Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 12

So now, years after my Fiji trip, I realized I never posted this last chapter. Here it is.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 12

Sleep, Wonderful Sleep

Shortly after returning to firm ground, the sides of the canyon began to fall away, eventually giving way to sugar cane fields. We left the streambed and continued north by way of a dirt road that ran parallel to the water. The sun began to dip below the horizon and exhaustion started to set in. Full dark was upon us by the time the road crossed the river and we came upon our first sight of other people since leaving the hunters and stinking dogs behind. I had no energy left and told Jone so. I know it comes off as whining, but I said it matter-of-factly without that little annoying bit to a whining voice.

“I’m pretty spent, Jone,” I said, “Not sure how much more walking my legs can do. Do you know about how much farther it is?”

“I don’t know.”

I gestured in the dark to the house we were passing. The lights were on and a man and woman stood out front, watching us pass.

“We could ask them if we could stay here for the night. I’m sure they would say yes.”

Jone glanced at the house and the couple standing before it.

“No, not here. They’re Indians.” Jone’s statement is a good example of the general sentiment in Fiji. The Fijian population is made up by about and even 50/50 split between Fijians and Indo-Fijians. A long time ago, when the British were still trying to conquer the world, men and women were brought from India to Fiji to serve as servants and slaves. When this slavery ended, the Indians stayed on the big islands, but were unable to be landowners. Years and years have passed since then and racism lingers. Indians still aren’t permitted to own land or serve in government.

Not long after passing the Indian family, headlights appeared on the road behind us. I pickup truck drove up and Jone waved it down to ask for a ride. They spoke back and forth in Fijian for a few minutes before Jone turned to me.

“He said he will drive us, but for fifty dollars.”

“Fifty dollars?” I was astounded.

“Yes.”

“No way,” said Phil.

Jone spoke to the man briefly and he drove off, leaving us to push forward on tired legs. We walked through the darkness for another hour before a village came into view. The twenty or so small houses were in a circle with a church in the center. The buildings were all made of cement, and many had small shacks built behind them.

“This is it.” Jone led us into the ring of houses and began asking residents for the home of his cousin. In no time, we were standing before it and knocking on the door. A woman answered and smiled. She was the wife of Jone’s cousin. We were ushered inside. The home was made up a main room, which also held a bed and a small cooking area, and a bedroom.

"Please, sit.” She gestured to the couches and chairs in the main room. In looking back, it was a rude thing to do, but I sat on the floor in front of the couch. Through my exhausted daze, I heard her voice.

“You can sit on the couch.”

“Oh, that’s okay, this is fine.”

“No, please, sit on the couch.”

“I would love to,” I said, ”But I smell really horrible.” It had been two or three days since I had bathed in the river by Nasivicoso village, and I had spent the time from then hiking beneath the hot sun and, on occasion, in the company of dogs that smelled extraordinarily horrid.

She laughed.

“Would you like to shower, then?”

Phil, Kyle and I all chose to bathe. I ended up going last, but it turned out that I didn’t need to worry about the other two using up all the hot water; the shower was nothing more than a hose hung up inside the small shed built behind the house. The cold shower was refreshing and, as soon as I had dried off and put on cleaner clothes, I realized how hungry I was. The three of us set off to the village food shop to find dinner.

There wasn’t much to choose from: chips, cookies, ramen noodles, canned food, processed blocks of cheese and not much more. However, Kyle wasn’t discouraged. Apparently, he had made a dish before that consisted of ramen noodles, canned tuna, and cheese. He insisted that it tasted good. For some odd reason, we believed him and settled on that for dinner.

It was terrible.

Kyle cooked it back in the house in the corner of the main room that functioned as the kitchen. I assumed it was supposed to be thick and cheesy, but it came out as soupy ramen noodles with globs of disgusting, half melted cheese and chunks of luke warm tuna fish. But, there was nothing else to eat and I was hungry. I ate it.

Shortly afterwards our wonderful hostess took notice of our exhausted states and showed us to the common room in the village church. There were mattresses for us to use on the floor. I picked out the one that smelled the least mildew-y, laid it out on the floor, and was dead to the world as soon as I laid down. 

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 13

The Return

  

Can't lie, not a whole lot goes into this chapter. We woke up, caught the bus back to Nadi, grabbed breakfast at a bakery, and were back at our base by lunchtime. Nothing too exciting.

Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 11

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

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

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

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

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

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.