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.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Backpacking in Fiji, Chapter 4
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.
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
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.
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.
Monday, August 25, 2008
The Orphanage
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Departure
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.
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.
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