One little boy lifted the silver bowl of chicken heads to receive its next occupant, and I snapped out of my time-traveling thoughts. I stood up and returned to Vita's house to find that the iPad had locked away its contents from the curious kids indoors. When I unlocked the iPad, I found the following paragraph, scribed by Samu:
An emotional, highly anticipated return to Nakavika
Returning to my first lemon leaf tea in five years, I happily settled on the grass mat with a Christmas mug. I was nearly out of the emotional woods with this favorite, sweet elixir and a few cold pancakes. I sighed and scanned the room, finally noticing two photos taped to the wall, one of my mother in the snow and another of my grandmother holding my baby niece. I should have just accepted that a breakdown was inevitable.
The sweet sorrow of departing: Day 62
I opened my eyes as if they'd been closed for only a few seconds. Stains decorated the holey mosquito net, which now ensnared a circling bunch of blood-filled bugs. Though I've never been physically beaten up, I imagine the next morning would have felt akin to how I felt there, in that bed, feeling the bed springs scratch my skin, every muscle upset and tense from a terrible day prior.
I don't feel good here anymore.
The hell-raising fundraiser: Day 61
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 for 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.
The danger of not processing the bad: Day 55
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.
When in Raki, dive like the locals dive: Day 31
I had never loved baked beans more than at breakfast that morning. Along with my scrambled eggs and tomatoes, everything tasted beyond satisfying. I was floating. I couldn't even eat the entire plate because my stomach had shrunk to the size of a guava. Ordering water, I received a sweating 1.5 liter of Fiji, no floaties, no mysterious colors, no hurricane residue. I sunk into the plush leather chair, admiring every smooth square inch, until we went for the beach.
Am I a Cultural Imperialist?
One of the biggest factors in this sensitive equation that makes me feel better is the fact that our intentions were solely and powerfully good. Though this isn't a "get out of shame free" card, it certainly validates much more when dealing with these culturally sensitive areas. Upon first stepping foot in Fiji, we taped ourselves expressing the concerns we had for our own project, stating, "We're not even sure they want us to do what we came to do."
After explaining our purpose and receiving acceptance, we felt we were in the clear. But it would have been in our best interests to examine the culture we were penetrating before getting there and constantly ask questions to the head people in order to perfect our footing. There was a whole anthropological lesson to be learned in preparation, although this is assuming perfect preparation would have given us perfect results.
Rights vs. blame
I anticipate this topic sparking some vocalization from my normally docile reading crowd, but I want to bring it up as it bothered me during my last week in Fiji. Freshly departed from all Nakavika affiliations, I sat atop a barstool for seven hours at Uprising, telling friends and barmen my stories from the Highlands and my frustrations with the final portion of the experience. My eyes sat at half-mast from a rough morning of goodbyes.
Sacrificing mentality
At what moment, after leaving your culture to adopt another, do you realize that you might have given up too much? Are we all willing to forget where we came from in order to merge into something new? How can you express your life to another culture without giving the impression of insensitivity? How much food can you eat that you dislike just to be polite? Do you tell your host that you don’t like some things just to make the majority of what you eat comforting?
Climbing mountains for funerals: Day 21
Prior to entering the home housing the wake, the women were all smiles, picking their fluffy hairstyles round and rolling mats to present to the family of the deceased. Crossing the threshold, these same women crouched and sat in the closest space (the proper Fijian way) and began wailing into their handkerchieves. The sound was odd; I looked behind me subtly to see what it was. It didn't sound like crying - more like the way my brother used to mock me when I would get upset as a child. Someone flipped a switch, and these normally stoic and collected ladies were a mess. It was their time to mourn audibly. I don't think they get many opportunities.
Two (extra)ordinary days on the Luva river: Day 20
Stir at 7:30am to the sounds of giggling children, bossy dads, and falling billiard balls into play. Emerge from half-slumber at 9am to eat a pound of crepes and cups of lemongrass tea. Wash face. Brush layer of cane sugar off teeth. Contemplate what today will bring. This was our morning routine during those first few weeks in Fiji, when we had a host family and the sole mission of experiencing Fiji before our classes began in the afternoon. Some days we scribed on our computers until they died. But what we usually opted for were outings with our host mother or the children, and these trips always centered around satiating that primal desire to cool off.