Savusavu, Fiji

October 21, 2009
Bula! hello! We arrive; Bus ride to LaBasa; The hospital; Bollywood night at the copra shed garden; Return to the hospital; The rainforest; Capsize, not quite; Savusavu marketplace; The French arrive

Note: This posting should have come after After the Earthquake, the Tsunami Hit.

Bula! Hello! We arrive

Bula! Hello in Fijian. Expect a huge smile. Perhaps some gaps between the teeth. The people show happiness. They wave. They laugh. What a pleasure to be so welcomed.

We virtually fly down from Pago Pago–-670 NM in 4 days. At one point we hit 10 knots! One day out from the sad destruction of the September 29 earthquake and Tsunami, we hear the earth rumble out at sea.

Brrrrrrrr. For about a minute. The hull vibrates. Russ immediately wakes from a sleep and catapults out into the cockpit where I stand straight up!

“An earthquake!” I exclaim.

We both are in awe. Never have we felt an earthquake at sea. I listened to Beethoven as the earth quaked in San Francisco and was at dinner as the earth quaked in Seattle and was in the world’s largest factory (Boeing) in WA state as the earth quaked in Everett. But never have I experienced one at sea.

From endless depths the quake makes the hull and mast vibrate and shake. Quite amazing!!!

The wind picks up and Zulu flies as if her sails are wings. It seems like a wink of an eye and we make the turn down Nanuka passage into Fijian waters. The night is inky black.

“Watch for ships!” Russ says. The AIS isn’t working for some reason.

“There’s a ship!” I exclaim.

“No, that’s the moonlight.” Russ corrects.

I smile. The slither of a crescent moon casts what light she can on the dark waters.

I take watch till dawn—point the boat toward the point of Taveuni Island and wake Russ up to take over. Into the warmth of my starboard bunk. Deep sleep!

Russ changes course again—sailing toward Savusavu on the Island of Vanua Levu. The wind blows hard and the skies are grey. See the reefs in the distance. See the marker. Thank goodness for the marker. Round the reefs and make for the “Marina.”

“Port Control, this is the SV Zulu.” Russ calls on the VHF.

“This is the Marina Waitui.” A calm voice responds. Can we be of assistance?”

“Yes we need to check in to Fiji.” Russ responds.

“We can help you with that.”

Soon a dinghy is speeding toward us—Aseri at the helm. He helps us tie up to a mooring with a Colgate smile. And no sooner are we snug and safe, he returns to bring the immigration and health officials on board. And later the agriculture
representative.

These people are bigger than usual—with big flat bare feet they board Zulu. All it is, is a matter of filling out forms. We can pay the fees the next day. And off they go waving with thumbs up and smiles in Aseri’s dinghy.

That was easy!! Smile.

Savusavu. The hidden paradise. That is what Savusavu is referred to as. A soft, gentle beauty. A quiet town with quaint storefronts.

We go ashore to find Joe and Dubis off SV Jubilee--whom we’d met before in Tahiti and Samoa-- sitting on a patio of a restaurant eating a curry dinner. Welcome to Fiji, we clink our glasses of Fijian Bitter beer.


Tied to a mooring in Savusavu, the hidden paradise, snug and safe.


Savusavu, the hidden paradise.


Aseri from Waitui Marina taking Mary from Immigration and the agricultural representative back after processing Zulu into Fiji. That was easy!


Another shot of the agricultural representative leaving. Where else would an official act so friendly.


Waitui Marina, Savusavu.


Bargain Box (Fiji) Ltd. All clothes $3!!


Pots and things. Short and sweet.


Vishal’s fashionable wear, with emphasis on fashionable.

Bus ride to LaBasa

The next morning I jump at the opportunity to go with Joe and Dubis to LaBasa Town (pronounced Lombassa). A six-hour RT bus ride with open windows and an Indo-Fijian cowboy for a driver.


Joe and Dubis off SV Jubilee on the bus to LaBasa Town.

Dubis is from Columbia and speaks little English. She is about 27 years old with black, curly hair. Her cheek bones are high and eyes dark brown. Her mouth is pronounced and her body diminutive. She has the look of a native SA Indian.

She met Joe in Cartagena and has been sailing with him for a year. Joe is retired Navy, about 55, with the palest of blue eyes. He’s spent 15 years or more on submarines, working in the Engine rooms and as a result, is hard of hearing.

“What did you say?” He says cupping his hand over his right ear. I’ve got to get my hearing aid back.

His hair is sandy brown. He is tall with a medium built frame and is gentle—a gentleman. He’s been sailing since 1990 and he’s been through I don’t know how many hurricanes and the Tsunami in Pago, and has come through them all intact.

“Luck. Plain luck.” He says as he smiles and his blue eyes have a glint of disbelief in them.

Dubis is usually arm-in-arm with Joe—bordering on tree frog on a branch.

We meet at 7:00 AM and board the bus. At first the bus winds its way through the outskirts of town. Children in neat uniforms embark and disembark for school. Then once we are barely on the outskirts, away we go at a crazy speed.

“This is a Fijian roller coaster ride.” Princesee, an Indu-Fijian student, offers her opinion seeing the fear grip me as we tailgate cars and careen down steep zig zag curves.

The bus driver’s assistant helps people board and store their goods in the sides of the bus: big clumps of Taro, bags of coconuts, personal bags.

Through the tiny villages, poor but picturesque, always with a church at the center, we stop and start. My Fijian journey.

People sleep. Little kiddies eat junk food. Babies nurse, then sleep. The wind blows endlessly. Hold on to your hats!!!

The scenery is absolutely beautiful. Soft. Undulating. Chug chug chug up the steep hills with rainforests and green steep valleys and mountains, and the bay in the far distance. Each stop is a National Geographic photo opportunity.

Vendors sell peanuts and peas etc., from the side of the road when the bus stops.

“Peanuts, peas!” They call out in high pitched voices. “Peanuts, peas.”

Chapattis, homemade juice decantered into an assortment of sprite and coke bottles, and watermelon are more items for sale.

“Chapattis!” The Indian woman eagerly calls, wrapped in a sheer red sari – eyes tired, expectant expression.

“Watermelon!” the Fijian lady calls quietly—less on the front lines. She gently pushes her Tupperware up toward the passengers with a sad face. Pleading with her “friend” in the bus to buy a piece.

No luck today. Nobody is buying watermelon. Then when the bus pulls away—she waves and smiles a big toothless smile.

Chug chug chug up the last hill and then down we speed to the dryer side of the island where the fields of sugar cane blow in the breeze and the red earth bares itself in brilliant contrast to the green.


School children in uniform disembark from the bus and walk the dusty road to their classrooms.


A country home with cloth shutters.


A last view of the bay as the bus rides on higher and higher.


Another country home in the cool of the mountains.


Higher and higher the bus chugs on.


This is the wet side of the mountain, with dense green tropical growth.


Princesee, a student, looks out the window. She had told me that this was a roller coaster ride. And indeed it is.


A house and horse all alone in the country.


See the simple bus stop. Passengers carry taro and mats and boxes.


A close up of the taro plant. They are taking these to the market place in LaBasa.


A young woman with her little baby poses for me to take a picture. I have been admiring the little doll from within the bus.


Passengers nod off as others take time to board the bus.


These little school boys have a long way to travel. They have fun on the ride.


A little two-toned home on the side of the road with a mountain for a backdrop.


The bus stop at the Rainforest Lodge. This is where the rangers and their little boy board the bus.


The ranger’s little boy is deep in thought as the bus chugs off toward Waisali reserve.


He looks up at his Dad in awe. Smile. Look at these big eyes in wonderment.


Rich red clay from which they handmake the Dari or Kava pots.


The bus driver’s assistant helps load the Taro and other goods.


The little boy waits patiently to board the bus. He is in his socks for a more comfortably ride.


The lady pays the fare for her goods to be delivered to LaBasa market place.


A roadside Indian vendor smiles for my camera. She sells chapattis and peanuts and peas.


Chapattis, juice, peanuts! Please buy something from us.


We descend to the dry side of the islands where the sugar cane grows.


A field of sugar cane.


How much closer to the overloaded truck could we get?


The gentle Fijian man passes the time of day away.


The coming and going of the bus is the height of interest for these little boys.


City girl is close to arriving in Labasa. See Dubis asleep on Joe’s lap in the seat behind her.


Thumbs up. We made it to LaBasa in one piece!

The bus pulls into a dusty terminus and disgorges its passengers. There is a bottleneck as they stoop to take out their taro, and coconuts, and personal bags.

The street is busy with cars, and wall-to-wall cluttered shops, windows showing wares, and bold names advertised: Hong Kong Fashion, Meenoos.

Joe goes off to find computer paraphernalia. Dubis and I peruse the fashion “houses” of LaBasa. Indian saris and shirts and pants glitter and flow softly as they are wrapped around the mannequins. Ornate. Rich. Fake semi-precious stones sewn in. Some of them run $500 US. Others $7.

We thread our way through the dark stores with an entourage of up to 4 Hindu sales ladies. Plastic bangles, incense, bolts of cloth, shoes. I’m drawn to a green Sari. But walk out without buying anything. Where am I going to wear a Sari in NZ?


The main street of LaBasa Town.


Dubis and Joe disembark, happy to have arrived.


Out comes the Taro. How to distinguish which pile belongs to whom? Each person knows.


Take your money from Colonial Easy Bank. Smile.


Saris and other fancy Indian attire on sale.


Fancy wedding saris.


I have my eye on the green sari, second from right. But let it go. Where would I wear it in NZ?

People all seem to have purpose and direction. Here comes Joe. He didn’t buy anything either. And surprise! Dubis, too, struck out.

“I laaaaik to looook. N para, if I see it eeez good and ‘sheep’, I buy.” Dubis says with a big smile. And laughs. She has a different little miniskirt or shorts or khaki or jean pants on every day. It seems like purple is her favourite colour. And heavy perfume is a must.

“There’s a vegetarian restaurant.” Joe points out. “Want to have lunch there?”

“Sure.” I venture thinking all the restaurants look slightly below my standard. Not that I’m Queen Sheba.

What should I have? Potato curry, dahl, rice with veggies and raisins, paneer, chutney, samosas, other things. I choose the rice with a little paneer, one samosa and some other deep fried savory item.

“Hmmmm, not too good.” I struggle to get the greasy, soggy food down, and have to buy a coke of all things to help out.

I’m glad to be back on the bus. I board early and watch the vendors at work.

“Peanuts. Peas. Peanuts. Peas. Peanuts!!!” A crippled man sings out. Legs bowed and bent.

“Peanuts. Peas.” Another man chimes in as if to harmonize. It is the competition.

The crippled man goes around to another bus. Passengers eat corn on the cob and throw the cob out the window. Pigeons then peck at the left over cob lying in the dust and oil of the bus terminal.

Brrrrr the engine starts up. Our cowboy driver is revived and ready to make a dash for it. Three hours of chug, chugging up the hills then attacking the down hills at hair raising speed—rounding blind curves on the wrong side of the road. Fun in the sun.

Joe has his hand on his heart and Dubis has her arm snugly intertwined with his like a rainforest liana. Hang on!!! Please get me there safely Lord. I don’t want to die in a bus accident. At last we’re on the flat, approaching Savusavu. Hallelujah, there are some speed bumps. Sigh of relief. We disembark and Joe smiles, holding on to Dubis.

“That was fun!”

“It sure was I laugh, tail numb, and heart slowly returning to a normal beat.”

“I’m alive!!!!! That is what's fun!”

The Hospital

I wake up in the night with burning, itching eyes. It feels as if an emery board or sandpiper is rubbing over them. I spill Gentomycin eye drops.

When the Agriculture inspector boarded Zulu on arrival, a mountain of a man, I noticed his eyes were red and weeping. He had a folded handkerchief he used to wipe his eyes with and then would clamp it in his mouth, folded, while he put the form back into his file. He also rubbed his eyes, and smeared his hands across them. When I emerged through the companionway after working with big Mary, the immigration officer, he extended his hand for a shake. I shook it half heartedly and must have touched my eyes before washing my hands.

Voila! The infection is transmitted. Perhaps. A bit far fetched maybe. But still.

I walk to the hospital, about 4 miles RT and up a steep hill. I find myself in the ward, which looks bare bones worn at the edges, bordering on dirty. The nurse redirects me to Outpatient. I sit on a bench on the verandah and a sweet Fijian nurse says” It won’t be long. When this man is finished, then you go in.” She smiles sweetly.

“Ok it is your turn.” She comes out to let me know.

The doctor was a handsome young Indo-Fijian, who sits at very small desk that looks more like a vanity tale, in a very small office. I tell him my story and he asks “Was this man Fijian?”

Not wanting to stoke any coup fires, I said it would not be fair for me to point any fingers. He smiles and said the wind with sailing could also irritate the eyes.

Without examining them, he calls the pharmacy and prescribes Optomycin. That was it. No exam, no charge.

I knock at the little window of the Pharmacy and the Indo-Fijian has my drops ready.

“Two drops every 6 hours for 7 days.” he says as if he has a mouth full of hot curry. No charge for this too. I walk down the hill in disbelief. A far cry from the exorbitant, elitist, broken USA health system.

Bollywood night at the copra shed garden

Russ and I walk into the adjacent garden at the Copra shed for the Bollywood evening: drinks, dinner, Indian dance and fashion show, and unbeknownst an auction to raise dollars for tourism. But we are the tourists!!! So hand over the shekels.

Joe and Dubis are with us and we buy a couple of bottles of wine and seat ourselves in a semi-circle under a tree, facing the stage and waterfront.

Local Indo-Fijians and Fijians, Ozzies, Kiwis, and other visitors start filtering in. It is definitely a dress up night. Exotic saris in turquoises, reds, greens, pinks; glittering ear rings; necklaces; high, high heeled shoes; coiffure hairstyles are headliners. Who could look their best floating around the garden with drinks in hand and sparkling conversation and smiles is the name of the game.

The backdrop is enchanting: lights and lanterns in the trees, tiki flames. The stage is lit up Bollywood fashion: pink and blue blinking lights and balloons bordering on gaudy. A circle of musicians sit on the lawn playing sitar music and drums. The dinner buffet is late in starting and the wine is taking effect.

The MC takes the stage. He’s a tall, slender Oz with thinning hair, white shorts and shirt a la Colonial style with white bobby socks and shoes.

“We’re running a little late with dinner, so we’ll start with a few dance events, this lady has organized.” He says.

‘This lady’ is a beautiful young Indian (Hindu) woman he does not have the decency, class, or grace to introduce by name and background. Nor does he even invite her onto the stage.

“I was not expecting a change in schedule.” She came back from the sideline. “But will get some dancers ready as soon as I can.” So eloquent.

The dancers come on stage within 10 minutes—young girls—students. Each event is set to high-pitched music and the dancers look a cross between puppets on a string, mimes, and whirling dervishes. It is amateur, but you have to appreciate best effort.

Russ as usual loads up his plate at the buffet: he brought me a few soggy samosas in a sauce as I was not participating in the unknown meats and leaves and other native concoctions.

More people floating around with drinks, small talk with yachties from Seattle, and Australians from the Sunshine coast, decked out in an ornate Sari with glittering bodice, hair sprayed stiffly in place, face lifted to the ears.

“I want you to know this is my sister, not my wife the Ozzie informs us. Crikey, I’ve about had enough of this music.” He exclaims with nose as red as a stop light.

An Indo-Fijian threads his way through the crowd taking actual mug shot videos of each person present. There is no subtlety. It is camera in your face time. Hilarious.

The musicians are filing out with instruments in hand as if to appease the culture-void Ozzies. Then the dance events start up again full force. A little Fijian girl in a pair of white ¾-length tights and glittering pale yellow fitted stretch top that comes down to her thighs starts jumping up and down near the stage in time to the music, like a fuzzy wuzzy doll on springs.

She does not stop and becomes the star of the night. For a few events she comes onto side stage and mimics the dancers very effectively. She dances bare feet and cannot be all but 4 years old.

Mr. insipid MC acknowledges the little girl and invites her on stage, but she just stands and stares at him. He then points to ‘the lady’ --still not inviting her onto the stage in acknowledgement for the fashion show--to display costumes from various parts of India. Before stepping down, he holds the toffee out of prizes to be won at the auction to follow.

It is time to leave Bollywood!! Enough is enough. We leave the lights and lanterns and glitter behind, and find our dinghy bobbing quietly at the dock. Russ dips the oars into still waters and we make for Zulu safe at anchor.

Return to the hospital

I have another reason to visit the hospital on a weekday: to pay the health fee for entering Fiji. Health smealth. All we did was fill out a form. Again, I arrive at the top of the hill looking for the clinic. A van pulled up and the nurse said: “Ask that man.”

That man was the senior doctor of the hospital and he recognizes me from the Bollywood night fund raising event of a few evenings ago. He had taken videos and had captured each face in attendance. He has an elephant memory. Smile.

“You want to see the video?” he asks.

“Maybe another time.” And I let him know my purpose for being there.

“How did you get here?” He asks seeing I have no vehicle.

“I walked.” I say.

He gets a shocked expression on his face. "How old are you?" He still can’t believe I walked.

“Ancient .” I reply and he laughs. “Exercise. I have to exercise.” I say smiling.

“I am running education programs for Fijians to influence them to prevent heart problems by exercising, but it is an uphill battle.” He says and changes his focus.

He accompanies me to the Health Office. The snag is Russ forgot to bring the paperwork ashore, so I am without record.

This seems to put the office workers in a predicament. What to do? They have blank stares on their faces—unspoken questions.

“Just give her a receipt. And put Yacht Zulu on it.”The doctor makes an executive decision. And the office workers go to work completing the transaction. $37.50c. Finito.

Then the doctor invites me into his office. I think to see the video. The desk was cluttered with helter skelter paper work: how to prevent heart attacks. Open packaging on surrounding chairs. The window looked out onto a picturesque hilltop.

He then proceeds to show me the map of Vanua Levu and tells me that he was from the poorest district and canvasses me for $ for computers for the school.

“Perhaps I could organize getting some old computers from US.” That was a far cry, but I thought of Boeing surplus.

He gives me a type written formal letter re the fund raiser and says “All the school children are fighting to raise the most money. The one that wins will be crowned Queen. He smiles big at this unique idea.

“They don’t know this!” He beams again. What about the boys I thought? Would one of them be crowned Queen too? Oh how I wish I COULD find a computer to contribute.

Before leaving I brought up the lack of good manners the MC at the Bollywood night had for not introducing the lady who put the whole dance event together, or even ask her to come up on the stage.

“That lady is my wife the MC was referring to as ‘this lady’. She is a school teacher and put the whole show together with one week’s notice.” He says.

“Why would he not introduce her by name? I ask.

“That’s what they are like here.” He says unfazed. The Colonials still dream they are above us.

The rainforest

Let’s go to the rainforest. Pack a picnic: fruit, cheese, crackers, chocolates. Catch the LaBasa town bus at 7:30 AM and get off at Waisali.

Oh oh! The same Indian ‘cowboy’ bus driver is at the wheel. He even has the same shirt on. Russ has the window seat this time.

Off we go. Gingerly through Savusavu, picking up and leaving off the schoolchildren. Chug chug chug up the steep hills.

Ready teddy down we go gearing up for full speed ahead down the hill. The bus suddenly swerves. There’s a hair raising sound of metal on tar. A flat front tire. Wobble wobbly, swerve to a stop.


The bus has a flat tire and comes to an interest stop from a hair raising speed.


A confab takes place on how to change the tire. Of course no safety wedge is put behind the tire.

I’m getting out as quick as I can. We are on a down hill. No wedges are placed in front of the tires to prevent a run away. Turn the bolts the wrong way. The assistant figures that out . They both crawl under the front-end of the bus to jack it up. Spell danger! Another bus is coming the opposite way and stops to help. Its fixed! The spare is bald as an eagle.

“Isn’t the tire too smoother?” I ask? “No that is a good one!!” The driver responds smiling. Sure!!!

Not soon enough we arrive at the top of the world and disembark at the Waisali reserve.


Waisali reserve. This is where the ranger and his little son disembark.


A beautiful far-reaching vista stretches across the horizon.

A beautiful far-reaching vista stretches across the horizon. The rangers hop off the bus too. I recognize the sweetest little big-eyed boy from my previous trip to LaBasa Town. I had photographed him on the bus previously.


The ranger gets off with his son and I recognize the sweet little chap from my previous bus trip to LaBasa.


He gets a new perspective of me through the binoculars, so that I look like I am far, far away.

While Russ pays the entrance fee to the rainforest, the little boy goes with marked purpose toward the binoculars on the shelf, hurriedly he removes them from the case and looks at me through them so I look to be way far away. Smile. I take more pictures of him. We smile and laugh.

It has been a dry summer without much rain. So the walk down to the stream and back up is unremarkable, except for the amazing sound of Barking Pigeons. They are two-tone grey-white bodies and grey-blue wings and long, broad, squared off tail. They sound just like dogs in a distant neighbourhood in the night. Aaarf aaaarf. Arf arf.

There are more bird calls, pleasing to the ear perhaps coming from the Fijian Bush Warbler or Orange Dove. The former has a blue breast with a little brown cap and the latter is bright orange-red. They bring song and colour to the rainforest.

Even though it has been dry, the plants and ferns and palms of many varieties are big and beautiful with bright green leaves, sun shining on them, soothing to the eye. I photograph the stunning leaves of the Kaudamu male ‘tree’ from which they make home flooring.

The sound of the stream brings a sense of tranquility. Here and there are orchid-like or Columbine-like pale mauve and purple and white delicate flowers. There are also tall Fijian Kauri trees from which furniture and boats are made. The sap is used to glaze handmade clay pots--dari-- for Kava ceremonies and to light fires.

Here and there is a seat in a picturesque place in the shade to rest: by the stream or at an overlook of the distant bay or mountain vista.

We choose a picnic table at the top overlooking the beautiful mountain vista and eat quickly so we can hop the 11:00 AM bus back to Savusavu.

I go to look for the ranger’s sweetheart little boy to give him a chocolate. But oh no he has gone, perhaps to school? We had both taken time to look at each other through different medium: I saw him through my camera and he saw me through the binoculars. We both smiled and laughed at the images and for having met at the forest reserve.


Huge bright green shining leaves in the sunlight make a bold statement in the rain forest.


Striking palm leaves of the Kaudamu male tree hold sunlight by stretching toward the skies. They are used for making home flooring.


An orchid or columbine-like flower. So delicate, but holds its head high in the rainforest.


A close up of the orchid or columbine-like flower. Delicate perfection.


Long red stalks of the Kaudamu male ‘tree’ push high so the leaves can reach the sunshine.


Russ stands next to a Dakua Makadre, Fijian Kauri, tree. They make furniture and boats from the wood and use the sap to glaze pots and light fires.

Capsize! Not quite

We’re about to get into Zulu Dancer, our wooden dinghy, which is sensitive to balance. An incoming dinghy careens into the dock as I step into our boat and all is rock and roll. I am holding my camera and jacket and bag of onions.

I should have waited for the dock to stop rocking and rolling from the incoming dinghy. I am pitch forked into the far end of Zulu Dancer, which in turn causes a slow motion capsize, my balance is gone as is my jacket, bag of onions, and camera—freed from my flailing hands. I feel like a wet duck going overboard, slowly plummeting toward imminent doom.

Suddenly Dancer rights itself by the help of Russ’ swift arm pull and I find myself in water ¾ up the inside of the boat.

The girl from the crash-land dinghy had gone into action and hauled the high side down, and along with Russ’ huge pull, they prevented total capsize.

“My camera. My camera!” I yell.

It is floating in a camera bag in the dinghy as was my jacket and the onions.

I snatch the camera from the water like a wild wildebeest. Russ takes it, opens it and declares it dry!

I am not dry in the least. My pants cling and droop and drip. I hug the girl for saving the day. Russ fetches my towel and shampoo from Zulu with the help of Aseri and his fast dinghy. A hot shower follows. Now clean, warm, dry, and changed this calls for a beer. Two Fiji Bitters please. Russ cheers to happy endings. THANK you. I owe him one.

Savusavu marketplace

Saturday. The corrugated roof of the market place gives shade, but makes for a dark place. The brown-skinned vendors seem to get lost in shadow with white eyeballs and teeth making for a marked contrast.

I stroll between the long tables piled high with tender lettuce, perfect tomatoes, long Thai green beans, shiny mild red peppers that titillate the appetite, fire hot small green and red peppers, ginger, garlic, paw paws (papaya), mangoes, huge sausage-like bananas, pineapples, kava, strings of tobacco, taro, oils, coconuts. A kaleidoscope of produce sold by Indo-Fijians and Melanesian-Polynesian Fijians with dark skin and bushy hair.

I am crossed between taking photographs and making purchases. The people are mild mannered. They smile wide, or pose for the camera. I show them the digital image. An Indian woman wants a copy.

“Address?” she says. “I can’t.” I say. OK! She says looking disappointed.

“I’ll take 2 piles of tomatoes.” I smile. That should appease things.

On the lawn out front the loud speakers blare full force with the voice of the preacher man! Like it or not you’re going to hear this sermon on the shout!!!!

I leave seeking relief from the blare. My arms strain to carry my bounty of fresh produce. My heart is happy having met those vendors who sell the fruits of the soil, receive their warm smiles, and eager-to-please manner.

But as for the preacher man? Let me out of here!!


Small, sweet, juicy pineapples.


Mild shiny red chilies incite appetite and enhance a savoury dish.


Take the heat up a notch with these little chilies. Watch out you might catch on fire, but not the Indo-Fijians.


Address? This Hindu lady offers after I tak her picture. She wants a copy and is a little disappointed when I say I can not get her one before I leave. Look at the pile of ginger!


Ah do you really need to take a picture the expression of 33 seems to say. The gentleman holding the kava looks like he might have partaken in a recent ceremony. Bringing kava to an island chief is the proper thing to do when visiting.


The tobacco man hold up the string of tobacco he has rolled and cuts up for sale. Kiss your lungs goodbye.

The French

“Look who is coming.” Russ says as we row ashore.

“The French.” I say happily.

The yellow steel boat changes course as we row across their bow.

“Ello Maraleeen!” Ivan calls.

Ivan had said I needed to be around more French when I tried my cut of French on him in Suwarrow. Now here they are. My opportunity has arrived.

Djanet is the name of their boat, named after a small town in Algeria. The last we saw of them was sampling coconut crab on board Djanet in Suwarrow. What a magic place and what a delectable meal it was: coconut crab, homemade mayonnaise, French bread toastettes and bruschetta, and a bottle of wine.

Aseri is racing around them with his Colgate smile, showing them to a mooring. He is adept at spotting the incoming yachts or promptly responding to their radio calls and snagging them before they make it to the Copra Shed, Waitui Marina’s competition.

I go upstairs in the Waitui Yacht Club for a beer. It has the tiniest deck this side of the equator--a veritable match box. A Fijian man in his 40s sits on the bench in the only patch of shade. Otherwise the place is empty.

“You can sit here.” He points to a thumbnail space beside him—genuinely wanting to share the shade and seemingly at home in close quarters. Instead I pull up a chair, pick up a little table just inside from the deck. It looks like self service here for sure. No one is rushing over to take an order.

Then I discover a great big spit glob at my feet.

“Ah excuse me!” I beckon to the lady from whom I ordered a beer. “Could you wipe this up?” I point down to the nauseating glob.

Out comes a big mop and she unabashedly mops up the glob and just about smears it over my feet too while the going is good.

Downstairs an Indian man is hammering away at a new table. Quell ambiance!!

No wonder the yachties go to the more chic Copra Shed for happy hour, where you get 50c knocked off your drink as well as sit on a huge deck overlooking the inlet and small island. But then we would have no Aseri to assist us with his Colgate smile.

Russ goes back out to invite the French for a drink after they check in and an inexpensive Fijian curry dinner.

“I heard the lady call on the radio.” Richard my new Fijian friend on the bench in the shade says.

“She said ‘I speeek a leetle English only! We need to talk to the ‘arbor master’.” Richard mimics Lucy and cannot believe they cannot speak English. He goes on to say.

“I’m a Smith!” And smiles a gapped-tooth smile. “My great grandfather was English.” He says proudly.

When I asked Richard what he is doing here in Savusavu, he says“I’m a fisherman. I catch snapper in these waters, but I live in Suva. Used to work on the cable ships and he named them all, but they paid me peanuts.”

“Where are you from?” he asks of me.

“Seattle, USA.” I say.

“My Mum lives in Santa Cruz, California. She is a secretary there. And my brother lives there too—he won a Green Card lottery!”

“A Green Card lottery?” I ask. I did not know there was such a thing. Russ has returned from speaking to the French and explains that US does this now and again to make immigration more fair.

“I went to visit my Mum and brother—was supposed to be there three months, but after 3 days I got on a plane and came back to Fiji. It was too cold! Just too cold!! I said, sorry Mum it’s just too cold!” Richard had made his mind up for sure.

“And while I was there this woman said to me---where are you from? I said Fiji. And she looked at me and said “Excuse me, but where is Fiji?” Can you believe that?” He looks at me with an expression of disbelief. I laugh.

“See this little dot in the Pacific? That’s where Fiji is.” Richard mimics pointing to a spot the inside of his hand as if it were a chart.


The Plantation Club where bonafide visitors are welcome. Big leaves are taro plants.

A milky looking American decked out in all white with a Colonial handle bar mustache appears. He immediately goes on to say how he raced sailboats down the coast of the US, experienced a knock down, was a Peace Corps member, now a bureaucrat in the government.

My ear is getting worn off and I struggle to maintain a look of interest while glazing over.

Richard chimes in.

“Before coming here I went to the Plantation Club to wait for the ferry to Suva—that’s what I’m doing here—but they started asking too many questions.” He shook his head and looked unhappy.

“What questions? I was there last night where yachties had a BBQ and drinks and no questions were asked of me.” I said. Of course I knew why. Because I was white and Richard was Fijian.

“They just asked too many questions.” Richard said diplomatically.

“Don’t they have a sign up front—‘Private Club?” The milky American said.

“Yes, but the sign also says Bonafide Visitors Welcome.” I commented. “Whatever a Bonafide Visitor is, Richard should fit into that category since he is here from Suva.”

“Well I’m from the South and understand what a private club means.” Milky chimes.

“I’m from the South too, and my mother was married to a manager of a sugar plantation, on which there was a private club……” This conversation is going nowhere and the deck is far too small to accommodate both milky, Richard, and myself.

Milky gets the message and stands up, shakes Richard’s hand and leaves without saying goodbye to me. Sail on matey to private clubs beyond I think to myself.

Richard pulls out his umpteenth cigarette, offering us one for the umpteenth time and talks about all the beautiful spots we should visit as bonafide visitors to Fiji. We laugh.

Kenny the butcher shows up and lastly the French.

The French are all neatly attired and fresh looking after their passage from Tonga.

We bid farewell to Richard and Kenny and seek out a small Indian restaurant. Over curried prawns and vegetarian curry we listen to their stories about the Tsunami-stricken island of Western Samoa and Niuatoputapu Island, northern Tonga.

“Jus imagine a mother comes from NZ to get the bodies of her only two daughters, who were vacationing in Western Samoa. Both had drowned.” Lucy says sadly.

“And in Niua EVERYTHING is destroyed. They have NO FOOD.” She adds emphatically.

Lucy is diminutive, slim, with black hair and wears red lipstick. She wears a beautiful mother of pearl necklace.

She swirls the wine in her glass, tests the bouquet, and takes a sip.

“I’ve tasted worse.” She says as if thinking out loud and lights a cigarette.

“I jus prayed.” She said.

Ivan eats the last of his prawn curry and lights his cigarette. A sad smile comes over his gentle face. He is slender with longish fine light brown hair. He almost looks waifish. Their crew member, Frederique, says little as usual. Tall with silky long hair, meditative, he lights a cigarette too. Takes a deep draw. Lets the smoke curl as he exhales, lifting his head upwards.

There was nothing more to say this night in Fiji. We all slip back into the lives who lost so much through this natural disaster. We just contemplate how fate dealt us a good hand, sip the last drop of wine. And feel each other’s presence.

“Bon Chance! “ Lucy says and raises her glass now almost empty. “For some. For us at least for now.”

“Bon Chance.” We all raise our glasses too. Drink up to Good Luck and for reaching the shores of Fiji!