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THE START
I woke at 5am, laid for 15 minutes, and then realized I was definitely late for the flight. Eeek! Sue and I left at 5:30 for a 6:25 flight – 55 minutes. It was to be another Bob death ride. Sue gave me important last minute items – bananas, soup in a cardboard box, Oreo’s (normally required sailing food and coveted staple), and slipped a goodbye card into my bag. Such a sweetie! She was an incredible help while I was running around frantic, especially the last couple of days, helping to buy essentials, packing, dealing with mail, Xeroxing tickets and documents, and lending logistic aid.
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Using an expired northwest voucher ($200 to reactivate), I was able to check in, get a boarding pass, and make the flight! Ohhh, check-in!. The main bag – 59 pounds! Damn, I would have never guessed I packed that much! Countless people said pack light, well, so did I. I plan on dumping Monica’s pink three man tent before Indonesia, maybe Mike’s alcohol stove too. And those hiking shoes weigh a lot. Perhaps Sue added something to the pack? Like a couple of gallons of my favorite spring water? This recalls the hike up Mt. Katadhin when Dan Fazekas and Stuart Beasley slipped a six of beers into my pack when I was miserable from the flu. I am still planning payback. Wait a minute, someone must have done something to me, with friends like Mike, Ray, Stu, and all those hasher types with sick sense of humor. I’ll have to be aware. I passed my newly acquired red, camp smelling Lanowy back/fanny pack through the x-ray machine, I smiled at the operator and leaned over the belt to see what Oreo’s x-rayed like – the silliness starts! (Ya, you can see ’em).
Fri October 30 — MISS PAULSON’S 3RD GRADE CLASS
I flew into Orange County where Melinda was waiting at the baggage carousel. I declared myself a Centner tag along for the time with them and accompanied Melinda to Jenny’s school for the class Halloween party. Once Jenny’s teacher found that I was on an around the world, she excitedly and quickly enlisted me as the class traveling ambassador by carrying a little black bear beany baby along – around the world. My first thought was eeek – something else for the pack!? But, a subtheme could add to this adventure and carrying a stuff toy around the world could provide a response when I am asked by an elder if is a purpose to the trip. The children will follow my travels with pictures of Blacky in different locals, through notes posted on the web site, and via email. On the walk through the school playground, kids running and screaming at recess, I said to Melinda that I should have searched out a sponsor or a school to take advantage of my trip – very coincidental. Kris Paulson has traveled alot, including Kenya, where there may be contacts we can find working for World Vision. At the front of the class, I explained the trip and answered to questions like, ‘Are you driving around the world?’. I attempted to show the class the website but the network wasn’t cooperating, so I trooped through the school yard and up to the Mitsubishi for my misc. CD to load my website[and Netscape Composer 4.5 onto the class computer. Digging through my ten ton pack, I thought that the pack would be a good show and tell item. The kids took turns laughing and struggling to pick it up falling onto the floor like dominos.
Fri 10/30/98 to Sun 11/1/98 – Friday night, hung with the Centner’s and Jeff Centner. sat went to Bob’s Crab Shack in Newport Beach. Picked of by Mark Prynn at 3pm, walked through the $1,000,000 neighborhood trick or treating with the Corina and Christopher. Later went to more upscale house for adult Halloween, hit on by women with husband who just purchased one of Bett Midler’s houses in Laguna Beach… what did it look like under that mask? Sunday – airport shuttle from Orange to LAX. Met John and Laetitia for flight to Tahiti! Laetitia to NZ
Monday 11/2/98 – arrived Papetee 2am. Slept in airport till first bus at 5am, 45 minute ferry to Moorea 6:30, pitched tent Moorea Camping 9am. General consensus is to leave island of Tahiti for outer islands as soon as possible. Best $10 you can spend – Moorea Camping Shark Tour. Snorkel while sharks feed, feed stingrays, then snorkel – $10 for 3.5 hours get to see island from water. Around campground, hung with young English, French (French speaking island), German, Scot.
Tu 11/3/98 — WE’RE NOT PAYING $50 FOR A HIKING GUIDE!
The camp receptionist explained that since all the land on Moorea was private, its is required that to hike you need a guide. Looking up at the beautiful steep, looming, green mountains that cover this volcanic island, it would appropriately be park land. The Lonely Planet Guide describes the Three Coconut Tree Pass as ‘sweaty work but the pay-off is superb view from the ridge separating Mouaroa (880 meters) from Toheia (1207 meters)’. The book talks you through the hike by vaguely describing trail markers without specifying distances or hiking time. Up at 5AM and out at 6:30, we easily hitched to the to the described pig farmers road and trail head which was obliterated by construction of a small dam and water tank. We took our best guess for a start through an interesting canopy of bamboo and followed the trail through heavy covered forest for an hour before turning around frustatred, the book directions not following. Returning to a hill where lush green ferns blanket the forest floor, we thought through scenarios of what the book was trying to describe and realized two key issues – the red paint marks on the trees were removed and we started up on the wrong trail. Excited to be on track again we grumbled about the locals cutting the tree marks off for their own advantage. Sliding down a steep slope before following a small river through a ‘dark and magnificent mape forest’, I turned and said that we should remember where we came down the hill. We were void of markers again as we crossed the river continuously and tried to decypher the books brief directions. Doubling back countless times, passing our faces through spider webs sewn between trees, swearing and near our ends, John noticed a non-descript little piece of coconut nailed to a tree. Not what the book described, but a marker anyway. We then found another, and continued down the river, eventually finding the promised red markers and new fluorescent green ones. Happy again, we picked up speed until the slopes became steep, we were gasping, and it became obvious that 1.5 liters of water each wasn’t enough for this extended hike in very high humidity. Cresting the ridge at 11 AM, we found an array of colors in flowering shrubs, dragon flies buzzing, and views true to the Lonely Planet. Fortunately, cooling light rain fell on us, the sun wasn’t welcome in our exhausted, sweaty, dehydrated state. W flew (and fell) back down to the river in no time, only losing trail once for a double back, then ended up wandering around dumb not knowing were to ascend the hill to the fern forest. Three pink ribbons we missed earlier seemed to promise an exit, but any sort of trail wasn’t there. Frustrated again, we bashed up the hill hoping to find ferns at top but to no avail. The compass on John’s watch that I ribbed him about was proudly put into service. Unfortunately, as we headed Northeast, we had to clamber over broken trees and brittle bamboo. We stopped many times to think, but nothing good happened. After an hour crashing through thick forest to a ridge, John suggested that we find a river and follow it to the ocean. Damn, we were probably within 100 feet of the trail, only 1/2 mile to the trailhead, but walking a river meant miles and hours to the coast, but we were, ahhh – lost. We bundu bashed down to a river we could hear and started our trek along it. At first it was fairly easy going, then fallen trees obstructed the path, and I wondered what it would be like when the river flow lessened and the bed became smaller, not looking forward to tougher going. After 15 minutes John yelled out, “Bob, the construction sight!”. We had stumbled upon the river that flowed through the trailhead! After 7 hours of hiking, we slapped 10 and walked stiffly down to the island’s circumfrencing road. We were aching and dried out. We walked by goats and cows that said “stupid Americans’, joked about Gary Larson cartoons, and were generally happy about our victory over the locals and their Three Palms trail. Unfortunately, its hard to teach some people lessons, and we agreed that more stupid bungling laid ahead.
Wed 11/4/98- typed notes for 2 hours, hitched to Cook’s Bay (ride on empty school bus), walked 40 minutes around bay, not much to see. fish sandwich, ice cream, john bought hat, his ATM doesn’t work. hitched to bottom of road to Belevdre (lookout), walked up 2 km of 7 before getting ;lift to top, down, then to camp area by French couple. hung in at camp area. met Margaret from New York, older backpacker who is finishing a trip similar to ours, but other way around – $20,000 in 18 months.
Th 11/5/98 — REEF BREAKING WAVES AND MEN DONT MI
xSince we had spent two days hiking and walking, we had recovered from our over exposure to the sun, and the obvious activity was another go at snorkeling. Instead of spending another 1000 Polynesian Francs for the shark tour, we opted to walk down the beach to the front of Club Med and swim across the traffic channel to the first of two small islands. The area between the two is a popular snorkeling spot. Watching the ocean from Moorea Camping, and every other spot on the island, you see waves crashing on the outer reef, about 1/2 mile away. I assume that this is the outer rim of the long dormant volcano. Many of the other Polynesian islands have a similar ring around them, leaving a calm shallow lagoon off the beach. John and I both expressed curiosity in seeing the sea break, and after snorkeling between the islands (angel, trumpet, parrot fish, sea anonomies, and so on – not much coral color though) , we agreed a trip to the coral break was a good idea. The break is 25 feet of coral in a foot of water, if not crashing waves. Like coral everywhere, if you don’t touch it, it won’t hurt you. I crawled on top and crab walked with fins on, John following. I caught the fins in the sharp bumps and came close to tumbling down, but reached the open ocean side, and dove into the remnants of a small wave as soon as possible to avoid being smashed on the coral. Only a few stinging scratches were suffered on knees and ankle. John, on the other hand, did not make his way across as quickly and was knocked down by a large wave. The ocean sent in a series of these beasts and didn’t give John a chance to stand on the knobby coral. He was sent tumbling around, the coral cutting chum bits off from assorted parts. He eventually rose from the great meat grinder, seemingly happy to be standing, pissed at the circumstances, but not moving. I prompted to him to get off the coral, and to my pleasure, he came my way through the breaking waves (I was still interested in snorkeling around, not considering John’s bloody, scathing Irish exoskeleton. Just kidding!). We did snorkel around a bit, the water being much clearer and the flatish bottom a light to dark gray. We passed a couple of gorges 20 feet deep carved into the bed lengthwise toward land, filled with schools of angel and a yellow tipped fish. Now, similar to another recent adventure, after an exciting and somewhat successful test of perseverance, one initially tends to forget about the remaining journey. To cross the coral break with the waves is perhaps a more formidable challenge. Before throwing ourselves into the wash again, we had a short strategy meeting, lasting two sentences before a big wave came. Basically, the plan was to catch a small wave and ride it as far as possible over the coral, swinging around and landing a your butt. This way you would be further away from the next wave, not touching skin to coral, and have a chance to stand up easily. Didn’t happen. I warned John of this coming wave and dove quickly into it. When I looked around John had been thrown on top of the cutting coral, asking me to look for his mask and fin. I made it up and over the break without incident, but the equipment was lost, and John donated new chum bits. If it is possible to limp in water, we did it. We swam back to the closest island, bleeding and handicapped from the missing snorkeling gear, walked around to the channel, and crossed to Club Med.
Th 11/5/98 — THE ROBBERY
On our arrival to Moorea Camping, a Scot replied to our question about safety to the receptionist by saying that in two consecutive days his dorm was entered and he was compromised – money and walkman items were taken. From the start we locked our tent while away hoping to avert the casual thief. Unfortunately, when nearby the tent we only closed it. This night we spent in the common building the houses two kitchens, an eating area, and an area outdoors with more tables. We sat with Bob from Maine and Margaret from New York, talking and playing a card game. Margaret was especially interesting, an older backpacker (like us), completing a trip that nearly duplicates our plan, except backwards. She happily shared many good tales and travelers’ wisdom. By 11PM, I was sleepy and moved to a different picnic type table and fell asleep. A little while later, John woke me from a very deep sleep saying, “Bob, they took all our stuff”! Still asleep, I repeated, “Shut the muck up”, each time he tried to explain what happened. We stared in dumb disbelief into the tent. In the dark, the familiar forms of our packs were missing. In a flash the night turned into a nightmare. We each crawled into the tent for a quick survey. My small day pack was empty, a few miscellaneous things were strewn around. It was a horrible feeling anger, anguish, and hopelessness – so early in the trip. Some person, some jerk, some ASSHOLE, came into our tent, quickly threw things around in a quick assessment, and ran out with our packs. Nearly everything was gone. All our essentials – gone. New things bought for the trip – pack, clothes, $900 in camera equipment!. Things borrowed like Mike’s camp stove. Gifts – GPS, water filter. And notebooks, CD’s, prescriptions, and so on. How do you start over in the middle of the Pacific? John said he couldn’t, I chilled at the though of trying to go through a police report and insurance claim. We walked to the phone to call the police, but it was out of order. John continued trying to call while I walked back with my flashlight scanning the ground hoping to find dropped items. A strange thought came – if the robber was from a nearby bungalow, maybe he left a trail of items. There weren’t any items in front of the bungalow doors. I continued walking to a corner of the property behind the bungalows, and saw our packs with a mess thrown across the grass. Damn who ever did this! I called John over, we picked up our belongings and brought them in front of the tent, and did a quick inventory. I had left my Vaurnet’s and watch in a tent pocket. I knew they were definitely history. I didn’t see my Nikon camera equipment, a package with film processing envelopes, computer and music CD’s. It was dark and hard to see, hard to think of all that we brought along and to check what was present. I figured the damage would fully be known in the morning. John said he couldn’t realize anything missing. Crawling back in the tent, I found my telephoto laying on John’s side. Hey, at least I found one valuable thing. Then the camera – the case had been unzipped, checked and tossed aside. My little computer was hidden under my sleeping pad and was still in the old white sock, closed with a thin rubberband. We laid in the tent, discussed what happened, who may have done it, what was missing. Ten minutes later, after a couple of minutes of silence, I let of a big sigh, and John asked if I was okay. I said yes, he said he was going to sleep. Within a minute, heavy breathing from sleep came from the other side, I rolled around for anther hour still wound up, thinking about the night. John is very unique in being able to put bad events behind, getting quickly back into his consistently good mood. Nothing you can do about it, so don’t worry about it. Extremely ‘happy-go-lucky’. It takes time for me to adjust to different situations, or recover from wounds. Bad experiences don’t often leave quickly. It appears that the only loss was the watch and sunglasses, about $150 to replace them back home. Perhaps this is a good lesson on safety for the rest of the trip, and maybe we’ll reconsider what we’re carrying around the world.
Fr 11/6/98 – Packed kit after last nights affair. Bus to Moorea ferry, high speed cat to Papette. Walked around city with packs that still weight too much, even though we ate most of the camp meals, and John lost fins and mask. Found cyber cafe, excruciatingly slow, $10 for 1/2 hour. Each got off 2 short emails. Found that slow ferry to Huahine (WOO-HE-NA) ($17/9 hrs) was filled and had to take the high speed cat Ono Ono ($50/4 hrs). Damn!!!. Arrived 8:30, had pickup to campground Lovina ($10/pp). Walked into town, dead. Ate off one of a line of trucks at waterfront.
Sa 11/7/98 – Checked out campground 2 km north. Talked to European local man building cool house half local, half Japanese style. Since Lovina has no real beach (and its 200 meters away to water – we were spoiled at Moorea, everything was there), went to Bali Hi beach, used there chairs. Nice beach, swimming. Took pic of Blacky and Mom, Grandmom, Grandchild on pier. Talked with French kid doing something similar to us for 6 months. Teaching John French, pretty funny. Bought cheapest steak, bread, canned salmon from Alaska, 4 little yogurts from France, bottled water, dozen eggs at the grocers for $22. Walked into town after dinner to Marana restaurant/bar. John had a Oringina, Bob coke – $6. Home at 9pm.
Su 11/8/98 – Up early to be ready for 8-9am pickup for Ariiura n south end of southern island. Big breakfast – left over steak, scrambled eggs, yogurt, sweat bread – yum!! Problem #1 – I hid handheld under mattress pad and slept on it, now there is a black splotch near center of screen, there goes the resale value. Oh well. Problem #2 – In putting on backpack , the rivet that holds a strapon pulled through the board of plastic sewn into pack. Not good, bad. A really nice couple named Troy and Helen that we yesterday waited with us for ride. They are just back from one year in the Antarctic, Troy at McMurdel and Helen at New Zealand’s named Scott Base. A local man whose European name was Hubert picked us up in asmall pickup and slowly brought us on a approx 45 minute drive to campground – absolutely gorgeous drive by perfect beaches and palm tree filled hills. Campground is great! Beach is good and long and curved, pretty void of establishments. Natural local style buildings of tree/bush branches and thatch of unorderly straw or woven straw. Hung with Try and Helen most of the day, exchanges stories and joking, very easy to get along with. John and I went to dock outside resort per Huberts suggestion for snorkeling. Hung out a bit with Aussie named Audrey and her French friends. About eight of them are staying free in a house on the beach from this past Sep until Feb!! I took a walk way way down the south end, coming across family’s and groups of younger people doing their Sunday thing. hanging at beach, eating fruit, cooking fish. Seriously beautiful, very idyllic. Only obtrusive property I walked infront of is one of the President of French Polynesia’s houses. I really like this place! Watch sun set eating watermelon, drinking a rum and coke with coconut juice (I was into finding coconuts and smashing them open), and it was a gorgeous sunset, best yet!!
Mo 11/9/98 – Night before the boys decided that a hike was in order even though Hubert told me there wasn’t any. From the beach the hills looked bare at the tops. Up at 5:30 and by 7:00 John, Troy , and Bob were walking to base off seemingly easiest access. Not easy. Bashing up steep hills and clambering trees. Nearing top of ridge, turned to grass up to shoulders. Clearing that mess, we found that the tops of these hills are knee to easiest deep vine like ferns – very difficult to walk in, had to rip feet through to make progress. Decided to make next hill and maybe go down. Top of this hill had awesome views of Riatia Island to right, our camping beach at center, to island a bit off coast that I walked near yesterday. Steepness of hills and heat of sun and damn vegetation were more than enough to make decision to go down unanimous. Came into very very high grass, Troy ploughing the way for us. He was stung by wasp coming up, John and I in near succession coming down on right calfes, then I again on arm – ouch!! Felt like an injection depth into the muscle. Finally made forest, lucky to have somehow avoided cliffs to make road before 10am. Four of us went for a very long snorkel off the point. Boys went to break water where I made pioneering attempt at crossing reef. Problem was it was much wider and uneven and the waves were bigger. As waves came onto reef I laid on reef and held on, sometimes wave would drag me backwards. Very tough and bloody going until I made the other side, still at the mercy of waves, when I lost a flipper and was suddenly struck – this is not worth it!! Swam after flipper, stuck it back on with waves knocking me around. Had a difficult time getting to safe area of reef, ten meters from John and Troy. They were about to have a go, not knowing the tough time I had. We turned back and coming off reef I stepped onto a sea urchin, sending a handful of needles through my flipper into my heel. Argh!! We continued having a very good snorkel, seeing sparkling blue lipped scallops, porcupine fish, manta ray, many other brightly colored fish, and hundreds of clusters of black sea urchins.
Tu 11/10/98 — LEGEND OF ARUIIURA
Hubert and Cecia own and run Ariiura (A-RE-E-URA) Camping. Hubert is a really likable, handsome man, with a special presence, a large physique covered with a Hawaiian style shirt, and always a friendly glitter in his eyes when talking to you. Sitting this morning with Hubert, the owner of Ariiura, I asked what the name Ariiura meant. “Ariiura means Red Queen. Long before the Europeans came to French Polynesia, human sacrifices were a positive thing. It gave the people power of the spirit, made them stronger inside. At one time, long ago, both women and men were used for sacrifice. One day before a sacrifice, a spirit women appeared, Aruiira, she just (wipes his hand down in front of his face), appeared amongst a family. She said ‘If a female must be sacrificed, take this one”, pointing at a young girl in the family. This girl was chosen for the sacrifice. Before the person was to be sacrificed, they were hit on the head. When this was done, blood burst out from her (motions with hand from his crotch out). It came from her women problem. The priest seeing this said that women are not pure and can no longer be used for sacrifice. We named this women Ariiura, the Red Queen. From then, when a women bears a child, if it is a boy, the family is sad because maybe some day this boy will be used for sacrifice. If it was a girl, they are very happy. When people from the other islands came to this island, they saw that there are many more women than men, and named the island Huahine, meaning literally, ‘women’s virgina’, or better Island of Women.” Hubert has five children, one named Ariiura, and three grandchildren. The two we could see running around have Tahitian names meaning Flower Queen and Man Bird.
Tu 11/10/98 — COCONUT, WASHERS, ROPE, AND THE PACK (BORING)
Had a lazy day reading Joseph Conrad, snorkeling, and talking. I wasn’t looking forward to working on my pack, but now I had to. Hubert had looked for a drill the last couple of days, and found one. He said he had found the ‘machine’, but not the ‘piece to make the hole’. The pack strap was riveted to a piece of plastic running through the back of the pack. I had hoped to make one or two new holes, then weave nylon rope through them. That couldn’t happen without the drill. John earlier suggested using a nail on each side and tying them together. I went in a little different direction and used a piece of coconut and a washer on each side bound with the nylon cord. I drilled the holes with John’s dive knife and had found the washers at the grocery in Fare amongst a pile of hardware. No bolts, just nails. The design and application received a thumbs up from Troy. This is just a temporary fix, I hope to find nuts and bolt in Papette.
Tu 11/10/98 — HINANO CANOE RACE
Hubert gave us a lift to town at 2pm (costs for Ariiura – $12/night camping, $3 for each lift). The ferry schedule had it arriving Huahine at 8:30pm, but there was a big event in the process – the Hahine (sp) canoe race, sponsored by Hinano Beer of Tahiti.. It is an Olympic sized event for the people here, the largest such event of the year. The race comprises of more than 60 outrigger canoes with active team of six, crews of about fifteen. Most teams are from French Polynesia, but also from New Zealand, Japan, and Germany. Two teams are from Huahine, one of which has finished third, second, or first each of the last five years! The race starts Wednesday 7:30am to Raiatea, Thursday on to Tahaa, finishing Friday in Bora Bora. Prize money, only $15,000, although teams are surely sponsored, the canoe having sponsor names all over the sides. Arriving into town the waterfront was packed with boats, the shorefront with canoes, and everywhere else with people. It was a very festive atmosphere – food vendors (trucks), flags running through the trees, Hinano Beer banners across the buildings and on every boat, a temporary presentation and activities area made of irregular tree branches, palms, and thatch. Parked onto the beach was a large gray (navy?) vessel with landing door open toward near the presentation center. An anchor rope reached to the town pier and dozens of kids were having a great time playing. The kids were trying to stand on rope, some were shimmying high towards the ship, eventually falling off. We exhausted ourselves waiting the unorganized events to take place. I left the others to look for postcard in the grocery and to look longingly at the food (too expensive!). When I returned, John, Troy, and Helen were laughing about the Tiki god presentation. A couple of event organizers loudly told the people in the area we were standing to move back to allow room for this little ceremony. John, being a dumb American tourist and not comprehending the orders, stood his ground and when he finally realized what was happening, found himself standing with the President of French Polynesia and other dignitaries, the rest of the crowd herded back ten feet. John smiled, saying, “I’m in” to himself, stood his ground, and enjoyed being part of the ceremony. Similar to Kramer in Sinfield accepting his Oscar. Since the Pres bumped into John, we laughed and said he was rubbing shoulders with the President. He was very happy with himself. Later on, during a dance presentation, Helen was chosen to perform to the crowd’s delight and received a very nice lay for her part. Still later, after finding the ferry arrival time moving further into the night, and the waterfront quieting down, John and I managed to ask a sailor to show us the boat. He couldn’t speak English well, and all we could do is ask to go ‘up’. Once we were on the bridge (five flights up and two bumped heads), he almost left us alone to my astonishment, but thought twice and attempted a few times to ask us how and why we wanted to be on the bridge. Finally he asked, “tourist?”. We replied, “Yes”. He said “Oh oh”. We started laughing and he asked that we look quickly and then escorted us back down. Before leaving the bridge, John, in triumphant jubilee of our conquest, ran outside and proudly yelled out, “Troy!”, waking up the waterfront.
Wednesday 11/11/98 – The cargo and ferry ship Vaeanu arrived about 10:30, having come from Bora Bora and then Raiatea. We piled on with the others waiting, joining those already on board. The ship is first a cargo ship, dirty and oily with a large crane overseeing different sized containers. Secondly, the Vaeanu is a passenger ferry without seats, only a cargo hold, an upper interior deck, and any other place that passengers can find to sleep. The scene was visually very interesting. The upper deck was filled with locals crashed out on bamboo mats, below was carpeted with blue tarps and had tourists lining the peripheral. We slept outside with a couple of locals, preferring to be in the open air.
We hiked into town, said our good-byes to Troy and Helen, and found that our day in the big town was not to be – it was World War II Victory Day – the town was closed! No banks, post office, hardware store for the pack. We tripped up to the airport, dropped our bags off, came back to town, optimistic in finding another cybercafe, but to no avail. Took the suggestion from the tourist information women and bussed back past the airport to the Beachcomber A good move! Grabbed a couple of towels and laid in a club members only area – at a pool blending seamlessly with the sea, a poolbar at one end, a cute bridge separating a shallow area at the other, and Moorea looming straight off in the distance. Very good move. Spent the afternoon swimming and sleeping, grabbing new towels before showering and walking to the airport. Onto Fiji!!
WE 11/11/98 – The flight from Papette to Fiji was another good long haul, stopping at the Cook Islands. We hung at the airport talking to fellow travelers per norm, meeting Chelsea and Nicole from Wellington, NZ, possible contacts.. Cracked open two cans of tuna fish in the airport which we had with bread and a few strange looks from corridor walkers – Ray would have been proud! In the Cook’s we had to disembark while the plane was cleaned and ran into Gary and Fi again. They had just spent a few days there (we would have also, but our Air New Zealand ticket only allowed two stops).
TH 11/12/98 – Hey! We didn’t the have a 12th of December because we went over the international dateline!
FR 11/13/98 – Arrived Nadi (NAN-DEE) Airport at 8am in massive downpours, went through baggage and customs quickly, then made a quick plan to spend a few nights at Mana Island, an island 20 km from the airport (west). First observation about Fiji – alot of Indians, we were told 49% are Indians. Fiji, similar to other ‘domesticated’ lands of Britain who brought Indians here as laborers years ago. We arranged our passage and stay via the Mana Resort office. The ferry ride was $FJ35 ($US17). A van brought us and two English girls onto a beach and to the ferry – a colorful plywood boat with twin Yamaha 85’s that we had to wade out to! It was a cool scene and I hope a fun picture. We bussed along, talking to our fellow passengers. Most people we have met are traveli for 6 to 12 months and doing something like the LA – Tahiti/Hawaii – Cookes – Fiji – New Zealand – Australia – Indonesia/Bali – Thailand thing either east or west. We made the backpackers at Mana Island, finding a horde of packers under the cover of the common/eating area listen to a local playing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ on guitar and everyone singing along – OH MY GOD! This is similar to Tom Hanks boarding a Peace Corp jet in Volunteers and everyone is swaying and singing to ‘Puff The Magic Dragon’ . What is this place!??! The dorms are dispersed a couple minutes away from the reception, within a tatty local village. I believe we are really into the backpackers realm. Although the island is very flat and very dry unlike French Polynesia, our new abode is filled with alot of friendly and happy people that want to enjoy themselves. The Fijians have a reputation of being so warm and welcoming, that you may doubt their sincerity. The packers, young and from most English speaking countries and then some, are open, curious, interested, and looking for a simple good time. I felt as though this was our first real backpacker, its just dorms, and food is included for $FJ35 (not kitchen facilities available, no stores nearby. Tenting was not a consideration with the rain we came in). At night we sat around the eating area and exchanged tales.
SA 11/14 /98 – John woke early and walked around this small island in about two hours. Before breakfast, I enlisted Akemi Fujimoto from Japan, and Rob from Austria (just finished medical school), to join us in another walk around and snorkel at Sunset Beach. About half way around we stopped for a swim off cliffs and around rocks. After the second time jumping in, I swam towards the rocks and was stung by a unseen jelly fish across the right arm and chest. I haven’t ever given birth before, and never had a leg hacked off with just a bullet in my mouth (yet), but this was by far one of the most painful experiences in my life. My chest and arm turned red and welts came up, including a couple of thick lines five inches long across my burning chest. I received attention from a nurse at the neighboring fancy resort who applied antiseptic and antihistamine cream. I returned later and asked for vinegar, remembering that was the answer after being stung by a man-o-war in the Florida Keys. The intense pain latest hours and that night I couldn’t sleep, still feeling like a voodoo doll with needles being stuck into me.
SU 11/15/98 – Most people went out on an island tour while a few stayed behind, John and I trying to formulate a travel plan. We wanted to head 50 miles north to Tavewa having heard the backpacker is inexpensive and diving was cheap, but the hassle and cost is a problem We tried to drum up interest in sharing a boat. For six the cost would have been $US50 which, compared to returning to the mainland and taking a ferry from Lautoka, would have been a good option. However, it seemed as though that adventure wasn’t in the cards, so the obvious choice seemed to be the Beachcomber, 45 minutes toward Nadi.
SU 11/15/98 — SUNSET BEACH
John and I walked over the hill behind the village, John finding a section of rock to climb – he was very anxious to get the shoes on again. Before I continued on the Sunset Beach, John asked that I return the same way to check that he wasn’t smashed across the rocks below. After half an hour more, I found the beach empty. Using a fairly bare tree for shade, I hung my pack on a branch, and snorkeled. The water had a distinct line between light and dark blue, a divide between sand and reef. The reef was a dead gray, but the fish along it were amazingly varied. Not a school of the little blue guys, or the black fish that liked to stare at you, but alot of each. Very cool. A swam about for fifteen minutes, checking my belongings every few. I was a hundred feet off when a local had walked by, I became nervous, and returned to the beach. I had found a half dried blue (!) starfish, then a smaller green one in the shape of a pentagon. I had an idea – a photo Blacky and friends on the beach. (Didn’t do it this time, on the to-do list). I found John walking my way – good, I didn’t want to walk back. his climbing wasn’t too safe with seemingly solid hand holds breaking away. We laid under the tree, enjoying the scene – Fiji, the South Pacific!, warm ocean breeze, turquious water, empty beach … a 15 month vacation! We laid very relaxed and talked about our Sue and Rachel, discussing what we left, where we stand now, them meeting up with us, and so on. No, this wasn’t the first time, and it wasn’t a lighthearted conversation. However, our talk had many different topics and went in many different directions and in circles and into corners without conclusions and it was good. With John talking can come easily, he is quite a conversationalist, and we have a good long history. I felt as though we were in a Mark Twain book, laying lazy on the Mississippi, two boys chewing on long grass stocks and just thinking and saying what ever came to mind. Relaxing.
SU 11/15/98 – We had the normal food again for dinner – rice, bread, potato, starch, carbs, starch. Carbs. Damn, I want some meat or fish protein. John was so annoyed with the food, the contrived Fiji life and the sing along backpackers. I think he’s being a little tough and hope he settles into the style a little better – Asia and Africa will be tougher. The entertainment for the night was to divide people into countries, each group singing two songs. John bolted before the going got tough. I was more curious and decided to abandon ship before meeting the gangplank. It was really fun to watch each country plotting and practicing and laughing. The first group was the English, then the Irish, and then the Canadians. Each stood on top of benches, some swinging beers, all swaying and kicking their legs and loudly singing traditional songs. Very funny. Unfortunately, the Americans – me, couldn’t make up their minds, fortunately, I wasn’t asked to partake. Rob from Austria was in a similar situation. Rob had suggested I sing “New York, New York”, that would have been good, maybe I could have gotten everyone to join in. I was thinking about “Take Me Out To The Ballgame”, no that was lame. I had thought of a quickie dirty ditty from college. I could have told limericks, naw. Actually, the answer came the following day – theme from Gilligan’s Island!!!
MO 11/16/98 – After waiting for our ferry to the Beachcomber at 12:30, we were told we would instead leave at 1:30 and we could have lunch – yippie!! I told the boss we needed to be at the Beachcomber by 2pm – no problem. At 2PM I asked where the ferry was – it’s coming. At 2:30 we were told it was here, but that the driver needed to eat. Our ferry this time was a smaller plywood boat with one 85 horse Yamaha. Three Canadian Air female employees joined us who were going to Nadi and didn’t fit on the previous ferry. The ocean was a bit rough, but the bow pounding was horrid. Arriving at the Beachcomer we found strange things – towels for the shower- the hot! shower, sheets changed daily – sheets!, ceiling fans, sports like volleyball, and clean beaches!. The buildings are extremely well kept, designed in pleasing local style and material. Our beds were at one end on the second level in a 88 bed dormitory. A bit cramped, but quiet ad comfortable. Ahhhh .. were living in style. It is the first time since leaving home that I took a hot shower and used a towel (I have a camp towel, but didn’t want to deal with drying it.) Oh, one of the biggest reps the Beachcomber has is …. ta dunt ta da .. the food buffet! The second is the party atmosphere. Loving life! Ok, the dinner wasn’t outrageous by American styles, but the breakie and lunch was better. We had meat!, and milk!, and cereal!, and toast!, and fresh vegetables (eh), and good water, and and and, vegamite – no bloody way, mate!
TU 11/17/98 – After pigging out at breakfast, I swam out to the motor/sailer ferry’s mooring ball and sat on it for 15 minutes, looking over to Treasure Island next door and the ‘big island’ – Viti Levu, repeating to myself, “This is Fiji, middle of the South Pacific”. I walked over to the Bubble Pool (hot tub without the hot), did three sets of pushups and then of triceps between benches. Lunch, another pig out then … volleyball!!! The weather since yesterday has been heavily overcast with occasional rain, so snorkeling was out of the question. Outside the main building here is a have way decent volleyball net with lines, then a volleyball appeared and John was the first to say we should partake. We played and played, played half way through lunch, then again afterward, over five hours. I was pretty bad to start – hadn’t played but once this year, then picked it up some. Introduced ourselves to most of the people on the court, and found alot of Rob’s, but no oher Bob’s – up to four Rob’s and two John’s at one time. Even though the sun was behind a mile of clouds, I was toast, my face and back feeling like leather. We had a quiet dinner upstairs in comfortable seats with Rob of Austria, followed by Fiji dancers showing the captives traditional dancing from Hawaii, Tahiti, Cook’s, and Fiji. Took a Bob and Blacky picture with the dancers. Before the show, John had a resort sort-of-nurse clean and tape a cut,h is feet were pretty trashed. I then aked about my Sea Urchin spine in my right heel, and they suggested I go to the hospital in Lutoka. I’ll wait until Auckland.
WE 11/18/98 – High speed cat ferry to Nadi, walked around wth packs, sweating, picking up stamps, postcards, 25 cent ice creams, sulu’s (sarongs) for the beach. John phoned Rachel, first using a $F10 phone card, then with charges reversed. I am guessing its a $US80 phone call for fifteen minutes. We were talked into taking a minivan from the bus station to the Beach House, south on the Coral Coast. We sat it the van, waiting for the driver. Fifteen minutes later, the van was full, and the driver went into town to fill tires with air, then back to the van stop, and through the bus station to pick up two more, then back to the van station to pick up a women and baby, then back into town for gas, and finally on our way. An hour and a half later we paid the driver $F7 ($US3.50) for our ride and registered into the backpacker. Nice place, attractive, wood siding painted off orange and yellow with purple doors, corrugated roof, and fairly new.Not the beautiful scenery of Moorea and Huheni, but okay.
WE 11/18/98 — I HAVE NEVER (NOT TO BE READ BY THE EASILY OFFENDED!!!)
THE END — I HAVE NEVER (NOT TO BE READ BY THE EASILY OFFENDED!!!)
TH 11/19/98 — DIVING BEQA BAY
The night before John and I had a hard time justifying a dive trip here because of cost ($US72, two tanks), and the rainy weather. The desire to dive won out, and we were picked up at 7:50. It was too early for breakfast, so we asked the driver to stop at a store on the way. We bought bread, peanut butter, and a carton of mixed juice. The weather was dark and overcast , only one small section of sky in the east having any brightness. The equipment we were given was extremely beat, and the boat worse. Urrghh. Why were we wasting our money here? We could dive more cheaply in Oz. Actually, we thought that the Coral Coast was inexpensive, at least better than Mana. Fellow passengers included an American and Canadian girls just finishing studies in Suva at the University of the South Pacific (USP), a couple from north London, three young Japanese girls, and an old loud, chatty women. The Japanese and older women were out for just an introductory dive, and the English girl was just snorkeling The dive master was a rotund Indian with 19 years experience, commercially an in recreational diving, named Jay. The skipper was a lean and muscular older man with killer calves. Two other younger men helped with equipment and diving. All diving was in Beqa Lagoon, a huge area at the south end of Viti Levu (the biggest island), maybe 40 km across. We learned that Yatoca Island was slated to be a three month location for the filming of ‘Xena, Warrior Princess’, next year. I wouldn’t mind running into Gabrielle. The first stop was for the divers, a 21 meter dive, with some typical name like Angelfish Reef. Supposedly the visibility was 60 feet, then Jay estimating it as more once we arrived at the site. Last week, before all this rain started, the vis was 150 feet! The sky was still dark, which doesn’t help with vis, and we donned our equipment on the rolling boat. John commented he wasn’t feeling well, so we hurried in. Hey! We’re in! This is the first time I have dove since Grand Cayman last year, except for once in Newport in August. It just felt good to get into the water and diving! Psyched! Jay brought us around bright coral heads, past hard and magnificent soft corals, and through a few short caves. There were loads of small colorful fish amidst the amazingly varying coral. That is what struck hardest – seeing the multitude of different colors of fish and coral. I would stare at a fish and marvel at the bright colors and patterns, in particular a fish with brilliant deep blue/purple and yellow/gold stripes. Throw in a little black and white for contrast. How did that babe Mother Natural think of all this? Then checking out coral, I would see a color of green/gray that I thought I had never seen before. Other highlights – black tipped reef shark, John saw a giant clam three feet across, a bright yellow fish with purple lips, a lionfish!. Lionfish are really pretty with wide floating spines used to propel them like a dart over short distance to gobbled prey. They are also one of the few poisonous fish here, very poisonous. During our first dive my stomach felt a little off but not drastic. When reached the top John said he felt like getting sick, and I replied that I did also, but in a way meant to convey it was no big deal. I was barely on the boat when my eyes became suddenly big (according to John), and I was running for the side. Unfortunately a Japanese girl saw this and lost her cookies later. A bit later I emptied myself of peanut butter and the rest of breakfast in the head, laid down, and tried slept lightly. Fortunately we had two and a half hours between dives, waiting for the others to do introductories, and having lunch. John was feeling miserable and followed my lead in the WC and with sleep. When I woke he was sitting there with a big smile on his face saying he felt great. The second dive was nicer because I felt good and had similar scenery. Back to the dock was an hour boat ride, arriving at 5PM, then another hour back to te Beach House.
TH 11/19/98 – John and I spent dinner with a young girl from north of Toronto who postponed college half way through to travel with typical Austriasia backpacker route. To bed early.
FR 11/20/98 – At breakfast, we talked to an older Australian couple who were avid bikers and were taking mountain bikes around Fiji. The conversation started by discussing the Newport Jazz Festival. Ian had seen a film of the first one (1959?) just after it was released. The film had a big impact on him, an introduction to Jazz. They told of the Fijian village named Navala, written about it Lonely Planet, which they stumbled upon. I really wanted to spend some time with locals, having just done three backpacker segments in a row in Fiji, and not hanging with any locals in French Polynesia. What is the sense of traveling without experience the locals way of life and ideas and rituals? The Beach House could have been in any country, with a bunch of backpackers from around the world. There wasn’t anything Fijian about it – not the architecture, not the food, but the people did socialize well. Maybe we could have walked over to the nearby village, I’m sure we would have been welcome. We could have talked about how life worked, but they live in corrugated homes, and have western style jobs. Navala is different. They live in traditional bures (BOOL-RAYS), and are fairly self sufficient. And, hey, the village is in the mountains! We had two nights available, so Navala became the object of our next quest.
FR 11/20/98 — NAVALA
The trip to Navala was excruciating on local transport. After waiting half an hour in the blazing sun for the bus from the Beach House to Nadi (two hours), we walked around town, completed important traveler type chores such as buying 25 cent (US) ice creams (boysenberry!), postcards, water, and lunch. The Lonely Planet and other sources say you must take a traditional offering to the chief called a ‘suvie-suvie’ (sp), which is a local root used to make a drink called Kava. We bought a half kilo in the local market for $F22. I felt a funny strangeness carrying this package of roots around, packaged with newspaper and twine, not feeling comfortable with the tradition. We had another wait for the local (versus express) bus to Lotoka, then again for the bus to Ba. On the buses we amused ourselves by making silly faces at babies, watching an old man’s earlobe flap in the wind on the windowless bus, and recounting the six fingers on another man’s hand. It was 4pm when on the bus I turned to John and said we may have missed the last bus up to the village. Arriving into Ba at 4:45pm, we were told …. we missed the last bus up to the village at 4:30. I thought that we should hitch, someone there thought that a bus driver lived in the village, and other ideas were going around. To be stuck in Ba for a night would not be cool, these cities are not fun looking, and are not set up for tourists. We were tired. We waited around with Kava rots in hand, talked in circles, and became annoyed at our situation, and then whala – there appeared a minivan leaving at 5:30p for the village! The ride up was very pretty, it was good to get into the mountains we had only seen from the distance. An Indian girl named Shanal sat near me and gave a tour through the bus windows as we wound up the dirt road. She pointed out sugar cane fields, Mango trees, and the bright orange flowered Christmas tree. Shanal lived 3km from Navala, we continued on. The roads can be washed during rains and require 4×4 vehicles, but the weather had been hot and dry since diving a couple of days ago. Two women were also on the minivan, having come from the market in Ba. They laughingly asked if we were going to Navala, and said we will stay with them in their bures. Not bad, our luck maybe getting better.
The women, Evona and Suetrana brought us into the village, showed us their bures, introduced us to many men and women, and we were feeling good – this could not have been easier, we could not have had a better welcome, and the village was wonderful to check out. Walking up through the village, we had big smiles on our faces, loving life! The very attractive village consisted of 100 bures and 900 people on a hill along the Ba River.
The bures have a foundation of grass on dirt, contained by stones on the peripheral. The structure is of hand hewed trees, thatched walls, and thick reed roof. Inside are woven mats across the floor, one bureau or vanity, a cabinet for dishes, and one or two beds. There are not any chairs, people normally sit cross legged on the floor. The village has been in its current location for 60 years, the bures lasting decades. Out of the hundred bures, only a couple have a generator for power. There are a scattering of out houses, peeing is more informal and done somewhere out of site. Between the bures wander cows, goats, dogs, cats, and chickens.
On the mountainside across the river are the village plantations, excess crop being sold at market. The crops are kasava (like potato), taro (like spinach), some sugar cane, and a banana/potato vegetable. Tobacco is also grown.
We were set up separately in their bures, and were introduced to Pedro (Peter). He could speak English at our level, was very intelligent, having read hundreds of books, and had a keen interest in the States. Pedro left Nadi 18 years ago when he moved his family to a farm near the village after his uncle persistently asked him to take the property. In Fiji land is not sold, but passed onto relatives. Indians have 30 year leases and often grow sugar cane. In 1987 there was a bloodless military coup by Fijians, non-indigenous peoples rights were diminished (civil jobs, educational aid, political positions), and an all Fijian government was put in. Not until this year when the constitution was changed was Fiji allowed back in the Common Wealth.
Pedro was with us most of our stay. Others had varying degrees of English, but Pedro excelled, his English and knowledge of the States is able to embarrass most Americans. He explained the village life, that money was not important as in the western world, that the village operated communally by sharing responsibilities and belongings. Bures are open to all and people do not hesitate to ask when something is needed. The life in the village is easy, ‘laid back and out of the rat race’. There is not a schedule, not a watch to go by. With Pedro we talked of many, many different topics. Pedro was always willing to answer and eager ask questions, except when drowsed by kava. Topics varying from how the Middle East were intimidated by different presidents, to serial killers, to 70’s rock (John and Pedro went through the words to the song Hotel California together), to espionage authors.
We were brought to deliver the kava. The village chief was not present, so we saw instead a different village representative, and sat through a short ceremony. In addition to the ceremonial token, you donate a sum of $F30 to te village, accepted by the ‘elected chief’. The cost per person per night is $F15, that money kept by whoever you stay with.
We were really enjoying ourselves, the people genuinely friendly, caring, and considerate. When at night, there would be only a kerosene light, they would place it between John and I. When I needed to borrow a shirt beause they were washing mine, they dug out a new T-shirt. They would push us to eat more, then have the leftovers (we never saw anyone eat otherwise, we also were served alone). The scenery was absolutely gorgeous, we were enjoying living in the third world, life was good.
The first night, and every other opportune moment, we would sit and have kava. It is made by scrubbing the roots, ground into powder, through a piece of cloth while water is poured through. Hygiene is questionable. Who knows where the persons hands have been, and the cloth is worse than tattered. Better still is the look of the liquid – watery dirt, and still better is the taste – a cross between root, and dirt, and mint, and pepper! Kava I felt anything, only Pedro showing signs of effect.
We told the villagers we would stay two or three nights. We arrived Friday and on Sundays they do not enjoy visitors Sunday being a very sacred day for the Catholics. On Saturday morning we planned to hike the surrounding hills and mountains, but before we starting out, we agreed to look at a vcr and tv that was having problems. When I arrived, John already had the vcr cover off in the darkness of the bure, and no less than 30 men and boys were sitting or peering through the door at him. I felt giddy with the scene – white men in the darkness of the South Pacific working magic as only they know how. Really though, they generally knew very little about the equipment. They did not know there was an access door leading to many adjustments like tracking. The equipment cost $F500 two months ago and was seven to ten years old. The picture was fuzzy, and it wasn’t the tracking. We played around for an hour, found some connections were not solid, the tapes were copies, and the guts were pretty dusty. We swapped tapes around, trying a Mohamed Ali tape called ‘Best of the Best’, Rambo III, and a local rugby video. Each time Ali came on, the crowd grew transfixed, wide eyed, and excited, squealing when Ali connected to Frazier. Unsuccessful, we asked for alcohol which appeared 45 minutes later. After cleaning the heads, the picture was worse – oh, oh. After spending a couple of hours, the villagers were getting as anise as we were, and we surrendered. We could have been heroes. We were thanked for trying.
Around 10am we were escorted along the back rod to Nadi to the trail head by two boys, and started the hot, extremely hot, climb up. The red dirt and clay trail was well worn by horses, one leaving the village early this morning with a pack of ten dogs for wild pig hunting. The sky was mostly blue, the clouds refusing to float overhead, and the sun baked on us. We continuously lost our breath, our hearts pounding away. I wondered if heart failure was possible. After a 45 minute climb we reached a lone patch of pines on a ridge. Here the moderate westerly breeze was more than welcome, we laid down with big sighs, and listened to the wind through the pines. I laughed at the thought of my disgusting shirt getting dirtier, and John didn’t hesitate to throw his se of insults my way. On Fiji there are four or so peaks reaching 1300 meters, we were now on top, and the views were humbling. The countless rich green ridges and peaks and cliffs surrounded us. There are some farmlands in the lower reaches, but the land is mostly untouched. If it was needed for farming, more would be utilized. Unknowing, we could see Pedro’s farm in the valley to the north. Further along, we hiked through another stand of pines were we spotted a handful of white goats from a distance. We walked for ten minutes through a thick forest, the abrupt change reminded me of ‘Princess Bride’, and John entertained me by reciting movie dialog with accent, “My name is Indigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.”, and “‘Inconceivable’ – You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”. We made the forest, walked up and down a few hills, and found a road. Power lines ran through the mountains to the hydroelectric dam and I wished it was nearby so we could have a swim, but it wasn’t with sight. Once the road started on a steep decline, we turned back, not wanting to have to schlep uphill again. Through the pig forest, the goat pines, and to the breezy pines. There we laid down again, lightly sleeping until we jumped up in alarm at the dark rain storm coming across the land. We put a move on, running along the flats, looking over our left shoulders at the impending terror. Ok, it wasn’t terror, it was just a storm, but we didn’t want to get soaked so we ran and stumbled quickly down the hills until we … realized the storm wasn’t coming our way. Walking into the village after our 4.5 hour adventure, I felt good to have conquered the local mountains, eager to tell our tales and here the villagers whistle and comment to each other how far we went. They were actually saying, “what a couple of stupid tourists who go walking in the middle of the day”. It was then that we were told the villagers only go up on horseback.
We went for another swim in the muddy river, shampooing, washing, and watching the kids tube down. We asked Pedro again if the river was clean and he exclaimed, ‘very sanitary’. John had a head of shampoo when I laughed, “very sanitary – Pedro’s is peeing in the woods.” He was and horses were dumping on the river’s bank. John asked where they disposed of their trash – the river. I asked if there were any people living higher u on the river – one hour (two to the dam).
Afterwards, there was more Kava, and then Kava, then dinner was made for us in Evona’s bure. They had washed our clothes and gave us sulus (sarong’s) to wear as we tried to sit cross legged. We fidgeted while again trying to sit this way, leaning back on our hands, laying on our sides, stomachs, and so on. Our backs hurt. Dinner consisted of a whole fresh water fish (mine had his eye shriveled to a little white ball), kasava, noodles, and fish broth soup. The meal was good, especially thr fish. Again, people sat around as we ate, the men finishing the Kava that we had given up on. That night I woke often, driven crazy by itchy jellyfish wounds, and again waking to stomach cramps, on going for seven days now. John had a tougher night. Tio, who lives in John’s bure, has his 87 year old mother, an infant, a couple of adolescents, his wife, and probably others there. This night, there were no adults besides John, and through the night the old women coughed and sputtered, while the baby wailed. No one attended the baby. In the morning when I stopped by to get John for our lift back down, John came out tired, unhappy, and swearing. He hadn’t slept at all, and describing his night said he thought he heard the women’s last breath. We had our arranged ride pick meet us on the road before 7am. I sat in the front with this young man, his father from Nepal, mother from southern India, his family moved to Fiji from England. I enjoyed conversation with this man on the way own, talking about Fijian ways of life. Notably, he explained that the women worked far more than the men, and that the men will sit and drink kava for the smallest reason. The conversation was great until he hit us with a bill of $F25 for the ride. That was comparatively too much. We thought we could recover from overspending when diving, that was now squashed. The other rides were fairly quick and uneventful, arriving Nadi by 10am. We kicked around town a bit, then booked into Mana rose, the same company as at Mana Island, and relaxed. Our flight left the following morning for Auckland at 7am. New Zealand!!
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