Why The Low Points Matter

Once again, great work, Chris, in addressing an idea regarding a “perfect” trip with the necessary and realistic angle. He noted that no one really has (nor should have?) a perfect trip without low points. Meticulous planning sounds exhausting and semi-fruitless, not to mention detrimental to an aspect of travel that arguably many travelers find as the point to it all.

Image by MAMJODH

I’m reminded of the Hindi om/aum and the interpretation I often associate with its multi-purpose, ambiguous meaning. When you’re high, know one day you will be low again. And when things are low, have hope that tomorrow you’ll be back on top. I envision a undulating sine curve that reflects the state of all things, the stock market among others. Though this is somewhat of a hippie-esque ideology, I do think I believe everything balances out in the end – the great moments in life and the low points, the good and the bad. The same goes for your travels.

If we only had high points, what kind of characters would we be? Would we be as adaptable, as prepared for the world and appreciative of the good times? And though the catalyst for this “perfect trip” idea was in no way indicating a trip without flaws, it makes me think no one should leave their home expecting all to go as planned or with their own convenience in mind. We must flex with the sine curve of life and our own movement, appreciating both to strike a balance that makes us who we are.

Thanks, Chris, you got me thinking. And isn’t that what good writing, and “perfect traveling,” is about? You tell me.

Name This Vista

What are we looking at here? Any ideas? Leave a comment!

Why, If You Write, You Need a Blog

This one is for the hopeful travel bloggers out there, the ones keen on crafting word symphonies with the hope of creating a path toward their passions. And not just travel bloggers, hopeful broadcast journalists, photographers, poets, and other expressionists have been contacting me about what to do with their skills as the means to a preferred end. Though I’m not a broadcast journalist nor a novelist by trade, I at least know it’s essential to adapt to the new trend of self-marketing and projection of your assets in the form of a blog.

Darren at Problogger is usually someone I refer these people to, because he writes pieces just like this: Why Professional Writers Need a Blog. Or Not. Here are some great excerpts from his recent piece.

We can boil it down to this: if you’re looking to get hired for a project, which implies you offer some vertical expertise in addition to your abundant writing gifts, then you should consider writing a blog. And you should let the reader know who you are. Because you need to show the world you know more than they do about whatever it is you do. You need to demonstrate it. Both elements drive toward your credibility, which his essential.

A blog is about your niche, your field of expertise, your message. Your blog is, in essence, a gift to your readers. In effect, your blog is where you give away what you know. It’s your chance to demonstrate and validate your claim to authority and expertise. Your blog is, in every essence and facet of the word, content.

World’s Touristy Map

It’s kinda nice I’m from an unspotted area. My goodness, Europe, quit being so appealing to the world.

Other Discoveries

I’m getting pumped for Tuesday and my first real adventure in Mexico – let’s face it, the others have been burps in my timeline. Check out some amazing photos to get pumped along with me.

Talk about the art of travel! Great moleskin journal watercolors from Notes From The Road.

Problogger’s here to tell you How to Convert Blog Readers to Paying Customers

Update on Nomadderwhere

Here’s the skinny on my current situation.

Nakavika Project/Fiji Stories: I’ve been frantically pushing out stories from Fiji this month and have finally completed the storyline. Yay, me! Soon, I’ll publish a walk-through of the entire narrative in case you missed the overall flow of things.

The New Travels: The onslaught of Fiji content was in reaction to my upcoming trip and new job with ProjectExplorer, which has begun already with a short trip to NYC, followed by a flight Tuesday morning to Mexico City! Last night, I dined at Anthony Bourdain’s restaurant with Jenny and Matt, a PE board member, and today I start my training for Mexico!

Reunited Collaborators: Great news, as well…I get to see Garrett Russell this weekend, for the first time since we parted ways in Suva. Garrett recently got his Peace Corps assignment and is preparing for Malawi come July 1st. I’m so excited for him, and I look forward to publishing some of his work on the experience on Nomadderwhere. We’ve also decided on how to proceed with The Nakavika Project, which you can check out now.

This week on Nomadderwhere:

• Video of the Week: The World Traveler Intern-view: A video webcam interview with the new STA World Traveler Interns, which shows their striking, coincidental similarities.
• Interview Two Travelers: The 2010 World Traveling Interns: The written portion of my two-part interview with the STA Interns, asking questions about their self-propelled tour of Europe and more.
• Instant Withdrawal From the Kids: The story of sadness on the day we left the village, reminiscing about the kids and youth members we considered our dear friends.
• Standing on Shipwrecks and Watching Another: The story of my final week at a homestay, which involved exorcisms, fishing off styrofoam doors, my first fresh mussel, shipwrecks, and a dramatic parting from all things Nakavika.
• Back to Being Just a Tourist: The story of my final week in Fiji, when I visited the Yasawa islands and tried to reclaim my love of the South Pacific.
• Six Months Later: The Status of the Nakavika Project: An update to the development, reaction, and future of The Nakavika Project.

1 Minute or Less Moments: This week on my Nomadderwhere Facebook Fan Page will be the last for publishing raw video clips from our Fiji footage. Check out the final installment, which shows some lovely moments in the Yasawa islands before I flew back to America.

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Post-vacation in the Yasawas, I took my final shower, had my final (and best) meal, and flew home to writhe until I could put it all into words. For those of you who write or express, you know it’s painful to have moments go unsaid, life-changing morsels of time without a timeless matter to back them up. I can finally sleep soundly knowing it is all down on “paper,” not to mention the project molded into its final form.

The Lingering Emotions

Garrett and I talk often, weekly in fact, and every time we get on the phone together, which usually starts out as a quick conversation to update each other, we inevitably get chatting about the project and the memories that are still biting our heels. An unsetting feeling sat on our chest for months, as we remembered the threats and low points, which sadly overshadowed all the good we know occurred.

Photo by Jackie Knowles

Garrett got in one argument with a friend of his, a native of Haiti who received a scholarship to attend a private university in America, that brought him to a frustrating near-breaking point. I continued to do research, send my letter to Turaga ni Koro, and figure out how to salvage months of committment and cubic tons of tears. We both wanted relief in knowing our good intentions and strong efforts succeeded in something, not in us becoming cultural imperialists.

As one can tell from our tales, we experienced so much joy and witnessed the improved knowledge of the kids within our timeline in Fiji. We played constantly in the river, grew close to so many children and youth members, and lived in a remarkable caldera for 2.5 months surrounded by pure beauty. But being the highly hopeful, overachievers that we are, the sour moments will undoubtedly make it harder to remember these gems.

Nakavika Reaches Out

While wriggling one afternoon in my memories stateside, I received a message on Flickr from a village member; it was a moment of solace:

Bula nakwa i am one the tertiary student of Nakavika village attending FIJI NATIONAL UNIVERSITY. I wouid just like to take this time to thank your crew for the development you have done to the school it has brought many changes to the lifestyle of the village people especially the kids.I hope the next time you come to the village that you would also educate school leavers back at the village. Once again a big vinaka vakalevu (see you soon at the village) BYE

-Matt Katonivere

Photo provided by Anamaria

And then came another, this time on the blog:

i am so suprised to know that the nakavika project does really exists! thanks to Lindsay and Garret for making it successful because iam really thankfull for the great developments from tourists that were friendly and part of my village family.

-Iva Josivini

E-mails started coming our way from the older youth members, and Jackie received one more recently that stated:

I just hope you guys are going to come back to the village we miss your smilling faces and the kids would have alot of appreciation for you guys, your hard work back then although you face some difficulties.

-Veronika Qiliqili

Reassurance came in the form of these little messages. And even though our friend, Kimbo, recently told us the remaining sentiment from one who was upset at the fundraiser is the same, this overwhelming positivity gave us the hope we needed.

Building the Bridges From Afar

I sent the Turaga ni Koro the letter I crafted to heal our communication flaws and state our prolonged interest in helping the village. [Click on the images to read the entire letters.]

The Full Letter to Turaga ni Koro

He responded a couple weeks later with a letter.

The Full Letter from Turaga ni Koro

It was incredibly difficult, that last day of meetings, to convince the village and development committee that we wouldn’t instantly forget about Nakavika upon leaving them, and I’m happy our letter affirmed that fact for Turaga ni Koro. And now that we have finally set ourselves up for a proper collaboration with Fijian society, we are ready to begin implementing our new and improved, much more realistic and interactive, project.

The Future of The Nakavika Project

After six months of experimentation and deliberation, Garrett and I have decided to make The Nakavika Project about one simple concept:

A Dialogue

Today, the Nakavika Project represents this act of entering a community by invitation and implementing lessons or help in basic human skills and traits, ultimately in the name of creating a dialogue that challenges both the newcomer and the community.

The dialogue we speak of is an exchange that challenges both sides. Whether we should have implemented these objectives, with our methods, in Nakavika or not, we provided an opportunity for the villagers to expand their minds to incorporate or understand our ways and vice versa. We both were presented challenges to our ideas of human interaction, cultural collaboration, and more. Garrett and I grew tremendously from our time in Fiji, and likewise I believe the children and youth members were strongly affected by our influences. Though many of the older members were less impressionable, less open to change or a challenge, we also were able to reason and provide other ideas that had them challenging themselves.

Bottom line, we created a dialogue that still remains today.

There are three ways to participate in what we started: join our dialogue, contribute your own experience, and/or create your own dialogue.

Join Our Dialogue: Check out our project in Nakavika by reading our blogs and objectives and comment on the concept of voluntourism, cross-cultural development and exchange.

Contribute Your Own Experience: Have you created your own project, worked in the Peace Corps, or had a like-experience helping across cultural lines? Contact us and we will publish your blogs/experience on TNP’s blog! We want more of us coming together to establish a solid understanding of volunteering abroad and how it affects all parties involved.

Create Your Own Dialogue: Do what we did, wherever you want to, and if you’d like to use our project as a model or a starting point, Godspeed. We also can connect those interested to the village of Nakavika. If you’d like to try out your concept in Nakavika, we have set up a system that will protect the village by screening volunteers and enable said volunteers to be most prepared for the challenges ahead. And most importantly, we will make sure the volunteers are invited to the village to introduce their mission in the proper Fijian way. We’ve learned a thing or twelve from our experience, and we’d like to empower others to jump past those hurdles to achieve more than we did.

*Note: Jackie Knowles had a car-load of donations still in need of being allocated, and due to potentially massive costs of sending them overseas (and the debatable utility of some items: i.e. strappy dress-up shoes and hats, which they don’t wear), we decided to donate them to a good cause locally: The Julian Center. It was a hard decision, but we felt this was the right thing to do.

Coming To A Close

So that’s it. That’s the gist of the last six months of adventure and contemplation. I hope you reaped something beneficial and educational from all of it, and I encourage as much feedback as you can generate.

You’ll see the Nakavika Project pages evolving, on my site and the subdomain, in the following months. Also be on the look-out for a post that sums up the entire flow of the trip with links to each story.

Thanks again for coming along for the ride.

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It was a sunny day on the Coral Coast. I made my way to The Uprising and straight to the bar.

The First Step Toward Recovery

Seven hours later, I went to bed (roughly 6:30pm) in a sweaty dorm room after chatting for hours with friends from New Year’s Eve, kind and generous bartenders, beer-toting strangers, and the occasional stop from the Judgmental Express, otherwise known as the crispy fella. Though I had found somewhat of a community at The Uprising by this point, I took off the next day for good, returning to Lautoka to speak with our friend and contact from the beginning, Kimbo, and embark on my escape from the Fiji I had known.

Having recently returned from a holiday season back in England, Kimbo was in the midst of cleaning up a mad mess at the Madventure volunteer house. The cyclone did a bit of damage that made trees disappear. Recalling our stories of both good and bad, he was frankly shocked at some of the experiences we had, not expecting certain people to act in certain ways. In hindsight, we definitely should have taken his advice to take a breather from the village every weekend. Lesson learned.

Finding Peace and Reconciliation

Floating up to Waya Lailai Ecohaven, I had two goals: to relax and to sweeten my already-established aftertaste of Fiji. I needed to come to terms with the experience and chew on my real opinions, in order to come home less frazzled and avoid the reverse culture shock that always scares my family.

I started off by reading and sleeping under the shade of the perfect coconut tree beachside. Flying through Tim Ferriss’ advice on mini-retirements, I finished my island reading material instantly and looked for more, which came via the kind hands of some new travel friends. Having not yet read the culture/history/background information in the Fiji Lonely Planet, I felt it was due time, but sadly this research made me even more worried and retrospective of my experience. It seemed, based on the worst case scenarios of cultural clashes, that we could have witnessed worse.

From that moment on, I sought as many ears and opinions as possible off of which to bounce the Nakavika Project.

Anna was from Slovenia, a dedicated cultural traveler who was moving through the South Pacific islands. She could compare and contrast Fiji to Vanuatu and New Caledonia, look at this place through the eyes of the region and realize some vital elements that have affected the Fijian mindset. It was tourism. It was the power of the Dollar/Euro/Sterling. It was the history of territorial conquest and the extreme reactions to shame. It was the institution of a patriarchal society. Anna was instrumental in helping me figure out my stance on it all.

Kira hailed from England and was on a, you guessed it, year-long round-the-world experience. Fresh off the volunteer train (from a stint in Guatemala), we chatted for hours on end about the organization of voluntourism, its local acceptance, as well as some personal with cultural clashes. Throughout every meal, she supplied herself as a second opinion, a travel psychologist of sorts, someone she could tell I desperately needed at the time.

And she was not only generous with her time but her reading material.

For the rest of my Yasawa days, I rocked and read a pupu platter of travel narratives, also known as The Best Women’s Travel Writing 2009. The compilation provided the essential escapism I craved at the time. But when the flashbacks to Nakavika came rearing their heads, I stopped skimming tales from around the globe to address those pressing issues.

One of my vacation days, I spent the entire afternoon purging my thoughts into a letter for the Turaga ni Koro, sandwiching my stance on our issues with apologies and calls for agency. I let it all out, as diplomatically as possible, and when it was complete, I felt relieved. We wanted to nurture the seed of our project by building that bridge between us and them…to become “thus” – one. When I thought to my online portrayal of the project, I got ancy, thinking about all the missing gaps in the storyline, and sorted out the timeline for the readers. Seemingly, I came to terms with Fiji, the Nakavika Project, and my usage of these winter months away from my ailing grandmother.

I seemed to find the relief I sought on the boat ride over: reconciliation (however mild) with the South Pacific.

I found its sweetness, rediscovered the serenity of village life [by visiting the nearby local community], and realized the name of my favorite Pacific scent: frangipani. I claimed the sense of adventure and discovery that brought me here, though still feeling crippled, I was once again human. It took the healing effects of traveling strangers, a medicinal hammock on the beach, and the simple inclusion of commerce to bring me back to a reality I recognized.

And before I knew it, I was boarding the return flyer to Viti Levu and trying to find a hostel that would have me for one night before my flight home. It felt like I was on the cusp of waking up from a very strange dream.

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I broke off from Garrett and Jackie in the morning to visit the village carrier, as Abel and Daiana were navigating to the coast to see us one more time. Abel, thoroughly saddened that he slept through our departure the day before, was elated to see me, and Daiana sunk a little when she heard Garrett wasn’t meeting the carrier.

Abel helped me find a copier that could duplicate some valuable resources on tutoring children in reading, which I promised to provide to the teachers at Nakavika. We ran around the city, finishing jobs I wanted to perform, but didn’t finish in enough time to make it back to the carrier. Seeing it round the nearby corner, Abel grabbed the copied book and went sprinting through Suva, flying past crosswalks, causing every street lounger and vendor to stare and wonder what was going on. Smoke came out of his heels, but he still didn’t make it. We laughed and wheezed for about an hour.

Photo by lmaxandco

Sitting along the boardwalk, Abel told me he was sent by the committee we had met with two days prior – the ones that were determined to make us stay. I let him know the other two had changed their flights for the next day, and there was no way I was carrying on without my Gare.

The four of us had dinner that evening to mark an end to our collaboration. We had chic meals of various cultural influences. We were reserved but jovial. It was a farewell dinner with strong undertones of melancholy.

And Then There Was One…

Before the sun had warmed up the skies and our breakfasts digested, we were saying goodbye – Jackie and I until we returned to Indy, Garrett and I until the fates bring us back together, who knows when. Hugging Garrett, as I have at the end of many a trip, this time felt the most upsetting. Our embraces flanked a library-stuffing list of experiences that brought us to tears and more. We created the experience for ourselves. We endured and conjured together a life-changing trip that brought us to the edge of our self-knowledge.

They boarded the Sunbeam bus and were gone.

I found Abel waiting at the carrier, waiting with his cousin who was a cop in Lami town (a suburb of Suva). Not wanting me to waste my money on a hostel room while taking care of business, they invited me to set up camp at the home of Sulia, yet another relative in the intricate web of Nakavika family clans. I accepted, knowing that was the right gesture but still tensing with the possibilities of unfortunate reoccurrence.

It Happened. I’m Finally Numb.

Grabbing my bags from the hostel and fetching a bus twenty minutes down the road, I arrived with Abel at the home of his cousins. Sulia greeted and invited me to sit on the floor; instantly I felt naked without my sulu. Pulling it out of my bag and draping my lap, I sat in on a hymnal sing-a-long, a daily prayer and lesson time for toddlers and the elderly alike.

The pacific affair soon morphed into something that should have shaken my soul, but it didn’t. Abele, third oldest son to recently deceased Elias, was staying at Sulia’s house while making his many visits to the doctor. Apparently, the sudden passing of his father knocked him into a different state of being, one where he frequently exhibited signs of the devil’s work at hand. His snake-like slither across floors was the talk of the village the week prior, and now he was getting medical attention in town.

Sulia and her husband paused during their devotionals to call Abele into the center of the room. Coating their hands with pools of coconut oil, the man of the house grabbed Abele’s hands while Sulia doused his forehead and neck with steady hands. Prayers were muttered. They grew in decibel. It occurred to me after a minute or two what I was witnessing, when she shouted a phrase in English:

I urge you to release the demons inside this boy!

It came out with…fervor. I was witnessing an exorcism.

I don’t even think I blinked off beat. You would have thought I was sitting in an empty room with nothing to do, rather than observing one of the oddest and most terrifying moments in my travel life. I wasn’t even running through the list of people to which I would recount the story. I was a mound of flesh in the periphery, the organism formerly known as human.

Twenty minutes later we set the table for dinner.

Bobbing for Mussels

When Abel asked two days later if I wanted to go fishing, I had a brief moment in between analyzing my productivity timetable where I considered an outing at sea. Consumed with documenting our experience, setting up the Nakavika Project website with our new objectives, and finding comfort in a little slice of home while still abroad, I lost my adventurous nature – seemingly having overdosed at this point. However, the idea of fishing in Suva Harbor gave me a fleeting thought:

Am I not here to experience? What kind of traveler holes up in an internet cafe for days on end?

I put on my bathing suit and walking along the highway to an inlet harboring our seafaring vessel: two layers of styrofoam, sandwiched in thin aluminum the size and shape of a door. I put my camera away in a nearby, you guessed it, relative’s home. We took to the sea with one clueless girl, three guys, a bucket of something, and a paddle.

The boys traversed an incredibly deep portion of the harbor and found shallow waters where mussels grow. I sat in full exposure to some mean UV rays and felt increasingly useless, until I picked up a knife and started shucking the shellfish. I’m not one to take kindly to sea creatures, but for some reason the blood pockets and tongue-like muscles didn’t bother me. I took pride in cleaning them, actually, removing anything odd-looking and placing them in a small bowl filled with lemon juice and chilies.

Passing out from a battering by the elements, I awoke when we hit something solid. Opening my eyes, I felt a surge of adrenaline. We were on top of a shipwreck.

We climbed, barefoot, across the rusted surface now covered in dried mollusks and graffiti. It was shiver-inducing just how big this baby was. The boys climbed around, trying to identify the different rooms from this odd sideways angle. An oil slick coated every pool of stagnant water. It was a rush and an experience I never thought I’d get. I stood atop a sunken ship.

Back To The Way It Was

Most of my days that week were spent creating videos, staying on track with my publishing schedule, and planning the one week of vacation I allotted for myself. When I would return to Sulia’s house, regardless of all the kindness exhibited to me, I would experience unnerving flashbacks to my own failures, to the scary and the unbearable in terms of emotional beatings. Coming back would be a clashing of the two worlds, my brain getting slammed with the first indication of the switch.

And one of those moments when I returned from Suva, which became my final return, to a home atop a hill filled with clotheslines, homemade toys, outdoor bathrooms, and big family dinners of taro and noodles, I noticed that which steered us away from Nakavika for the last time, a reminder to the vast difference I couldn’t overlook between the cultures. It saddened me, an abuse of crutches, a misunderstanding of the body, mind, and its reaction to life. Though I was assured I wasn’t, I felt threatened, and it was due time to extract myself from situations that made me feel horrible about myself and fear rash behavior in others.

Though terribly numb, I decided without hesitation, unwilling to waver my stance based on a strong persuasion to stay by the family, that I had to leave. I had to be alone, to put space between here and there in order to gain the perspective I desperately needed.

And as far as partings go, this one was exceptionally rough.

Tears spewed out of everyone’s eyes, some came twice to say heartfelt goodbyes, and Abel was left standing on the sidewalk crying, watching my taxi pull away. Our project represented a lot for him, but unfortunately the collaboration couldn’t be as we all wanted it to be. Instead we implored him to do what he felt was right, to continue helping the children by leading by example. While I watched him in the side mirror growing smaller, it was evident he didn’t believe he could be the man he wanted to be without a little help from those who expected his best.

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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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I don’t feel good here anymore.

Only actually sleeping for a couple of the eight hours that just passed, I arose from bed to look outside at an already bright and cheerful morning, feeling no cheer at all but rather…displacement. Regardless of the hundreds of villagers we still loved and were in good standing with, not to mention the great kids and youth members we were there for, we no longer felt wanted in Nakavika.

Eggshells and Emotions

I’m a passionate person with the inability to stop oncoming tears. If I well up, the drops inevitably must fall. Therefore, the fact that I cried a lot in the village isn’t all that shocking. However, when at home, my tears only come about once every couple of months – a periodic spring cleaning of my ducts, if you will. The fact that I cried virtually every day in the last month in Nakavika did represent something I had to address.

Garrett had been struggling with a feeling of discomfort for a while, distressed about making mistakes and not being accepted for who he was. Especially with all the trauma of the recent events, he dreaded the daily eggshells he had to traverse in order to not offend anyone but still be himself. Being the man in our duo, Garrett felt it was his duty to stick up for both of us (since my similar speeches weren’t acceptable as the female), and the battle of misunderstanding slithered deep underneath his skin.

The previous night’s antics, the screaming, the rash behavior, the slapping of the head (once again, we weren’t on either end of these actions), led us to feel truly uncomfortable in the building we once inhabited and cared for. And the verbal attacks by our neighbors made us irrevocably paranoid and fearful of a chance meet-up and subsequent scream-fest. We cowered in Vita’s house, sipping on our morning tea, and watched as one opposing individual stared us down and pointed at us while chatting with another man.

We didn’t come to Nakavika to cause troubles. We desperately tried to avoid them at all cost. How on Earth could we have known our mistakes except in hindsight?

The Shameful Switch

Ever since we met Vita and saw the love she exhibited to Jackie and our project, Garrett and I wished we could take her up on her offer of moving under her roof. Of course, upon suggesting a switch-a-roo to Abel, he instructed that it would be a very bad idea, a shameful moment for our previous host parents (even though they hadn’t lived in the house for a month while Fane was visiting her family in Vanua Levu).

We decided to stay put time and time again in order to avoid shaming anyone unintentionally, but when we no longer felt safe or welcome in Fane’s house, we decided to move houses anyway, hoping to explain convincingly that we just wanted to have the three of us together.

Sunday morning’s church service had the entire village occupied, or so we thought. The three of us approached the house for the first time since the blow-out and packed our stuff. When both our hosts appeared from the kitchen, Garrett calmly explained we wanted to join Jackie in hopes of being more productive with our project goals and alleviating them of our burdensome presences.

Garrett thanked them for all their hospitality on behalf of both of us and told them we’d be by often. Fane was ashamed of herself and pleaded we stay put. Weiss needed Fane to translate our actions and started ranting in a terrifying tone. It was not going to be an easy break.

Jackie helped us awkwardly lug all our possessions out of the house, and upon our departure, Weiss spoke up to Garrett:

Gah-ret-tee, are you leaving?

Yes, Weiss, we’re moving to Vita’s for a couple days, so the three of us can be together before our trip is over.

No, you can’t move.

The decision has already been made. We appreciate everything you’ve done for us.

Then, you must pay rent.

Pardon me? The Turaga ni Koro told us we didn’t have to pay rent. You were there and agreed with him. We worked for our rent.

No, you pay rent.

How much?

$500.

No, Weiss. That’s not fair. We all talked about this months ago and reached an agreement.

Then you have to leave the village.

Fine. We will leaving tomorrow.

The look in Weiss’ eyes was frightening. How could we have stayed in that house to avoid shaming them when we felt Weiss could pop at any moment? How could we have bridged our misunderstanding and left without causing a horrible issue between us? We appreciated all the kindness of the previous months, aside from the mounding issues in recent weeks that we tried to hash out. We gave them gifts, helped in the kitchen, washed dishes, kept their house squeaky clean while they both were gone. It didn’t matter. It was an awful situation.

A Very Sad Day-Long Meeting

There was no doubt in Garrett’s mind he wanted to leave the village the following dawn. Jackie was equally determined to follow the change in plans. Being Garrett’s partner in this whole endeavor, I had no choice but to back his decision, even though I wanted to stay longer to wrap things up with the kids. At that point, I felt like there was a fine line between tenacity and self-flagellation, but I was willing cry a few more times before calling it quits.

After sharing the game change with Vita upon her return from church, she placed her hand on her heavy heart and implored us to stay, if we could put the past behind us. She represented everything we loved about the Fijian lifestyle and mindset. She was the reason we thought the project had a chance, albeit minuscule, of success.

As we stacked our seam-stressed luggage in the corner, little Anna came to the door to deliver a note. The Turaga ni Koro (village spokesman) was finally ready to discuss our project agreements, unaware of our current situation. We scribed on the bottom of the note and sent it back with Anna to his hands:

We’d actually like to talk to you about a different, very urgent issue. We will come to your house now.

Regardless of the stress we were experiencing, I couldn’t get over how much I loved the Fijian trend of note-passing.

The three of us sat, cross-legged, in a row facing the Turaga ni Koro (and his many children rolling around doing homework). Weiss eventually entered the house and sat against the wall. Garrett began explaining the situation starting from the fundraiser to the morning’s encounter. I bawled silently next to him, my head hung low so the tears could fall straight to the woven mat between my feet. I felt utterly defeated.

Weiss and Turaga ni Koro (named Mario) spoke for a moment – apparently he still demanded we pay rent – but his efforts came to no avail. Garrett turned to Weiss to apologize, but Weiss wouldn’t meet his eyes. Mario stated his position as government representative in the village, therefore his diplomatic status, and took our side as the advocate for his visitors.

Abel entered the room later, unaware we were leaving, which he found out through the conversation. He nudged me to explain ourselves, but I continued to bawl. His face hit the floor.

Mario knew this would be a long day, and he invited us to lunch, which I ate while involuntarily doing my best Eeyore impression. Pulling out the big guns, Mario fed us succulent pineapple, three kinds of delicious meat, and encouraged us to go swimming with his lovable children, some of our favorite personalities in the community. Unfortunately, wading in the teal water with splashing kids on all sides, Garrett and I couldn’t find the joy we once couldn’t contain for this beloved pastime. Our souls were tapped.

When we arrived at Vita’s to shower before the second installment of our day-long meeting, the house was filled with the youth members. They told jokes, talked with us, and begged us to stay for the friendships and the children. After all the dramatic events and dissonance, it was absolute refreshment to hear our boys standing behind us. We really had made friends and been contributing figures in the community. They were proof.

Upon entering Mario’s house once more, we were instructed to drink massive amounts of lemonleaf tea, nibble on some boiled cassava, and attend their committee meeting, a three hour all-Fijian event we ended up sleeping through while children ran Tonka trucks up and down our backs.

When the conversation finally opened up to include us, we realized they had been chatting about how to make us stay. Passionate about our passions, supportive of our efforts, the committee dedicated to education and village improvement implored us to stay, each man speaking his piece at a time.

You cannot leave. We want you to stay until the 14th when you were supposed to leave.

We’re very sorry, but we no longer feel safe here, based on a couple people’s feelings toward us. When it comes to our safety, we have to act in our best interest. We appreciate all your support, but we’d like to alter the project to be run remotely.

You cannot leave. You can stay with the Turaga ni Koro and be his guest. I signed the paper saying you could be here until the 14th.

I know you want us to stay, and we appreciate that, but the decision is absolutely final. It is our time to go.

At first their rebuttals sounded like they would sooner form a human barricade or steal our passports than allow us to leave, but they were actually speaking through their emotions, knowing very well we were able to leave if we needed to. Hours of this passed before Vita fetched us for our last supper, a special final feast she spent all day preparing.

The Sunrise Departure

Once again, my stained ceiling stared back at me, the net entrapping a slew of swirling suckers. It was time to rise and depart. Our addresses scribed on a clipboard of Vita’s, she hugged us like children and saw our backpacks into the dark morning. It was a mournful liberation.

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It’s time to discuss our fundraiser.

Who Deserves It More?

Doors closed, suitcases gutted, and eyes the size of saucers – we finally took a look at the amount of donations we brought and accumulated between the three of us on the project. Thanks to our outreach pre-trip, we had quite a supply list to offer Nakavika. 70+ items of clothing stared back at us, asking, “What are you going to do with all of us?”

The daunting number of goods made us start from the ground up.

Why give the village donations?

Because the families’ farming incomes don’t allow for much extraneous spending – to buy things such as well-made clothing, bags, and games – we could provide these things to alleviate a little parental stress and bring some new fun to the kids.

If we don’t have enough for everyone, who deserves the items more?

We didn’t want to only use our donations as prizes in the classroom, which made us feel a little like cultural imperialists…or the witch in Hansel and Gretel. And to look at the families in hopes of finding the ones most obviously in need seemed like an insensitive, improbable path to walk down.

Instead, we started brainstorming other ideas, noting first the actions we would take in this situation at home and then looking at the world through Fijian glasses.

Would it be wrong to sell these items to those who want them most?

We received these items for free from people who wanted to assist the less fortunate with things they may want or need. Immediately, with this suggestion, we crossed into a delicate situation where morality and equality were our main concerns. Charge the Fijians an incredibly reasonable cost for well-made clothing (between $.50 and $2 USD). Offer backpacks at a much lower price than was available locally. Sell balloons and plastic rings for mere pennies to the kids who considered these items higher than Christmas presents (of which they usually got none).

Where would all the profits go?

Without a doubt, every cent spent on the items would go right back to the village, geared toward a project objective of supplying the public dispensary with excellent first aid and fever reducer for children. On top of the fundraising earnings, we promised to double the final amount with our project funds to buying more goods. By the end of it all, the village would have more material goods, more health supplies at their disposal, and most importantly, a feeling of empowerment and pride in the fact that they directly contributed to the health of the village youth.

It was an intriguing concept, but we had to first run it past our friends.

A Concept Worth Spreading

I believe told our idea to the second person, the word had spread across the entire village with clarity unmatched by any other “telephone” message. Though few mothers actually knew why we were in the village at all (regardless of our publicity attempts), no one misunderstood that on Saturday the “kaivalangis” were hosting a fundraiser, selling clothing along bags and other toys.

I think it is a very good idea.

That would work. I can give you permission to use the community hall.

Your clothes are better than our clothes. The price can be a little higher.

We heard agreement all around. The anticipation for the event was visible. Mothers made a point to visit us beforehand in order to know the exact time we would begin. And with Fiji time being what it is – completely relative – we repeatedly reminded them, “3pm on the dot,” which they clarified as “American time.”

Saturday morning, as we sorted the clothes and determined pricing with our Fijian mentor, Vitalina (the dispensary manager and “nurse”), we found ourselves encircled by eager bargain shoppers hoping to snag something before the main event. With every new pair of eyeballs that glanced in, trying to reserve items and displaying their fists full of money, we assured them of our guidelines for all:

We are going to start at 3pm in the community hall. We will have one representative per family, probably a mother, come into the hall to shop for each of their family’s children under 18 years of age. One item per young child is all we can do, because we want each family to have the opportunity to buy something. Only two people can shop and be in the hall at a time. This is because we want to speak with everyone and make sure you all know why we are selling things we received for free. We want you all to know where this money is going, that we are doubling the final amount with our own project funds, and that medical supplies for children will be at your disposal for free, because you donated a little bit today.

Continuously checking with Vita to see if we were in line, and asking Abel to translate to those with confused looks, we tried to cover our bases. It felt like our fundraiser had the most potential for success with our project objectives, leaps and bounds over anything else we’d tried. I was so excited, I forgot my camera and camcorder at home.

The Unfortunate Results of a Well-Intentioned Idea

Imagine the clamor of a crowded gym at a small town regional basketball tournament, thousands of feet stomping the bleachers causing the air to vibrate. Imagine Black Friday crowds shivering outside Walmart at 4:59am, eyeballing the unfortunate fellow about to rip open the doors and the stampede. Imagine wanting so badly for someone to hear your message, a message that would clarify a seemingly sketchy concept into that of a laudable and worthwhile endeavor. This was the energy of our fundraiser.

Children called to their mothers from the open windows the color and style of t-shirt they wanted. The door into the hall nearly busted off its hinges. We were cursed at from windows, and Jackie braved a verbal beating by a close alliance. We became invisible, our pleas for calm suffocated in an auditory wave. We asked with humor, asked with patience, asked with annoyance, asked with strangled force, “Please, don’t scream, so we can tell everyone why we’re having a fundraiser. Please wait outside patiently. We want everyone to line up and have a fair shot at getting what they need!”

We are Americans. We understandably function in ways that would be understood at home. We thought we were being incredibly fair, even against the deafening pressures from every opinionated person thinking like an individual rather than a community member. And we ran our methods past our Fijian gurus multiple times, fearing the potential for this kind of disaster.

Our treatment was akin to that if we had slapped a couple their children around. A level of disrespect we couldn’t have anticipated came crashing down on us. And what was most disappointing was that those who treated us poorly, which numbered in the fives, were the ones we had spent the most time with: our hosts and neighbors of two months.

What was meant to be an exercise that inspired the village to help itself and feel empowered became the toughest test of our patience and understanding and one that segregated the project from those we had relied on the most. Vita and the headmaster, our biggest advocates, stood behind us saying:

We understand why people would have been upset, but what they did was wrong. They should have respected the way you wanted to conduct your event.

Without their backing, we would have felt like boneless blobs of former humanity, hoping to slither out of the village unnoticed.

And Then the Bitter Icing on the Cake

We walked with heads hanging to our home to speak with the person who hurt us the most: our host mother. Seated in a circle in the common room with her, her husband, and Abel (determined to help us patch things up), we tried to talk to her about her blatant dismissal of our guidelines to get what she wanted. Our conversation morphed into something that made me thoroughly uncomfortable, and our twenty minute chatting session soon intermixed with violence, yelling, rash behavior (none of which we took part in) that eventually had me running out of the house to avoid.

Meeting the creek below with wet eyes and now muddy feet, I looked to the illuminated hillside and thought:

Gosh… what’s going on?! This is …like a movie! Ridiculous! Are we out of line? This isn’t how people treat each other. It’s like the Lord of the Flies… I can’t handle this anymore.

Walking silently to the school for some space, Garrett and I knew in our guts what the answer to our dilemma was. And oddly, it seemed the world knew as well. A full, blinding moon danced on the tip of a nearby mountain, conducting a visual symphony of elements across the sky. A mist, a setting sun, brilliant streaks of illuminated clouds, it was surreal and beyond imagination.

Man, this place is gorgeous. How ironic is it that the moment we decide to leave is the most beautiful moment of them all.

That night, we slept elsewhere.

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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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How does that make you feel?
Go on…let it out.
It’s okay to feel these feelings.
Let’s talk about that…

We all shake our heads at the shoulder-patting, “aww gee”-inspiring cliches from the psychology world, but there’s no doubt they come from a necessary concept. When the traumatic, the all-of-a-sudden, the shocking occurs, our heads are wired to be in denial but eventually come to terms with that which changes irrevocably, and death is certainly in that category of things in desperate need of processing.

In the Wake of Death

Photo by Garrett Russell

After the tear-powered funeral and another communal lunch in the hall, all the kids decided to go for a swim in the muddy Luva river, thanks to the prior week of sobbing skies. We proceeded to frolic for something like five hours, all the while keeping our eyes on the kids who only hours prior buried their father. Eldest Mario continued to laugh with the same Goofy-esque chortle as he chased his cousins in a game of “He” (Fijian “tag”). The rest rolled sand balls to be thrown at passing runners and smiled off the cliff jumps.

I couldn’t imagine being so jovial the same day I buried my father. I put on my anthropologist cap and observed.

Chasing after those with fast feet, burying teenagers in sand up to their nostrils, dropping sand clumps into little boys underwear – the entire group had an absolute ball playing together. It was magnificent. Girls of eighteen got along swimmingly with boys of eight years-old. There were no age barriers in the mix, and everyone seemed to have put the day’s events behind them for the time being. Additional kids trickled in as the games continued, but no one left in shifts. Once everyone was thoroughly tapped, we gathered our flip-flops and returned to the village en masse.

It was an experience worthy of marveling.

Upon our arrival back to Nakavika, every vacant house had concentric circles of adults around the kava bowl. Mounds of used kava powder formed outside the doorways, heaps the size of gargantuan termite colonies. A steady stream of tired souls walked slowly to the muddy creek to fill the buckets for more kava consumption – luckily the clarity would soon be masked by the additional ingredient.

Dictated by Fijian manners, every host had to serve bowl after bowl of kava until the guest retired to slumber. And with tolerances rivaling Ozzy and Jagger, that hour rarely struck before the wee ones of the morning. The conversations inevitably got to the topic of surreal visions, because soon the whole village had similar night terrors of Elias walking amongst the living. Even though they were present to support each other, no one other than the priest seemed to attempt explanations of it all to ease the worried minds.

It was a bad combination of influences causing everyone to suffer trauma and confusion, and sadly, it was about to get too scary for us.

The Hike That Turned Sour

Photo by Jackie Knowles

The following day, Abel was ready to commence with his Nakavika Project involvement: coordinating morning events to educate the volunteers on Fijian life. Along with Paul and Ben, the six of us departed on a hike through the Fijian bush to visit the old foundations of Nakavika and the neighboring town of Navunikabi. Neil Young’s words were spot on:

The heat was hot …but the air was full of sound.

The views were as I remembered them; of lush, green undulating hills where everything grew on anything. Remembering my previous issue with hiking in clay, I wore my thick socks inside rain boots and bounded with much less hassle (aside from my still-open, still-delicious bacterial sores). We drank fresh water out of bamboo shoots, brushed white spiders off our arms, and got a much more personalized history lesson on Nakavika now that we knew every character by name.

We paused from all the river forging to eat our lunch of tuna, crackers, and peanut butter (not altogether, unless you were Paul). We arrived in Navunikabi a few hours after departing Nakavika, and with Jackie and Garrett having never been formally welcomed to the village, the chief’s son wanted to host a sevusevu in what can only be described as his bachelor pad (read mad stereo system). We were happy to take part in the one-round ceremony and meet the friends of our friends.

Three hours later, our bloods were boiling.

Living on our own, Garrett and I had assumed we’d be back by early afternoon in time to do some much-needed laundry, cook ourselves dinner, and conduct class with the kids. Jackie was anxious to witness the first class we could hold above a mouse squeak. The kava session turned into a three mix affair where the boys continued to thank us for allowing the reunification of friends from childhood.

When asked, “How often do you guys come to Navunikabi?” they replied, “Once or twice a week.” When asked, “How often do you see these friends?” they mumbled, “every time.”

They could have been continuing the process of mourning, chatting about Elias and working out their issues, but the amount of tension still infused in their bones and attitudes led us to believe it wasn’t what we would equate to a healthy gab session of problems.

Photo by Jackie Knowles

I stared at cigarette smoke while dozing on the floor mat. Jackie conked out for a good hour or two. Garrett twiddled his thumbs and took pictures of himself. They wanted to enjoy some kava, and it came at the expense of our afternoons (a concept that didn’t translate between our cultures).

It was yet another issue of relativity and timeliness that got under our skins, justification unknown.

Photo by Jackie Knowles

The kava affected the three boys in different ways. Ben was quiet and pensive. Paul became distracted, spastic, and dismissive at every turn, suggestion, or concern. And Abel adopted the I-Do-What-I-Want mindset, intermixed with kindness and aggressive disagreement. None of our navigators made us feel particularly comfortable, somewhat stranded there in the jungle, and I took the opportunity to pull Abel aside and calmly but assuredly state our issues.

He took it well, I thought. I put on my best diplomatic hat and thought I bridged a gap with the potential to last the test of time. Instead I think the conversation, the kava, and the recent events of the week pushed him over the edge.

The Game Changing Moment

This is the point in the story where I have to leave out a pivotal moment of our experience in Nakavika, the result of which made us realize our project may not be able to work. The spokesman asked that I not share it, as it wasn’t an accurate representation of the village majority. I agreed to honor his request. However, not noting here that something occurred would leave the rest of the story a confusing mess and our reasons for skepticism with the project unspecified.

It involved trust, responsibility, friendship, and most notably, alcohol abuse.

Unfortunately, the ways in which some people process the stressful and difficult in their lives is more destructive than anything else. Not feeling those feelings, not voicing concerns, not understanding the facts about their bodies, their minds and the realities of the world are dangerous catalysts to greater problems. Just as much as I know humans can exhibit the utmost strength, humans can easily be very weak.

We openly claimed some of the blame (the pressures and requests we voiced for the sake of the project), but the village elders assured us we were not in the wrong. And they proved to us beyond a doubt that one definitely does not define the whole. The next day was filled with shock, surreal experiences, and above all, comfort from our village friends. It was established we were welcome in the village, regardless of words or actions witnessed in the previous hours.

It is because of this event that I describe to friends our time in Nakavika as “dramatic.”

Garrett, Jackie, and I took the next carrier ride out of the village for a breather.

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Being three foreign individuals unfamiliar with “the flow,” we had to shuffle and scurry across the village to capture the sudden moments that would unfold in front of our eyes.

Photo by Garrett Russell

The funeral days commenced, and the village became a complete organism that moved in harmony with all elements. All we could do was observe and document.

My Bovine Faux Pas

The day Elias returned to the village, the clouds released their girdles and let it all hang out, much like the post-cyclone days of ‘09. The boys of the village prepared to help truck loads of relatives traverse Namado’s cavern, which was slowly being covered with dirt in the first step of building the new bridge. I’m guessing this isn’t often said: the Fijian government had good timing in starting this project.

I was rushed to the scene with camera in hand, having been told Elias was approaching and I needed to capture his coffin coming over the dirt bridge. The crowds coagulated on both sides. The dirt turned to mud. Insects feasted on our waterlogged feet. An hour passed, and the only news I heard hinted the truck carrying his body hadn’t even made it past the first bridge on its inland journey.

Desperately grasping for timeliness rather than flow, I left the dripping spectators for my weekly call with home. I dangled my feet out of the doorway, phone to ear:

Mom, there is a cow staring at me right now. She’s huge and black and standing in the rain. I think she’s about to meet her maker. They already killed one cow today. I taped the whole thing. It was thoroughly disturbing.

…I think she knows I’m talking about her. She looks worried.

Photo by Garrett Russell

Having already witnessed one cow’s demise that day, I couldn’t have been paid to observe the second. Those twenty-five minutes of bone crunching and joint popping made me wonder, “When on Earth would I ever need all this raw footage of a cow slaughtering?”

The children crowded around the camera, one holding an umbrella to cover its weather-weary body and all filling my headphones with snickering and foreign whispers. I’m not sure what I was trying to accomplish by putting a wireless mic on a guy doing the killing. The sounds were beyond the worst from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

The most upsetting moment came a few hours later, when I was told to join Garrett in the community hall for a communal meal. As I stood at the threshold, slipping off my flip-flops, Garrett tried to get my attention and persuade me subtly to not enter the room. He knew I would have some hesitation with the meal of cow innards he was working on. Confused, I motioned I’d see what Jackie is doing, but the surrounding boys knew what I was trying to avoid.

Photo by Garrett Russell

We offended them. Abel came running outside to see why I didn’t join them, and when he realized what Garrett had hinted, he was thoroughly ashamed. The stress on Abel’s shoulders melted into his words, and I felt like the worst guest in the world. Our maneuver wasn’t blatant, but the boys knew us well enough by then. I walked away crying, knowing I had let my hosts down in the worst way on the worst day for errors.

I’m no Bourdain or Zimmern. I am far from possessing a truly adventurous palate. To err in this way is among my biggest travel fears.

Elias’ Last Hours in the Sun

The village illuminated the Highlands that night. Few eyes rested, as it is tradition to stay awake on the last night with the deceased. I was milked by the day and collapsed in my room to the sounds of singing and bugs buzzing around the lights, while the rest of the community continued to move their minds past shock to acceptance.

Photo by Garrett Russell

In the morning, Abel brought us to the hall again for a communal breakfast of tea and crackers. I sensed some action afoot, grabbed the camera, and poised myself outside the neighbor’s house along with everyone else, just in time to see the casket emerged from its woven bamboo walls. Six of our friends hoisted it into the air, grabbing hold by the mat that cradled the entire vessel.

Stopping their procession in the middle of the village, the pallbearers lifted Elias above their heads, and his family and mourners began to bawl, passing under him in what was surely a monumental moment in the entire process.

Something caught in my throat, from behind the camera. I was witnessing a distant culture reveal itself in raw form. The ladies howled, hands atop their fluffed hair, and I shivered under the sweat coating my body. Wow.

Photo by Garrett Russell

The service was long, set to the sounds of belted harmony. A ribbon of people followed the casket from the church to the cemetery. Standing in a cathedral of leaves, we watched the widow and her eight children part with their father, many of their cries hitting high decibels.

Vittorina’s body heaved and shook against my legs, as she stepped back and sat, watching her cousins, sons, and nephews lower her husband’s body into the ground. Feeling her crouching frame against mine, it was unbearable to imagine the pain encapsulated within the adjacent skin. I cried for her pain, for the unfelt sorrow of her youngest children, and the next funeral I know I’d be soon attending.

And with that, it was over. People left the grave-peppered jungle floor to down more kava.

WARNING: Disturbing visuals of a cow slaughter from 1:39 -- 2:15.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9afrJHy1Jw

Any comments, questions, or anecdotes to share about any experience like this, your’s or our’s? Please let us know.

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