Chapter 6 - Fiji - another hangover

Oh, my head. And the bouncing bus wasn’t helping at all. The only good thing was the others felt the same so we could all keep quiet and try to heal. I had no idea I had drunk enough to hurt but maybe it was the combination of drinks rather than the actual amount. Watching field after field of sugar cane pass by was oddly calming, mesmerizing even. At one point it started to rain in absolute torrents, and there was a scramble to roll down the clear plastic curtain that covers the bus’s open sides before getting soaked. Occasionally we passed a tree full of ripe mangoes left unpicked. In this moist heat the stench of rotting mangoes was pungent and unique, sickly sweet, cloying, a smell I’m sure I will never forget.

We pulled into Lautoka about noon, a busy town of primarily Indian Fijians. We have to stay the night as the boat taking us to Beachcomber only goes in the morning. We found a hotel a little bit out of town and quite pleasant although very quiet and rather unkept. There was a so-called pool area, which ended up being a concrete square with a small and dirty puddle of water in the middle. The poolside bar, which was a bench of peeling paintwork under dusty coconut thatch, was closed. So we spent the rest of the day wandering about town. There’s a great market where we had goat curry and dahl soup that tore the roof off my mouth with its spicy heat.
Niki wanted to see a movie. We’re in a new town in a foreign country and she wants to see a movie? The only thing on was the new James Bond flick starting at 3. However, when we went in just before start time, we found the film was already well underway. James Bond is definitely not Sophie’s thing and she spent most of the time with her eyes closed, breathing deeply. Meditating or napping, I’m not sure which. I hung in there for Niki’s sake, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was amused to find the locals would talk all over the dialogue sequences, I’m guessing either because they don’t know English well enough or because they find those sections boring. However, during the action sequences they were riveted to the screen, and would cheer or applaud enthusiastically during particularly wild crashes or explosions.

Lautoka is a quiet place at night, even a Saturday night, so we spent the evening in our room, Niki flicking through magazines, Sophie painting her toenails while in some fantastic yoga pose, and me reading as usual. We didn’t talk, didn’t need to talk, it was all very companionable and easy. Sometimes I wonder how it is we are friends. We have such different attitudes and ambitions. But maybe that’s partly why.

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!”

Chapter 6 - Fiji - hangover central

We are all a little fragile today. Last night was the ‘meke’, a rousing display of Fijian dancing, complete with brandished war clubs and spears, charcoal painted faces and fragrant frangipani leis all round. The most beautiful was when the women performed a dance sitting on the floor in a row, using just their arms and upper bodies. Like wind on grass.

Then out came the kava. Kava is made from the dried roots of a pepper plant, and is an anaesthetic, an analgesic, a diuretic, appetite suppressant, soporific, antibacterial and antifungal agent all in one, tranquilizing drinkers into a state of lethargy and nausea. Not exactly narcotic, but a tingling of the mouth and tongue can be expected. Having read all about it I was cautious about trying it, but found little tingle. It looked and tasted like dirty dishwater. A bit of a non-event. I wondered about the first person to ever try kava. Or Captain Cook, the only European explorer with enough nerve to try it. Ah now there was a man after my own heart, a risk taker who was also painstakingly systematic in his record taking. Astronomer, explorer, practical physician, cartographer and navigator. He eliminated scurvy, determined the size of the universe and proved that Marco Polo’s fabled continent ‘terra australis incognita’ was a mere myth. After him, never again were islands transformed into mysterious and imaginary continents or charted with whimsy.

The others drank deeply of the kava and ended up feeling nauseous right away. Well, what did they expect drinking an entire bowl? So we hit the beer. In a rather big way I’m afraid. Then more kava, which did taste better the second time round. Then beer, then kava - ok I guess everyone gets the idea. We all danced a sort of Fijian hokey-pokey and then things got a bit hazy. I seem to have a memory of Niki sitting on some guy’s lap licking charcoal off his face. Sophie got sick in the kava bowl, which I feared might cause an international incident, but in the end I was more alarmed at the thought that no one would notice her sick getting mixed in with the rest of the kava. I have no memory of returning to the mbure and woke this morning with a headache. That’s not so unusual though. Ever since Andrew died I get headaches frequently.

Niki and Sophie fared worse. At first I didn’t think they were in their beds, but the vaguely sausage-shaped forms I discovered were indeed their own and no one else’s. No response to shaking, prodding or whispering. I’m not used to staying with other people so am unsure of the protocol about waiting. But it was getting hot. The sun must have been beating down on the roof for quite a few hours by this time, and I was thirsty as well as headachy so I dressed, blessing the sulu for it’s lack of buttons, zips and flaps, and stumbled out into the light which hurt like hell. Thank heavens for sunglasses. Made it to the café where I drank green coconut juice. The guy at the bar took a machete and slashed off the top of a coconut for me. It’s lovely, sweet but not at all sugary. As I started in on the second one I noticed that I was practically alone. Was everyone wasted like me or were they already up and out enjoying the day? Not that I cared very much. I like being alone. I was happy to sit here quietly sipping my juice and looking out on the surf. I’ve never been to a tropical place before. All my travelling has been to Europe or North America, places with libraries and universities that house maps. I knew in my head places like this really exist of course. After all I’ve seen them plotted and described hundreds of time. But I wasn’t prepared for the light, or the colours, the smells and the sounds. The shoreline is not a black line, but an ever changing foam of waves, moving sand into mounds and hollows. The coral reef is not static, curvy hashes on parchment, but living, ever growing and shrinking and moving with creatures and plants and corals. I feel like I am opening another set of eyelids for the first time, eyelids that before now have sat hidden up in my forehead.

The resort office had a sign indicating snorkeling equipment could be rented, so I decided to give it a go. I was told to smear saliva all over the inside of the mask to prevent it from fogging up. Amazing stuff saliva. It felt odd breathing only with my mouth and I sputtered trying to get the hang of it. Seeing the sea floor through a mask is a revelation, everything looks so near and so serene. Of course I can’t see that well, not wearing my glasses. After only ten minutes swimming over coral that was only two feet below me, I had a panic attack thinking that I might be too close to this plant that could cut my skin to ribbons. I started to hyperventilate and take on water so turned over on my back and wrenched the mask off to breathe normally. I bobbed along on my back feeling like an idiot to have panicked in two feet of water barely ten metres from shore.

After a bit more snorkeling to get over my jitters, I still had a headache, so spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the shade and drinking bottle after bottle of water and reading the same page in “The Discovery of the Pacific Islands” about seventeen times, the sun making me feel drowsy. Niki and Sophie finally emerged from the mbure as the sun started to dip. They were fairly quiet, but determined to dress and go to dinner. Sophie in particular felt out of sorts, saying last night’s events disrupted her flow of cosmic energy and that she must get back to following the sun’s rhythm. I love her but sometimes she is a flake. I am constantly amazed to think she sells high priced houses for a living, but of course she only sells those properties that ‘speak to her’. It’s the houses she’s assisting, not the buyers. Niki said she intended to stay up past midnight every night of the holiday as a point of honour, cosmic energy and hangovers be damned.

A singing contest tonight for resort guests. A little beer with dinner. Hair of the dog. By 10 we were all feeling a bit more human. Niki suggested taking a few bottles of beer down to the beach along with some male companions. Sophie agreed but wasn’t overly enthusiastic. “The guys here aren’t really up to much. They’re either with someone, gay or only interested in drinking beer and hanging out with each other, so they might as well be gay. I hear there’s a new development moving in tomorrow.”

She must have done quite a lot of research last night to be able to peg every guy in the place so soon. Amazing girl.

As we sat with our drinks (Niki - beer, Sophie – gin and tonic, me – mango juice) in our cosy thatched hut before going to bed I felt a warm glow, the three of us in the same place being a rarity. While Niki talks about her latest conquests at home, her annual two weeks at club-med, and her new car I see that, despite her deep desire to be flamboyant, she is really living a very conventional life. I guess when you spend so much time in law courts and suits you can’t avoid it. And yet, her Valley Girl way of talking is just too comic. Is this really what she sounds like in court? While she braided my hair with beads, a dubious practice she picked up on one of her Mexican sun fests, she talked eagerly about her latest escapade “Okay, so, I was sitting there at the bar okay? When this guy came up to me okay? So I was like ‘hello there’. And he just started getting really heavy. I totally freaked out! It was like, so intense.” I had to stifle a laugh throughout, she reminded me so much of some thirteen year old. She suddenly twisted me around to scrutinize her work. “You know, I think you’ve gotten better looking with age. Like, you’re almost pretty.”

“Thank you. I will take that as a compliment.” I’ve learned over the years to take the spirit of Niki’s words as opposed to the actual.

“Oh it is. Look at you. Not a wrinkle in sight. Gag me. I guess oily skin does have its advantages.”
“I certainly didn’t think so in my teenaged years.”

“Nobody with acres of acne does.”

“And what do you mean? None of us looks old.”

“Maybe not old, but I’m definitely aging. Last month I found my first grey hair.”

“Where? How exciting. Let’s see.”

“I got rid of it of course. How can you think grey hair is wonderful? Seeing that one grey hair, it totally freaked me out. If I get too many others it will be time to do something about it. Ye gods.”

“Like what? How do you prevent the passage of time? Talk like a teenager?” I slyly asked, but she ignored my cheekiness.

“With dye of course, okay? Tucks and Nips. Whatever it takes and whatever there is.”

“I don’t know. I kind of like the idea of wearing my wrinkles and grey hairs. They’re sort of a badge of honour.”

“That’s because you have neither.”

“Well, if you didn’t spend every holiday lying in the sun, you wouldn’t either.”

She made a face and Sophie chimed in. “You should probably consider wearing a hat Niki. My Mum has worn a hat in the sun as long as I can remember and she has the most lovely skin.”
I envy Sophie for her relationship with her mom. They seem to be such friends. They even take holidays together. I can’t imagine doing that with my mom. We always feel like we’re walking on eggshells around each other. I know she loves me and tries to take part in my life, but she tries too hard. Or else not enough. Either removed and uninterested or desperate to be my confidante and angry when I don’t confide in her. She's so - cautious. I always get the feeling that she is hiding something from me.

Niki and Sophie turned the conversation onto their favourite topic. Sophie has very open relationships with two very different men. Niki professes an abhorrence of becoming tied to any one man and yet would like nothing more than to marry some rich gorgeous doctor. Together, they both revel in playing the field and then discussing their finds. My two little archaeologists. I smiled as I listened, Niki doing her over the top zeal, and Sophie talking about guys as if they were hot properties on the market. I had a hard time not laughing out loud when she declared her preference for solidly built guys in prime condition who were ideal for entertaining. Sophie always tries to see them in a positive light, and Niki focuses on the negative, reading between the lines to find out what’s wrong with them. When Sophie said one guy was ‘self-employed’ Niki said “you mean he doesn’t have a job”. Sophie’s ‘slight and lean’ was Niki’s ‘sickly’. If Sophie found his looks to be ‘in proportion to his height’ Niki called him ‘fat’. If he’s a lawyer it means he wants to avoid being in a relationship. If he’s a writer he’s a pompous twit who can’t string two words together. My oh my, where did she learn to be so cynical?

Chapter 6 - Fiji - resort

We caught a rickety bus to Cast-A-Way resort and while Niki and Sophie napped I took in the scenery along the way. We shook along the Coral Coast past green and blue landscapes, the driver keeping up an entertaining commentary for everyone and no one in particular. We passed through Sigatoka, a bustling sort of town that looked eminently visitable. It seemed an odd place for a town, on a muddy river quite a ways from the coast, but I remembered that corals don’t grow by fresh or cloudy water so villages and ports in the Pacific are mostly located up from reef-free river mouths. We passed the market, all sorts of fruits and vegetables spread out on woven mats. Everyone seemed friendly and open, smiling and waving curiously at us as we bounced past. I looked longingly at a dilapidated building advertising itself as a hotel. It looked like some faded colonial club that would have once housed people dressed in white and drinking gins and tonic.

My reveries came to a halt as abruptly as the bus, stopping at the resort with a bump. There we were assigned our own mbure, a large hut that looked terribly romantic with its thatched roof and mosquito nets.

I had visions of cooking over warm embers using coconut shells as fuel, but instead we ate in the resort restaurant, which was actually pretty good. Fresh papaya and fish. Cold Fijian beer. Niki and Sophie wasted no time in getting down to what the real reason for the trip was as they settled at one end of the bar to have a good look at everyone else. They were like two big cats who, despite having just eaten a large meal, were already on the hunt for fresh meat. For them it was truly the time for at least some good men to come to the aid of the party.

“That table is all couples. No possibilities there. We will be avoiding them. Now that table looks likely. Five guys. All fit, only one smoking. Two of them very cute. One could be - with a better haircut.”

“There’re some likely prospects over by the buffet. Surfers I bet. Totally buff. Or maybe divers.”

“And that blondie over in the corner chatting up the rather snotty thing in green. Crikey, he is rather a nice view.”

“Did you see the table of lifeguards? And that waiter over by the bar area. We shouldn’t underestimate the staff. They might be game on for a bit of fun.”

“Oh my god”, I couldn’t help myself. “Can’t you guys just enjoy the sun, the food, the culture? Why does it always have to be about sex?”

Their eyes rounded on me. Here it comes. Niki first.

“You, missy, are the reason we are here.” She punctutated the word ‘you’ with lavish emphasis. “And ‘you’ are the reason we are scouting prospects. ‘You’ have been holed up for what is it, four years, five years now? Working in a boring job. Reading boring books. Not going out. And I don't count going out to the library as going out. Staring at dusty old maps and charts for hours and days. Alone. Like, totally alone! Shunning other people, clubs and dances. And why? We’ll tell you why. Because ‘you’ are afraid. It’s like you’ve become a nun. You wear boring clothes, and are only interested in things if they belong in a museum. Ye gods, you are going to end up in a museum. You told me even your mother said you should get out and meet a man. I mean when someone’s own mother says that, like, really! So before it’s too late we are going to save you. I told you if you hadn’t gone on a proper date by the time you were 30 I was going to take over. Well guess what? Happy Birthday, honeybunch. Here I am. Here we are.” She gestured towards Sophie. “You’re just damned lucky to have two friends on different continents who care so much about your libido.”

“But I don’t want to go out with anyone. Look,” I pleaded. “How could I possibly expect to find something twice that many people never find once? I’ve been lucky. Lucky in love and lucky with friends. I love you guys and I appreciate that you worry about me. But I don’t need you to tell me what is missing in my life. I have my mother for that.” No one laughed. I sighed. My jokes always fall flat. “I am not missing anything. Believe me.”

I might have been speaking to a couple of mangos. They looked at me with their eyes and smiled at me with their mouths and curled their influence around me. Sophie purred, “We’re not asking you to find love, just a bit of fun. A starter home, not a long term investment. You work so hard all the time. Let’s just treat this like a holiday ok? When’s the last time you took a real holiday? Ok then, this is your holiday and we’re spending it together. Three friends together. We’ll have some laughs and enjoy each other’s company. Ok?”

“Ok”, I said slowly. “I can do fun. I mean it. We will do everything we said we’d do. Swim, eat, drink. And this is such a beautiful spot. A good choice for a holiday.” Now I sounded like a toady. “Thanks for caring so much about me.”

I meant it though. These two have been there for me so many times. Of course I’m secretly grateful they live in two totally different time zones, and not just because I could make my weeping phone calls to one or the other without worrying about what time it was. One of them was always bound to be awake. Of course Niki had met Andrew which helped. But then Sophie helped other times more because she hadn’t known him. But together they do have a tendency to gang up. Sometimes I wonder why I introduced them on one of Niki’s visits to London. They immediately clicked together and my life has not been the same since.

We spent our first afternoon lying on a palm-fringed beach. Delicate crabs scittered around in a constant search for food. We lie still and they hunt, we move and they freeze. Another movement and they disappear down little holes in the sand. Niki and Sophie seemed happy to just lie there with their eyes closed listening to their walkmans, and I could hear Duran Duran and Enya seeping through their respective headphones. I tried to read, but couldn’t stay focussed, constantly distracted by beauty and the sounds of foaming waves and rustling trees and chortling birds and muffled techo-pop. I love being by the sea again. It fills a crevice inside me. Vanilla orchids. Hibiscus, bougainvillea, allamanda and fangipani. Idyllic. I felt like Abel Tasman landing on these shores for the first time.

The sun and the breezes felt so good as the afternoon drifted by, me with my thoughts and ruminations. I have to admit it did feel wonderful to just allow the present to take hold and let it wash over me. Not having to think about what I’ll do tomorrow or next week. Not filling my time with things I feel I should be doing, should be seeing, should be accomplishing. I guess this is what a proper holiday is meant to feel like.

Chapter 6 - Fiji - fun in the sun

“You have to do this.”

“So you keep saying.”

“But look at you. A pale shadow. Bags under eyes. Pathetic.”

“Hey, I’m not pathetic!”

“Not all the time. But you have pathetic undertones.”

I appealed to Niki, but she agreed.

“She’s totally right, okay? Your undertones are definitely pathetic.”

Defeated, I turned my pale shadow and baggy eyes and apparently pathetic undertones to watch Fiji loom large in the airplane window. Despite myself my heart started to be beat a little faster at the sight and I leaned forward to fit more of it in the small space as we descended. I picked out palm trees, flapping birds and green fields, and longed to smell and hear what my eyes saw.

Soon enough we were on the ground and in a taxi hurtling towards Nadi. Early morning light softened the dust and bustle but couldn’t erase the fact that Nadi is a most unattractive city. Undaunted, or perhaps unaware, Niki and Sophie swept me into the hotel, dumped bags and hustled out to find a place selling sarongs, or ‘sulus’ as they are called here.

“Bikinis and sarongs, that’s all you are allowed to wear this entire trip.”

“And condoms of course. You can wear as many of those as you like!"

They both laughed, but I ignored the implication. I’m not dedicated to the bikini idea either. I’d read enough to know that the locals aren’t that keen on tourists baring all. When missionaries ‘discovered’ these islands centuries ago they imposed their rigid moral code on Islanders, a code that has become part of the place. Ah yes, missionaries and mercenaries, with their timeless gift of moral superiority. And of course their generous gratuities, disease and guns. And now, after all these years, centuries really, a new set of foreigners lands on their shores. Modern tourism must be quite a shock. Besides, I’m not all that comfortable imposing my pale western flesh on Fiji’s shores. On anyone’s shores for that matter. I’ve always been a bit sensitive about my less than curvy outline. I thought turning 30 would add girth to my middle but I'm just as skinny as I was when I was a kid. No shape of any kind - I look like a boy.

“Nonsense. It’s not like we’re staying in villages or hanging out with Fijians. We are staying in a resort set up for fun in the sun. If you can’t bare your body here you can’t do it anywhere.”

“Exactly my point”.

“You’re doing this.” Niki’s voice had a thread of steel in it. “We haven’t come, like, halfway across the world to have you weasel out of it now. You are such a wet blanket, never enthusiasm for anything fun. Here, you are going to buy this blue sarong with the red flowers on it.”

“Sulu.”

“What?”

“They are called sulus here.”

“That sounds African to me.”

I frowned in thought. “I think you might be thinking of Zulus, a people living in southern Africa. This is sulu with an ’s’.”

“Oh, well, whatever.”

I bit my tongue and let her continue. I think I might have to pick my battles. “These red flowers are nice. What are they? Hibiscus, okay. I’ve heard of those. No, don’t go yet, there’s more. And don’t look at me like that. We are taking charge of this. Okay, the cream one with the turtles, too. And one more. What about this pink one Soph.? Will that look good on our pale shadow? Or is the red one better?”

Sophie screwed up her face and looked at me appraisingly, her head tilted a little. “Not the green. She looks bilious. And orange is a disaster. It works against her aura. I think the pink is probably best. The vibes are good. And don’t forget a towel and something for her feet.”

They loaded me up with half a dozen sulus and a pile of other things they felt I needed and led me to pay for my purchases, where I got a smile at the counter for saying ‘thank you’ in Fijian. While the others worked out their own fashion statements I stood outside in the shade of the awning and breathed in the hot damp air, air filled with scent and sound, chirping and thumping and perfume and spice and children’s voices. Fiji. The ‘Cannibal Islands’ on a multitude of maps. The crossroads of the Pacific. More than 300 islands scattered over a million square kilometres of ocean. The remains of a sunken continent. Inhabited by one of the bravest and strongest of peoples. A people so skilled at jungle warfare that during WWII when they fought against the Japanese it was never appropriate to list a Fijian as ‘missing in action’, but rather as ‘not yet arrived’. Guardians of one of the highest material cultures of the Pacific.

My eye was soon arrested by an old woman walking down the middle of the road holding her sulu up around her waist, completely naked below! As I stood rather aghast, two young girls saw her too and started giggling. We caught each other’s eyes and they came up to me laughing fit to kill. One of them clasped my hand. I felt accepted into their circle, standing there giggling together at a crazy old woman.

The spell was broken when my friends came out of the shop and, completely oblivious to the two other girls, took me by the arms and swept me away back to the hotel. I sighed and wondered if this trip will be filled with little broken spells.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - parting

My last day with Connie. I don't know how I can bear it. In the afternnon I booked a taxi to Iraklio where I where I will pick up the boat to Athens and then the Magic Bus. And then what? Maybe I’ll take it all the way to London and stay there awhile. Find work in a bookshop or something. I won’t go back home until I can return on my terms and that might not be for years. Having some sort of a goal feels good. I will miss Connie enormously.

For her part, Connie has declared she couldn’t possibly stay in Greece any longer without me. While we ate a little dinner and drank a lot of wine at a place along the shore, a boat owner came to our table to chat, accompanied with two rather unhealthy looking lads. He captains a 54 foot charter vessel and after much talk and flirting banter asked if one of us would join him and his crew to make up their full complement. It sounded suspect to me but Connie shot up her arms and said, “I can sail. I will go with you! When do you go, tomorrow? Because I will only go with you if you go tomorrow. I must leave tomorrow! Oh this is meant to be. Our goddess is watching and planning for both of us – you in the air and me in the sea. I am speechless with joy!”

We stayed up all night, packing and talking. No amount of concern on my part over the veracity of the boatman's offer would dissuade her. Connie’s boat left at first light and I walked down to the jetty with her to see her off. One old man, arms like rope, was silently whittling on deck with a surly look on his face and a cigarette dangling from his downturned lips. He barely looked up as we arrived, and pointedly turned his back when it was obvious we were about to intrude on his morning quiet. I wondered at how his life is about to change with Connie on board! We stood close together not really knowing what to say, and then the bleary-eyed captain appeared with an impatient hangover wave to Connie. As she started to go down the gangway, Connie suddenly turned and ran back into my arms, tears brimming, saying “Thank you for being born!” then just as quickly leapt away. The boat threw off its lines and moved off, the sun shining on her bright blue hull. I saw my long dark shadow in the water until the boat was no more than a tiny speck, then turned and woke my sleeping taxi driver.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - full moon

We are staying in an unfinished hotel located just outside Hania for $1 a night, and even have use of a kitchen, although it's not what anyone would call a kitchen by regular standards. It's in a corner of the unfinished top floor, littered with bricks and open to the elements on two sides. But there is a hot plate and a cement sink with a cold water hose, and with buying food daily we have no real need for a fridge.

"It's perfect" declared Connie when we saw it for the first time. "You can cook an egg, boil water for tea and clean the wine glasses - anything more is unnecessary luxury."

After one of our daily shopping expeditions into town Connie and I took a long walk along Hania’s seafront and I told her I thought I must part from her soon and go on to the next phase in my life. I had been worrying about telling her and had saved it inside until I couldn't wait any longer. Travelling with someone is not always fair. It has helped, magnificently, but I’m hardly an enjoyable companion now that I am trying to plan my future and make decisions about what to do next and how to earn the money to pay for it. Connie has been bankrolling me for the last two weeks and I hate it. She says I more than pay for it with cooking and companionship but I can't do this forever. Nor do I want to. I need to be productive, to produce something. The haggard, bearded, limp and straggly travelers who drift for years on end, living on Greece's beaches and towns, is repellant to me, the worst kind of parasite. To my relief Connie flung her arms around me, saying it was the most wonderful thing I could ever say to her and it was about time and that I will become some famous person and she will read about me and be so proud. She said “You’re always fussing with words and maps. You should be a hydrographer, or a cosmographer. (She constantly amazes me. How on earth does she know these words?) And I see you always scribbling down recipes. You must be a good cook. You should include chef in your list of careers. Call me when you do.”

I find to my surprise I do have ambition, although for what exactly is still to be revealed. I don’t want to leave room for second rate. As soon as I find out what I want to do, I will do that. And if I want to do more than one thing, I will do that too. For the first time in a long time I am excited about the future.

Mans' life is measured by the work, not days.

No aged sloth but active youth hath praise.

Andrew's death has sent me forth with more inner strength and courage then I ever knew I had. I couldn’t see it before. I didn't really care what happened to me, so long as I could escape the pain of living in familiar locations and being aware of the pain within. Traveling allowed me to focus on external things and cover the agony in my heart with distraction. I know now why I left home for this wandering time. The last thing I wanted was pity, purring words and soulful looks from friends and family and people I didn't even know, sympathy rather than empathy, that would make me well up and feel as if I had to perform some feat of life I was incapable of. Cry without stopping. Lose control. I couldn’t bear being the centre of attention that way.

Let me stride out and think and work my brain. Let me berate the universe while tramping over the earth, tripping and falling occasionally but proceeding. Let me cry a storm and fill myself with honest feelings I don’t hold in for other’s sakes. Let distraction be provided with new places, activities, timetables, understanding new languages, trying new foods. Let me walk and ride and sail and run and drive and fly. I need to move! I never did like spiders, but cobwebs I like even less. And now I’m ready, not just to move, but to move forward.

There was a full moon tonight, and as I went to the bathroom down the hall I caught sight of it through the window. Its light made me catch my breath and I stood there by the open window, breathing in the intoxicating fragrance of night, feeling that tingly pain beauty brings. Life can be good. What it took away from me it also gave me – the grief I feel now is matched by the love I felt before. The joy I have had far outweighs this pain, however impossible it sometimes feels. Time really might be a great healer. Shame it is such a lousy anaesthetist.