My ticket read: Sydney—Los Angeles—New York (actually it was in gobbledeygook: Syd-LAX-NY/JFK).
Flight times all set. Just a matter of hauling in my dust-stained baggage (the red dust of Australia releases itself reluctantly), smiling nicely at all the nice, smiling form-fillers and ticket-stampers, drinking a final stubbie or two at the airport bar, and then off into the crisp blue infinities, couched in plushy comfort, nibbling nuts, sipping sodas or something stronger, and sleeping whenever I felt like sleeping….
And then I’d be home. Bit of a long flight, but I like the limbo of flying and I had three unread books I’d been dragging around the outback with me. So there wouldn’t be too much in the way of angst or aggravation. A stroll up and down the aisles once in a while to prevent bloated ankles and feet. Maybe meet a few interesting passengers, although I admit to antisociability on planes. I enjoy those listless hours of floating around my own head for a while and usually don’t encourage interruptions.
After twenty-odd hours I’d be back in my big city. Back to the tangles of JFK; back to the roaring New York aggressiveness and an atmosphere energized by expletives and explosive exuberances.
And there was my flight. Up on the board already, even though I was hours ahead of schedule (another idiosyncracy; I like lots of dawdle time at airports). And on time too. Everything set. All I had to do was check my bags.
So why was I hesitating?
C’mon, I told myself. Ten weeks in the Australian outback and down in the wilds of South-West Tasmania is enough for any weary world wanderer. Get yourself home. Go back to your wife, your lake, the cats, the squirrels and the last lingerings of fall in the trees by the boat dock.
But I just stood there, surrounded by my grubby bags, watching the lights flicker on the departure board and all those exotic destinations flashing by—Honolulu, Bangkok, Port Moresby, Christchurch, Tokyo, Beijing.
Something was not right…
Had I forgotten something? Had I lost something? Had I gotten the days mixed up?
Checking through checklists once again. No, everything’s okay. Twelve thousand miles all around this vast continent and here I am, on time, nothing lost, nothing forgotten, nothing mixed up. Everything ready for the flight. Just hand over the bags and then…nothing more to think about until New York. No more lists, no more near-drownings, no more riding around in crazy helicopters with no doors, no more leeches, no more tanglings with the red oozing mud of outback roads, no more blisters and a body badly in need of bathing.
The departure board continued to flash and flicker…Nairobi, Manila, Calcutta, Istanbul….
And then it was there.
Fiji.
Something smiled inside.
Fiji.
Palm trees, sloppy warm surf, lovely open faces, quiet island beaches, cocktails overlooking purple-haze mountains, strolls by frisky waterfalls, lobster dinners by moonlight across silver-flecked bays….
Fiji.
Of course! That’s what was missing. A place to pause on the way home. Somewhere to reaclimatize before the rush of hugs and the surge of familiar things….
Another lost-world adventure, maybe?
No, c’mon. Enough! For once you could just go somewhere as a tourist and enjoy a few days of relaxation. Forget about your books, your photography, your sketches, and all your searches for places and things unknown.
And the inner journeys?
Forget about those too. Give your head a rest. Reward yourself with a few indulgences. Let your feet and weary body float mindlessly in a swimming pool for a while, basking in wide Fijian smiles.
Eric Berne once wrote a lovely description of Fijian smiles—“these rare jewels of the world”:
It starts slowly; it illuminates the whole face; it rests there long enough to be clearly recognized and recognize clearly, and it fades with secret slowness as it passes by.
Fiji.
That’s what I was looking for. And that’s why I was off to change my flight plans.
And that’s how I came to be skimming in low a few hours later over a patch of brilliant blue South Pacific ocean, gliding over the fantasy-profiled mountaintops of Viti Levu Island and fastening my seat belt for a puffball landing at the Nadi airport…
Fiji felt very right.
For three days I allowed the other me to emerge. The one that likes lounging around, doing nothing, thinking nothing, wondering about nothing except the size and sweetness of dinnertime lobsters and whether tomorrow will be as warm and worry-free as today….
And then the fourth day came, and things changed.
I was restless again.
Dammit. The wandering was over. The book was almost completed; what could be wrong with a few more days of seamless R and R? Even Anne had been understanding when I’d called her from the Sydney airport.
“That’s a great idea,” she’d said when I told her about my spontaneous stopover plans for Fiji. “Then you’ll be almost normal when you get home.”
(Wasn’t too certain about the “almost” bit.)
So why couldn’t I be “normal”? Why couldn’t I just lie back for a few days and soak up the sun and the surf, the smiles of lovely girls, the company of a newfound world-wanderer friend, and all the serendipities of the soft life?
“What I’d like to find is an unusual island that’s not too far away where there aren’t too many people, a place that’s unspoiled,” I heard myself saying to a man at the tourist office in Nadi.
“We have over three hundred islands in Fiji, sir—three hundred and twenty-two, actually.” The man was trying to be helpful but obviously needed more information.
“Well—I’d like some mountains, a few cheap hotels, waterfalls, lovely beaches, good weather, unusual food, interesting local people. A place small enough to explore in a few days.”
“Ah, yes.” He was an Indian gentleman and attempting to be traditionally Indian in his organized selection of alternatives for my consideration. “Well—there are a few rather exclusive islands—very small—with lovely resorts on them…. Mr. Forbes has one on—”
“No, I want something a bit more authentic. Something that reflects the old Fiji. I can do without fancy resorts.”
“Oh, yes. I understand.” His brow was deeply furrowed as he flipped through his pamphlets and colorful brochures with all the intense efficiency of a railroad clerk in Bombay’s Victoria Station. “There are so many, you see.”
His young Fijian assistant was a study in complete contrasts. He was lolling back in his office chair, stroking his thick black hair and smiling a very tolerant smile as he watched his superior anxiously trying to satisfy my ill-defined whims. It was a smile I was to see often in the next few days.
Outsiders, particularly the Indians, who are the majority of the population in Fiji and whose families have been citizens for generations, are invariably regarded with amused disdain by the natives. Strict controls are placed on their property ownership, voting privileges, and other rights. The Fijians are determined that, even though now a minority, they will keep as much control, political power, and land in their hands as they can. Naturally they will work if they have to. But after all, in this sprinkling of South Pacific island paradises, work is merely a small part of a far more enticing range of daily enjoyments—cricket, rugby, kava drinking (of which much more later), discussing matters of enormous worldly consequence with family and friends, cooking, singing, lovemaking, fishing—and, of course, more kava drinking. If the Indians wish to labor themselves into early graves and accumulate far too many material possessions, well, that is their business. But the Fijian tradition of
kerekere
discourages such myopic pursuits by the indigenous populace. Overt success is frowned upon by less fortunate family members and villagers, and material things are not meant to be possessed alone but to be shared—on demand, if necessary—with kin. All a nephew or an uncle or a son or even a cousin thrice-removed has to do is say
kerekere
[“I would like…”] and whatever object—video player, chicken, pig, stereo set, dress, or even a room in the house—is desired has to be given, freely and with grace, as a familial obligation. So what’s the point of overdoing anything? If you become wealthy you are immediately vulnerable to the ancient traditions of
kerekere
. Best therefore to take it easy, share your good fortune if and when it came, demand it from others if and when it didn’t, and generally enjoy the freer things of life in a spirit of mutual unambitiousness—respecting the “collective ego of the clan” (the
tokatoka
and the
matagala
).
“Ah!” A smile appeared on the face of my Indian adviser.
I smiled back in encouragement.
He was nodding furiously, spectacles bouncing on his narrow nose.
“Taveuni!” he said with eureka! enthusiasm.
“Taveuni?”
“Yes, sir. I think you will enjoy Taveuni. We call it the Garden Island. It has all that you mention—mountains, beaches, waterfalls, not many tourists, inexpensive hotels and guest houses, and…”
“And what?”
“Well, sir—Taveuni has lovely…ladies, sir.”
“Oh, good.”
“Oh, yes. Very beautiful ladies. Very beautiful island. I think you will be being very happy on Taveuni.”
“Well—that’s fine. Taveuni it shall be.”
I looked over at his assistant, still smirking and polishing his thick black hair, for confirmation. He smiled a warm Fijian smile at me but didn’t seem to be particularly interested in our conversation. I tried to include him in.
“Have you been to Taveuni? Is it beautiful?”
The Fijian nodded without enthusiasm. “Of course. All our islands are beautiful.”
Even from the little I’d seen at my hotel hideaway I imagined he was right.
I decided to stick with my Indian adviser.
“Have you been to Taveuni?”
“Oh, no, sir,” he said sadly, the furrowed brow returning. “Unfortunately, I do not travel among the islands very much. I am always very busy here.”
“Ah.”
“But from everything I have heard and from all the peoples I have spoken to in this office, I think you will like it very much.”
“Well—thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Oh, not at all, sir. It is my job—and my pleasure. Pleased to be taking some of these brochures.”
He assembled a neat little pile of colorful leaflets, placed them carefully into an envelope with the Fiji tourist office logo on it, and wrote in a stiff hand: “Taveuni Island. For Mr. David.”
“I hope you will be having a most enjoyable journey, sir.”
“Well, thanks to you, I think I will.”
“Most kind of you, sir. Thank you.”
As I left the office the young Fijian was still polishing his black hair. There was something about his attitude that annoyed me and I wasn’t keen at all that smirking at his boss…but what the heck? This was his country. This was Fiji. And Fiji, as I was to learn, had many unusual attributes.
So out again into a sparkling blue morning and off to make plans for a trip to Taveuni.
“Excuse me.”
Someone tapped my shoulder and I turned to find the Fijian following me down the street, smiling broadly now.
“I was born in Taveuni. It is a good place to go. I would like you to visit my family. I have written the address down.” He handed me a torn strip of paper.
I was surprised by his sudden change of attitude.
“Well—thanks. I’ll try and do that.”
“They will make you very welcome.”
Then he handed me a small plastic bag filled with a gray-white powder. “You should give them this
sevusevu
as a gift when you visit.”
I looked at the bag and then at the young Fijian. The contents resembled something I’d once seen in a police station in Venezuela. Something very expensive, very illegal, and guaranteed to slam you behind bars, preparatory, in some countries, to a brief farewell to life in front of a firing squad.
“I’m not sure….”
“Please—it is only a little gift. It is a tradition.”
“Yes, well, but…what kind of tradition is it?”
“Kava. The kava ceremony. You will be their guest and they will invite you to join them in kava drinking.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes.” He laughed suddenly and his face became one of those enticing, open, welcoming faces I was to see so often in the next four days. “What d’you think I’m giving you?”
“I really don’t know—I wondered if—”
His high-pitched laughter bounced down the narrow street, echoing off the little stores and cafés. “I know what you wondered! But it isn’t. This is kava. This is powdered kava. In the old days, most people took the
yaqona
(yanggona) roots and they bashed them up and chewed them too.”
“They eat it?”
“No, no. they chewed it up till it’s like a paste and then they added water and stirred it up and—well, in a while…you drink it.”
“And that’s kava?”
“Oh, yes. A good drink. Makes you very happy. Very nice. You will enjoy it.”
“So what do you do with this powder?”
“Well, you don’t need to chew this. You just add water and stir.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“About the chewing—I’m glad to know no one has to chew it first.”
“Oh—I told you—that’s the old way. The best way, really. The chewing has to be done by virgins of the village. But the powder is faster. So—you will go and visit them?”
“Well—I’ll certainly try.”
“Good. So have a nice journey.”
“Yes—thank you
—vinaka—
I will.”
One last, flashing smile and off he went, back to his desk and to his hair polishing.
I tucked the bag deep into my trouser pocket and hoped that this wasn’t some kind of setup for vulnerable tourists.
I’d never really given much thought to Fiji before my arrival and I certainly hadn’t expected to find a South Pacific nation of 322 islands and a population of close on a million. But there they were, a few thousand feet below me as I floated above a sapphire-blue sea in a tiny twenty-seat Sunflower Air plane peering down at dozens of little palm-shrouded islets and atolls, each edged by pink-white and gold-white sands. Most of them seemed uninhabited. Tiny tropical paradises, untouched, unmolested. And in the hazy distance, more and more of them, fading over a blue-on-blue horizon.