 |
|
|
We landed in Nadi International Airport, Fiji. One husband, one wife, 13-year-old daughter, 7-year-old son. It was January 1, it was humid, we were dressed for California winters, and we were wilting. My daughter just realized there was no MTV, no shopping malls, no Starbucks. My son noticed all the men were wearing sulus – the male version of a sarong - translated, skirt. The two of them threw themselves on the baggage carousel hoping to get back to California… back to civilization where men are men and women wear makeup. We had exactly 10 days from touchdown to accomplish the following: find a place to rent, find a crew to help build our home, register the kids in school, and buy a car. We were on a package “deal” that included 9 nights accommodation at a budget resort, and two meals per day. After that, we were on our own. Literally. In all these 330 islands we knew exactly three people – the Australian man who sold us our property, and an American couple who ran a resort within walking distance of our home site. We were refugees. Expats. Renegades. Nomads. Scallywags. We survived. I would like to say that we thrived, but for the sake of responsible journalism, I’d say we muddled through. Perhaps it was because we were brave. I think it was more that we were just too stupid to know any different. Our first week found us a bit overwhelmed by our alien environment, as we sought to explore the nooks and crannies of Fiji. We donned snorkel and masks and swam in the 80-degree water, amazed at the world that came alive underneath the sea. We were entranced by the palms that encircled us, the reefs that fringed the coastline, the islands that dotted the horizon. Our home was being built on a hill overlooking the ocean, backed onto a virgin rainforest. Parrot families flew by every morning; palm trees swayed in the southeast trades; frangipanis bloomed in profusion, perfuming the air with their heady bouquet. In week two we got into the swing of what would be our routine. The first day I kissed the kids goodbye, saw my husband off to the worksite, and shut the door to the harmony of quiet – my first day alone in paradise. Blissfully, blessedly alone. The shackles of civilization were broken, I was free – a butterfly testing its newfound wings. Alone is good for a day. Alone can even be good for a week. But there is alone and there is Alone. I was Alone. My entire life I’ve always had something to do and somewhere to go… to school, to work, to someone’s house. Now I had no car, no radio, no TV. No books or magazines, a telephone but no friends, a computer but no Internet. No Mexican food, no pizza delivery – no trappings of the “real life” I had once lived. However, I
was a journalist, and I’ve always had a story to tell. I would find my
inner child and write my memoirs! I could swim, long strokes with strong
tanned arms, in the deep blue Pacific Ocean! I would walk amongst tropical
gardens, South Seas trade winds in my hair. I would become connected with
nature, find my soul, my true passions. I would become the poster child
for peace and serenity.
What I became, after the first couple of days, was bored. The novelty of no work, no transportation, no entertainment was wearing thin. But, as any writer in search of a story, a spark blossomed. My rental house came with a caretaker! I could make a friend! We could sit on my patio, me an adventurous American author, he a craggy faced native with stories of the islands. We would laugh and share, we would celebrate our differences, drink in our similarities. I would sip my lightly flavored chai spiced tea, he would swig a strong brew of Fijian coffee. Caretaker Mike came to the front door. And I was ready. I had my favorite china cup, my best bred manners, a notebook and pen at the ready. What wondrous legends would he share? Was he once a sailor among the islands? Had he lived for years in the bush, cutting vines with machetes and scaling barefoot up coconut trees? Had he caught a glimpse of the dreaded shark god, Dakuwaqa, who patrolled the open seas? I was giddy with the possibilities. “I can do this” I thought. His people will be my people. I will embrace this new culture with open arms, and enchant all with my journals and tales. He threw me for a loop … he handed me a jar. Now, mind you, I’m a product of the 60s, and I’m pretty open to most anything, willing to give it all that old college try. But I have a few ground rules. First, I need to know what it is. I have a bit of a problem with anything retaining its “animalness” – and that goes for things served with the head intact, with antennae, or with other parts not meant to be edible. I’m also a freak about textures. Oysters make my eyes roll in back of my head. I prefer chewing to swallowing whole. So, while I am game for most anything, I do have my limits. “What it is?” I asked Mike. “Johmb.” So, Johmb it is. Do I put it on my skin? In my hair? Do I eat it or patch something with it? Since I looked a bit confused, he elucidated. “Johmb on Brad.” Wow. That made it infinitely more comprehensible. Colorful pictures of Mike and I sharing lifetimes were dashed to the ground. I had no idea what he was saying. English? Maybe. I wasn’t sure. I set the jar on the counter and circled apprehensively. Wooden spoon in hand (in case something alive was inside and I would be facing it, alone and unarmed) I opened said jar. Lo and behold, from inside the jar came the most delightful smell I have ever experienced. It was jam. Like jam on bread. And it tasted like a bit of heaven, all the warmth of the islands captured in the small jar. The next morning I greeted Mike, effuse with praise. “What is this – it’s the best jam I’ve ever tasted.” “Mugwai,” he proclaimed. “Mango?” I said. “No, MUG-WAI.” I shut the door, and spread some mugwai johmb on my brad. On the home
site, Brad was facing his own demons. His crew of brawny Fijians were just
that – brawny. The plumber wasn’t really a plumber, any more than the electrician
was an electrician. They DID plumbing, and electric work, but they weren’t
skilled, nor even experienced. I don’t know why that surprised us as it
did, since their village homes had neither lights nor indoor plumbing.
But they had good hearts, good humor, and strong backs.
“So … where’s Misiwata?” Brad asked the other members of the crew one morning. Ratusella scrugged. “Ees Feeshing.” ‘Fishing?” asked Brad. “He’s supposed to start work today at 8.” Misiwata having the dubious distinction of being the most skilled of the unskilled workers. “No, ees good day to feesh.” Births, marriages, funerals – and there were plenty – were all cause for major celebration (and a day or two, or five, off work). These festivities could carry on for a full week, and were all faithfully attended by any villager who had the pocket change for bus fare to get to the event. Although truly only for relatives and friends, you’d be hard pressed to find any Fijian who didn’t have a auntie, uncle or “cousin-brother” (which we think means a male cousin, but we’re still not sure) somewhere in every village across every island. Government bureaucracy can be frustrating in any country, and Fiji is no different. If you know someone to show you the loops, you are 10 steps ahead of the game. We were lucky – our Australian real estate agent set up our residency permits before we arrived, and Brad quickly got his work permit. Some were not as lucky, and through the years we’ve counseled countless others on the intricacies of dodging the flying red tape and of knowing when to speak up, and when to simply smile and say “ees good day to feesh.” If you are considering escaping to Bali Hai, don’t do it if you have an agenda. Seriously. You’ll drive yourself, and everyone within shouting distance, mad. Agendas and schedules don’t work. The pace of life is slower. Isn’t it why we are all here? So your house takes another six months to complete. So? You, like, have somewhere you need to be? Relax, Mon, and bite into the sweetest mango you’ll ever taste, plucked ripe and juicy right off the tree. Ride a bilibili bamboo raft down a fresh water stream. Join the villager elders in a kava ceremony. Then try to stand up (snicker). Reel in your own “catch of the day” … an 80 pound yellow fin tuna, or fresh mahimahi. Check out the Southern Cross at night, and the kaleidoscope of fiery colors in the morning sky. Swim in water so warm and so clear that you’d swear it was invisible. Sail with spinner dolphins and flying fish, dive with giant mantas over intricate coral gardens. Revel in the simpler things, where life is less complex, yet infinitely more satisfying. In the almost 10 years we’ve lived in these isles of Fiji, many things have changed. You can’t get that 4-bedroom house with caretaker for $300 any more. Real estate prices are starting to climb as more and more people “want out” of the industrial world. Yet, amazingly, these wonderful, warm and welcoming people who call Fiji their ancestral home remain charmingly the same. Since they retain most of the land, it will never be turned over to commercial developers to become another Hawaii … with miles of sky rises rimming the beaches. It has developed, and tourism is booming, but on a small and intimate scale, and all the while retaining a unique cultural heritage. My two children were raised on Fijian soil. One has bloomed into adulthood, and the other is nearing completion. The end product of these two fine citizens of the world is a pleasure to behold. They have a global attitude, and a presence we would have never dreamed could be attained. They have learned to embrace cultural diversity, to respect the earth, to tread lightly, yet true. They are becoming what I want to be when I grow up. We have moved again – to a smaller outer island in the Fijian archipelago. The home we lovingly built is for sale, as we make a new place for ourselves. Here, life is simpler still. Away from the “main island” colors seem a bit brighter, palms taller, skies bluer. The water is warm, the smiles broad. We have become Kai Viti – residents of Fiji. So that when relatives in the States ask us “when are you ever coming home?” we know the answer. We are home. How much better can one life get? To contact
Susan Click Here
|
