August 19, 2010
Cukuvou Harbour—Lat. 16 degrees.48’ S and Long. 178 degres.17E
We make a two-day journey out of it—from Savusavu along the north coast of Vanua Levu to Cukuvou harbour on the west coast of the island of Yadua.
We thread our way through the narrow Nananu passage, looking for sticks that mark the reefs, watching depth, looking at the various water colour. That in itself is a guide. One stop for the night, then continue on for Yadua. We pass Yadua Taba, a small island at the south-west corner, which is a sanctuary for the protected Green Crested Iguana.
Yachts are no longer allowed at Yadua, because some careless sailor stole Green Crested Iguana eggs from the sanctuary. One bad apple is all it takes for the rest to suffer. A warden form the village of Denimanu protects the sanctuary.
Into Cukuvou bay we sail having hooked a beautiful Mahi Mahi, a Big Eye Tuna, and half a tuna—the other half of which we shared with a shark. There is the sweet little red boat, Kalisto: our friends are already at anchor. We hail them to come for a sundowner and fish dinner.
Barely on board, with the sun setting fast, a small fishing boat pulls up to Zulu in the shadows and a tall Fijian and a small boy hop on board from the stern steps without being invited. Smooth landing! An aggressive move. We are surprised and all somewhat inhibited by the size of this man towering above us. We put on timid, but brave smiles. Bula!
“Do you have some cigarettes for me?” he asks with little formality, going straight to the point. Russ looks up at him like a petunia in the shade of a redwood.
“No, we don’t have any cigarettes on board.” Russ has a shot at diplomacy while standing his ground. The rest of us are nervous. We’re not really supposed to be there. But the permits are all in Fijian and we don’t read Fijian. Wink.
“Do you have a knife I can borrow?” he demanded rather than requested. “I forgot my fishing knife at the village.” Yes, sure. You are out fishing and forgot your fishing knife? I could see Russ’ thoughts turning.
“Sure, just a minute.” Russ obliges. Not the right time to argue that you don’t really like lending your knives out to strangers. He goes down to the engine room in search of his Made- in-China knife that can’t even cut butter, but could not find it. So gave up the second best thing, his Made-in- Mexico knife.
Amazing how quickly the shadows lengthen when faced with a demand for a knife. The whites of the dark, tall “fisherman’s” eyes are all we now seem to see as he turns to disembark with the boy. Two silhouettes vanish as quickly as they appeared.
Phew! Welcome to Yadua.
It is time to go below and open some wine and get that fish on the grill. Lighten up. The moon is rising and waxing too.
“Gary off Kalisto thinks it was his sweet, innocent children that saved our tails.” Got to laugh. They now laugh too. And we clink our glasses happy to still be alive.
We enjoy the fresh catch and after salty-dog sailor talk of escaping the cannibals, we say our ‘good-nights’ and look forward to a good night’s rest, safe at last we hope in this picturesque bay. Tomorrow the sun will shine down on us.
A Mahi Mahi is on the hook en route to Yadua Island. Poor fish!
Got it! What a beauty. But sad it has to die for a sailor’s supper.
Morning arrives all too soon. Fresh coffee ground. Pour the hot water over the grounds and add hot milk and sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg on the top for me--my treat from Russ in my bunk. I sip it slowly enjoying the taste and warmth, and peak through the porthole at the shimmering blue waters.
I don’t think we are going to hike the 3 hours across the island to Denimanu village to present the chief with kava. Who knows, that might have been the chief himself who boarded us last night. Rather doubt that. But we will keep a low profile. Go for a hike with the kiddies off Kalisto.
The white beach fringed with palms call out to us. What? Another fishing boat approaches us. But this time it is three smiling Indo-Fijians. Not so tall. Yay! They have a red snapper in their hands and offer it to us as a gift. They want to see the boat, but Russ says his wife is busy below.
So in exchange for the fish, which we need like a hole in the head, he extrapolates some juice and Indian snacks from the larder for them. Then further wards them off by asking if he can see their boat rather. They are happy enough for the trade and oblige.
The long white strip of beach in Cukuvou bay, ringed by palms against a dry, scrubby backdrop on Yadua Island.
The sea cliffs we climbed to see the bay on the other side that is sanctuary to the Green Crested Iguanas.
Morning light through the palms.
Friendly Indo-Fijian fishermen want to see our boat. They exchange a fish for some cold drink and snacks from us.
The Indian fishermen leave. It is time for us to lock the boat and do the disappearing act. We give the snapper to Kalisto and take their sweet heart children—Zeke and Nina—with us on a hike up the sea cliffs to see the view from atop.
What a view! Below in the calm and protected bay are our sailing vessels at anchor: Zulu and Kalisto. The beauty is all ours for the taking. On the other side is the bay that is the sanctuary for the Green Crested Iguanos. We drink in all that surrounds us.
Then down the sea cliffs we go to the dinghy and cross to the beach on the other side. We’ll climb up there for a view of the waters beyond. There is a big tree that seems to mark an easy way up. So we make for it.
Zulu and Kalisto are the only two boats anchored in Cukuvou bay, Yadua Island.
Zeke and Nina, off Kalisto are our hiking buddies.
Nina scales a boulder for yet another one of my snap shots.
Russ and Zeke look across the bay to our boats at anchor.
Let us climb down these sea cliffs and dinghy on to the other side. We’ll climb up to see the view from there. A big tree seems to mark an easy way up.
Zeke and Nina start up a loose sand gravel drop off. It seems Nina might be stuck in a precarious place. So Russ bolts up in front of me to help her. In doing so, he dislodges a bolder the size of a soccer ball.
I am hanging onto a tree branch with one hand waiting to make my way up, when I see the airborne boulder heading straight for me. I thought I put the back of my hand out—out of instinct--to protect the rock from hitting my head. But Nina said the rock hit my hand while I held on to the tree.
Whatever happened, I felt the hit. It was bone splitting. I heard it. I look down at my hand in shock and see it pulsate and swell up in slow motion and the pain stabs at me and the blood pours out from the gash where the rock hit. All a bit dramatic.
How I got down to the beach, I do not know. But I bent over and hung my hand down so the blood dripped onto the yellow sand. Owwww owwww owww. My hand is broken! Yes, I do not suffer in silence.
Zeke could not stand to look. I need help. What to do? In the distance I see a person walking along the beach. He is waving. This beach had been deserted all day. Where did he come from? I went up to him and said I needed help and showed him my hand.
He was gentle-looking and had a white bandana around his forehead with red Japanese characters, and was carrying a Blackberry. His name was Lepani Davetanivalu.
“I am the village nurse.” He said. How on earth did he appear out of the blue? Was he an angel?
“I will cut you a splint from a tree.” He continued.
“No, no, please come to the boat. I have a medical kit on board.” I urged.
Wringing my hand and hopping from one foot to the other like a Kangaroo.
We dropped Nina and Zeke off at Kalisto and I howled on about how I broke my hand to Gary and Vicky, who looked at me with vague incomprehension. On we zoomed to Zulu.
I got the medical kit out: gloves, bandages, antiseptic, Neosporin ointment, pain pills. Lepani went to work—gloves on-- cleaning the wound and directing Russ to cut a splint a certain size.
Russ not having nursing skills or attributes, stuck to getting his Japanese saw out and hung out in the engine room sawing a piece of wood to size post haste. He came up on deck just after the Neosporin was on and the pain pill swallowed.
Lepani then bandaged my hand with splint properly placed and put my sundowner ice in a plastic bag with instruction to keep my hand elevated and on ice.
While he worked on my hand, he wanted to know if we could charge his Blackberry and if we had some music we could download onto his iPod. We could not help with the latter, but Russ plugged his Blackberry in to the boat battery and said he could pick it up in the morning.
With the hand wrapped on ice and the pain pill kicking in, Russ asked how it was that he was on this deserted beach.
“I just delivered a baby in the village last night. And a group of the family came over with me to Cukuvou bay to fish so that we can have a celebration tomorrow to honor the birth of the baby.”
“We will fish in the bay tonight, sleep on palm mats on the beach, and return to the village in the morning.” He said.
“I will come again in the morning to follow up before we leave. You have a fractured hand. Can I have these gloves? They are good quality and I can use them at the village.”
“Of course you can have the gloves.” I say.
Lepani has been the village nurse—with a lot of responsibility--for the past 5 years. He used to nurse at the hospital in Suva before he was directed to come here. He hopes they have not forgotten about him, because he would like to make a change. In the same sense, he will miss the people so.
“I will just leave in the night.” He said.
I gave him some money—equivalent to US$15, which he said was way too much. But I insisted. Then lay down and went to sleep with the water from the melting ice trickling down my hand. I felt calm, having had some kind stranger emerge out of the blue to care for me.
Lepani Davetanivalu smiles as he gently places my hand in his. He is the nurse or angel who emerged on the otherwise deserted beach to take care of my broken hand.
The next morning Russ went to fetch Lepani from the beach. He brought Vani Lalo, the sister of the women whose baby he delivered, and two of the village boys—Wame Duluvesi and Josua Muakula. They had wondered what he was doing on our boat. So they came along to see for themselves.
He donned new gloves with a glint in his eye, unwrapped the bandage, cleaned the wound, applied more Neosporin, re-bandaged my hand putting the splint in place and ice on the top. He told me to keep it stable for two-to-three days and, thereafter, start exercising my fingers and see a doctor in Suva.
“Can I have these gloves?” he asked again.
I brought out some juice and cookies, which they virtually inhaled. But they thoughtfully kept some to share with a five others ashore.
And then they left, waving goodbye. And soon the beach was again deserted as they made their way out of the bay for the half-hour journey to the village, carrying the fish they had caught to celebrate a new life.
Wame Duluvesi and Josua Muakula on board Zulu . They came to see what Lepani was doing for me.
Vani Lalo is the sister whose baby Lepani delivered. They are on board Zulu to follow up on my broken hand and enjoy some refreshment.
The little group of Yaduan islanders depart Zulu for their village after taking care of me.
That night I slept tight and awoke to what I thought was a bird. But it was the air horn from Kalisto. It was 4:00 AM in the morning and they circled our boat to say farewell. They were leaving by the light of the moon in order to cover the miles necessary for reaching the Yassawa island group beyond.
Now we are all alone. Soon the putt-putt-putt of Kalisto’s single stroke engine can not be heard. All that is left is a deep silence--an emptiness--and the light on the water spills from the moon.
The fresh ice pack is melting, and I can feel the cool water trickling down my arm. Medication masks the throbbing pain. Slowly I lay back down to sleep and tumble into what seems to be the center of a Yadua island dream.
Light on the water spills from the moon in the early hours of the morning. All is quiet and I tumble into what seems to be the center of a Yadua island dream.
Extract from this amazing book Bob Goddess leant us and which I highly recommend
Antarctic 1910-1913
By Apsley Cherry-Garrard
At 24 years of age, he was the youngest member of the expedition to discover the Antarctic.
I quote from Cherry’s book--
“Exploration is the physical expression of the Intellectual Passion.
And I tell you, if you have the desire for knowledge and the power to give it physical expression, go out and explore. If you are a brave man you will do nothing: if you are fearful you may do much, for none but cowards have need to prove their bravery. Some will tell you that you are mad, and nearly all will say, ‘What is the use?’ For we are a nation of shopkeepers, and no shopkeepers will look at research which does not promise him a financial return within a year. And so you will sledge nearly alone, but those with whom you sledge will not be shopkeepers: that is worth a good deal. If you march your Winter Journeys you will have your reward, so long as all you want is a penguin’s egg.”
This is how Cherry ended his book—a moving and tragic and beautifully sensitive account of R.F Scott’s British expedition to the Antarctic.
Scott’s goal was more than to be the first to reach the South Pole. It was also to discover—through science-- as much as possible about the area and habitat, and to bring this back to England.
Roald Amundsen--the Norwegian explorer-- had intended to go north, however turned around and left Scott a message saying that he would meet him in the South. For Amundsen this was to be a race. And he succeeded to beat Scott to the Pole by one month. He reached the Pole December 16, 1912. Scott reached the Pole around January 17, 1913.
Amundsen was successful, not only because of extraordinary qualities, but because he took a risk and a chance. He risked that the Bay of Whales would be as good or better a place to start than from Ross Island, in McMurdo Sound (Scott’s start point). And he chanced on a route through the mountains from the Barrier plateau other than the one that Scott and Shackleton had previously established, and he used dogs to pull his loads all the way.
All five men on Scott’s Polar Party died on the return from the Pole: Seaman Edgar Evans—the strongest of them all--died first at the foot of the Beardmore Glacier just below the Lower Glacier Depot. Captain L.E.G. Oates—32 years old--was next. He died two-thirds of the way from Upper Glacier Depot to One Ton Depot, walking out of the tent to his death in a blizzard so the others could be saved. Dr. E.A. Wilson and Lieut H.R. Bowers—39 and 28 years old, respectively--died within a short time of each other in the tent 11 miles from One Ton Depot. Scott—43 years old--died last in the same tent, not long after the others it is assumed.
These are the Long-Lats of the Depots--after leaving the Pole--and location of the Polar Party member’s deaths (One Ton depot is furthest from the Pole):
One Ton (79 Degrees.29’) Wilson, Bowers, and Scott died 11 miles south of One Ton depot, i.e., before reaching the depot.
Upper Barrier or Mount Hooper (80 Degrees.32’) Oates died 2/3rds the way from Upper Barrier to One Ton depot.
Middle Barrier (81 Degrees.35’)
Lower Barrier (82 Degrees.47’)
Shambles Camp (N. of Gateway)
Lower Glacier (S. of Gateway) (Seaman Evans died just south of here on Beardmore Glacier).
Middle Glacier (Cloudmaker)
Upper Glacier (Mt. Darwin)
Three Degree (86 Degrees.56’)
1 ½ Degree (88 Degrees.29’)
Last Depot (89 Degrees.32’)
South Pole
It is presumed they died from the severe cold and virtual starvation. The weather was unusually brutal for the March season—up to -47 degrees Fahr-- and the hard Barrier surface took a toll on the sledge runners they were man hauling; Evans, Oates and Bowers were extremely frost bitten; oil supply at Upper Barrier Depot was short (for unknown reasons) resulting in insufficient fuel for cooking and heating; and although they were on just-about full rations, food requirement at those temperatures was insufficient for the amount of energy they were exerting. It consisted of mainly biscuits, pemmican, butter, cocoa, sugar, and tea: 34.43 ounces daily per man.
Unlike Amundsen, Scott did not use dogs to haul his load all the way: rather he used mules and dogs and then man-hauled sledges on skis. He also had planned for a 4-man polar party having a 4-man tent , cooking supplies for 4, and 4 pairs of skis. But at the last minute he decided to include Seaman Evans, the strongest man in the expedition. This decision added to the suffering and demise of all. One man always had to walk pulling—and this for way over two months.
With three people left in the tent now on March 21, 1913--and too weak to haul the sledge in the cold--Wilson and Bowers were going to walk the 11 miles to One Ton Depot for rations. But a nine-day blizzard kept all three in the tent. They died by March 29.
From Cherry’s diary:
“Bill especially had died very quietly with his hands folded over his chest. Birdie (Bowers) also quietly. Oates’ death was a very fine one.’
I continue from Cherry’s chapter on The Search Journey and having found them:
“That scene can never leave my memory. We with the dogs had seen Wright turn away from the course by himself and the mule party swerve right-handed ahead of us. He had seen what he thought was a cairn, and then something looking black by its side. A vague kind of wonder gradually gave way to a real alarm. We came up to them all halted. Wright came across to us. ‘It is the tent.’ I do not know how he knew. Just a waste of snow: to our right the remains of one of last year’s cairns, a mere mound: and then three feet of bamboo sticking quite alone out of the snow and then another mound, of snow, perhaps a trifle more pointed. We walked up to it. I do not think we quite realized—not for very long—but someone reached up to a projection of snow, and brushed it away. The green flap of the ventilator of the tent appeared, and we knew that the door was below.
Two of us entered, through the funnel of the outer tent, and through the bamboos on which was stretched the lining of the inner tent. There was some snow—not much—between the two linings. But inside we could see nothing—the snow had drifted out the light. There was nothing to do but to dig the tent out. Soon we could see the outlines. There were three men here.
Bowers and Wilson were sleeping in their bags. Scott had thrown back the flaps of his bag at the end. His left hand was stretched over Wilson, his lifelong friend. Beneath the head of his bag, between the bag and the floor-cloth, was the green wallet in which he carried his diary. The brown books of diary were inside: and on the floor-cloth were some letters.
Everything was tidy. The tent had been pitched as well as ever, with the door facing down the sastrugi, the bamboos with a good spread, the tent itself taut and ship-shape. There was snow inside the inner lining. There were some loose pannikins from the cooker, the ordinary tent gear, the personal belongings and a few more letters and records—personal and scientific. Near Scott was a lamp formed from a tin and some lamp wick off a finnesko. It had been used to burn the little methylated spirit which remained. I think that Scott had used it to help him to write up to the end. I feel sure that he had died last—and once I had thought that he would not go so far as some of the others. We never realized how strong that man was, mentally and physically, until now.
We sorted out the gear, records, papers, diaries, spare clothing, letters, chronometers, finnesko, socks, a flag. There was even a book which I had lent Bill for the journey—and he had brought it back. Somehow we learnt that Amundsen had been to the Pole, and that they too had been to the Pole, and both items of news seemed to be of no importance whatever. There was a letter there from Amundsen to King Haakon. There were the personal chatty little notes we had left for them on the Beardmore—how much more important to us than all the royal letters in the world.
We dug down the bamboo which had brought us to this place. It led to the sledge, many feet down, and had been rigged there as a mast. And on the sledge were some more odds and ends—a piece of paper from the biscuit box: Bowers’s meteorological log: and the geological specimens, thirty pounds of them, all of the first importance. Drifted over also were the harnesses, ski and ski-sticks.
Hour after hours, so it seemed to me, Atkinson sat in our tent and read. The finder was to read the diary and then it was to be brought home—these were Scott’s instructions written on the cover. But Atkinson said he was only going to read sufficient to know what had happened—and after that they were brought home unopened and unread. When he had the outline we all gathered together and he read to us the Message to the Public, and the account of Oates’s death, which Scott had expressly wished to be known.
We never moved them. We took the bamboos of the tent away, and the tent itself covered them. An over them we built the cairn.
I do not know how long we were there, but when all was finished, and the chapter of Corinthians had been read, it was midnight of same day. The sun was dipping low above the Pole, the Barrier was almost in shadow. And the sky was blazing—sheets and sheets of iridescent clouds. The cairn and Cross stood dark against a glory of burnished gold.” Page 497.
I close this posting with--
Cherry’s selection of quotes at the beginning of Chapter Four LAND and Chapter Nine THE POLAR JOURNEY, respectively.
LAND
Beyond this flood a frozen continent
Lies dark and wilde, beat with perpetual storms
Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm land
Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems
Of ancient pile, all else deep snow and ice….
MILTON, Paradise Lost, II
THE POLAR JOURNEY
Come my friends,
Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
TENNYSON, Ulysses
NOTES:
TENNYSON’S LINE--To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield—was inscribed on a more permanent cross set on a hill before members of Scott’s last Antarctic Expedition left for New Zealand on the ship, the Terra Nova.
OIL SHORTAGE--The reason for a shortage of oil at the depot before where Scott died, is perhaps a result of paraffin creeping or seeping through the bung corks of the tins as they shook around on the sledges en route over rough places to the various depots.
WILSON--Scott’s life-long friend, was instrumental in getting Cherry accepted as a member of the Antarctic expedition.
GLOSSARY for two terms, taken from the book.
“Finnesko are boots made entirely of fur, soles and all.”
“Sastrugi are the furrows or irregularities formed on a snow plain by the wind. They may be a foot or more deep and as hard and as slippery as ice: they may be quite soft: they may appear as great inverted pudding bowls: they may be hard knots covered with soft powdery snow.” Page 599.
Thank you, Bob Goddess, for sharing this amazing story with us, and indirectly a piece of your Antarctic journey. We will return the book some day.
Until then, in our singular fashion, we too will follow our desire for knowledge and strive to give it some brush stroke of physical expression. We will sail beyond the sunset and strive and seek and find and not yield. We will march our own winter journeys to explore and reap reward in small discovery, be it only the colours of a new dawn on a distant shore. Perhaps, too, we will find a penguin's egg.
We wish the same for you.
Marilyn
Yacht Zulu
August 10, 2010
Bus drive along Vanua Levu’s Hibiscus coast; Ferry ride to Taveuni; Looking back in time; Living in Paradise; Flower arrangements; Massages; Tavoro waterfalls; Home grown music and goodbye song-There’s a Light; Images that I’ll take away.
Taveuni, Fiji—Garden Island.
The heavens have torn open. Torrential rain pours down relentlessly, incessantly. Water is all around me—falling from the skies in sheets and moving under me. Now the wind begins to howl, and the boat rocks gently to and fro. I light a candle. Mediterranean Fig. The waxy fragrance is deep, sweet, and fruity. This takes me back to Taveuni, Fiji, The Garden Island-- long after my visit--and I draw from the sound and scent and motion for words to describe. I am warm inside. And write from the Land of the Long White Cloud—New Zealand, drawing at the strings of memory.
Bus drive along Vanua Levu’s Hibiscus coast
It is 7:00 AM in the small town of Savusavu’s bus terminal. There is the Taveuni bus! We board it bound for the beautiful journey along Vanua Levu’s Hibiscus Highway. The road winds south east along the coast to a ferry landing. Here, we are to take the ferry across the Somosomo Strait east to—I believe—Somosomo on the northwest side of the island of Taveuni. Memory fades. All in all this is about a 4-hr journey.
The bus is about to leave, but Russ pushes the envelope as usual and runs to the small bakery to snag a coconut roll. I ask the driver to wait a minute. He starts pulling out, and just in time Russ gets back on. Some day he will miss the ride!
The driver pulls out into Savusavu traffic, makes a right up the hill, and curves around the point until we see the sea. We go east along the narrow, winding road. We are going to visit Russ’ Bellevue, Washington high school friend, Bob Goddess.
“What is Bob Goddess like?” I ask Russ. “You’ll see.” Russ responds--non-committal as usual.
I muse. Anyone who is a high school friend of Russ’ must be a combination of: anti-authority, liberal, gets into silly trouble, likes girls, not too disciplined in school, well read, intelligent, fearless, frivolous, knows it all, and takes on the world like a bite of an apple. I take this image with me
on the journey, unwrapped.
The bus stops and goes. Stops and goes along the bumpy road, picking up people and letting them off. All along there are peek-a-boo views of the turquoise-blue sea with white waves breaking on the reefs. Palms--windblown in curves—leaning gently. The ubiquitous Hibiscus flowers grace the gardens of the odd resort or picturesque homes painted in blues or pinks. Tropical lianas creep profusely. The sky is baby blue. It is a picture of a Fijian day moving by.
The bus stops again. A young boy in school uniform boards carrying a tiny baby under the arm pits like a bag of corn, little legs dangling in pink leggings, a gooey smile on her face. Chocolate brown eyes gleam bright as buttons.
We move back out on the road. Not far down, the bus stops again. The school boy hands the baby out the bus door to a smiling young woman—arms outstretched.
The bus starts out again. Chug-a-lug and a burst of exhaust fumes, then stops again. A young mother at the side of the road, with a small toddler hanging on her leg, passes a Tupperware of lunch to a passenger at the window. The young woman gets up and walks down the aisle to hand the Tupperware to a school girl. This is networking at its best. Always the people smile and laugh. They smile when they give and smile when they take. They are gentle, quiet spoken, underplayed, trusting.
I lean back and turn my head toward the coast. Always the sea calls and I reach out toward it—smelling the now tame Koro Sea. This time I drink in the perspective from land. I am moving along on wheels through tropical greenery. I smell the land. It is pungent and dank. It has a grounding effect on me. And I am lulled into relaxation as paradise passes by.
The bus slows down. Another is on the side of the road with a flat tire. What else is new in Fiji? All the passengers line the side of the narrow road. Patient. Another bus has reversed up, and the passengers look relieved as they begin to board. We ease by.
Not soon enough we stop at one of the many makeshift food stalls. They usually sell samosas, cake, orange juice that has been decantered into plastic bottles of various forms and sizes. Russ jumps off to get a piece of cake. “Can you get me a samosa?” I call to him out the window. In he gets as the bus rolls to a start, samosa in hand.
It is an Indian savoury about two inches-by-two, wrapped fried dough—like a small present-- with a filling of mostly potatoes and a trace of tuna. A bit greasy and I feel it is in free-fall down my gullet straight to the ankles. That should suffice.
Slow down—there is the bus that picked up the passengers who had disembarked from the first bus because of a flat tire. It now has a flat tire! The passengers are lined up again on the side of the road. Stop! They have to pile onto our bus this time. Pack them in. There aren’t any signs of frustration. Everyone smiles as they squeeze into standing room with boxes and bags. It’s all in the day’s ride. And not too soon we stop again and let them off at some small village.
Ferry ride to Taveuni
We’ve arrived at the Buca Bay ferry landing! The ferry approaches. It looks like a toy boat on the glistening waters. The sun shines in all its glory and slowly the people board. Again I am on the waters, headed for Taveuni, which is east of Savusavu and west of the Nanuku Passage, the main approach to Fiji if coming from the north.
The Taveuni bus has arrived at the Ferry landing in one piece.
This ferry is pulling in to Buca Bay. It looks like a toy boat on the glistening waters.
People choose their seats. One B-type personality Fijian takes up a whole bench and lies down—head on a pillow of crossed arms comfortably propped up by soft red luggage--to watch the action American movie. Nobody seems to mind as they take their places on the side seats. The ceiling is low and Russ crouches in, looking askance at the TV screen. He does not sit down before doing a thorough inspection, then finds a place outside on the deck
of the bow.
Passengers find their seats. One commandeers a whole bench as he stretches out to watch an action movie. Russ crouches below the low ceiling, look askance at the screen.
The Indo-Fijian lady collects tickets, then sits down right in front of the TV screen. She falls asleep and her head lolls back and forth in a jerking motion across the screen area, as if on a long elastic band.
I sit next to a Fijian man, who sports mirrored sunglasses to give that dashing look. It is the first Fijian I have met who has a somewhat disgruntled expression.
“She owns this boat and does not care that the passengers who pay the fare can’t see the show, because she sits in front of the TV and sleeps.”
I had to laugh. I told him I would take a picture of her so she can see herself blocking everyone’s view. Then I took a picture of him too.
“Do you have a sister?” He asked after awhile.
“I laughed, and answered yes. But that she was in Africa.” That stumped him and no further inquiries were made.
I think he was looking for a long ferry ride right completely out of the country. Smile.
Then we laughed some more. And the little toy boat—skippered by the mildest mannered man—made her way through the myriad of reefs and crystal clear waters. I leaned out of the window, across the narrowest of decks and gazed down, holding my breath at the shallow waters and reefs below. Not too long and we eased into deep water. I sat down, sunshine on my shoulders and a light breeze through my hair to drink in the rest of the journey. No sooner and we arrive at Taveuni.
This Fijian passenger was somewhat frustrated by the owner of the ferry who fell asleep in front of the TV, obstructing his view of the action movie.
The mild-mannered skipper guided us through the myriad of reefs in crystal
clear waters.
Looking back in time
“Where is Bob?” I asked Russ. “I don’t know.” Russ said unconcerned.
“Who are you waiting for?” The skipper of the boat asked after everyone had left. “Bob Goddess.” I said.
“I know who he is.” I live up that road. You can go and wait there if you like in the shade.
“There he is.” Russ said with a smile.
Bob parked his car and sauntered over with a big smile, very much at ease with himself. He was tall and--like red wine—full bodied with silver mustache and trimmed beard, and short side hair that engaged a thin plaited pony tail. He wore a carved pendant of a fish.
He cut an image of a world diving consultant that he was—for 37 years and in 54 countries, but also he could have joined Johnny Depp’s ship in Pirates of the Caribbean. All that was missing was the parrot on his shoulder.
Barely the handshake over, and the chaps started talking as if no time had elapsed since their escapades of Bellevue, Washington days. So for the rest of the visit, the home boyz talked on and I took to being an onlooker.
I merged a photo I took of Bob in Taveuni, Fiji (left) with a portrait done of
him years back in New Orleans, USA (right). Looking back to the
future—pirate days personified.
Living in paradise
We drove up to Bob and Tamy’s home—between Naselesele Point and Matei Point-- on the Northeast side of the island. Tamy, Bob’s partner, came up and gave me a welcome smile and kiss. Her manner is understated and intuitive.
We were about to experience living in paradise for three days. The sign said welcome to Marau Vale, which translates to Happy House. Their home epitomizes the South Pacific with a huge dolphin sculpture and tropical flower arrangements to welcome us; walls of tapa cloth, masks, shells necklaces and so many more pieces of art from visits afar.
They usually travel overseas for three or so months during the Fijian cyclone season. Try going to Antarctica on a 26-day cruise? Would I stow away? Affirmative! I’m still reading the book he leant Russ: The Worst Journey in the World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard. Antarctic 1919 to 1913. It chills the bones.
“It is hard for us to decide where to go, because we have been everywhere.” Bob says with a mischievous smile on his face. Such a hard life they have!
We walk through to the huge verandah that looks out over a manicured garden with sculptures made from overturned fern roots adorned with shell necklaces; show stopper Hibiscus, Daisies, and varied-coloured greenery, Date palms and other palms leaning over toward the azure sea. A yellow sand beach below with a ‘tinny’ (dinghy ) beckons as it bobs at a mooring. The islands of Rabi are silhouetted in the distance.
Swim time; shower outside time with a pebble rock wall shoulder high to allow for a ceiling of sun and sky and trees; croquet; sundowners of iced pinja colados under the thatched ‘lapa’ (African name in lieu of not knowing the Fijian name); dinner of steaks, sautéed onions, mashed potatoes and spinach fettuccine for veggie me.
The cherry on the top was Tamy getting the telescope out and zooming in on Saturn’s rings. That moment was golden for me--a trip into the galaxy from ground zero paradise. What a gift to share.
All of this was a starter with never-ending stories of “remember when.” What more could we have asked for from gracious hosts.
The front of Bob and Tamy’s home they call Marau Vale, Happy House. It is
on the Northeast side of Taveuni Island, Fiji and overlooks the azure sea.
The rock wall to the left encloses an outside hot and coldwater shower.
This dolphin greets you as you enter their home, with stunning flower
arrangements to complement.
This shell necklace, I believe from New Guinea or the Solomon islands, is an
eye catcher. I want to get one like this!
Tamy, Bob’s partner, pictured on the verandah of their home.
Shells decorate the coffee table on the veranda.
One of many, many fern root sculptures with shell necklaces that ornament their garden.
Their humble front yard view--Breathtaking!!
Palms criss-cross the vista from their garden. The thatched ‘lapa’ gives shade for relaxation: light meals, sundowners, massages.
A meditation bench. Ohmmmmmm.
The ‘tinny’ (dinghy) bobs at its mooring. The beach calls below. This is where Tamy walks in the morning, sipping her cappuccino. Heaven!
I believe that is the island of Rabi to the left. It, too, calls out to me. Perhaps we will make the journey next year.
Croquet time with Shorty the dog acting as referee.
Boys will be boys! Russ (left) and Bob (right)--friends from Bellevue, Washington high-school days long ago.
Bob took our dinner requests by email before we arrived: steaks ordered from Suva for all but me.
Spinach fettuccini with fresh tomatoes and parmesan cheese for me. Yum!
Flower arrangements
If you could dream of creamy pastels and bright colours of yellow and orange and deep rose on beds of green—flower arrangements that actually make the heart beat faster, that provide a deep sense of breathtaking beauty. That hit you like starburst. That make you double take. That imbue serenity.
And then awake to see them morning after morning. Still, in real life, within reach, and created as if for you alone. I stop every time to envision the creative sense that some heart and mind and hands had for composition. The care that person took to make an arrangement that reflects love:
sublime, moving, calm, quiet is the feeling I get. You get the message, I do love flowers!
Thank you Tavui. Always I carry these with me as unspoken gifts. Galleries of fulfilled moments. Satiated.
Then in the garden I walk alone and capture singular elements for the making of imaginative arrangements—Hibiscus, Daisy, a varied-coloured leaf, and Date palm--beauty unspoken.
Words cannot describe these arrangements, so I share them with you without caption. Drink in the colours and fragrance.
Tavui arranges the flowers for the home and guests amongst other creative tasks. Thank you Tavui!
Massages
“Do you want to have a massage?” Bob asks with a look that tells of satisfaction from experience. “My staff-- Maureen and Tavui --are trained and give massages to guests at the various properties in the area I manage.”
(If you want help from Bob with accommodation or massage try www.fiji-rental-acommodations.com.)
It does not take long for Russ to jump at the offer. His ‘salty dog’ skipper muscles are in need of loosening up.
I am a little more conservative, but agree to saunter down to the ‘lapa’ where the massage tables are set up for an hour each. Maureen will massage my Crocodile Dundee body, and Tavui will massage Russ.
Before we started, I wanted to take a picture of Tavui massaging Russ. He looked up with a smile for the Camera, then quickly jumped to task as Maureen, who oversees him, admonished:
“Concentrate!!”
I had to smile. No picture for now!
The breeze kissed our bodies, and the palm leaves gently rustled, and the magic hands pressed deep into our tight muscles and we both succumbed to the epitome of relaxation until the daylight died.
The crown moment was the outside shower as twilight set in. We sauntered in, in an altered state with Bob to greet us with his knowing look. Yes we enjoyed that!
It is time for dinner. Rockfish in coconut milk?
This is where we got our massage: under the shade of the thatched roof with a gentle breeze kissing our bodies and palm leaves quietly rustling.
Bob’s staff people, Maureen and Tavui, have the magic hands.
Russ on the level, while Tavui starts massaging his legs. Heaven is falling.
The hour is up, twilight lingers, and I capture those beautiful Fijians who bestowed the gift of ultra relaxation—a one-hour massage. Thank you!
Maureen weighs the rock fish she will prepare in coconut milk for dinner.
Tavoro waterfalls
“Why don’t you stay another day.” Bob suggests. “And we go to the three-tier waterfalls of Tavoro in the Bouma parkland.”
Yes, another day in paradise sounds like a turnover. “We’d love to.” We say gleefully without missing a beat.
Drive to the stall at the Airport for samosas--the Indian wraps with filling of potato and a smattering of tuna. Grab some bottles of mango-orange juice and a few pieces of fruit, and hop in the car with water bottles and bathing suits.
In no time at all we arrive. We head up the mowed grass path past a field of Taro plants with big green leaves, over a bridge with a copper-coloured stream meandering through a tropical nirvana, intermittent with the wax-like red flowers of the ginger plant.
We’re at the first-tier falls. It cascades down with narrow force into a green pool on a rocky floor. In I plunge. I cannot wait. The others walk on. There is more to come.
Up, up we go. A vista of palm trees by the hundreds stretches out before us on spindly trunks. The last cyclone has stripped them of coconuts. Papayas, too, were stripped from trees, and fish were impacted by the wild winds and seas pummeling the reefs. It is easy to imagine what forces a cyclone can unleash to damage whatever stands in its way. Heaven forbid I stand in the way some day.
I stop awhile. It is all too beautiful. I take a picture of Tamy with a flower in her hair—‘South Seas Traveler’ embroidered on her cap and heart. We stop to rest on a well-placed bench with a boutique view of the first falls from on high. It plunges almost in slow motion down through a window of tropical greenery to the pool below.
“What the hell! Another photograph?” I imagine Bob thinking from the ‘disdainful’ expression on his face—stick at his side. Although sensitive, I aim my camera and shoot once again. “Does it never end??” I hear him think. “No, it doesn’t. I can’t help myself. Pictures tell the story.” I hear my retort echoing back.
It is all so beautiful: powder blue skies with white puffy trade wind clouds, blue seas, islands in the distance--silhouettes. We cross a river with a natural bridge of slippery boulders. Russ skips ahead, Bob jaunts across holding the rope with stick in hand. Where did Tamy go?
I hear the birds. And stand still to listen awhile. The sign back a way said: The birds of Tavoro. They own this land. How fitting the songs they sing.
It is a bit of a down-hill walk, and then you can hear the water falling: plunging with narrow force down the rock face into another cool, green pool. Russ stands on the boulders to drink it all in at the edge. Again, I don’t count to three before I am in the water--Aquarius child that I am. The cold water on my sun-drenched skin is soooo refreshing. It shocks the senses into utter enjoyment.
Hmmm. Where are Bob and Tamy? There they are at a picnic bench tucked into the shade above the rocks. We join them to savour the samosas and thirst-quenching cool drinks. The appetite is met and thirst quenched.
“I don’t think we will go up to the third-tier falls.” Bob suggests. “They are not all that different from what we have seen.”
With fun in the sun, time has had a way of moving on. So down we go--rewinding the beauty of the journey through the magic of tropical greenery and falling water. And, yes Bob, one more photograph of the home boyz shooting the veritable breeze.
I book-end this memorable day with a green leaf.
Up we start along the mowed lawn path. The beginning of the walk.
A field of Taro leaves, I believe.
A copper-coloured stream meanders through a tropical nirvana.
Tavoro falls.
Red wax-like flowers of the ginger plant dot the dense tropical greenery.
A vista of palm trees by the hundreds stretches out before us on spindly trunks. The last cyclone has stripped them of coconuts.
Tamy with a flower in her hair—‘South Seas Traveler’ embroidered on her cap and heart.
Looking down from on high on the boutique view of the first-tier falls dropping through greenery into the cool pool below.
We stop to rest. “What the hell! Another photograph?” I imagine Bob thinking from the ‘disdainful’ expression on his face—stick at his side. Yes another photograph. Can’t help myself.
Powder blue skies with white puffy trade wind clouds, blue seas, islands in the distance.
Bob jaunts across the stream, holding the rope with stick in hand. Brave heart he is with a sore knee.
How fitting a sign as I stop to listen to the bird song of Tavoro. They do own this land.
Russ stops to look at the second-tier—of three—falls.
Aquarius child that I am, I can’t wait to plunge into the cooling waters.
Back down at the first-tier falls the home boyz shoot the virtual breeze.
I book end this day of beauty with a green leaf.
Home grown music
Bob has a magnanimous spirit about him. Like his father, who raised money to fill a sparse library in Taveuni with books, he supports a small group of island musicians amongst other generosities. He does this by letting them play their music in his garage as often as they like.
He also was instrumental in managing the production of a CD called Sunrise in Paradise, Taveuni Magic. The music was recorded live I believe on the patio of his home.
The inside CD cover says ‘They sing love songs and pray that someday you and all your friends come to visit and experience the magic of Taveuni Island.’
The musicians on this CD are: Waisale Naiqama, Rupeni Tamami, Saiasi Nauta Tukana, Isireli Lawakeli, and Setareki Vaierau. Try to remember these names!
His staff quarters join the garage and on a night of practice, while the music plays, Fijians walk in and out to the staff quarters for water to fill their plastic kava bowls. They sit in a circle on a mat on the floor and play into the early morning hours--all this time drinking bilo (cup)-full upon bilo-full of kava. The effect is mind and tongue numbing, although I have only sipped a cup here and there at major celebratons. Russ has imbibed more, but not enough to describe the feeling.
This night, to show our appreciation, Russ bought FJD$20 of kava—ground from the root—and put in something like separate large tea bags. A little different from the capsules you can get in an American health store for calming the nerves.
Thirty years ago when we visited the Pacific Islands, the men would drink kava all night from a ‘tanoa’—a large wooden bowl carved from a single piece of ‘vesi’ or hardwood. A young maiden was tasked with preparing the drink and serving the men until they were in a state of quiet stupor. They kept on making music through the night until the sun came up. Our Tongan friend, Katalina, said she used to have to do this and was not fond of the role.
Now, in this modern age, the men buy kava powder in these tea-like bags and make it themselves. Instant kava. The maidens have been liberated! Yay! Each one takes a turn at pouring water over the bags and squeezing them until the water looks like it has been taken from a muddy river. Drink on men, and some women too. Smile. Graciously pass the ‘bilo’. No talking. Just listen to the music. And when one gets tired of preparing the Kava they pass the task on to another, who accepts without need for words.
I took a bad video in bad lighting of the drinking circle of song, where Russ joined in with passing the ‘bilo’. I will try to include it. If you don’t find it, know I did not succeed.
The last night in the garage my heart was filled to overflowing. Bob’s third staff member is one of the musicians—sadly I do not recall his name, Isireli? He sang There’s a Light, the Fijian ‘goodbye song’ for Russ and I. This song is often sung in honor of visitors who are about to leave, wishing
that they return to this island in the sun.
Look up the words, if you can, of There’s a Light-- the Fijian ‘goodbye song’. Some fragments are--
“Someday I’ll return to Fiji, to my island in the sun. Once again I’ll return to Taveuni holding hands with my loved one…….dadadadee……..never more will I sail away……the Fiji isles are calling…….and I’m returning home to stay.”
Too bad this photo is so dark. This musician had a voice of an angel.
Images that I’ll take away
I will carry all these images with me of our visit to Taveuni. But the two I will especially keep are--the Bellevue high school friends from long ago deep in conversation, and the sun setting on the calm sea, signifying time passing by. Friendship carved at a young age remains for all time.
The Bellevue, Washington high school friends meeting in Taveuni Island, Fiji.
Sunset high up on a restaurant patio signifying time has passed by.
I’ve also decided the home boyz are both a combination of the unwrapped attributes I mentioned up front. OK I’ll leave a few out like: gets into silly trouble, likes girls, not too disciplined in school.
Definitely they get credit for being well read, intelligent, fearless, frivilous, know it all, and take on the world like a bite of an apple. This is them now wrapped.
It has been a wonderful visit at Mauru Vale—Happy House. Thank you Bob and Tamy, and your staff: Maureen, ‘Tuvui’, and the beautiful gentle man who sang us the parting song, There’s a Light.
Now the rain has stopped, I put my pen down, and blow the candle out. Even though we have sailed so far away from Taveuni, the Fiji isles are calling and soon we’ll return for another magic stay.
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