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.