Morning Ponderings at Kata Tjuta: Day 17

My favorite time of day is without a doubt the pre-dawn hour. Observing a blackened sky that slowly rotates toward the sun gives me the feeling that I can watch the Earth move. And the colors of light in the pure atmosphere, refracting off lush mist, bring to mind Monet paintings, along with others who understood the power and beauty of the pastel. Unfortunately, my body finds the early morning repulsive and demands rest when the world is waking. However, give this lifeless corpse of mine an activity amidst natural wonder, and I become alive with the spirit of the dawn. My feet scrambled up the rocky paths to Kata Tjuta. The sun's first peek set the massive rocks on fire. This was my time of day, my type of setting, and my ideal way to spend my hours on this Earth: hiking among natural wonders.

A short geological explanation (the details of which I can't seem to recall, sadly) of why these 36 rock domes occur in the middle of a flat desert plain made me briefly contemplate the ground I stand on. How can the World be so old that over the course of its existence, all this land we see was underwater, slathered and molded by the tides, squeezed and pushed by other tectonic plates, and still continues to move and shift before our very eyes (ever-so slowly, of course)? We gotta stop complaining about being too old to stay up late or remember what we did yesterday. We're babies on this planet, babies I tell ya!

And so, as we wandered in between these massive monoliths, the breeze whistling through each hump and affirming the name Valley of the Winds, I gazed as the rising winter sun of the Australian Outback, looking through layers of atmosphere, mist, and space. Along with my extreme awareness of each [potentially] ankle-rolling step, I felt incredibly connected to the home planet. And with our sighting of a wild camel pack moments later, I felt even more like a primordial animal wandering for purpose and necessities across the crust.

The Outback: its trippy.

blog RSS

Rocks, Man...Rocks: Day 16

After coming off a trip all about connections with people, I will admit I found it hard to enthusiastically jump on board a tour of rocks. What used to be one of the most remote locations on planet Earth, Alice Springs in Australia, was an easy plane ride for us into the dry interior. And the luxury overlanding vehicle we rode in took every harsh aspect of the impossible terrain out of our minds. It was understandably easy to at first under-appreciate the wonders and experiences that were soon to be ours.

Australia’s Outback is probably the hardest place for anyone or thing to survive, and to completely comprehend the age of this place is virtually impossible for the human mind. You know Pangaea? Yeah, this place is older than our former single continent. And to realize how minute and insignificant your presence at these multi-million year-oldies is could surely cause some severe existential issues.

Humbling. But that’s not why I like coming to these places.

When it comes to connecting with a location, an environment, something inanimate, here’s what I do. I coexist with it, make an experience never able to be recreated, invite that thing into a moment with myself. Does it sound like I’m talking a lotta crap? Ney.

At Ayer’s Rock, I decided to wander her periphery and experience the awe and grandeur from below. I popped in my earbuds and started dancing around the place like no one could see me. Every new song brought me to a new part of the rock that looked dramatically different than the last vista, and I snapped my shutter like a photo-crazed fool. What resulted was an experience no one else was having.

For that one moment in her long, LONG life, Ayer’s Rock and I were dancing partners.

blog RSS

Oz is Scary, Dorothy Agrees: Day 15

Even though I’ve hiked through Yeti country and bush camped in East Africa among wild buffalo and hyenas, never have I been so afraid to walk around a country as I was when I got to Australia. This place could hard core kill ya. What a statement to encourage tourism in Oz!

But really, I say this because of the research I did on this country/continent. Bill Bryson, in his book In A Sunburned Country, mentions that the top ten most venomous, dangerous, poisonous creatures on the planet all live on, or in the waters surrounding, this massive island. If the crocs in the mangroves don’t snatch you off the pier, then maybe the box jellyfish will whip you with the World’s deadliest sting while swimming at the reef. Or maybe you could just be that unfortunate one that sits down on a toilet seat where a poisonous spider has made its home.

Gives ya the heebie jeebies, huh?

The reality, as it is in most countries, is that you’re more likely to simply get hit by a car crossing the street than you are to encounter the trigger-happy animal kingdom. But the fact that Australia has such hard core creatures (and terrain!) has certainly altered their mentalities. They live fast. They live like they’re still young. They travel. They do ballsy things. They seize life by the huevos and cheers to it with their incredible beer drinking abilities. They’re fun-loving, adventure seeking people who know that nature and fate have the ability to take what’s theirs at any time, making them the kind of people that live enviable lives.

Oz is where the young and young at heart can write their big life stories. I’ll take a page from their book and work my youth like it’s my job…which it is, right? ;)

blog RSS

That's a Big Ol' Island: Day 14

Chris said it right. Our descent into Sydney revealed a coastline that seemingly never ended. This is the country/continent I've been reading up on for the last month, and never have I been so scared of a country's wildlife than I have coming into Australia. And after being all over East and Central Africa, I think that's saying something. I couldn't wait to giggle at everyone's accents, and Chris welcomed back civilization with open arms. I was still bumming off our departure from Fiji, but boy was this a cool city we stood in. Looking at our itinerary, we knew we were heading for an ultra-modern, powerhouse of a hostel for the evening. Wake Up Sydney wins international hostel awards, and being two travelers who love to find the hidden gems and steer clear of the easy path, we were very skeptical we'd enjoy this stopover.

But when Christian, the general manager, awaited our arrival out of customs, we got the pleasant surprise of seeing the personable side of the institution. He dropped our things at the hostel after hooking us up with all the amenities and took us for a drive around a very wet coastal city.

Chris instantly fell in love with the place, which called to mind his home in the Bay Area. I was just plain blown away by the sheer size and expanse of the harbor, surrounding houses, buildings; it was all so cosmopolitan...and huge!

"There's where Russell Crowe lives, up on that entire top floor."

"Here's the best view in town of Harbor Bridge and the Opera House."

"This is where the massive New Year's Eve celebration occurs every year. The place is absolutely packed and rowdy. We're already booked up for the holidays!"

It probably didn't make it easier coming from a remote Fijian village, but I was more in culture shock of Sydney than of little old Nakavika.

Christian offered to take us out for drinks that night and give us the opportunity to see the Opera House become alit by an evening light show, and it was our best intention to make that happen. But, a lack of sleep, a pile-up of work, a need to shop and eat, and power up for the Outback stopped us from doing Sydney right.

We're both determined to return; needn't we worry. And neither should you.

blog RSS

At the office: Days 12/13

At the office

And then the real work began. After over a week of so many people catering to our needs of creating stories and footage, we had to hunker down in our hotel room and make some game plans for production. It was sad how long it took us to learn that we had a Fijian power adapter and could charge all our hardware. And once we learned the ropes, we were off.

The next day, we said our goodbyes and thank you’s to the Madventure clan and piled our bags into a taxi, blazing the trail to Nadi, where we would catch a flight the next morning. Our hostel turned office blasted the techno and rap music until the wee hours while we pulsed to the music, buds in ears, working feverishly on making content.

Office time came to a close, and we boarded a very large plane (on the top deck, might I add) to Sydney, Australia. We were both truly sad to see Fiji go, as the country made a solid impact on us. The view from above made me long to be on the land again, but this job has no room for spontaneous plan changes and sentimentality. It’s a go-go-go lifestyle to see the big, big world.

But we know we’re going back some day, and it will be up to the Highlands for us. Oh, sure there may be a beach squeezed in there somewhere to rid us of these nasty farmer’s tans, but Fiji really spoiled us from the get-go. We now know the feeling of being completely connected to the destination and have a high meter stick with which to measure the rest of our adventures.

But I think Australia won’t have trouble measuring up.

blog RSS

Back to Sugar City: Day 11

At 4am, I arose to pack my bags over a sleeping six year-old. At 5am, I pulled my bags onto the billiard table and waiting for the call to the carrier. At 6:30am the mosquitoes claimed victory over my right leg as we crawled up into the carrier, which would take all the volunteers and a scattering of locals down the mountains into the city of Sinatoka. We waved goodbye to some sleepy and sad faces. The village was in our wake. When we hit asphalt, I pulled my Blackberry out so fast, I nearly elbowed the girl next to me. One week without internet made Lindsay an anxious girl. How sad. But once we boarded the bus to Lautoka in the city, I peeled myself away from facebook notifications and twitter updates to hang with Abel in the back, listening to my iPod and his favorite song on repeat (My heart will go on by Celine Dion...seriously). The speedbumps sent us flying into the air and crashing down with a back crack and big laughter. The open windows threw my hair around in a frenzy. And the views never let up from being awe-inspiring.

After a week of sharing kava bowls and receiving a rough nutritional spread, I acquired my first WTI travel bug...and not the good kind. I didn't feel much like hitting the bar hard with the other travelers, and instead Abel invited me to hang with him at his brother's house in the city (since Abel came back with us to work for his future school fees for two months).

Brother Elia's house shook from the little pounding feet of two children, Kenny and Faresa, both male, cheeky, and energy-packed. While dinner cooked in the kitchen, I received playful slaps from the two year-old, Kenny, that got me right in the kisser. He had a face smeared with his earlier dinner, and a laugh that meant mischief and ulterior motives. He was, in a word...hilarious.

Abel and I ate together a meal of noodle soup, village taro, and pig skin, and because of my subtle uncertainty with devouring slippery, jiggly pig, Abel sensed I was disgusted and began to beat himself up. He spoke only one or two words during dinner and nearly cried for being a bad host. I felt awful that I couldn't scoop the pig skin into my mouth feverishly, which would have been the only thing that would ease his worries, but I reassured him over and over that I loved the meal...I was just not as hungry as he was. Those from the villages in Fiji have such an innate desire to care for you, and when Abel thought I wasn't receiving a meal up to my normal standards of apparently royal feasts, he grew upset with himself. Had he only known how happy I was to still be soaking up village culture and company, he wouldn't have felt so sad.

The long meal drew to an end, and Abel went outside with his brother to pound some fresh kava for a small savusavu, or welcoming ceremony into the new household. Meanwhile, I created games that broke through the firm language barrier by making sounds with my mouth, creating rhythms of slaps and punches in the air to be repeated, mainly just doing anything that would entertain two kids who would quickly turn to violence if bored.

Abel and Elia welcomed me into their Lautoka home, and after a few bowls, I lounged by the mother of the household to gab about the boys. Her abilities to predict their next moves and behaviors was stunning.

"Next they are going to play a slow love song and start blinking for longer periods of time. That's the difference between men and women kava drinkers: we throw on the party tunes and gab while the men want to wallow in sweet songs and fall asleep. We're more fun."

As the rest of the Madventures group was bouncing around Ed's Bar, I was glad to know I was still connected with the village I just left behind. It made sense to be there, and it was yet another moment I cherished in the moment and beyond.

blog RSS

Last Day with Second Families: Day 10

Our final day in the Fijian village had quite a build up. I must have answered the question "What day are you leaving Fiji and the village" about twenty times during my entire stay, unsure as to why they were so anxious to know my departure date. I believe they were just gearing themselves up for the big day when we say our goodbyes and experience one final jolt of the "True Fiji" culture. I took it fairly easy during the day with a writing session and a swim at the waterfall, and when lunchtime finished, I leaned to my side and suddenly passed out cold, as if I had really done any real labor that day. I awoke to a bunch of ladies weaving fern mats around me and giggling as little Pio, my host cousin, took photos of my groggy state.

During my waterfall adventure and delicious nap, my host parents constructed a lovo, or underground oven with firewood, stones to be heated, coconut shells holding various foods, and banana leaves to cover the entire situation. The grub finished with an aromatic uncovering in the dark of evening. Fane dressed me in one of her grand sulus and a flowery lei, and we all walked with food in hands to the party down the path at Chris' house.

A tablecloth stretched the length of the room on the floor, with plates scattered at intervals of various noodles, taro, and lovo goodies. We joined the men watching rugby on the TV (Chris' house was pretty set up) until Moji announced our turn to thank the village formally for the entire week.

"I just want to thank all of you for being a part of this experience. I want to thank my lei and my nau and my new friend and sister, Bui, for their hospitality. I had so much fun doing everything and nothing with you. From the kava sessions to just hanging out, it was incredibly fulfilling. I know you all just be aware of how lucky you are, to live amidst such a wonderful landscape and among such wonderful people. I have to make it back here, THIS YEAR!"

That was the gist of my announcement. Words of appreciation and love exchanged among everyone and clapping commenced after everyone's speeches. And then we went to business on the food for a couple hours.

With two dollars in my hand, I walked in the dark behind Fane to a private area in the village, an open air building where fundraising dances took place. As the pop/island music blasted into the quiet night, we shimmied our leis and sulus, kicking up the dusty soil into a fog. Chris would spontaneously whip out his Ace Ventura dance moves, while I would be challenged by the village ladies to ask multiple men to dance (using my new line "Au nakwati e koko daro danisi" or "I want you to dance with me"). Traveler Tom had moves that would stop Michael Jackson in his tracks, and the entire house was shaking with laughter and hilarity.

Most of the men sat on one side of the building drinking kava and occasionally looked to see what all the fuss was about on the dance floor. It resembled a middle school dance in a sense. My feet were the color of milk chocolate by the dance's end and my body limp from exhaustion. The next morning we would leave, and I couldn't have imagined a better way to bid it adieu...dancing to Akon.

blog RSS

What Little Work and Plentiful Play: Day 9

Being a “volunteer” in this village of Nakavika seemed to barely have the connotation that any work would be done by you. Given we came on the weekend and had to do no labor, I assumed Monday would crack down on our fun time with some blood, sweat and backaches in the farm. Ah, but the village spokesperson said nothing needed to be tackled that day. So Tuesday came, and I was sure the work would pile on, but the reality of this program became very obvious when our first big job was to dig a 3’ x 3’ plot with three shovels among ten volunteers. They had no need for our lagging Western manual work ethic or inabilities to perform in the equatorial heat. Though we seemed to make some productive use out of our time by finding firewood, so concluded our work portion of the village experience.

What was blatantly evident though was that our purpose for being there: to share, learn, and know they live the good life. A commonly repeated phrase was “the true Fijian life”, uttered by every villager hoping you’re picking up the meaning. They know they are lucky, and so are you for being there among the idyllic and paradisiacal world of Fiji’s interior.

When I walked back from the farm with a vine backpack filled with firewood, the sight of me melting seamlessly into jungle life tickled my host mom, Fane. I turned around and took off for waterfall again, this time with the other travelers for a quick dip. I was one of the few that knew where we were heading, so I led the way into the slick jungle belly towards the watery stairway. There was lots of screaming due to the frigid waters, and I sprawled my body across a fallen log below the falls to rest as the squeals continued.

The kids at the village school have daily activity time once the academics are done, and we travelers decided to join the hilarity by partaking in the schoolyard sports and games. While Chris and the boys took the future rugby stars for games and drills, I went with the ladies to entertain the younger crowd of ruffians.

Deciding to kill two birds with one activity, I turned this time into a work-out for myself and led the kids on obstacle courses, performed gymnastics, and pumped out some push-ups while counting in Fijian. My bones and joints were in shambles by the end of it, as I actually thought I could try and keep up with the kids. I needed a good subsequent rubdown.

That night my host mom told me we were hosting a kava session at our house, which I was always cool with, and to join us were some ladies of the village and about half the traveler crew. As the evening progressed, roughly 20 rowdy men and women squeezed into the kitchen area where the kava bowl sat (an area the size of the Empire State Building elevator). Chewing on mango skins to rid the taste of kava, I bounced my head to the rhymes of Fiji's own Sammy G and told my friend, Weiss, all about real American "gangsta" music, as if I'm a connoisseur.

My night closed with an eventful full moon stroll around the village, where my presence had a strong shadow and my head was covered with stars.

blog RSS

Cookin’ Old School Fijian Style

It was my great pleasure to witness the incredible hospitality of the people in the Namosi Highlands of Fiji. Not only did they make sure we were properly fed and watered at all time of day, but they made every aspect of their village culture into a lesson learned by us sponge-like backpackers on a mission to absorb the true Fiji. Only a couple hundred years ago, Fijians were picking their teeth with the bones of men, that is until cannibalism was wiped from their list of approved behavior. And with that outside influence also came luxurious items like pots and pans, which made cooking much easier than the techniques they used before.

My friend, Ambele (or Abel in English), was the first to jump at the opportunity to show us how it all used to be done here in the Highlands with two techniques: cooking in bamboo shoots and using an underground oven called a lovo.

Taking a young and fresh bamboo segment, Abel placed some cassava down nature’s pipe, filled it with water, and covered it with taro leaves. Putting this on the fire for about a half hour or more created an end product that tasted as smooth and luscious as a sweet potato.

The lovo consisted of a rolling fire that heated up stones sitting on top, after which the fire is put out and stones are covered with taro chunks and coconut shells filled with taro leaves and other jungle goodness. A little banana leave coverage makes this baby cook up a mean feast within an hour, one which we graciously enjoyed on our last night in the depths of the Fijian interior.

What made these cooking lessons that much sweeter were the kids who popped in and out of my video production, posing for the camera and teaching me phrases like “Au nakwati na tavioka” (Gee golly, do I like cassava!).

blog RSS

Bamboo Bear Grylls: Day 8

Bui and I could only appreciate a few games of “Last Card” before one bite of breakfast had her running for school Monday morning. I took my books and journals to a mat on the patio for a little writing when Abel joined me for a quick lounge and giggle. The important thing to note about village life is the emphasis on relaxation. Note it. Do it. Love it. Chris, Lina, Moji and I grouped together in the late morning to head out for an exciting program by the river. Hiking in flip-flops proved a bit difficult, but we were soon bounding from rock to rock barefoot by the flowing waters that cut into the jungle’s core. We forged rapids, stumbled on mossy boulders, and ended on a small beach beside a bamboo forest. Moji chopped away about ten shoots and assembled them into a trusty raft, with our ever-so useful helping hands,of course. I felt so Bear Grylls, I attempted an English accent that turned into an Aussie one…which I didn’t even know I could do.

Once the raft was sea-worthy, we floated about 10 meters away to a trickling spring on the other side, a hot spring that spewed 80 degree water with a sulfuric twist. Chris, our gondalier, wasn’t content with just moving across the river after all that hard work of tying knots with vines, so he pushed us towards the rapids downstream.

The waters were at best about two feet deep and incredibly rocky. Our vessel tried to skewer a couple boulders and toss us into the river before it finally wedged itself into a pool for an eternal rest. The walk back through the rocks gave us red and bloody knees, but the laughs induced by the mini-adventure on a self-made raft were worth the potential for wound infection.

Walking back upstream the way we came, Moji and I attempted a little prawn fishing with one pair of goggles and a young bamboo stick topped with ten rusty nails. I tried getting one school of fish for about 20 minutes, continuing to jab and announce, “Aw, I came so close!”, and Moji humored me by letting me continue, adding later that "it always seems like you’re just that close". Touche.

The climax of the program was certainly the literal high point…and the last event of the adventure: a 30+ foot cliff jump into teal, chilly waters. The crawl up the mossy rock face was nearly as scary as the impending plunge, and upon reaching the final step before the jump, I nearly busted my own vocal chords with spontaneous screams. It took about three minutes of nervous dancing, slow countdowns, and self-encouragement to rock myself to that point of no return. I had enough time to scream twice until my feet and outstretched arms broke the water surface. It was a slap heard ‘round the jungle.

Of course it took Lina, Moji, and Chris a combined 20 seconds to do their jumps (twice might I add). Advice for others: don’t look down.

We returned to the village by the singular dirt road entrance and indulged in belly filling meals on the floor. Soon after, Fane pulled out a sulu and shirt for me to wear to the school, where I was going to volunteer a little time to unintentional complete classroom distraction.

Lina and I wanted to offer any services we could provide in order to make some progress, but what usually occurs in these situations is a rowdy, screaming classroom with one or two kids actually following your instructions as opposed to just giggling at your outfit. Our social studies lesson on “How Roads are Made” didn’t change mindsets or anything but hopefully taught one person how to draw a road cross-section. So useful in the practical world.

When my time as a Fijian village teacher expired, I changed back into my appalling Western attire in time for Abel’s lesson on cooking with bamboo. It was a practice from the days before pots and also one that is used on modern day picnics. As the cassava boiled inside the young bamboo shoot, the kids giggled wildly, running in and out of my video footage. Abel taught me how to say some hilarious and simple phrases, while older women walking home from the farms stopped to laugh at my attempts. The cooked cassava was as soft as a well-cooked sweet potato, and just as sweet. We ate it with our fingers while practicing ballet moves and more phrases until the darkness settled.

With the night came a few more travelers from Lautoka, our friends from the Madventure house, and many of us ate together by candlelight in my host uncle’s home next door. The kids, Bui and Pio, played with the wax from the dripping candles and created a guessing game for after-dinner entertainment.

Why is it so easy to have a completely lovely day in a place so secluded from our favorite vices, activities, and daily pastimes? I think it’s because life is meant to be simple. Simple and vibrant. Like a Fijian village.

blog RSS

Kava and Waterfalls: Day 7

Bui’s knees in my back and adorable, obvious rustling in bed wake me caused a laugh to accompany my first breath of the day.  She had spotted something in my bag that she liked, so I proceeded to pull out the bag-o-tricks from my sister-in-law that included bubbles, a very high-pitched whistle, a hypnotizing hourglass, and a flower for her church-ready hair. Instead of going with Chris and a fellow traveler named Lina to the next village for family time, Abel offered to take me on a little trip to a nearby waterfall. Bui jumped on that bandwagon with a smile that spanned her entire face. And as we walked, more children tagged along, sliding down muddy slopes for the poised camera and pointing out the sensitive fern before cautiously stepping over its little thorns.

The first waterfall was like a natural stairway with cascading clear waters making the descent a little dicier. Some of the kids plummeted into the teal pool with us while others remained on top, shouting down to us and each other, as excited as though this were a candy store shopping spree. The water was as cold as it was wet, but we disregarded this discomfort by trying to balance on a fallen log like American Gladiators.

Across the pool, Abel and I climbed onto some flat rocks shaded by a fantastic tropical canopy to find a second and much more deadly waterfall. Dropping a large rock down, he demonstrated what would happen to our heads if we jumped. Obliteration. We sprawled there for a while, talking about the village and America, while fluorescent spiders walked by our resting chins that overlooked the ledge. The kids on the other waterfall sang and danced for our attention.

When we came back to the village, hair dripping and laughing, my host parents and all their friends were lounging in the yard, drinking kava, sharing a sticky bowl of colorful popcorn, and awaiting my inclusion. The adults and parents posed for photos as enthusiastically as the kids and pulled me into the frame for a few shots.

We moved the party inside my house when the clouds began spitting, and for the next three hours, I witnessed a hilarious evening among lifelong friends that included my serving of tsunami bowls to every man, card tricks, riddles, and childhood games. Sometimes the volume and amount of laughter during certain Fijian games caused me to believe they weren’t so family friendly, at which point I would turn my head left and right asking anyone, “What’s so funny?”.

Abel, while mixing bowl after bowl of kava, asked me to put my camera on video mode while the men harmonized songs of pride and love for their country and countrymen. 15 to 20 men closed their eyes to reach high notes and perfect tones in a concert just for me. My eyes fluttered by lamplight to the tunes of the Highlands, head heavy to my pillow in the middle of the crowded, sleepy room. It was the kind of peace John Lennon would fantasize about.

blog RSS

What Culture Shock?

We anticipated wild animals or at least poisonous critters; there were only slightly famished mosquitoes. We were prepared for long drop squat toilets; we sat on flushing porcelain thrones. And we assumed we’d make many a cultural blunder within our first days, but honestly, living in the Fijian Highlands for a week was only culturally shocking in one sense: it’s so friggin beautiful. Idyllic. Lush. Vibrant.

And to think a place so lovely is not only that but open to outsiders such as ourselves and able to make us feel comfortable beyond our expectations.

What we as travelers often worry about is the possibility of experiencing the new and/or shocking and not knowing how to deal the right way. And being prepared for the new causes us to step in the unknown as we would put a timid toe into frigid waters.

Will this sweet old lady be offended if I forget to say jilo when I walk behind her? Will a snake cross my path or hang near my head on this mountain hike? What if I wear a hat as I walk across the village, will the children howl in shock? Aw gee, look at my leg! I’m bound to have malaria by now!

The reality in Nakavika is that there’s a greater chance of forgiveness for making mistakes than disrespect for what you didn’t know. Plus, the Namosi Highlands were blessed with both hands in that all those things that make jungle life so unappealing are not there in Fiji. It’s safe. It’s perfect. We were living in simple, gorgeous, welcoming luxury.

Makes it easy for wayward nomads like ourselves to dive into a culture so utterly stunning. Hesitate no more, readers, Fiji wants you, and trust us…you want Fiji.

blog RSS

Hiking in the Clay: Day 6

I rose, as I would continue to every subsequent morning, to the sounds of repeating Fijian radio commercials. Bui and I played some billiards, at which she klobbered me, and frolicked in the mist that surrounded the mountain village. Moji, being the stellar village rep that he is, wanted to show Chris and I where Nakavika residents used to live down by the river; in other words, take us on a spectacular hike through the Namosi Highlands for a muddy good time. Every other step sunk me ankle-deep into clay-like slush that at one point conquered my shoe clear off my foot. Many a slapstick slips occurred, and by the time we reached any sort of clearing or stopping point, my shoes were no longer recognizable and our bodies drenched with sweat and dew.

After forging a river about a half dozen times, we arrived at some houses where mothers and children were washing their clothes on the river rocks. This was the village of Bara. We chucked our defeated shoes and socks to dry in the sun and went in a house perfectly equipped for multi-hour lounging.

Padded with hay and woven fern mats, open to the breezes of the mountains, the Fiji juice and pancakes that were delivered to us put the final touch on a supreme afternoon in paradise. Joining us were a few of the men from Bara, including a jovial old man named Phillip who had about three teeth with which he nibbled at a wee core (fruit similar to an apple). We drank a little kava with the fellas before adorning our nasty shoes once more for a river crossing and slippery jungle climb.

Every so often, Moji would point out a plant that was brought here by the many colonizers and foreign influences, one of which was the giant bamboo shoots that loomed overhead while we took a quick breather. The sounds made by these shifting columns were like that of an incredibly old house with rapidly settling furniture. I kept looking above thinking a “timber” moment was in the works, but that’s just the way it is in a bamboo forest. The massive plants seemed prehistoric, and I had a little “wow” moment sitting there under their creaks.

I was utterly exhausted by the time we ascended the last wet trail and meandered through Nakavika’s back end. I could have fallen asleep face down in my dinner but managed to keep it together for a little rugby viewing at sunset. Sitting with some of the ladies and kids, I watched the finely trained men sprint through mud puddles, enjoyed a cloud transformation from gold to purple, and found poetic beauty in the clothesline of flapping clothing stretched across the entire skyline.

When I returned to my house, Bui and I napped so deeply, it took Moji calling my name about twenty times before I rose from a lovely slumber. The brothers all congregated at our house for the day’s final meal. All cheeks puffed out from large bits of taro and noodles. I watched with a grin as the lamp flickered on all our content faces.

blog RSS

Bumpin' into the Interior: Day 5

Anthony Bourdain, chef and world traveler extraordinaire, is a firm believer that the best way to approach a new culture and community is to check out the marketplace. Lautoka's market was quite a large spread of all things root vegetable and spice, and the smells within the arena brought to mind East Africa, Southeast Asia, and the ever-pungent Subcontinent of India. We shelled out some dollars for peanuts, bananas, and food for the day of movement into the Fijian interior.

After a four hour bus ride around the coast of Fiji, the man waiting for our arrival at a dirt road junction on the side of the highway was Moji, our program "manager" while we were up in the Nakavika village. We played a little Frisbee, a universal crowd pleaser/entertainer, until the carrier made its way in from town.

When it came time to pile on and squeeze in between brothers, mothers, and children, we happily merged with them and blessed the breeze that billowed in from the open flap. The air grew increasingly heavy and cool, and while others found it frigid, my Hoosier blood found it warming and kissed with memories of summer.

Two hours on that bumpy road brought us to a home where we waited for the onward carrier towards Nakavika village. The occasional step uphill squeezed old oranges underfoot and sent juice squirting for meters.

We sat on mattresses on the porch and enjoyed some tea and biscuits, together might I add. Moji and Kimbo took their big hands and crushed four or five biscuits into their mugs and made soup. We all tried it out of curiosity, which from the speed of our decisions to join along made me wonder how much they could sway us to do in the name of new cultural experiences.

It was only 3 or 4pm, and the sun was bursting through the sides of the palms on its way to setting. The mountains were slathered with foliage and looked like cliffs I'd never seen before. Seemed as though they came from the world of Zelda. I snapped photos of them like a shutter-happy maniac.

Finally, the last carrier ended our full day journey with the arrival to Nakavika, where many children flocked to form our welcoming committee. When the village dispersed our weary frames to different houses for the week, I got the good fortune of staying with Moji's brother, Weiss, wife, Fane, and their daughter, Bui, who was also my six year-old bunkmate.

Even though the sun was already set, it was only time for afternoon tea and a little farm corn. We sat Fijian style around a tablecloth as neighbors joined and left after grabbing an ear or sharing a cup of sugary tea. Heads would pop in from outside and give me a firm handshake (along with pull away finger snap) before engaging in speedy Fijian to discuss me.

And then came the kava.

We walked by kerosene lamp with kamikaze frogs leaping in and out of our path. Moji's father acted as the headman of the village, so it was at his house that we were greeted and officially welcomed into the community. A large wooden bowl of water soon turned murky when a thin cloth bag of ground kava was massaged into it. Moji informed us that once the kava hits our lips, we were no longer citizens of America but full-blooded Fijians, living here as part of the whole family. We happily drank to that.

The kava tasted like something I couldn't place. Instantly, the tongue goes numb, and you're looking for a chaser. Not that the drink is particularly disgusting, relatively; it's just not the flavor of which lollipops are made.

We lounged and occasionally sat up to put the coconut shell to our lips, while I attempted to learn a few key terms like "tongue" and "come here" with Moji's youngest brother, Abel, who was living with and taking care of his parents while they were sick. It's surprising how quickly and seamlessly those from Nakavika could make us go from strangers to homogenous among the clan.

I returned to my home for dinner and to learn a local favorite card game called "Last Card", similar to Uno, before heading to the red group's fundraising event for the school. It pleased me like mad to see the emphasis this village put on its schools and education. Every Friday night, the village splits up into four teams (red, yellow, green, and blue) to drink kava and pool together money for the school system. I landed the equivalent of $3.50 U.S. in the pile and became the honored donor, shelling out the tsunami (or massive) bowls of kava to the headmaster, school manager, and everyone edging the room.

Wandering back to my home with a heavy head and sloshing stomach in the pitch black of night, I could just barely see the grass in front of me. Already I had memorized the layout of the Nakavika land, and that pleased me. I was surrounded by a style of living that at times makes more sense to me than American suburbia.

The word that came to mind as I followed the dirt path to my home was "necessary": the reasons for doing anything, the logic behind NOT doing so much else...necessity. What's necessary to survive here cuts out all the clutter and worries we thrive on at home. As it says on many sulus walking around the village, "Fiji is how the world should be."

I slept like a log in paradise.

blog RSS

Some Favorite Travel Photos Thus Far

If you'd like to read any of my posts relating to the lovely Fiji and Australia photos, check out my blogs for the little and big island!

blog RSS

Travel Mecca: Day 2

Dallas is quite a sprawling metropolis, and at her outskirts is a little place some call Heaven...others call Lewisville. When Carly brought us into view of this nook of Texas, I was enthralled by the George Jetson highways soaring above us, the rhythm of strip malls and restaurants lining all roads, and the amount of cars that made up the moving landscape. They really DO do it bigger in Texas. Alright, alright. STA Travel, a.k.a. Travel Mecca, is everything I thought it would be, thanks to the YouTube video coverage parodying The Office and the regular Facebook clips for assorted sweepstakes. When faced with the chance to introduce myself to the company and express my joy and anticipation for the journey ahead, I resulted to the "words cannot express" method (since it's completely applicable here) but wished I could've wowed them with the skills that got me chosen in the first place. Gotta save something for the videos and such. Yeah, that was my strategy all along...

Meeting after meeting flew by discussing our itinerary, our assignments, our incredible equipment, and I buzzed on coffee and questions. Are we really discussing right now a trip that we are taking for free? And all we have to do is tell you and show you how much fun we're having? There still has to be a catch to this whole crackpot scheme. Ah, but no, my friends, we really were covering the details of our African safaris, followed by our Cape Town adventures, followed by our Greek island hopping (and so on and so on).

And with a quick final word of advice from Rachel and Pat, we were off to have dinner and drinks with the STA crew and discuss travel styles, destinations, and the passions behind it all. This, for me, would constitute as celestial perfection, a.k.a. Heaven (cue to harking angels and a beam of light from above). Just a couple chums talking about travel tales over Shiners.

Speaking of Heaven, our last stop for the night to indulge in a "time-honored Texan tradition" brought us to a destination called Red Neck Heaven. Sounds too good to be true, no? Ah, but it wasn't. In fact, I watched four boys inhale live fish down their gullets and one very distressed woman choke back a very, very dead one due to some evil peer pressure.

I, without a lick of regret, did not partake in the challenge and instead could really appreciate the flamboyant horn that sounded after they took their shots. Just like an old neighbor's truck horn in Wabash. Played a little melody I know all too well. The sound of success, if you ask me.

blog RSS