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Living
in Fiji - Island Fever
By Susan
Rungo-de Geus
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April 2006
| We
had this crazy dream. It’s a common one … a captivating one even. But one
that was, for most people, but a dream. Pack up and take to live
on a the South Pacific island. Splendid islands that seem to float, adrift,
on impossibly blue seas. Places of paradise untouched by the ravages of
industrial man. For us, this is a dream we dream while we are awake.
We bought property
in Fiji years ago as an investment. Only 8% of the entire South Pacific
is available for purchase to non-indigenous persons. This makes the “dream”
more elusive, and as such, more desirable. It took five years, and all
of a sudden we had chartered a new course – uprooted from what was familiar
and comfortable, to brave a whole new world. I was a journalist/columnist,
Brad a busy chiropractor. Life in California was spinning out of control
– poor air quality, high taxes, water that was just too scary to swim in,
let alone consume, and influences that were definitely unacceptable for
our teenage daughter and young son.
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
bodily threw themselves on the baggage carousel hoping to get back … 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 at our alien environment, and we sought
to explore the nooks and crannies. 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 circled 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 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.
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Article Continued Below - |
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- Continued
From Above.-
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.
They also had
no transportation, so Brad would drive to the villages each morning to
pick them up. Some would paddle over from an outer island and hike up the
thick jungle hillsides to work. They were admirable, but inconsistent.
“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?
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