, my original planned area where I would have begun my climb had no roads leading to it and I could not count on tracks (In Fiji, there are no trails, only tracks. One and the same, yes, but during my entire stay in the country I never once heard the word trail). I decided to take this road to the base of the mountain. From there I would hike to the cliffs than ran nearly the length of the giant, and follow them east until I found a point where I could climb up. I cut a piece of sugar cane from the field next to the road and headed north, toward The Sleeping Giant.

The road turned west, I followed a farming road north east, chewing on sweet sugar cane the whole way. This road ended with the end of the field, so I crossed a stream and found a track on the other side that headed east. I found myself walking directly towards a homestead, complete with thatch bures and people bathing in the stream. I wanted to avoid contact, because I had no kava, nor time, for a sevusevu-a traditional welcoming ceremony in which I would ask to cross this property. The stream turned north and I followed it. I nearly made it past the property, but a young man, about my age, saw me from the opposite side of the stream.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the Sleeping Giant,” I told him, but he did not hear me. He crossed the stream and I climbed down the steep bank to meet him.

“I’m going to the Sleeping Giant,” I said, “Is it okay if I cross this land?”

“You need to ask my uncle,” he said, motioning to the bures.

Shoot, I thought. I know I was being completely insensitive to local customs but, as far as I know, this was the only time in three months I had done so. I felt bad doing it, but I knew that it would be unsafe to be in the jungle after dark.

“You need to bring kava for a sevusevu,” the young Fijian said, “Do you have any kava?”

“I don’t,” I grimaced. I have found that, when you need to get away with something, such as trespassing, playing the dumb out-of-towner is your best bet.

The young man seemed to hesitate, looking towards his uncle’s house and back to me.

“Is there a road or a track I could take to the mountain?” I asked. He seemed to make up his mind.

“Go up there, past the cassava plants, and there’s a big road.”

“Thank you,” I said, and began walking up the hill without a damn clue what a cassava plant looked like.

I kept climbing the hill, carefully treading between rows of plants that I assumed were cassava. These plants were tall, like small trees, but were very thin at the top. I was keenly aware that I, and my bright orange pack, was now exposed to the homes below and exposed to any uncles that may disagree with trespassers. I walked uphill as fast as I could, careful to avoid stepping on or knocking over any plants. Pushing my way through the tall grass at the end of the second field of cassava plants, I emerged onto a dirt road. I turned right and followed this “big road” northeast.

This road was without tree cover so the sun beat down on me without end. The road climbed higher and soon I was overlooking a mine. It occurred to me that this road was for that mine specifically. If I followed it to the end, I would be hanging out with some miners. After a short break in the shade of a tree, I found a track that left the road and traveled north and up.

I was still in the sun, but was now traveling directly towards The Sleeping Giant along a lower, north-south running ridge. It got larger as I got closer. The track took a sharp turn west, away from the nose, my goal. I left the track and took to the woods.

Into The Shade
The long grass fell away behind me as I descended the ridge and entered the forest. The trees were dense, allowing little direct sunlight to shine upon the forest floor. I kept my compass deep in my hip pocket, thankful it was there. Without a view of the sun or the mountain range, I could have been lost without it. At first the going was easy; there was the occasional track or decades old logging road that would start abruptly, in a seemingly random place, then end in the same fashion. As the ground turned from gradual uphill to a steeper scramble, it became more strenuous. I would have to lean forward and reach for the next tree to pull myself up. These handholds became footholds to keep me from sliding backwards.

Often I would pass a hole the size of a bathtub dug into the ground. These holes were excavated by wild pigs, the only dangerous animal in Fiji. They had been known to kill dogs and wound people with their long tusks. Most of these temporary pig homes seemed old, some even had plants growing in them. Some, however, were much, much, newer.

Occasionally the land would level out again. Occasionally I had to cross streams and climb over boulders. It was during one of these such occasions that I jumped from a boulder and found myself in dirt freshly kicked up. Looking around, I saw holes dug into the adjacent hill and beneath the boulders themselves. I saw no pigs, but heard a sound nearby. Looking back on it, this sound could have been anything: a bird, a lizard, two trees rubbing together in the breeze, but in the moment it was a wild pig. I knew this pig, the largest of the group, was just beyond those boulders. He was ready to charge in, sharp tusks lowered and ready to tear up my legs. I got my ass out of there in a hurry.

Battle After Battle
The ground stopped leveling out and decided to stay steep. I was getting closer. Slowly but surely, the forest that I had first found myself in transformed itself into a dense jungle. I was using the machete more and more frequently to get through the vines that wanted to grab at me and my pack and pull us backwards.

Getting higher up, I would be faced with the occasional cliff. The first of these cliffs was not completely vertical nor was it excessively tall, perhaps twenty feet. I began to climb it. About four feet from the ground, I decided I was taking a risk that was both unnecessary and unacceptable, given I was alone. I descended the four feet and looked for a way around. That way around led me to my newly most despised plant in Fiji. Grass.

In my previous trek long grass had managed to cut my hands and ankles. I still hadn’t forgiven it for that. This time, the grass was seven feet tall and about an inch in diameter at the base. The dry, yellow grass cut easily with the machete. However, the green, alive grass merely bent. I could nearly hear it laughing at me while it tripped me, obscured the rest of the world, and simply pissed me off.

I knew I needed to head north and west, and the only way was through this grass. I chopped with the machete, stepped high, and tried my hardest to just not get stuck. In one situation, I knew I was close to a sharp drop off and found myself leaning forward, nearly crawling through the grass. I encountered grass like this at least half a dozen times during my hike.

Denied
Battling past my new enemy, I once again reached more jungle. I hacked through vines and thick branches, pushed ever upwards, and finally reached a smooth, completely vertical cliff. I placed hand upon it, happy. Although this cliff blocked my path, I knew I was close to my goal, perhaps even directly below it. From my vantage point, I could not see the top. According to my map, there were multiple hundred meter cliffs lining the ridge. Obviously, I knew I needed to go around. I followed the cliff west, hoping for a place where I could ascend farther and closer to the nose. I was disappointed with what confronted me after only a few meters: A drop off, too steep and high to safely descend.

I looked at my watch. Having entered the woods at approximately 10:00am, I knew I needed to leave around 2:00 so I wouldn’t be stuck in the jungle after sunset, which was 6:15. With all the drop offs, vines, dead trees, and wild pigs, I knew it would be very dangerous to be out there in the dark, even with my headlamp. When I arrived at the cliff, it was 1:30.

I descended directly south to a point where I could once again turn north-west. It was nearly 2:00, and I decided this would have to be my final push for the summit. I climbed, hiked, and scrambled hard uphill until 2:45. There was still plenty left to go, but once again I needed to rely on common sense and judgment that comes from experience. I turned around.

Due South
Taking a breath before beginning my descent, I looked out through a gap in the trees. Although I had not reached the top of the ridge, which was about 1200 meters above sea level (the mountain’s base was only a few feet above sea level), I was given an expensive view of the Fijian landscape, as well as the ocean and surrounding islands. The rolling hills of the outer highlands looked flat from so far above, not more than square crop fields dotting the ground like a checkerboard.

I started hiking down, figuring that instead of taking the same route I had taken to my current location I would hike straight south to the road that ran nearly the length of the ridge. This was much, much easier said than done. Time after time cliffs forced me to turn back and look for other ways to descend. I knew this was taking up precious time. I found myself being pulled back again and again by vines, thin and thick. At times I needed my knife to cut through them because the machete was cumbersome in such a tight situation. I put my knife in an easily accessible pocket in order to reach it even when I was tightly bound by reaching vines.

After a while I stopped for a break and reached for my map. It was gone. I had folded it and placed it in an elastic pocket of my pack, one that nothing had yet to fall out of. I didn’t panic. Having studied it for hours, I could remember where all the streams and roads were in relation to the ridge, as well as the location of the north-south ridge I followed on my way out. I stood up and kept walking.

A Disregarded Line or Necessary Risk?
I would walk downhill only to encounter another cliff and the only way west was through the long, thick grass. I went through this routine more times than I care to count and began to get extremely frustrated. I came to the breaking point in my frustration and decided to climb down. The next cliff was about fifteen feet tall. I threw the machete down, as well as my pack, and draped my nylon webbing around a sturdy tree at the top. Why did I bring 25 feet of nylon webbing with me on a hike? Just in case I would find myself in a situation that would require me to use 30 feet of nylon webbing, such as lowering myself down a cliff.

I made sure that that webbing had equal lengths coming down from both side of the tree, then, carefully, I leaned out into empty space. Feet on the cliff, I held tightly to both sides of my lifeline and, when I had enough webbing, used my hip as additional friction (I held the line in front of me with my left hand and kept my right hand at my butt, keeping the webbing tight to my hip) to slow my descent. Went I ran out of webbing, I held tight with both hands and reached below me until my feet found purchase. I found my pack and machete and continued on.

I reached the next cliff soon after reaching the base of the first. This one was taller, about 25 or 30 feet. Halfway down there was a narrow ledge, wide enough for me to stand firmly if I kept my feet sideways. Out of this narrow ledge a tree grew. It looked sturdy. At the base of this cliff was another ledge about three or four feet wide with a few trees lining the outside edge—below it was another drop off. This ledge ran west to open ground. Once again I dropped my pack and machete over the edge, hoping they would catch in the trees. The machete landed blade first, sticking in the ground; my pack caught in the trees before rolling off the ledge. Once again I draped the webbing over a tree, held tightly to both halves, and stepped out into the open air.

I used my hip for friction and held tight, aware of the potential for serious injury should I slip. I made it to the small ledge without any incidents. Pressing my body against the cold rock, I pulled the webbing down from the tree above and draped it over the one that sprouted from the cliff itself. This small tree, about 4 inches in diameter, turned out to be sturdy and I made it to the big ledge safely. I recoiled the webbing, tucked it into the belt of my pack, and continued on, machete in hand.

Headed Downstream and More Empty Pockets
Soon I made it to a stream and refilled my water bottles, using iodine tablets to purify the water. Out of habit I reached for my pocket that always held my cell phone only to touch my leg. It had fallen from my pocket somewhere in the jungle. Once again, it had never fallen from this pocket. It was still a rookie mistake. I knew better, especially since I was alone. It should have been safely tucked into my pack inside a zipped pocket. This could have been a problem for two reasons: If I were to get hurt, I had no way to notify anyone; secondly, if I did not call or arrive back to the base by 9:00pm that day, Hillary (another staff member) would notify the proper authorities that something had happened to me. I needed to get to a phone by nine.

Remembering the map, I knew that all the streams coming down from the mountains led due south. I checked my compass and verified this. Changing into my Tevas, I decided to follow the creek. It was difficult at times, but follow the creek I did, even when I hit the waterfall.

I came upon it suddenly and there were no safe ways to get around it. The way down was not completely vertical, nor did it seem to be too slick. The pool at the bottom looked shallow enough to step into. I decided to climb down. Slowly, I descended toward the pool below. I went down facing out with my rear end on the rock. I decided having went pants was worth not falling off a waterfall. It was slicker than it seemed at first, so I had to be extra careful. Occasionally my foot would slip and I had to find another place for it quickly. It got close, but I didn’t fall. I reached a point where the falls simply dropped off the rock into the pool below. Luckily, the drop was only about two or so feet and the water beneath it only looked to be about a foot and a half deep. I decided to jump. I left the rock and landed below in water that was nearly three feet deep. I fell. I wasn’t hurt, just wet, so I kept going.

I followed the stream for about hundred meters more, then left it, deciding to search for a track in the hills above. After bushwacking for another half an hour, I took a break. During this break, I found something that no outdoorsman ever, ever wants to find: an empty pocket where your knife once was. This was bad, but not as bad as it could have been. I still had the machete, but I still hoped I would not find myself in a situation that would require a knife and cell phone.

Time Never Slows Down
My break ended and I resumed my search. Soon after, I found it: a track. It was well used and ran east-west. I decided that my best chance for find a southbound track was in walking west, towards there track I took on my way in. I hurried along this track, knowing perfectly well that I burned a lot of daylight traveling through long grass and streams. The track made me optimistic—I knew that it had to lead somewhere. And it did lead somewhere. It ended at a shack I saw perched on the side of the ridge on my way in.

I knocked on the door, shouted for someone, and looked in the windows. No one was home. This wasn’t good. I scoured the surrounding area for a track, walking in a semi circle aiming west and south. The semi circle grew larger and larger until I found what I was looking for: a track heading due south. It was 5:00.

I was nearly running down the mountain, passing streams as I went. I was out of water, but decided that I would rather risk dehydration than get caught in the jungle after dark. I had to go through the gates of two barbed wire fences and climb over another. The trail was created for locals and their livestock: horses and cows. At one point I heard a noise ahead. I called out, but there was no answer. Walking a bit farther, I came to within three or four meters of a grown bull. I carefully skirted around him and the rest I saw along the trail. I clapped my hands to scare a horse that was standing in the trail. He ran ahead to a clearing. It was from this clearing I saw a house.

It was well below me, but it let me know I was close. The time was just past 5:30. I continued on. I reached places that were wide open where the track ended, but continued south until I found another. Eventually, I found an old road, obviously not used for a very long time. I followed it downhill to a stream. I crossed the stream, climbed the bank, and found myself on a farming road that ran the length of a sugarcane field. The time was 6:00. Fifteen minutes to spare.

Mean Dogs, Nice People, and The Last Bus of the Night
I followed the road in a semi daze. My adrenalin was fading and dehydration was setting in. There was a house ahead. I decided to ask them for water. Walking up to the house, a man inside the gate saw me and I waved. He stood up from his seat and began walking towards me. Before he reached the gate, three dogs rounded the house from outside it, barking and growling. Teeth bared, they encircled me. My mind cleared with the new shot of adrenalin and I gripped the machete tighter. He opened the gate and another dog ran out to join the others. I was keenly away of how cumbersome my pack was. Before they could advance the man yelled at them and they ran off to another part of the property. I thanked him and asked if I could fill my waterbottles. He brought me inside his home and offered me a seat.

Gratefully, I sat down and a woman brought me a cup and two bottles of cold water. I was pretty sure that the water was from the nearby stream, but I didn’t care whether it would affect my stomach or not, I needed to drink. I drank three cupfuls and filled my waterbottles. The family politely offered me tea, but I tactfully declined, ready to continue. I asked them if there were any buses back to Nadi that night. They told me there was not, but I could take the 6:45 Latoka bus to the highway and catch a ride there. I thanked them many times for their kindness and left through the back to avoid further canine confrontations.

I reached the end of their driveway and followed another dirt road headed south to where the main dirt road was. Here I hitched a ride on the back of a flatbed truck. The driver brought me to the main road and also told me I could take the 6:45 bus toward Latoka, that it was the only bus left. I sat on the corner and waited. At 6:35, a bus approached headed east. It said Latoka on it. I figured it would drive up the road a short while and turn around. I boarded the bus and, within five minutes passed a bus headed the opposite direction that had a sign in the windshield that read “Nadi.”

Wonderful, I thought. It was another 45 minutes before I reached the highway. It turned out that this was the bus I was told by the taxi drivers didn’t exist. It ran to the end of Sabeto Road, to the point I would begin my trek if I had stuck to my original plan. And on top of that, there was a man sitting near the driver who had a voice that was whiney and split my brain in half. It chose to speak loudly and nonstop to the driver. Oh Well.

The Adventurer Returns
It turned out that hitching a ride at night on the highway was a lot more difficult. No one stopped. I began to lose hope when a bus pulled up and I climbed on. The bus was headed to Nadi. It wasn’t long before I reached the empty bus station in Nadi town.
Minibuses, however, were still running. I bargained my way onto a minibus, talking the boss down from fifty to twenty-five dollars to drop me off at Ratu Nemani primary school, three kilometers from the base house. I also borrowed his phone and called Hillary with time to spare. I arranged a ride from Ratu Nemani back to the base. When Hayley and Hillary picked me up at the school, the first thing they said to me was “You stink!” They were in the front seat and I was in the back.

An hour and a half later, I was walking up the driveway to the base house. I threw my pack in its normal throwing place next to one of the chairs in the main room, and went straight for the shower. Washing the dirt and blood off me from a thousand little cuts on my legs and arms, I reflected on my day.

Looking Back
It was a hell of an adventure. I left early, ate at one of my favorite shops, and hitchhiked out to the middle of nowhere, machete in hand the whole way. That’s just fun. I climbed The Sleeping Giant, but didn’t reach the nose, my goal. The mountain turned me back and denied me of my prize. I lost, but I did not feel defeated. There was a certain amount of disappointment, sure, but it was outweighed by the knowledge that I pushed myself hard, as hard as I could and had nothing left. I knew that day a mountain tested my limits and abilities and I didn’t fail—I made it as high as I could with my time constraints and made the responsible decision to turn back once I had passed my set cutoff time. Had I pushed upward, I’m sure I could have made it, but probably would have had to spend the night on the mountain. I had responsibilities in the morning, so that was not an option. I didn’t fall off any cliffs, didn’t get stuck in the long grass, and did not panic when I discovered my map, phone, and knife were gone. I was never lost. I had a new respect for my compass, a tool that stayed deep within my side pocket and led me safely from the jungle. And I never, ever gave up. If I ever get back to Fiji, you can bet the first thing I do is tackle that giant head on. Next time, he won’t stand a chance.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 5

2008-08-27T17:47:00.000-07:00

Fijian Cigarettes and Yet More Kava

Church ended and I was led by the hand by The Chief back to his house, where—much to my surprise—we would be…drinking more kava. I was not excited to be drinking more kava, but I did feel honored to be the only foreigner drinking it with the village elders. I use the term ‘elders’ with complete ignorance, for I don’t know if there are certain things one must do to attain this prestigious position. I figure they were the elders simply because they were old.

The kava was mixed and the chief drank first, followed by one or two other Fijian men, and then myself. I made sure to follow local custom: First, clap, then hold the coconut shell with both hands, say “Bula,” and drink it all in without taking a breath. After the first round, it’s okay to skip the “bula.” I feel I stuck to customs well, the only thing making me stick out being my near complete ignorance of the Fijian language. That and I was the only white person in the room. I didn’t bother me, though. I felt welcomed. Occasionally one of the men would strike up a conversation with me, sincerely wanting to learn about this visitor.

While drinking kava, the old men passed around cigarettes and soon began smoking what my local friends told me later were Fijian cigarettes. Basically, a Fijian cigarette is a long strip of a local tobacco leaf wrapped in a piece of newspaper. Once rolled, it is about nine inches long and smells horrible when smoked.

Once again famished, I was saved by Oro, who sat in the circle and said that lunch was ready for me. I said jelo (pronounced cheelo--meaning excuse me) and joined the rest of my group for lunch. Another meal of peanut butter and jelly with crackers and bread.

Following lunch, we did nothing. We didn’t do a thing until five pm, when we went to look at some farmland owned by Josese and Jone. Rustic Pathways was looking to develop a small business program with the Fijian brothers that western students would take part in. It would include all aspects of farming as well as taking the products to the market on the weekends.
Upon returning to the village, I ate dinner, passed on kava, and was in bed before the Chief even returned home.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 4

2008-08-27T07:08:00.000-07:00

Roosters, A Sleeping Chief, And A Wild Preacher Man

4:05 in the ******* morning.

This was my first thought Sunday morning in Nasivicoso. Many creatures in the world--people, most birds--are diurnal. This term refers to those living things that are active during the day. Movies and books have led me to believe that roosters were one of these diurnal birds. I have been lied to by movies and books. Roosters are awake, and very vocal, well before the sun comes up. I remembered the rooster curry I had earlier in the summer...
Once I decided that it was a sane time to be awake, I left The Chief's house and went to the Rustic Pathways bure for breakfast. Joining my fellow travelers, we dined on crackers and crepes with peanut butter and jelly. None of them looked particularly chipper that morning. Apparently the roosters did not discriminate when it came to loitering beneath windows.

I finished eating and returned to The Chief's house to get dressed for church. Once again, I wrapped a dress sulu around my waist and put on a button-down shirt, albeit less colorful than my shirt in Malakati. I also had a tie, but before I could tie it myself, The Chief intervened. I can now say with all honesty that a village chief tied my tie for me. It was almost like a grandfather putting a tie on his grandchild. I felt special.

This worship experience was not as inspiring nor as goosebump inducing as the one I had in Malakati, but it was nice nonetheless. Before entering, I followed The Chief to a hollowed out log, something present in all Fijian villages. It is used just like a bell to signal happenings, such as the start of a church service or a village meeting. I, along with the rest of the males from my party, entered through a back door and joined the elders. The Chief sat alone in a chair as opposed to the benches that we sat on. Also, he wore sunglasses the entire time. I could not see his eyes, but I have no doubts that he slept the majority of the service.

One thing that surprised me was the identity of the assistant preacher: Josese. This man, the one who climbed cliffs, jumped off waterfalls, and ran naked into the river without hesitation in front of two complete strangers, was the assistant preacher. Apparently, there were multiple sides to Josese. I decided that he was a good guy. I did not understand anything said during the service except for our brief welcome in english, but I'm sure it was very nice, complete with beautiful readings and an inspiring sermon.

Backpacking In Fiji, Chapter 3

2008-08-27T05:20:00.001-07:00

A Chief Named Smelly

Having arrived back in Nasivicoso, it was time to bathe and get ready for the savu savu. I bathed in the river, unsure whether or not I stepped from it any cleaner--instead of smelling like body odor, I smelled like fish. What I do know, however, is that the mosquitos mistook my rear end for a florescent light bulb. I was itchy for the rest of the night. After drying off, I donned my sulu and joined the circle in the chief's house.

His cement and corrugated metal house was simple. There was an open area for gathering and a small sleeping area with two beds. The beds were queen sized with pink mosquito nets draped over them. Introductions were made. I shook the chief's hand and told him my name. He told me his: Smelly. I thought I heard him wrong, but after the ceremony, when we were given our sleeping assignments, Jone told me I was to be staying at Smelly's house. I must have heard him incorrectly as well. There had to be some minor difference in pronounciation that I didn't pick up on. For the duration of our stay in Nasivicoso, I refered to the chief as "The Chief" and nothing else. I can only imagine how much I could offend a village by calling their chief smelly. And no one knows exactly when cannibalism ended in the more remote villages of Fiji...

When the kava ceremony ended it was past nine and I was famished. We left The Chief's house and returned to the Rustic Pathways bure for dinner. However, once we arrived we discovered that the Fijians wanted to drink more kava. Sometimes I wonder about the nutritional value of kava, for Fijians seem to consume more kava than food. We--Phil, Hillary, Kyle, and I--were given the option to either eat or drink kava first. Our stomachs were unanimous in the decision to dine before drinking. We ate our cold dinner of noodles and veggies first (it had been cooked hours before) and immediately brought our things to our sleeping quarters. Instead of returning for kava, I decided that I was exhausted and quickly fell asleep on my queen-sized mattress beneath my pink mosquito net.

The Orphanage

2008-08-25T12:07:00.000-07:00

I thought I would take a break in the backpacking story to tell another story, one I wrote in the sometime in July but never posted.

Her name is Jennifer. Or Jenifa; it's sometimes difficult to understand another's accent, especially if english is their second language. Jennifer, introduced to me by the house mother, is an orphan at the Treasure House in Nadi. She seems to be four or five, maybe even six. The uncertainty comes from her appearance and developmental level. He vocabulary is limited to only a few words and she has the distinct facial features of a child with Down's Syndrome.

I met her on the trampoline. It was a little rocky at first, but things smoothed out quickly once I gave her some bright blue playdough. Children with pervasive developmental disorders, such as Down's, often respond positively to certain mild sensory stimulation, and hers was the visual and tactile wonders of playdough.

With such a limited vocabulary, it would seem that communication would be difficult, but who needs words when sounds, facial expressions, and laughter will do the trick? Jennifer is one of those people that means it when she smiles. She leans forward when she laughs and her grin spreads, showing happiness over her whole face. We bounced on the trampoline for a while, and I soon switched places with one of the girls in my group. I want them all to experience everything they can.

Jennifer seems to nearly match the breaths she takes with smiles and laughter. Her life is going to be full of hardships--she is an orphan with Down's in a developing country--but I feel she will keep smiling despite the hardships. Her positive energy will keep infecting those around her, as it did with me. The brief time that I spent with Jennifer on the trampoline, and later at the swing, was the high point of my day, my week, and one of my high points of my time in Fiji. I hope for her only the best, and that she keeps smiling.

Backpacking in Fji, Chapter 2

2008-08-25T11:26:00.001-07:00

Rope?

In Fiji you don't follow trails, you follow tracks. I can honestly say that in my nearly three months in the south pacific, I never once heard a local say the word "trail." This was true here, when Josese led us along the correct tracks to the waterfall. We kept a strong pace, moving steadily up the mountain. Occassionally we stopped at a clearing to admire the views and snap some photos. As we got close to the falls, boulders became larger and more frequent. Between these large boulders, we needed to take care not to walk right into the webs of the biggest spiders I have ever seen. These spiders--green, red and black, quarter sized, saucer sized--spun webs ranging from small insect traps to giant yellow nets nearly capable of catching small birds.

Carefully skirting past all these dangerous looking--but thankfully not poisonous--spiders and climbing over and around house-sized boulders, we arrived at the waterfall. It was beautiful. The cliffs rose about eighty feet, the river falling from the top, hitting a ledge about halfway down and finally crashing into the supposedly deep swimmin' hole below. I was excited to not only jump into the water from various heights, but to also solo climb over the water. For anyone unfamiliar with this climbing term, solo climbing refers simply climbing rope-free. Some individuals do this regularly. They are often considered foolhardy even by the best climbers. However, solo climbing offers a feeling of weightlessness and freedom that roped climbing cannot. It is dangerous, but over deep water it simply becomes fun. Well, a bit scary, but fun nonetheless.

I made my way to the cliff, to the side of the waterfall, and denied Josese's attempts to get me to follow him to the top. Don't get me wrong, I love my adrenalin, but I've got limits. If Josese had limits, he didn't give any hint of them. I didn't see the whole jump, but I was told from someone who did that it was from about sixty feet with approximately two and a half seconds of freefall. I saw and heard his landing, though. He entered the water like he had been jumping from these cliffs his whole life (which he has)--vertically, arms in tight. The sound and splash, however, was that of a cannonball jump from a diving board. It even had that distinctive whump sound. Needless to say, he set aside any worries I had about the depth of the swimmin' hole.

I soloed out to a good place to jump and climbed up about ten feet. I jumped. Normally, I have poor form that causes me to land on my side, or my leg, or on one of my butt cheeks. This time, however, I had quality form, landing painlessly. I climbed around for about twenty minutes more, jumped a few more times, maxing out at about fifteen or twenty feet, then put on my Tevas and headed out, following Josese not the way we came, but down the river.

If you remember from the beginning of this chapter, we climbed up a mountain to reach the waterfall. This means that if we were to follow the river back to the village we would climb down and around cliffs and waterfalls. We did. Kyle almost fell off a cliff. Phil ended up missing a jump and taking a swim. Josese and Oro seemed to share blood with mountain goats, never losing their footing.

On the way we saw a flock of bats from above. Each had a wingspan of about a foot and a half. Josese said they tasted good. I took his word for it.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 1

2008-08-25T10:15:00.001-07:00

Over the Mountains and Through the Jungles, to Nasivicoso We Go

It was 5 o'clock somewhere. Technically, ten in the morning in Fiji, but we felt there was no better way to begin an adventure than with a cold bitter in the back of a pickup truck. We hired two of these carriers (pickups with covered beds) to bring us over the mountains and through the dense jungles of Fiji's highlands. "Us" included, in my carrier, Jone, Oro, Hillary, Kyle, and myself. There were also two random Fijians that hopped in along the way. The other carrier held Phil, Ann, and all our gear.

We left Nadi (pronounced Nandy) at ten Saturday morning and arrived at our destination, Nasivicoso village, five bouncy hours later. The village is a sanctuary in the jungle, surrounded by mountains on all sides. It is home to Jone and approximately five hundred other Fijians. The individual dwellings are all constructed of either corrugated metal or wood and thatch in the tradtional bure style. Each house had a seperate small building specifically for cooking meals. Interspersed among the homes was the occassional outhouse--almost always without toilet paper. Cement walkways, all constructed by Rustic Pathways students, ran down the aisles between the homes. "Rustic Pathways 2007"; "Robert"; "Matt"; "Jenny Summer '04." There wasn't a smooth part visible. Bordering Nasivicoso on the east was the river; to the south was farmland; to the west was the road; and to the north was something every village had--a rugby field. All of this sat in the shadows of the mountains.

I jumped from the carrier and was immediately greeted by a tall Fijian named Josese,one of Jone's brothers. I had heard a lot about wild Josese, but decided to make my own judgements. He seemed nice enough.

We, along with some local kids, unloaded the carriers and brought all the gear to the Rustic Pathways bure. First on the agenda, even before we made an agenda, was nap time. It was not until after this that we decided, well, anything.

Naptime over, around four, we got together to figure out the rest of our day. On the top of the list of priorities was, obviously, cliff jumping. Following this was the savu savu (kava welcoming ceremony), dinner, and bed. After changing into my swimsuit I joined Oro, Josese, Kyle, Hillary, and Phil for the haalf hour walk to the waterfall.

Departure

2008-08-13T18:22:00.000-07:00

The day has come when I leave the sunny country of Fiji. I am not sure how I feel about leaving--my mind is spinning with everything--but I am excited for the next stage in life.

There have been no new posted chapters of my life for a while, but no worries--I've been keeping notes. In the coming weeks, various chapters will be available to read. Such tales include backpacking in the highlands, cliff jumping, visiting an orphanage, a solo trek in the jungle on a mountain, leaving the schools, why I like being called unique, the best parts of my summer, and my final thoughts.

Stay tuned, and wish me safe travels.

My Girls

2008-07-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

As mentioned before, I had a great two weeks, due mostly to my group--most commonly referred to as "my girls."

First Impressions
Every Thursday, to get ready for the new arrivals I put on my child's size shirt that reveals my sexy, hairy belly, my hat, and a brightly colored sulu. I am also flamboyantly outgoing. This sometimes (by sometimes I mean often) freaks out the new kids. When my girls first arrived and met with me for the first time, they were slightly freaked out. Most of them did not talk. The first impressions for all of us did not match up with how the following two weeks would turn out. These girls love to talk, to sing, to be outgoing. And I'm still weird--I just don't wear that shirt all the time.

Independence and Trust
Our first Tuesday afternoon found the eleven of us at Mulomulo Muslim School. We were prepared to teach two classes in two teaching groups. Upon arrival we discovered two classes actually meant four separate classes with a combined total of nearly fifty kids. My girls handled it like pros. Without any extra planning time, they split into smaller teaching teams and set out. I walked from classroom to classroom for the first few minutes before being captured by the headmaster for some discussion. During this walking, I found one teaching team standing in the classroom, at a loss for what to do. Quickly, I went to another classroom and asked one of my girls to go with the other two. This girl, the youngest of the group (younger than these two by two years) jumped in like a seasoned teacher. The rest of the teaching went smoothly, even when I stopped checking in on them. To of my girls asked the kids to draw what they wanted to be when they grew up. My favorite answer: "When I grow up I want to be a knight."

I went the majority of the two weeks without doing any planning on my own. I told my girls what the teachers were expecting and let them plan largely without my interference. I was never let down. One lesson plan expected to last over an hour took fifteen minutes. Instead of standing around with a blank look on their faces, these girls just kept going with other activities once again with minimal interference on my part.

At least twice during the two weeks I needed the help of my group to shop. The situation that most displays my trust in this group happened the last day. My normal system of food buying was disrupted and instead of having over two hundred dollars worth of food waiting for me at the market there was none. I had 45 minutes to buy enough fruit and veggies for 85 people for one day and 60 for the next. I made a quick list, split my girls into groups and gave each items to buy and 50 dollars to do so with. For the most part, if I had done this with any group I've had in the past I would be out 50 dollars. My girls bought everything on the lists and brought me change. One even bargained for a lower price on pineapple.

Priorities
Each week, we were scheduled to either go to the hot mud pools or an amazing place called the garden of the sleeping giant. Instead of going to either of these, my girls requested that during the second week we go to the orphanage instead. I made a few calls and made it happen. We spent an hour playing with little kids instead of merely entertaining ourselves.

They were there for fun, but each girl had service in mind. They were my girls and I loved them, but they didn't get anything for free. I have the belief that the kids that come here need to work to earn their service hours and these girls were no different. Doing a beach clean up with another group, we were the first to arrive and the last to leave. When we went to the schools, they all taught and all actively participated. During computer training, when we did not have enough students for each girl to be busy the whole time, I rotated the girls through so each worked. They rarely complained and by working hard and having great attitudes they earned trust and privileges. I asked for their opinions and would change how we did things or where we went and for how long. We had a lot of fun.

Bonding
The girls got a lot closer after the first week and most of them moved into the same room together. Twice we planned bonding times up on a nearby hill. The first was at sunset. Two of the girls sang a song for us and we all sang lean on me. The song they sang Was I'm Yours, by Jason Mraz. This became the theme song to our group. This duet version of the song is by far my favorite. While there for sunset, we made what some people call camp bracelets. The way to make one of these is to cut strips of bandanna, write all of the names of everyone in the group on each strip, then twist the strips into bracelets.

The second organized bonding time was on our last night. We went up after dark to look at the stars, share our favorite memories of Fiji, and eat what was intended to be chocolate cake. Due to a lousy oven it more resembled pudding, yet was still delicious. It was here that my girls told me what I meant to them and how I helped them over the past two weeks. This meant a lot to me. They also gave me a present that could not have been better- a jar of nutella. Nutella is worth, among staff, its weight in gold. Not only did they give me a jar of nutella, but they wrote a brief message on top- "Happy early B-Day, Love, Your Girls." Once again, nearly brought to tears. We also had a nice little "I'm Yours" sing along.

Throughout the two weeks, there were plenty of other unplanned bonding sessions, such as henna nights, that were also wonderful.

Adios
Thursday night, my girls flew back home. It was not a moment I was looking forward to at all. There were hugs all around without any tears shed. It seemed close with some girls, but it was a quick goodbye without any lingering around. I was bummed when they left and miss them, but things go on and I can't linger on it. I have to give my all to all of my groups and look forward to meeting all new people.

Two Weeks in Brief

2008-07-16T18:26:00.000-07:00

It has been a while since the last posted chapter in Craig's Fiji Adventure. Time to blog has been limited. Today is a good example of this limited time, with the exception being I made it to the internet cafe. A more detailed chronicle will follow, because the last two weeks are well worth it. A teaser for the next installment:

Over the past two weeks I have had accumulated some of my best memories in Fiji, these memories made possible largely by a wonderful group of ten teens. These girls, aged 15-18, are the best group I can remember having, in all of my experiences. They have also told that I am the best leader they've had, more like a big brother figure than anything else. This further enforces my belief that actually being a big brother is the most useful experience I have.

I have also realized that I have counselor in me no matter where I go. A student, who shared the same name, age, birth month and hair color as my youngest sister, told me as she left that I helped her out. I knew she had a story, but never asked. Sometimes you need the whole story and sometimes you don't. Regardless, having an outlet and a source for advice is always helpful. Ten years more life experience, both good and bad, and knowing the right things to say, are all that was needed. Her thanks nearly brought tears to my eyes--moments such as that are worth more to me than much else.

Lately I have taken some things into my own hands, such as a bit of my schedule and a healthy snack menu. I want to make the experiences my students have as best as possible, so will try to arrange things on my own--such as visiting an orphanage instead of the hot mud pools. I generally pass this through my supervisors, mostly just so they know where I am. I have also decided that we are not serving food that is healthy enough, so I am adding daily snacks of free apples and bananas to our snack menu of crap (oreos, chips, crackers, etc.). I'm sure it would be fine with my supervisors, but I never asked. They're too stressed to talk to. I like to get things my way and also the way that will best benefit others. The future will tell me if this is going to blow up in my face.

There will be more to follow in the hopefully near future regarding my group of girls.

I am happy, healthy, and content still in Fiji.

Moce- Pronounced Mothey (bye).

PANCAKES!!!!!!!!!

2008-07-04T18:11:00.001-07:00

Today I have a day off. That is a main explanation for so many posts so close together. It's a real chill day off. I had a long, hot shower last night. In a real building. Without bugs. The hot shower I mentioned in an earlier post was great, but it did leave me with a bug bite on my right butt cheek. No bugs=a better shower. And I had REAL PANCAKES this morning. With MAPLE SYRUP. I made them. They were delicious. It was the first time in a month and a half since I had last tasted pancakes. No orange juice, though.

I have not had orange juice in a month and a half. It makes no sense because there are people everywhere selling oranges, but this country does not have orange juice. They have sugary orange-flavored juice. When I get home I will begin an orange juice binge. And I will have a chicken caesar salad. And a cheesesteak. And a good, dark beer. And some sharp, non processed, cheddar cheese. And some candy. Not all at the same time, though. That would ruin the moment.

Most Disappointed

2008-07-04T17:42:00.000-07:00

On Thursday I had one of my most disappointing moments since arriving in Fiji. The day had been going well-I spent the morning with the new kids and the afternoon wandering the town with friends. I even got ice cream. The departing kids were searching Nadi for souvenirs and I was the driver. We were to meet at the Mobile at 3:30, so I was making my way back to the van. I saw a small group of student in front of the ATM. Upon approaching them, I discovered that two were holding beers. One of the boys I did not know-he tried to get away, but I saw him so it was a useless try. The other boy knew he was caught and did not attempt to sneak off. He was a boy from my group. I'll call him Sam.

Sam stood there, holding his beer. He gave it up without argue and I spoke to him.

"Are you serious?" I said, "I spent last night defending you [apparently someone called his parents and told them he was behaving poorly. I knew nothing of that] and the last twenty-four hours telling you how great you've been doing. Now you do this."

Rustic Pathways rules explicitly says that drinking alcohol is forbidden and the offenders will be sent home on the first flight out. It was their last day anyway, so they spent the remainder of it in the Nadi house with the country manager.

Sam is an arrogant kid. He has the air about him that he holds himself on a higher level than others. When I did the nightly rounds he was the last to get up when I said time for bed. He worked when he felt like it. However, when he worked, he did a great job. The first trip to the construction site had him working nearly non-stop. He was very active, patient, and all around great teaching the kids at Mulomulo Primary. I told him all this.

Anyone who knows my counseling and teaching side knows that I am an idealist. Sam told me, after teaching a more difficult class, that he realized how much trouble he had been causing his own teachers by acting that way. He was seeing teaching from a different point of view and it seemed like it could have been the planting of a seed in him that might eventually lead to better things. Who knows, that may be true. Maybe not. It's up to him.

Tattoos and Stolen Pizza

2008-07-04T04:02:00.000-07:00

I got a new tattoo. Last Saturday night, I came across a design, a sort of tribal set of swirls and dots, that looked awesome, so I got it on my right forearm. It didn't take too long to get done, and it was in a pretty clean environment so I should be okay. Also recently, I had a hot shower at the base, the first so far. I would put that it one of the best moments I've had here. It was wonderful.

Since the last installment, things have been interesting. To begin with, I have come to the realization that I am from the northeast US and that will not change. Let me explain the significance of this. Temperatures here rarely dip below 85 degrees during the day, and the number of 85 degree days I have experienced since last August I can probably count on my fingers and toes. It's also winter here. I think I just may be a cool weather person. The concept of not having a northeast autumn, experiencing all the colors, smells, and added layers of it, is not one I would like to get used to. My energey level also is not as high as usual.

On Tuesday I got a tour of a jail cell. Well, I saw it from outside the cell itself, but in the hallway. This impromptu, odd tour took place immediately after I finished a computer training session at the police station. The officer, or constable, asked me, "Mister Craig" and my kids if we wanted a tour of the police station. Sure, why not, right? She led us around to the back of the station, took us inside in two small groups to see the jail cell in the basement. There was a man in there, standing at the bars. She spoke of him as though he could not understand what she was saying, telling us why he was behind the bars and how long he was going to be there for. I felt like I was in a zoo. Upon leaving, I clearly recall saying "I can't believe that just happened."

After the zoo tour, we munched on some stolen pizza. This is another interesting story. We walked into Mama's Pizza at noon. I made my way to the woman at the register to order. However, she informed me that my male, australian leader had already placed an order for me for noon. It seemed out of the ordinary for my male, australian supervisor (who I was to meet there) to do this, but I thought 'That was nice of him.' After digging into the three pizzas, a group of australians came in. We ate their pizza. And, as it turns out, their australian leader used to work for my company but left and created his own travel company that goes to all the same locations. I didn't feel too bad.

There are two little girls, aged three and four, who currently live at our base house with their mother. The three year old cries a lot. She also gets into things and occasionally does stuff that I view as inappropriate. For example, a coworker told me this story when it occurred a few days ago: "I was reading in the hammock when I noticed Kimberly on the pool deck, squatting. She had dropped trou' and shit on the deck." True story. This does not seem to be a singular occurrence among Fijian children, either. Two weeks ago I was in a village working on a construction project, a handful of local kids playing close by. I turned around to look at them just in time to see a little boy, standing at the edge of the group, whip it out and drain himself in the wide open. Ah, kids. They do the darndest things.

I take a group to teach at Mulomulo Primary School nearly every Wednesday. Last Wednesday I did the same, but the kids were a little more excited by our presence than usual. Teaching was great-my kids did awesome-and afterwards, at lunch, they were rockstars. A few of my teens wandered outside of the teacher's room and were swarmed by kids. They were pulled, crowded around, and cheered at. One of my girls took video of it before she was swarmed herself. It strongly resembles video of a riot.

It has been a week since the tattoo was put on my forearm and the henna has faded. It was nice while it lasted.

Breakthrough

2008-06-28T18:16:00.000-07:00

Bula!

Things are still good here in Fiji. My group of five great girls has left and I now have eleven more teens and a co-leader. He seems like a cool guy. Teaches biology in the Bronx, down to earth, lots of brain teasers, etc. That is mstly the big update. Most of my life is moving along in the same routine as my last few posts.

I have had a philosophical breakthrough. A common question I ask people is 'If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?' My breakthrough is this: I always want to be able to answer 'Right in this very spot at this very moment.' This is not saying that I would not go somewhere else if given the opportunity, but that I am content in my life right then. Sometimes it will be tough, but it's a new goal.

I realized last night that yesterday was Amy and mine three year anniversary. I realized so late because I did not know what yesterday's date was. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Neither of us are making a big deal out of it because of that whole being on the other side of the world thing, so I figure we'll head out to dinner next time we're together.

I am looking forward to the fall. There are so many unknowns, basically everything, but it should be good. I hope to get a dog. It's a goal.

8km

2008-06-20T15:50:00.000-07:00

Check another one off the list.

Today I completed another task on my life list--to run in a race in a foreign country. This run was eight kilometers long, beginning and ending at the main sponsor's location: McDonald's. The finishing chute was the drive-thru. I will never get over the irony of that. My performance was a bit sub-par (not yet sure of my time, but I was dragging) but the competition was not what I am used to. I finished 17th overall--which does sound pretty impressive. At least a half dozen people ran barefoot.

I look to improve my fitness level while here. I am just now starting to feel better, so hopefully I can hit the roads on a more regular basis. I also have a running-buddy. His name is Bo and he is a very affectionate mutt. He does seem to be the alpha dog in the region, so I have no more dog confrontations while I run. He's a fit creature. I ran six or seven miles yesterday and he was right there with me.

There is some bad news. Last night, I finished my home-made chocolate chip cookies. Still soft. Well, I technically finished it with a spoon. I shared with three other people who referred to the cookie crumbs as crack. I've never tasted crack, so I imagine that they were refering to the addictively good quality of the delicious snack.

Until next time.

The Week Update

2008-06-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

Things have been busy, allowing very limited time to escape the base and access the internet. The following is a brief run down of my life over the p-ast week and a half.

It began at 4:30am on the 12th when we left for the airport to get the first batch of children and hasn't quite stopped. We picked them up, gathered all their cellphones so they didn't call home, and brought them to the base. We then split everyone up into groups.

The day before, I issued a challenge to the rest of the staff. I declared that my group, without having met them, would beat all other groups in a game of ultimate frisbee. Arrival morning, three of my group and myself played against Phil, another staff member, and two of his kids. My girls dominated without being competitive. It was awesome. While on the topic of my group, they are awesome. There are 5 girls (there were 6--one went home) and they don't complain, work hard, and have bonded well together. After emerging from a school last Friday to discover our car battery was dead, they were great sports about giving the van a push so I could pop-start it. In the rain.

Food has gotten much better. Our chef, Lesi, is one of the best people I've ever met. He lives to please and seems to enjoy it all. He told me that he sleeps only two hours per night. Lesi's lunches still leave a bit to be desired, but his dinners are awesome. Last week, for one dinner, I had baked potato, tuna steaks, chicken, and steak. All done on the grill. I hugged him.

That night was cut a bit short for me, though, so I had to leave after merely two plates. One of the many students who was ill approached our table obviously very dehydrated. He had been throwing up all day. I left with another staff member to take him to the hospital. He was given an injection of anti-vomiting meds and told to drink powerade. While at the hospital I got antibiotics for my throat. It had been hurting for a while and is only now feeling better. I told the woman that my throat hurt and she wrote me the prescription without ever looking at it. Interesting.

Later on in the week, I brought a group to Koropita, a village created for homeless people. They pay a dollar a day for rent. We dug trenches for piping and taught computer skills. While we were there, it began to rain--in torrents. We left soon after, fearing flooding. As it turns out, the fears were justified. The dirt road up to the house was flooded in two places. It made for an exciting drive. The first crossing made us wait for a little while for the water to go down, and the second I just went through at a slow pace as to not flood the intake and stall out.

More kids got here on Thursday, adding to the fun. It should be interesting.

Peace at Last, Peace at Last.

2008-06-17T21:46:00.000-07:00

Since junior year of college, I have been occasionally visited by nice little bouts of anxiety brought up, I guess, when things are overwhelming. Things that contribute: constant loud noises, crowded spaces, hospitals, etc. I'm a slightly intelligent person, knowing a little bit about mental health and have no suspicion that this is serious in the least. I don't have panic attacks, I just prefer to get the hell out of the situation. The day before leaving for Malakati I felt this after visiting the local third world hospital and returning to a loud crowded internet cafe in a loud crowded city. This should better give you the context of the following essay, written at Malakati village.

How do you find peace? And how would you know it once you've found it? So many people just go go go. Go through routines, go to starbucks, go to work, go to bed. Go go go. I feel they should stop where they are. Freeze. And reflect. Am I happy? When did I last feel peace? I am one of the few who is usually sincerely happy. However, when did I last feel peace within myself.

I have been to the tops of mountains, the spines of ridges, and the sides of cliffs. I have kayaked rivers, sailed on lakes, and seen lands unmarred by human presence. Even then, peace has been a rare experience.

Here, I have found peace. I feel my heartbeat slow and stress physicall lift from my shoulders. I feel lighter. Malakati village has no cars, no telivision, no video games. For amusement, the children play sports and push around small skis attached to a long bamboo handle. They call these boats. The families live either in thatch huts, called, bures, or small houses constructed of corrugated tin walls and roofs. People here smile and say bula when I walk past. They invite us to tea and readily share their possessions. The front yard in translucent blue water and pure white sand; the back yard is a mountain. I am at peace.

It took me hours to convince myself I am actually here. It is still difficult to believe that I am staying in a village on a small island in the middle of the pacific. I am truly thankful for this place and the welcoming nature of these people.

I feel alive, recharged, rested. I feel peace.

6/7-8/08 Malakati Days Two and Three

2008-06-17T21:25:00.000-07:00

Not much beats waking up on a beach on a remote Fijian island. Trust me.

It was another rough day at the office. For starters, some one made my breakfast for me, again. Then, I had to suffer through hanging out at the beach until church.

Oh, church. We did not have the foresight to bring nice clothes to the island, so some kind villagers offered all the staff their Sunday Best. I wore a bright res and black button down shirt along with a dress zulu. If I have yet to describe a zulu, it is basically a brightly colored bedsheet that one wraps around their waist like a towel. In Fiji, this is considered unisex and not afeminite, whish is good for me because I occasionally enjoy to wear a zulu in lieu of pants. This particular zulu was plain black with a built in belt. I looked so good it rivaled my powder-blue prom tuxedo.

Despite the fact that I understood only about three sentences at the church service, I thoroughly enjoyed it. This was due to the choir. About half the village population seemed to be a member. It easily ranks as one of the best choirs I've heard. The power of their voices and the notes they hit brought goosebumps. Sitting in the second pew, with a hymnal, I felt priviledged to add my song to theirs.

My second favorite part of church was the old guy sitting in the back row of the children's section. He held a long bamboo stick. I imagine that stick to have a name. The Religious Regulator, or The Devil Deterrer.

Church ended and we waited on the beach for lunch. I know, life can be difficult. We ate, more staff arrived, and we left for snorkeling. It was nice. I saw two fish staring at something, so I swam down and joined them. I couldn't figure out was what was so intriguing. I soone decided to abort snorkeling and began diving from the top of the boat, perhaps a staggering meter and a half above the water. Not long after, we left, ate dinner, some delicous fish cooked in coconut milk), discovered that two of our staff were lost on this remote Fijian island. They were bushwacking/trailblazing a trail for their prgram. Senga na lenqa- no worries. They're more trained in the outdoors than I am. They returned for breakfast. We spent the first few hours of the night bonding as a staff, then went to bed.

Poor planning on the part of someone led us to running out of food. Well, almost out. Breakfast consisted of rice cooked in cocnut milk. Not bad, but insubstantial. We ate, lounged some more on the beach, and said our farewells. The people, scenery, and serenity of Malakati Village is not something that will soon, if ever, be forgotten by any of us.

6/6/08 Malakati Day One

2008-06-17T21:01:00.000-07:00

We woke at 3:30am and were on the road by 4. Two boats were loaded with our gear and ourselves. We pulled away from the wharf at 6:15, or 5:30 "Fiji Time." Three of us, Tanya, Alex, and myself sat in the bow, above the small cargo hold, the best seats in the house. The water was like glass and parted smoothly on either side of the boat as we left the bay. The sunrise was breathtaking. Colors changed by the minute--purple to pink to red to orange to yellow.

Tanya best voiced our sentiments: "People work, 9-5, every day, at an office to make money. Of this money, they may save 5% for vacations. After doing this long enough, they can see the sun rise over Fiji's big island from a boat on smooth water."

Alex: "This is the best commute I've ever had."

Once the sun was fully up and we left the main island behind, the sea took a short break from tranquility. In other words, it went from peaceful to, in my opinion, fun. Soon, the water was hitting us in spray and bucketfuls. Those in the main area did not share my opinion in what qualifies as fun, particularly the girl that threw up over the side of the boat. Another took some dramamine and hid in the cargo hold. Nearly everyone was soaked. I remained on the bow, holding on to the three inch tall rail/tie down and laughed. Headphones and raincoat on, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

The main island fell from sight and the smaller islands of the Yasawa group rose from below the horizon. We reached the safe waters between them and the see was calm once again.

Picturesque best describes the sight that welcomed us to the island. We arrived at Malakati village, greeted by singing villagers. Lunch was soon ready and we ate. It was good, and afterwards we rested. The staff enjoyed our newfound peace in different ways: some sunbathed, some swam, and others rested in the shade. I partook in all of the above. After an hour or so of this hard work, we set up some tents.

Between tent set up and afternoon tea, I played rugby with some of the village boys. To sum up the athletic abilit of these Fikian kids, I would say quick. These teens and preteens seemed to burn me on nearly flat our run. Quick little buggers. I had a blast.

Then came, in order, tea, medical meeting, dinner, swimming, kava, bed. Swimming was amazing. A handful of us went out after dark to jump off the boat into the still, warm Fijian waters. I tried standing on a surfboard on this still water. It didn't work.

Throughout drinking kava, many of the village men played guitar and sang for u. OPnce, again, more proof that Fijians are great musicians.

Then, bed.

Cold Showers and Hot Mud

2008-06-09T22:05:00.000-07:00

Due to the fact that my memory fades rather quickly, the following entry of last Thursday and Friday will be bullet-point form. It makes things easier.

-On Thursday I spent the day at the school I will be going to each week over the summer. We taught english to 1st and 2nd graders and art to 3rd and 4th graders. These kids are super happy to have us and are quite cute.

-I'm wondering if preferring to be the group leader means I have control issues. I don't like not being able to decide what will be going on. Other people were deciding what activities we'd be teaching and who would teach what. I'm also about to have a discussion with one of the leadership staff about her, well, leadership style. More on that later.

-I am now driving here. Thursday was the first day of this. The most difficult part is remembering that the turn signal is on the opposite side and to watch out for potholes. Driving on the left and sitting on the right isn't too bad.

-After school we went to a hot mud pool (outdoors). It was odd. On top of the mud was water, followed by a layer of leaves. The hot mud was good though. Except for the old guy that owned the place. He had us get out one by one an he rubbed us down with mud. He did not miss a single spot. He was THE dirty old man. I felt offended for the girls. He will not be going near my students.

-We occasionally hang out with the Fijian staff drinking Kava and listening to them play guitar and sing. They are great musicians.

-Friday we went on a more official tour of Nadi. It was crowded. We visited the hospital and I didn't like it. I got out as soon as I could.

-The cook's food is getting better. Lunches are okay, but his dinners rock.

-The end of the day saw me packing for the weekend island adventure, tune in later for details.

Once again--healthy, safe, and still snacking on cookies.

Momi House

2008-06-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Momi Bay, to my home-away-from-home on Sunday. It's nice. I doubt I'll have a hot shower until I return home, but it's nice. The people seem real cool. There's a comptetitive streak in a few folks, but still they seem like decent people. The food the first night was pretty good-lamb chops, chicken, cassava, and salad. That went a bit downhill, so there's some constructive feedback going on. Today's lunch consisted of egg salad sandwiches. The egg salad was chopped egg and butter. I have home-made chocolate chip cookies to supplement my diet, so I will stay well fed, don't worry.

Training seems like it's going to be pretty intensive. There's a lot to cover. I'm really excited for the next three months because of everything we have to go over. I will be working in schools, doing construction, doing sports, and all sorts of other stuff. We need to visit all the sites before everything gets going, so it will be hectic training. There are other people that want to run in the mornings, so that's really good. It's a good way to energize for the day.

I wish I could tell more, but I am pressed for time and must say farewell for now. Things are good, I am safe, and I can play connect the dots on my legs and arms with mosquito bites. There isn't malaria here though, so no worries.

Our last day of freedom

2008-05-31T15:56:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning began with a nice long time at an internet cafe. I talked with Amy for a while-not long enough, but better than nothing-and we left for the town of Nadi (pronounced Nandy). Upon arrival, we immediately ran into four coworkers. Our supervisor, Ann, was one of them and offered to drive us to a hostel. We agreed and she dropped us off at the hostel. We stayed at one of four or five hostels lining the water. Phil and I hung out her for a bit, playing some frisbee and reading and watching a drunk older man burp, fart, sing, "play" the guitar, and hit on the waitress. Then we met up with Ann and some other coworkers for dinner. We went to a pizza place and it was surprisingly good. Phil and I returned to the hostel, expecting a wild party, and found mostly silence.

Phil and I each grabbed a beer and walked along the beach to check out the other hostels. While wandering, we ran into a small group of local men who invited us to hang out with them. We did, for a while. They shared their rum, which I politely declined, and talked with us. One of the men, the oldest, was stumbling drunk and kept telling us how much both he, and god, loved us. I began to feel uncomfortable with the situation. I killed my beer and told Phil I needed another. We left the group, telling them we would return. We did not. The rum they had was 58% alcohol and I imagine their intentions were a bit more than simply chatting, and sharing, with us.

I left Phil chatting with another traveler and went to bed. I woke up, read a bit, then the two of us went back into town. That brings me to now. We are waiting to meet up with other staff for a ride to our new home for the summer.

I am looking forward to meeting new people tomorrow and beginning staff training. I am also looking forward to the kids getting here. Having this little holiday was nice and all, but I spent plenty of time lounging while I was laid off. I'm ready to be busy.

Indiana Jones and the Fijian Prostitute

2008-05-31T15:39:00.000-07:00

We reached the town of Lautoka shortly after leaving Ba. There wasn't much to do there-the beaches were a trash dump and the mountains were too far away. So, we settled for indoor pursuits. Phil and I found our way to the movie theater and saw the new Indiana Jones movie. It was a pretty good movie. Weak plot, but a fun flick. We left the cinema for our hostel, where I had my first (I think) encounter with prostitutes.

I wanted to get a taxi, but Phil thought that the roads were populated enough to be safe. They were, except for the last two blocks to the hostel. We walked quickly and confidently and encountered no problems. Just before crossing the last intersection before our hostel, I noticed a small group of woman standing on the opposite corner with a man among them, leaning against a street sign. A woman broke off the from the crowd and met us as we crossed the road.
"You want massage?" she said.
"No thanks," I said, just before Phil said:
"Well, I don't, but he does." Thanks, Phil
She got the hint, though and returned to her street corner.

We then went out for burgers (you occasionally need a taste of home) and followed this with a trip to an indian night club. We stayed there only for a brief period of time. The bartender (a woman) asked to dance with me, but I politely declined. I wanted to leave the club. In all honesty, and as cheesy as it sounds, there's only one person I wanted to dance with, and it wasn't Phil or the bartender. But, she wasn't there and people watching is only so interesting. We let and I went to bed.

Machetes, Church Songs, and Hitchhiking with Police

2008-05-29T19:54:00.000-07:00

The last day was as interesting as the title suggests. Phil and I caught a bus from Tavua to Ba yesterday, intending to head to the village of Navala. Navala is the only village left in Fiji that still sticks mostly to the traditional thatch hut for living quarters. During the bus ride there, I put on my headphones and listened to my mp3 player. I listened to about two songs until it hit me that I was basically flaunting with the villagers did not have. From that point on, I listened to loud indian music and watched the sights. The ride took us further into the interior of the island and into the mountainous regions. It was incredibly beautiful. Even more cliffs and mountains than before.

Towards the end of the ride to the village, people began to get on the bus with all their locally grown produce and goods to bring to the market to sell. During this time, a woman got on the bus carrying a machete, sat down next to me and said "Bula!" (hello). We shook hands and this was normal. I don't think it would have been taken in stride if someone boarded a bus with a machete in the states.

We arrived at the village, then took a truck to the hostel where we were staying. It was a nice, small place. We all had tea, then hiked back to the village. Walking through the village for me felt awkward. This was a place where people have been living in huts since long before tourists started showing up. We were walking through where they lived. I stopped taking pictures after the first few minutes. After walking through the village with our guide, we walked up a hill to see it from above. It was very nice. About 600 people live in the village, so there are a lot of huts.

We got back to the hostel for some kava and dinner. Kava is a root that people grind up and soak in water. They then drink the brew. It is supposedly a mild narcotic, but this was very watered down. I think it was supposed to be thicker. There is a small ceremony involved, with everyone sitting around a big bowl. Compare this to a bunch of guys in america sitting around chatting over beers. Same thing. Dinner was good, some traditional food. I went to bed shortly after.

The next day we ate an early dinner and left around 7:30 to catch the bus back. By 9:00, the bus had still yet to arrive. It was around this point that our guide told us that it was a holiday and the bus may not run. Phil and I decided to wait for a truck and grab a ride back to Ba. By 10:30, there had been no trucks. During this time, some local kids hung out with us on the side of the dirt road. Apparently, in villages in the Fijian highlands, kids really do not have personal boundaries like we do. One said he was my friend, sat directly next to me, and leaned up against me. I slid over a little bit. The kids also seemed very interested in my bracelets and played with them a lot. Two young boys, probably brothers, spontaneously started singing their favorite church songs for Phil and I. It was very cute.

Our guide had walked away for about an hour or so and, when he came back, we just asked him if he could drive us to Ba. He said yes, for 25 dollars. When went back to his mom's house to get gas. He filled up, then promptly disappeared. "Tui, he lost." The mother said to us, after raising the price to 35 dollars. We heard a truck coming up the road and Phil raced out to wave it down. It was the police. We asked for a ride and they agreed, refusing to accept payment. We rode in the bed of the truck. If this wasn't odd enough, they stopped after a few minutes and got out. Bathroom break. They all walked to the side of the road and peed in the bushes. Coming from america, I viewed this as all being quite strange. It was, however, a good story.

The Experience Continues

2008-05-27T21:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was pretty good. I took a buses and felt much safer. There was a lot less swerving between lanes and I had more knee room. I took a bus through a bit of the island's interior, and found it to be amazing. The road, much of it dirt, wound down through valleys, cut into the sides of hills, and gave me fantastic views of the mountains and cliffs and jungles of Fiji. The trees are amazing, as well. They are unlike trees I have seen back home. Some of them are very narrow and very tall, others have massive limbs that go out in all directions, starting at the ground. Still others form what seem to be huge domes. I want to climb them all.
I got off the bus at a place called Ellington Wharf and found a hostel to spend the night at. A 15 minute boat ride brought me to the island of Nananu-i-Ra where I met up with my new friend Phil. We spent the night there, snorkeled in the morning, and left around three in the afternoon today. I am now in a town called Rakiraki, getting ready to plan the next step.

I'm doing better with the keeping-my-guard-up-always thing. I had a good conversation with the man driving the boat to the island yesterday. He was very happy I was here to help people. As it turns out, most of my guard needs to be up when it comes to theft. Apparently, backpackers will steal from other backpackers in hostels. I have a lot to learn about travel backpacking. Everyone I've met so far has been really nice, though, and I'm not worried. I'm also an idealist. Either way, Phil is going to teach me the way of backpacking so nothing goes missing.

I have finished my first book since arriving. It was The Kite Runner. Very good book that I found abandoned on a bunk in my first hostel. I have decided that a good book can sometimes seem like a little companion. One that only talks when you want it to, never complains, and always entertains.

Now it's time to find another book. In english. Could prove to be difficult.

Bula!

2008-05-25T14:25:00.000-07:00

I am on the other side of the world. No exaggeration. The most direct way to get home would be through the center of the earth. I have also crossed the international dateline, so for all you folks in the USA reading this right now, it's tomorrow here. The future isn't too bad, don't worry.
Fiji is great. The landscape is beautiful and the water is blue. I am spending tonight at a place called The Uprising, right on the water. The dorm building (actually a big room with a bunch of bunk beds) is a traditional thatch-style structure with a big balcony overlooking trees and the ocean.
The way out here was interesting, to say the least. I rode in a mini-bus or big van, whichever you'd like to call it with a bunch of Fijians. We listened to the same fiji christian praise cd on repeat the whole way out. I heard the same song four times. The driver did not pay much heed to the Rules Of The Road, or at least what my sense of self-preservation interprets the rules to be. In Fiji, drivers are supposed to drive on the left side of the road. This man, however, drove on either side indiscriminately. Also, he tailgated other vehicles so closely I could have reached out and touched them. He also passed slower vehicles without regard to whether or not he could see the opposite lane before going into it. He passed on blind turns. Occasionally, he swerved back into the left lane just in time to avoid certain death. I made it in one piece to my destination, but I would be lying if I said I did not wonder if I would make it.
Fijian people are very nice, and greet people warmly. I have heard nothing but praise for these people before arriving. However, my guard remains up pretty high. I hope it does not remain like that. Today a man asked me (with genuine interest) my reason for being in the country and where I was staying. I was suspicious, but I don't think my suspicion was warranted. He just wanted to chat. I think it is headlines I read in the states that has me in this train of thought. I know I should never completely take my guard down with people I don't know, but I think relaxing about it would do me good.
Well, that about brings me to where I am now. I'll update as the adventure progresses. I'm excited to see what happens next.

Vinaka