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The scope of potential world travel is tantalizing, and thankfully tourism has the ability to elevate developing communities through employment opportunities and tax revenue. Win for the wanderer; win for the welcomers. Sadly, not every traveler sees his or her voyage to a new country in such a positive, symbiotic light. Those are the ones who perpetuate the very dark and very bleak side of travel. I’m talking about the perverted patrons of the sex tourism industry.

This post was written in conjunction with Angeline Diamond of ECPAT-USA.

The Darkest Form of Tourism

I’m not talking about backpackers who delight in a consensual tryst or the business traveler hoping to meet a cute gentleman in the hotel bar. I’m talking people whose sole purpose for travel is to engage in sex with minors, or they may take it one step further and transport someone for criminal sexual conduct. Ya know…real classy types.

Let’s lay this out logically. Sex tourism increases the demand for prostitution. However, this demand is not easily met by women willing to choose this profession. Therefore, to meet demands, the supply of prostitutes becomes contingent on extensive human trafficking networks. These networks appear to be incredibly underground, which is why we don’t hear about them like we do the drug trade. But sadly, the U. S. State Department says one million children worldwide are enslaved in the global commercial sex trade. Sex trafficking is considered one of the top three most profitable criminal networks in the world, generating about $4 billion dollars a year.

It’s enough to make you writhe.

I feel rather morally comfortable while traveling, since I know for a fact I’m not engaging in anything related to sex tourism. But unfortunately, the travel industry often unintentionally contributes to this debilitating form of abuse. This doesn’t mean anyone should point fingers and never leave their homes, but we as travelers, if we have any interest in our hosting communities, have a duty to act in ways that prevent the exploitation of the most vulnerable members of society: the children.

Kids are awesome, and to imagine a start to life wrapped up in such a seedy and life-threatening industry could induce nightmares and permanent travel guilt.

Know They’re Out There

I’ve written about the creeps who often navigate to my site from google searches, like: cambodian naked boy, sex tourism friendly hotels, little boy with no shirt. If my blog were my home, I’d sit with an acidic potato gun on the front porch and fire at any creep who wonders on my lawn. To much our surprise, perverts aren’t as easy to spot as Mormon evangelists (not that I’m encouraging the same activity to these solicitors…they’re just easy to spot).

Instead, if I’m hoping that the world becomes a better place within my lifetime, I’d be better off imploring the help of fellow travelers who have an ounce of morality or two – hence, my blog post to you today.

I was recently contacted by ECPAT-USA, a network of organizations and individuals committed to the fight for children’s rights of freedom. While I know it’s often fruitless to call for agency from an anonymous online audience, I figured it could only be beneficial to mention the tools they provide to assist the travel industry in preventing the sexual exploitation of children.

This acronym, which stands for Ending Child Prostitution, Pornography, and Trafficking, represents a group that focuses on research, advocacy, and public awareness. In conjunction with UNICEF and UNWTO, they created “The Code of Conduct,” which outlines policies that may be adopted by travel companies within their code of ethics to prevent the sexual exploitation of children. Over 900 companies worldwide are in support of the code thus far, yet there are many companies that still hesitate.

Seriously…these guys are hesitating to support actions that prevent sexual exploitation. I’d like to hear the rebuttal for that argument.

Here we are, at the end of my ramble, where you can choose to do a couple things. You can click away mentally and physically (I admit to doing it a lot). You can consider yourself more aware and decide to learn more on your own time (I like to do this, as well). You can also exercise your “take action” muscle and follow some ECPAT-USA recommended steps toward making the travel industry more responsible. Regardless of your next step, I appreciate your perusal of this content and hope you feel enriched for doing so.

Kick Those Creeps Where The Sun Don’t Shine

• You may print out The Code Postcard and drop it off with your travel companies, which declares that you support responsible travel practices and travel companies that feel the same way. The Postcard provides information on how they may become a signatory.
  • If you take this route, do let ECPAT-USA know where you sent the postcard. It helps them out.
• Check out ECPAT-USA online and follow us on Twitter.
• Research the internet for great blogs about current issues.
• Talk with your friends, family, co-workers, and other travelers to promote awareness and create a greater force against these practices.
• Purchase a TassaTag, a beautiful, fair trade plus luggage tag, which also increases public awareness and benefits ECPAT research and women in Thailand.

Do you have any questions concerning sex tourism around the world? If so, you may contact Angeline directly at angeline@ecpatusa.org. And if you have any other information, stories, or reflections on this issue, please add to our dialogue below.

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Knocking on a few doors at dawn, we came across the home where little Weiss was sleeping. It would have been impossible to take our final carrier ride without saying goodbye to our dear friend and favored student of 2.5 months. We hugged him and asked him to tell the other kids we say goodbye and will miss them. He nodded his heavy head, instantly taking the form of an older, mature being with wise eyes that see the realities of a world he can’t change.

We loaded our bags, put on our rain shells, and bumped down the mountains. I felt like wasting away as I doubled over my backpack, hoping to sleep away my pain.

Boxing Up and Sending Our Promises

Munching apples and peanut butter on the side of the river in Navua, I felt tapped of my happiness. Dropping our bags at the South Seas hostel, my mind was elsewhere in thought. I could not feel good, could not joke around, knew we had to leave but still finding the reality of it all exhausting and pitiful. I couldn’t find the silver lining, because I knew the dark underbelly had to be fully absorbed.

Taking the $171 Fijian we raised from the saddening fundraiser, we found a pharmacy stocked with exactly what we needed, as well as many eager saleswomen tending to our mounding baskets. We bought children’s fever reducer for all age levels, bandages and antibiotic ointment, medicine for fungal infections and boils, oral rehydration salts, first aid tape, and enough supplies to cure the village of the common hindering maladies.

Starting to ache with hunger, we found our regular pizza joint and let our deprived taste buds go wild. I barely uttered a sentence, with my head hung low over our budgeting sheet. Finishing just in time, we got our boxes of goods, along with instructional/descriptive guides for the medicine, to the carrier – the outside of the box covered with the words “Vitalina” and “Nakavika Dispensary.” Luckily, her daughter, Siteri, was waiting for the carrier and could take it up personally.

On a day where little made me happy, it pleased me tremendously to know we succeeded in supplying Vita with the tools to strengthen her village.

Feeling the Weight of Sadness

While Garrett and Jackie Skyped with their families and changed plane tickets, I wrote one sad e-mail after the other. Needed some stress relief, Garrett and I wandered into the movie theater, while Jackie worked online, and watched “Invictus” – the scenes with laughing, playing children making my eyes blur. I got a craving for the kids and wondered what they were thinking at that moment.

Photo by Jackie Knowles

We didn’t get to say goodbye to some of our favorite children, Daiana included. Our neighbor for months, our daily visitor, a girl I can only describe as a “schnickelfritzer” – Daiana was a highlight to even the saddest, sweatiest day. Her English was timid and comprised of a few words, but we were able to communicate and build a friendship through games, silly looks and voices, and throwing her around until she doubled over laughing. She constantly wanted to be hanging on our arms, hugging our sides, sitting on our laps, or crawling on our weary frames. She was tough. Though she was only three years old, she could stop around a house like a 300 lb. man. She could charm a room full of uncles and cousins to give her all the dried mango skins she could handle in her bright orange fingers. It was a terrible realization that we left without saying a word to her.

I’m not sure if I ever laughed harder than when Samesa shimmied by our doorway pretending to machine gun us down while we had our afternoon tea. His spastic movements nearly knocked him off his own feet. I fell dead multiple times and subsequently rose from my [pretend] bloody pile to seek revenge on his dear soul. Even standing in formation at school, he pulled out his 007-style mini-gun and aimed at our cameras, taking us out with a smile. However, this somewhat violent description of him doesn’t give due justice to his incredible sweet nature. He sat quietly when all other boys were rambunctious during class and participated willingly in any activity that furthered his knowledge and confidence. I was always excited to see him approach the house for class. He was one of the great ones.

Makario had to slowly grow on me, though Garrett found his sweet nature easily through all the tears. He had learned at an early age that throwing tantrums and bawling uncontrollably would get him attention, which in my opinion was hard to swallow constantly. However, this little five year-old began showing us his non-mooching and attention-hungry side within a few weeks, allowing us to see what a caramel-coated, cream puff he was. His attempts at English were adorable, and it was most obvious through Makario how our classes and exposure to the kids had helped them progress. When before we couldn’t get him to participate without falling over in embarrassment, we left Nakavika with him screaming our names from across fields and villages. He felt comfortable around us. We all grew to really appreciate one another. And of course, I found his regular bathroom breaks in the yard hilarious.

Mosese was Samesa’s older brother and had a smile equally as mesmerizing. Garrett and I couldn’t help but utter his name like the hyenas’ forced whisper of “Mufasa,” and every time, he lit up and stuck his tongue out with a shy head roll. He was enthusiastic about our games and classes, well-behaved and never on either side of a childish argument. When he left for a good month on holiday, we missed him and constantly asked when he’d return, which no one could say thanks to the flimsy Fijian calendar. But when he returned, he came running to our next game, his cheeks squeezed and flanking a toothy grin. Mosese was wonderful.

Pio was keen on pushing our boundaries to accommodate some personal wishes. He attempted to charm us for the playing cards, the white board markers, the bandages, the balloons, but he soon realized we used any moment he was interested in our things for lessons. When it became increasingly difficult for him to ask a favor without uttering a complete English sentence, he would initially struggle to build the phrase in his mind but soon shout it out with pride. Pio was very helpful, picking oranges for juice, fetching pots for dinner, showing us around the farm – he was a huge helper in our early days and our home alone stint. We hit a rough patch after scolding him for taking my playing cards, and we didn’t see him for a week. However, the day he returned at his own will, we knew we’d reached a new level of understanding between us. And his Fijian boy songs inspired standing ovations.

Buiwai kicked her tongue out when frazzled, quietly listened to and absorbed our stories, and made us proud as our star pupil. Our next door neighbor and frequent visitor, she expressed her aspirations to be a nun and perform well in school. She killed at spelling Frogger and stuck around for supplemental lessons on tongue twisters and stories. She also had a hilarious habit of staring at us while we did anything: cook, clean, talk, sleep, etc. Our impression of her was a limp jaw staring lifelessly at any subject, which made her laugh and stick that bashful tongue out with a smile yet again.

There were many more we cared about deeply: Anna, Elias, Abele, Betero, Kenny, Vosita, Emma, Petere, Samu, Lidia, Bui, etc. – not to mention the many youth members that helped us with vital needs and vital fun. I could write an epic poem about the youth of Nakavika and how much they meant to us, how they made our entire experience in the Highlands. They were all I could think about during the movie. Not even rugby-playing Matt Damon could shake me out of my funk.

Relapsing with a Phone Call

My withdrawal symptoms were severe neck weakness evident by my hanging head, a heavy, slow-thumping heart beat, a buzzing numbness throughout my entire body, a lack of appetite for even delicious Indian food, and an inner monologue that sang with sadness for the felt failure of the project.

I decided to dial the village and see if the sadness I was feeling was due to the confusion of the young Highlanders. Weiss answered the phone.

Did you tell everyone we had to leave and will miss them? That we’re sorry we couldn’t say goodbye or stay longer?

Yes.

Abel got on the phone, along with the older Daiana, to tell me they were coming to Suva the following morning and wanted to see us.

How are the kids today? Do they know we left? Do they know why? How are they reacting?

Elias cried when he found out.

I wept a little, standing in the South Seas lobby.

I felt every morsel of guilt, pain, and regret I could that day, sulking and remaining silent in my own dismay. Jackie and Garrett were sad about the children, relieved by the location change, and ready to jet off on earlier flights due to budget constraints. We spent our last night falling early into a deep slumber, swarmed by the cool winds of the ceiling fan. I slept in my sulu, trying to relate it with every good feeling I had from the village, most of which were byproducts of moments with the young ones we came for.

Photo by Jackie Knowles

Any comments or questions? Ask now, before I carry on with the next story of when The Nakavika Project parted ways.

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Drinking in the Pessimism

Luckily for us, the Rivers Fiji company was scheduled to have a business meeting in the village, and they drove their own 4x4 vehicle. We sat in on the business meeting, which unsurprisingly revolved around kava drinking and lots of Fijian talk infrequently translated into a few lines of English. We got to witness the tension, the patching up of issues across cultural borders, and most importantly speak with the company representative, Geoff, about our project.

An American, a weathered expat of many countries, and one very familiar with not only the Fijian mindset but the specific individuals we knew and dealt with, Geoff had the insight we needed to hear. After hitching a ride to The Uprising with him, we invited him to dinner as a thank you and an opportunity to chew the fat.

Photo by Jackie Knowles

Explaining our frustrations and tactics thus far, Geoff stood behind our passion to do good; however, he wished us best of luck at the uphill battle we were waging, sure to inform us that our idealist mindsets would leave us disappointed. After all that had happened, it was a struggle to remain as hopeful as we tried to be. Geoff confirmed out worries; it very well won’t work out.

But an idea struck me:

It’s not supposed to be easy to help those in need. If it were, obviously there’d be much less poverty and problems everywhere. This is supposed to be a struggle of the soul-sapping kind.

Laying the Final Project Groundwork

After rebooting our bodies and minds and developing the promised video of the funeral footage, we returned three days later to a village that was preparing for the upcoming start to the school year.

Photo by Jackie Knowles

With limited time left in the country and new determination to get things done, we decided to nail down some fundamental alliances and deals with the village in order to make the project a reality. Since Fijians love paperwork, we developed written agreements to sign between ourselves and the Turaga ni Koro, as well as one with Abel, our soon-to-be on-site coordinator. Unfortunately, just because things are on paper doesn’t mean they are made solid and observed. We made copies, distributed them, and awaited the inevitable haggling session on various points of the contracts.

The time had finally come to meet with the headmaster of the school, now that he had returned from the break. Our walk to his house, illuminated by the full moon, and subsequent meeting proved fruitful, as he established his support in our cause and quickly became that person we desperately hoped existed: the one who could bridge traditional Fijian understanding and progressive, global, academic thinking. We discussed the needs of the school and identified those steps for improvement that were in our power to take.

One of the most salient situations we noticed while meeting with the headmaster and teachers at the school was the stellar resource they had but didn’t know how to use: a library. An entire wall from floor to ceiling, lined with bookshelves and English novels, instructional books, encyclopedias, etc. -- it proved too daunting a task to figure out how to monitor the children in the setting, not to mention organize the hundreds of resources.

There seemed to be so much promise: a strong alliance with the educators, obvious improvements we could affect, and children who had already shown us they were capable of learning and applying themselves.

Our Final Fijian Outings

Though still feeling a little guarded, it seemed necessary to continue with our Fijian excursions to further train Abel in hopes our alliance would be sealed. Having already experienced the rigors of local farming, Garrett and I felt like lending humorous, moral support rather than joining Jackie in digging holes. It was obvious our help wasn’t really needed, so we joked around with Mario and Abel and recreated our fantasies of comic book action sequences in the Highlands. It was worthwhile work.

The next day, we took off in our flip-flops in search of the hot springs that flow into the Luva River. Having been there seven months prior, I thought I knew what we were in for, but a steep downhill trek through the jungle in slippery sandals wasn’t the memory I had. Though we were struggling, dripping with sweat, clawed by plants, and stressing the construction of our footwear, it was a very cool jaunt. Having enough of the slow struggle, Garrett leaped off the path into the exposed mud from a Cyclone Mick landslide.

Regardless of the emotional trauma we were enduring, the setbacks with the project, or the inability to blend our mentalities with our hosts, we were still very aware that every moment stomping around like Indiana Jones was truly awesome. Braving strong currents and painful rocks under bare foot, we made it to a mysterious hot spring, which had been further exposed by an adjacent landslide.

Easily 95°F and smelling of sulfur, the Japanese miners in the nearby hills were hoping to turn the springs into a 24 hour power source, most likely an attempt to schmooze the village heads for mining rights.

The Early Morning Routine

Photo by Jackie Knowles

We arose around 7am to assist the headmaster in the regular exercise of teeth-brushing. Garrett took centerstage, making sure every child had a toothbrush to work with. Some kids tossed their brushes over the shoulder to get a shiny new one from the bag. The rest stood poised with their bottles of water over a gutter in the ground.

The headmaster yelled each of the twelve steps one by one, the children following his instruction. Their frothy mouths becoming neat beards like Mr. Miyagi’s. The clouds rolled in the village valley, setting the children in a background of mist. Soon, everyone’s pearly whites were once again shiny, and Garrett went to the drawing board on his improvements for the routine.

At the completion of the hygiene routine, the rambunctious children we had known for the last two months got into formation and displayed their compliance with school order. From smallest to tallest, separated by grades, color-coordinated with those in their sports group after school, they became vessels for incoming knowledge, though the military stances couldn’t take the smirks of their faces.

We watched with smiles, feeling so hopeful for the next two weeks of school collaboration. It finally seemed like we could make something happen that would stick. It wasn’t the parents we should work with, it was the school and those who attempted daily to strike a balance between traditional mentality and academic excellence.

Little did we know this would be our last school day in the village.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=1PE6lgvOK3A

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