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.