Chapter 6 - Fiji - Suva

I don’t know where it came from but I had another of my Andrew dreams again and woke up in the night raining tears. I had to stuff my pillow into my mouth to keep the sobs quiet. Five years and I still get them! I lay there feeling miserable, listening to the sounds of a Fiji night, so different to the countless Rome and London and Madrid nights I have listened to over the last years, but I must have fallen asleep again for I awoke with a start to see a shadow of light through my mosquito net. It really is a treat to wake up to sunshine every morning. And the most impressive dawn chorus intermingling with the rhythmic thump of tapa making. I haven’t seen tapa yet but I know that’s what the noise is. I have yet to see the women pounding their wet mulberry bark as they start so early in the morning in the neighbouring village, but I have seen the paper with its brown and black decorations.

I could hear Niki’s and Sophie’s breathing change and knew they were lying awake too, listening to the combination of bird music and woman music as the sun rose higher, spreading faint and then golden light across our walls. Then, grabbing sulus and sunglasses, we slather on sunscreen and shimmer out into the heat. I’m actually quite happy to leave the mbure every morning. They are picturesque with their thatch and matting, but in the thatch lurk large spiders and the walls hide scrabbling rats, which I heard in abundance last night lying awake. Someone referred to the spiders as ‘bird-eating’ and they certainly are the right size to have earned such a descriptive name. I try not to think about it.

The days are starting to blend into each other. Eat breakfast. Sit on the beach with books. Swim. Snorkel. Eat lunch. Swim. Dinner. Drink. Dance. Flirt. Sleep. Sex. Or not sleep and sex, depending on whether you are me or one of the other two. My favourite times are in the early evenings when we sit round the common room, drinking kava so strong our tongues tingle, and talking until the bugs come in. The first night we saw cockroaches up close –shiny, brown and huge, four inches long and with antennas almost as long again. Worst of all, they fly! One of them landed on my shoulder with a heavy thud; it felt like a small stone hitting me and took several swipes of my hand to send it away. The only crawling things we like to see are the sweet faced geckos that eat other insects. I’m relieved beyond extremely to have a mosquito net over my bed.

When I think about it, I can’t believe it’s only been four days since we’ve been here. Niki and Sophie are just getting into their groove, having thoroughly explored every man in the place, but I am already getting bored. It feels like we’ve been doing the same things for ages. I can’t bear the thought of another day just mooching on a beach so suggest taking a trip to the hot springs and sliding falls. The others are less than interested. They surprise me with a suggestion of their own.

“Let’s move on to Beachcomber Island. Everyone is talking about how totally awesome it is there and how many more people there are.”

“By people I take it you are referring to guys?”

“Yes smart ass. And you’re no help. I don’t think you’ve said two words to any male here.”

“But no one here has anything interesting to say. It’s all about how much beer they drink or how much money they earn. No one reads or thinks about anything other than the dinner buffet.”

Something caught Niki’s eye and she pounced. “What’s this?”

“Hey, that’s my list.”

“Your what?”

“My list. Of what I need to do.”

“’Get up. Wash. Get changed. Brush hair. Brush teeth.’ Ye gods, what the hell is this? You really have a list of every single thing you do every day? And then you tick them off? That's totally weird!”

I grabbed the piece of paper, blushing hotly. How does she know what it takes to get through a day when you still hate the thought of so many more to go through?

Sophie sensed it meant more than just a list of tasks. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Guess,” I said roughly.

“You don’t mean it! Five years?!?”

“Well, it’s what I need to do, okay? Otherwise what’s the difference between staying in bed and not staying in bed? You’re the ones always telling me I have to be part of the outside world. Well,” I looked down at the crumpled piece of paper with its 30 or so things listed and checked off. I crumpled it up and looked up again at the two concerned faces. Tears stung behind my eyes, threatening to appear. “This helps me do that."

There was a beat of silence, then Niki turned to Sophie. “We have to get her out of here and somewhere where there’s something better to occupy her brain, okay? What do you think Sophomore? Beachcomber sounds totally awesome. Our time is limited. I’m fed up wasting my energy talking to some guy before finding out he’s gay. Cast–A-Way resort indeed. All the cute single hetero guys have been Cast-A-Side.”

I appreciated the attempt. “Where is Beachcomber?” I asked.

“It’s an island. Off the coast.”

I bite back the obvious remark. “How far from here?”

“I don’t know. You’re the map queen. Look it up.”

I take out my pocket atlas and find that Beachcomber island is off the west coast, back the way we’ve come.

“But that’s the opposite direction of Suva. You guys promised me we’d go to Suva.”
“Oh pooh. Suva’s just a city. I’m sure it’s not really worth much.”

I really wanted to see Suva. A city in the heart of the South Pacific. Botanical gardens, a university, the largest market in Oceania. I play my hand.

“Everyone seems to end up there. I hear the nightlife is good. Maybe we could just go in for a few hours and check it out.”

Niki and Sophie look doubtfully at each other. Doubtfully. I have a chance.

“Look, we’d have to check to make sure we can get into Beachcomber first, and then we’d have to make arrangements to get there and that will probably take a day or so.”

“How long does it take to get there?

Aha, the door of doubt had opened wider.

“No longer than the time it took to get from Nadi to here. There’re busses running all the time.” I whipped out the schedule I’d copied from the Cast-A-Way office. “There’s one in an hour. We could be there in time for lunch, then shopping and wandering round, then a club or two and we could still catch a bus back before midnight. Or take a taxi later, then we wouldn’t have to worry about schedules.”

Pause. Time for a trump card.

“We might even meet some people who have been to Beachcomber who can tell us more.”

“Ok, I guess that’ s not a bad plan.”

Aha! Victory is mine!

Niki went off to phone Beachcomber and see about arrangements. Sophie and I got things ready for our day and all we clambered on the bus in high spirits, going over the plans. Niki said Beachcomber has room for us in two days and if we can get to Nadi a shuttle bus will take us to Lautoka, from which the boat leaves for Beachcomber Island. We’re all set.

The bus let us off near the Suva market, so we started from there. The market is a wonderful place, full of bustle and life. I wanted to wander around it so convinced the others that a picnic would be ever so much nicer than sitting in a hot restaurant. We ended up with cucumbers, tomatoes, bananas, papaya and the most delicious pineapples. The vender sliced one in about twelve seconds and handed us a spear each, the taste like nothing I’ve ever had. Small and so juicy, even the bit that goes through the middle, the bit that’s woody and tasteless at home, is as tender as butter.

I’ve never really been fond of pineapple. I remember as a kid at dinner, my Dad would open a tin and say, “You’re lucky to have this treat. During the war we couldn’t get pineapple.” I got tired of always hearing “You’re lucky, during the war we couldn’t get pineapple” every single time we had it. As if knowing that would make it taste better. Once when I was about ten I got fed up hearing “You’re lucky, during the war we couldn’t get pineapple” and replied “Well, here, the war is over, you can eat mine”. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I thought I was being generous giving mine away to someone who liked the stuff, but it didn’t go over that way. I was sent up to my room. The only good thing that came out of it was I didn’t have to eat my pineapple that night.

After eating Fijian pineapple I can’t imagine ever again eating it anywhere it doesn't grow. I determine to eat so much pineapple here that I get sick of it.

We picnicked in Thurston Botanical gardens and I noticed how dense and tough the grass is. It looks so lush from afar. And it’s teeming with ants; they crawl all over our legs and shopping bags. But we are surrounded by beauty. Blossoms in hot colours, vines of every shade of green and yellow, palm trees. I never knew there were so many different types – short fan shaped ones, medium feather duster ones and tall ones holding coconuts of green, brown and orange. I started telling the others about how unusual it is that Fiji is geographically stable, when other islands like New Caledonia are slowly sinking and those like Vanuatu and the Solomons are being raised up, all because of the movement of the Indo-Australian plate that divides Fiji from Tonga. But when I took out my atlas to show them the Tongan trench they grabbed it and said it’s bad enough that I won’t stop talking about boring old things without producing a map of them.

The shops are filled with fireworks and glittery greeting cards and decorations. Sophie asked what they are for and I told her about Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights, a prominent holiday for Fijian Indians. From what I can see Fijians seem split down the middle, half indigenous and half of Indian heritage. It doesn’t take a visitor long to find this has led to difficulties in the country’s past. Lately there’s been a spate of trouble targeting Hindu temples, mostly by members of other religions, so the holiday isn’t really being celebrated at all this year. How sad.
After the coup a year or so ago, things seem to have calmed down but there is still an undercurrent of tension. History is notorious for being subjective.

I spoke to a hotel owner who was hanging around in one of the shops talking to anyone who would listen, a smiling salesman, educated and intelligent. He spoke earnestly about wanting to help his fellow Fijians gain more control of their lives by learning from the West and using modern technology. “People won’t stand up politically. Real Fiji people are too shy. This is wrong, we must be political. Or the Indians will take everything. All our businesses. All our money. We must fight for the real Fiji. Keep our land for the future of Fiji.” I was aware of the difference he placed between those whose ancestors were Indian and those he referred to as ‘real Fiji people’ regardless of the fact that the ‘Indians’ may have spent several generations here. He had such enthusiasm and hope for his country’s future.

An opposing view came from the shopkeeper in another place and a guy he was talking to who was manager of a copra mill. I’d never heard of copra and was instantly told of its value to the economy. What a variety of products coconuts produce - oil, soap, pig food, fuel, rope. In explaining his work the copra manager also expressed frustration at not being able to own land, despite running a profitable business, just because his ancestors came from India.

“My ancestors were brought here because Fiji needed them. They worked hard in the sugar cane fields. They built this country up, improved its economy, had families and paid taxes. I am third generation Fijian. I can vote but I can’t own my own land. Why? It is discrimination and would not be tolerated in any other country I tell you.”

The shopkeeper added his opinion. “It is the fault of England, that General Gordon. It is he that made the law that native communal land can only be leased and never sold to us who create the businesses and work the farms. Look around. Every business you see is run by Fijians whose ancestors came from India. Every one. But we can not own the land. And who told us we can’t? Some Englishman who made the laws one hundred years ago. This is not fair and it is not modern.”

They paused, obviously wanting me to speak, but I was unsure of all the facts and didn’t want to say something wrong. I know old Arthur Gordon did a lot of good too, and at the time thought he was protecting Fijian exploitation by prohibiting land sale as well as their employment as labourers, but by approving the indenture of Indians as labourers instead he unwittingly unraveled social structures. Modern European attitudes have sided with the indigenous peoples. It’s hard to judge old decisions with current opinions, which are themselves sooon outdated. I guess it’s easy to blame all Fiji’s problems on the Indian community, but that doesn’t make it right. Or fair. Politics still run deeply along racial lines and I imagine it will be a long time before resolution comes.

But I didn’t want to be rude either, or displease them, so I asked a question instead. “Do the two groups talk to each other? Socially I mean.”

The copra manager laughed. “More than talking, isn’t that right Harsha? Felise would say so I think.”

It turns out the shopkeeper was married to an indigenous Fijian, and that intermarriages are not uncommon at all. The division seems to be a political one only.

After our little shopping foray I wanted to visit the university and then Tholo-I-suva park, but this had to be negotiated. “We are here to shop and have fun.” I wasn’t really into more shopping for clothes, but I tagged along as usual and let my mind wander. At least the others are more than happy to let me do the asking and purchasing in the shops and stalls so I can practice the 50 words or so of Fijian I’ve learned. The locals seem ridiculously happy to hear foreigners speak their language, which hints to me how rare this must be. It’s a wonderful language too, round and fleshy.

At one place I lingered over the tapa cloths, decorated with black and dark red inks. But I was even more thrilled to find a Van Der Grinten projection in a pile of second hand books in the back. I earnestly showed the girls how it compared to the Robinson, the earlier Van Der Grinten with its higher latitudes more distorted. Niki snorted, “Longitude, latitude, what’s the difference?”

“Are you kidding?" I was aghast, my nerdy side coming out in full force. "Tracking longitude was what finally revealed the true extent of oceans and long hidden continents. Tracking longitude cracked the code of the earth. And you know how he did it?”

“Who?”

“Cook. Captain Cook. He cracked the code. By tracking Venus. Across the entire Pacific. It was a huge breakthrough.” I was getting animated and they were looking at me like I was something found under a shoe.

Before I could delve further to find other interesting maps or maybe even a chart, I was whisked away.

Late in the afternoon, wanting to avoid the dark and dust filled bars this early, I steered them towards the Grand Pacific hotel, which I’d read resembles something out of Somerset Maugham, built by the Union Steamship Company early in the century and now faded grandeur. Shuttered balconies and a huge fountain in the driveway that hadn’t seen water for years. Inside, worn velvet and dusty furniture, waiters wearing stiff white uniforms and waitresses with hibiscus flowers in their hair whilst serving big bottles of beer and juice by the swimming pool, which was full of travelers staying in nearby guesthouses.

Niki and Sophie were much happier having made the long walk here when they saw the pool full of male bodies and they quickly made use of the time by sitting next to four of them and prodding me into the conversation. Knowing I’d have to at least try or suffer consequences, I opened with the classic “Where are you guys from?”

“New Zealand.”

“Australia.”

Of course. It always is one of the two if not both.

“You obviously work out. Surfing?”

“Rugby.”

“Are you staying here?”

“Nope.”

“Nearby?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s a good place to hang out at night? Good food or good music, that sort of thing.”

“Bali Hai.”

Wow I thought. A two word answer. Awesome.

“Are you guys going there tonight?”

“Nope. We’re going to Chequers.”

A whole sentence. Don’t hurt yourself, fellows.

“Is there dancing?”

“Yep."

"And better girls."

"Not just the local skanks.”

Oh boy, I can see these guys are for me. Yes indeed. A real winner. I made what I thought was a pointed look at Sophie and Niki but they ignored me and carried on the conversation themselves. After a few drinks and a dive into the pool which, although cold, was most refreshing. Sophie jostled me and I rolled my eyes before trying to strike up a conversation with an Aussie jock beside me.

“Have you been in Fiji long?”

“A couple of days. We’re on our way to work in America.”

“What will you do there?”

“Drink. Party.”

Mmmm. “What kind of work do you do?”

“Renos. Carpentry. Plumbing. Whatever. We pick up jobs for a while, party until the money’s gone, then pick up another job. It’s good money and the work is easy.”

“Have you done a lot of travelling?”

“Yeah, I guess."

This sounded more promising. "Where have you been?"

"Wherever the beer is cold and the girls are hot.”

I give up.

We changed and wandered up to Chequers, where there was not a Fijian in sight, except for the wait staff of course. Niki and Sophie went off in search of a table while I chatted to a friendly dishwasher, a pretty girl who was saving to go to college. Seeing the others flailing their arms to catch my attention I moved to join them.

“We have just met the most perfect guys - all hot properties! They are cute and fit and totally into us. We’ve even found one for you. He looks a bit slick, but he sounds fine.”

“Look he’s over there by the bar, okay? The one in the dark shorts and gold neckchain. He’s, like, so perfect for you. He reads books!"

How on earth have they deduced that this creature propping up the bar can read at all let alone the sorts of materials I might be interested in. Or maybe 'he reads books' is their new stock phrase. Like telling a child 'he's your age - you'll get along fine.'

"Ask him to dance.”

“Ok, ok, I will.” I tried to play along. After all I did promise I would.

We danced awhile and he was nice enough. Tom, his name was. Then he went off with a girl he already knew and another guy came up to me and asked what part of Sweden I’m from. Yeah, sure, me with brown hair, brown eyes and a Canadian accent – why on earth did he think I was from Sweden? Now if I was Sophie, that would be different. Her long blond hair, lithe walk and brilliant blue eyes that shine into you like stars are striking. Maybe it was just a pick up line. Sorry buddy. Didn’t work.

Thankfully there were no slow dances so I didn’t have to make an excuse to avoid them. And it did feel good to dance under the lights, with the band pounding and everyone just here to have a good time. Niki and Sophie were so happy. We traded guys on the dance floor and giggled and flirted and drank Fiji Bitter that tasted cold in the hot room. At one point we danced as a threesome, clutched in a trio of comraderie. “Now isn’t this what it’s all about?” Niki shouted over the music. "This is like, totally awesome, us all together having a good time! Three best friends in paradise!”