PART 3?! Good God...

I could see him. He had stopped near the bottom and was just standing there. Oh, please don’t open the ziplock bag and try to turn on my camera. The thought of it was making me anxious so I started calling to him. He turned and looked up at me with a grim your-camera-is-F@#$% sort of look. He made his way back up and over the gap to me. He gave me the bag and I pulled out the ziplock with the camera inside. It was wet but not swimming. I tried to turn it on but to no avail. Cait’iko nomu yaco, magatinamu! I shared my fluency in Fijian swears not really directing it at anything in particular. Oddly enough, though I was upset I was not nearly as upset as I thought I should be. Maika was devastated; he felt terrible because he thought it was his fault. I told him not be ridiculous that he was carrying my bag to help me, that he was physically helping me traverse this absurd rock face so that I wouldn’t be the thing falling off, and that I definitely didn’t blame him.

So, on we went. All ten feet of it. After all that, there was only ten more feet of available ledge before the wall became impossible to continue along. We looked up. The top of the canyon was only about four feet above my head but it was pushing out towards us and unfortunately the top of the wall was not flat but continued on into a steep hill scattered with trees, strewn leaves and covered in slippery mud. Even if we made it to the top with out falling off the rock backwards, if we slipped during the trek up the following hill it would likely take us careening all the way back down and over the edge with no option to stop ourselves on the ledge we were currently standing on. I looked at him and we both agreed that we had been stupid enough for one day and turned around to go back the way we came. 

 ~~~~

The rest of our bush hike was pleasant enough, except for sustaining several dozen bee-sting like bites from some evil, clever, little, black ants that were crawling every where. We couldn’t stop for thirty seconds without letting out a yelp of pain. We crossed several more rivers and struggled up some hills so steep that we practically had to hop our way up from tree trunk to tree trunk. Meanwhile, Maika was pointing out pig footprints dried into the mud and showed me where a pig had just eaten, pointing out the details that made it clear a pig had been there recently.

Eventually, we crested our last hill and were standing atop one of the mountain ridges. We came upon a road that led to Coqe but we opted to skip our rest and just to reroute back home. It took another two hours from there but it was easy going with beautiful views of misty mountains to the north and turquoise blue waters defining the coral reef to the south. So, our pig hunt turned into more of a ridiculous, occasionally dangerous, thoroughly enjoyable, and rather exhausting adventure. Maika was so impressed that I was able to trek along with him so far and not complain or say that I wanted to go back once. I just smiled and told him that he shouldn’t be too shocked, that I am actually quite capable of doing a bit more that just spending a day stuck to my floorboards. Sometimes I just need a good friend to get me out!

PART 2!

We left the little settlement and made our way to a river that we were to follow up until it brought us to the waterfall. We had no troubles along this portion of the trip and I suspect that Maika may have been getting overly confident that the gentleman we just met had been mistaken; although, I was still unaware that we were going to our doom.

…ok, I might be exaggerating excessively, but doom just sounds so desirably intense! Right, anyway, we reached the waterfall after about an hour and were congratulating ourselves at our find. It was a lovely little waterfall with a cool looking cave at the top. In celebration of our hiking and navigational skills we plopped down onto one of the rocks and split a small pineapple. As we sat drinking in our juicy fruit, my curiosity was growing about that cave. I looked over at Maika who knew what I was thinking, smiled, nodded, and then went to cut a path for us to climb up.

The waterfall! Close to the top and on the left is the entrance to the cave.

 

I waited down below and watched until he gave the ok to follow his clear cutting up. It was only about twenty feet high but the bush was thick and steep and rather slippery from mud that never sees the light of day. I made it up quickly and peeped into the cave. It was wide and shallow and the ceiling was littered with these strange circular objects that were hanging down. “Weird.” I said turning to Maika, “What are those? From the bats?” We approached closer and saw that they were actually little bird nests and some actually had little birds in them. “Umm, Maika? Are they all dead?” We stood and stared. It was clear that there were birds in the hanging nests but they weren’t moving and they looked really awkwardly positioned with feathers sticking out weirdly. Maika went up to one and pulled out the little blue bird nestled inside. It was definitely alive and was clinging to his hand like it didn’t know how to fly. It was the kind of movement that you see bats making when they are climbing something. It couldn’t have been much bigger than a hummingbird, and I had just never seen anything like it! Maika didn’t know what they were either and we wondered whether they were just freaky little birds or if they were actually nocturnal?

Hanging nests.

With little birds in them.

I followed Maika back down the path and was very near to the bottom when I reached the last stretch that was about seven or eight feet of more or less a straight drop. It was easy to climb up since there were plenty of holds and roots sticking out to grab onto, but going down was seemingly not as simple. Hmmm. Well only one thing to do right? Just start going and sort it out as you go along. I was doing just that and had positioned my self as if I was going down a ladder when Maika pulls a thick vine that was hanging into the bushes to the side and says, “Here, Tina, use this.” I grab hold of it lean back using my feet as support against the wall and began to work my way down. Snap! There was this precarious pause where I seemed to hover there, it was long enough to shout a choice profanity and a half before I came crashing backwards down the rock. Maika managed to half catch me and we both tumbled backwards into the river.

I wasn’t hurt and I wasn’t upset but I turned to Maika and shouted, “What the hell were you trying to do kill me? …telling me to use the vine to climb down.” He laughed then swore and retorted, “Man, Tina, you weren’t supposed to put all your weight into it! It was just a vine!” I wanted to smack him. :)

Well, after all that excitement we decided that we had wasted enough time fooling around and that it was time to move on. We continued our hike deeper into the bush, following the main river (the water fall was from a side river) as a guide. Several times the bank we were walking along just disappeared and we had to walk or swim across to the other side. Back and forth, over slippery rocks, crunching over gravel that kept getting stuck in my shoes, we steadily trekked on. The further in we got, the darker the sky became. We were getting more intimately involved with the mountain range and it always seems to be raining over the mountains. Maika had taken over carrying my little sling pack because he was able to cross the water and manage to keep it above his head… usually my feet couldn’t even touch. Slowly but surely, the river banks began to disappear altogether and we were forced to work our way up through the river itself. We found ourselves in this steep canyon swimming upstream in water over both our heads, Maika with my pack held in the air above his bobbing head but the current was too strong. The narrow canyon seemed to propel the water more quickly through it, causing it to form rapids and a tumbling flow pattern. 

The start of some canyon.

We huffed and puffed as much as we could towards this rapid but it was a futile effort; we gave up and let the current push us back to the nearest bank. Climbing out we looked back at how far we had come and looked ahead at our only other option aside from backtracking, to go up. Maika threw my bag back over his shoulders and holding his knife in one hand began to climb the rock side. It was easy going at first, no need for hands and with a substantial ledge to walk on but the higher up we went the slimmer this ledge became. Instinctively, our hands sought out useful holds to help maneuver us along. And I began wondering how that farmer could have possibly told Maika that following this river up was the right way to go…

Maika stopped. And I stopped. It was the first time I had really looked down since we started and was shocked to see that we were more than thirty feet up the side. He told me to wait and then made this absurdly long step across what I suddenly realized was a very wide absence of footholds. Maika is about a foot and a half taller than me and it was a stretch for him! He made it to the other side onto a ledge that jutted out only about eight inches. He put the knife and my bag down on a small outcropping and then turned around to grab my hand and help me across. I grasped his right hand tightly in my left, kept my other hand gripping the rock and positioned my right foot as close to the edge as I could go and still support myself. Then I stepped out towards him with a long stride with my left leg. I was about halfway through this procedure when I saw just over Maika’s shoulder the outline of my bag. What was it doing? It seemed to be tilting ever so slightly. And then I realized much too late that it was finding gravity far more attractive than the rock it was sitting on. All too quickly it went from tilting to rolling and finally to plummeting down the rock face into the churning water below. “My bag!” I shouted.

I immediately shifted my weight again and was maneuvering to go down and catch it wherever the river decided to spit it out. But we were too precariously placed across this gap. “Tina, no! Come! Tina, please come!” There was a desperate urgency in his voice, and I heard it. I reluctantly turned around and finished making my way over the gap. Without having a clue what was happening, I suddenly found myself where Maika was standing as he was already making his way back over the gap. I waited. I couldn’t really go anywhere so I just stood there wondering if the ziplock bag I put my camera in would be enough to protect it from drowning. A wry thought crossed my as I noted how completely screwed I would be if Maika decided to not come back.

To be continued…

You're Going Where?! ... Hang On, Let Me Get My Cane Knife - Part 1

Yes, I'm alive. I've been dying to get some posts up for a while now but, ah well, you know the story. So here's the first in what I hope will be several new posts! :)

~~~~

So, for the months of December and January in Fiji it’s absurdly difficult to get any project work done. Why? Mostly because of the holidays - people are traveling or busy harvesting their grog for the big celebrations or just taking extended breaks or, quite typically, it is just too damn bloody hot to move at all so everyone just ends up lying on the floor of their house all day where it’s coolest and unsuccessfully attempt to swat away flies with a coconut leaf fan. 

It was the last week in January, and I had just woken up and began my day by rolling from the bed to the floor to begin a long day of lying there being bored of being bored. I let my cat in and she joined me in what was promising to be a good long session of absolute nothingness when I hear someone knocking on the railing of my porch. I let out a huff. Honestly, don’t people know the protocol for days like this? Stop being the independent thinker by marching around the village visiting with people when we’re all trying to languidly melt through the floor boards in peace.

I got up and went to the door. Being vertical was a strange sensation as was the ten degree temperature difference between where my feet were on the floor and where my head now found itself all of five feet higher – clearly, one of the times that I was grateful for being shorter rather than taller. I managed to sloth myself over to the door and found my friend Maika standing there wearing his big black sunglasses, a thin roll of suki (the locally grown tobacco) sticking out of his mouth, which he was protecting from the wind in an attempt to light, and a machete jutting out from its dangerously wedged position underneath his arm. Maika is the leader of the committee for the marine protected area project we’re working on and I know him better than most in the village; yet, whenever I see him outfitted as thus I can’t help but imagine him looking at home overseeing some high-end cocaine production operation hidden deep in the jungle somewhere. I jokingly told him this once and he said “Thank you, Tina.” I wasn’t sure if he was just saying thank you because that’s what Fijians say after you say or do anything or if because he actually liked the idea of him looking like a dangerous drug lord.

My friend Maika. He's never without his cane knife and a pack of dogs.

His typical look - barefoot, suki and knife in hand, and always looking so casual... or like a drug lord.

Anyway, Maika asked what I was doing and I half-seriously glared at him since he obviously knew that I was busy figuring out the coolest position on my bedroom floor before he interrupted. He smiled when I didn’t say anything and said, “Well, I’m going hunting for wild pigs; want to come?” Say what?! Heat shmeat. I was back outside my house and locking my door having changed and gather a few supplies within two minutes.

Now, to be honest I was not particularly keen on the idea of being directly involved in capturing and killing a wild pig, partly because they are shockingly dangerous (Maika has told me that the pigs can very easily kill his dogs when they are trying to take it down and that he’s lost some more than once), but also because I just don’t enjoy killing animals. However, I was not going to pass up this opportunity to go romping around on an adventure deep in the jungle, especially when I had such an enthusiastic and willing guide.

Off we went. Since, my house is in the candy portion of our lollipop shaped village, we had to walk by half the houses on the way out. Everyone we passed unsurprisingly shouted out, “Eh Tina! Sa la’o i vei?” (Where are you going?); I responded in kind by telling them we were going to Coqe (thon gay), which is where Maika’s grog farm is up on the mountain side. We had decided we would hunt our way up there have a rest and then come back down. I thoroughly enjoyed the look of shock and disbelief that every person showed when they heard our plan, particularly that their white, female, kaivalagi volunteer was going so far into the bush and back in one day. Even most the villagers aren’t physically or mentally able to do that.

It was impossibly hot. The good thing, though, was that once we were under the cover of the trees the shade would make it substantially cooler and there were plenty of rivers to jump into to get wet and cool off along the way; the bad part was that we had to walk about a mile up the main dirt road before we reached the right turnoff into the bush. The sun was scorching even though it was only about 8:30 am and we had to repeatedly step off to the side for a quick nip in the shade. During one of these brief respites, we had just come around a turn in the road and were standing off to the side when a bull came quickly trotting by. Curious, but not altogether that surprising. Then we heard shouting and running and a few seconds later a couple of guys came trotting around the corner after it, carting with them three other cows and a calf.

The main road.

Cooling off in one of the many rivers we would soon come across.

Apparently, they were trekking five miles up the road to another village to deliver the cows and were having issues controlling them. So we jumped in to give them a hand. At that moment the bull decided to seek a bit of shade himself and went stomping off into the trees. All four men and Maika thrust their ropes into my hands to hold the remaining cows and went tearing after the bull to try and bring it back. It was a rather awkward and bizarre spectacle. There was me just standing in the middle of the deserted road in the middle of three mooing cows and a calf, staring at the trees where there was a lot of shouting, loud mooing, and tree breaking noises emanating back. Then I heard a new noise. Is that a bus? Crap.

I started moving to the other side of the road and was struggling to bring my herd with me. The bus was rumbling closer but it hadn’t hurtled around the bend just yet. Come on dammit! It was just the calf that was putting up a fight. It seemed scared while the other cows just followed the pull of their ropes like good little domesticated livestock. Three were safe. I went back into the road and started to shove this stupid cow with all my might into the ditch on the side of the road where the rest had clustered. There was the bus. Move! And it did. Finally. And I pushed it into the ditch and followed suit as the bus sped past and I got a multitude of extremely curious stares. It passed and I saw the men coming out of the bush across the road leading the bull. Maika looked up and across and spotted me standing on the other side in the middle of our tight little huddle of noisy cows and he started laughing.

We continued to help them until we reached our path and then bid them adieu as we turned off into the bush. Happily it hadn’t rained for a few days so the route we were taking was blessedly dry and easy to walk on. We continued along it for roughly thirty minutes, laughing and joking and sharing stories about our respective cultures until we eventually reached the first settlement of houses where people stay when working on their farms. We stopped for a quick chat with one man there who usually stayed in a village that was about an hour drive from ours; he traveled to his farm house by riding horseback across the small mountain range that lies between. Maika had been asking him in Fijian how we could get to a nearby waterfall on our way up to Coqe, since Maika had never been to it before and thought it would be nice to show me. 

The four house farmers' settlement

Apparently, this guy knew it well and told Maika two ways of getting there and then onto the farm, one of which he said was rather dangerous and he didn’t recommend it. I of course was blithely unaware of what was being exchanged in this rapid Fijian conversation. I only found out about the wrong way from Maika about an hour and half later as we were discovering just how dangerous that particular route was.

To be continued…

                                       

Do They Celebrate Christmas in Fiji?

Why yes, they do.

The largest religion in Fiji is Christian (the second being Hinduism) and the largest denomination of which is Methodist. Every village has a church that everyone attends every Sunday and sometimes other days of the week as well.

Do they celebrate Hanukah?

            No, most Fijians have never even heard that term before and I think that most of their exposure to Judaism is through foreign volunteers.

            I visited another PCVs village during Hanukah where a group of us fried up a bucket of latkas (made with cassava instead of potato) with apple sauce to dip and some jelly donuts (stuffed with banana jam) and shared it with some of the villagers as a cross-cultural/religious event. They loved the food and my friend was even able to tell the story of Hanukah in Fijian!

We also baked a pumpkin pie on the stove top…but that was just for us.

The crust we made from mashed bread fruit, which tasted pretty good but took far too long to cook.

 

Do you string up coconut trees with Christmas lights?                  

            You mean like the Corona commercial? Well, first of all, have you ever actually seen a mature coconut tree? Like, in real life? Most of them are absurdly tall even with a lopsided direction of growth (which most of them have-maybe from the wind?). There are no branches except the palm fronds on the very top. I don’t know about you but I was never very good at the “climb a thick, bare, and absurdly tall tree trunk like Mulan” exercise in gym class. However, that’s just me… and probably all the other white people in Fiji.

Native Fijians, though, are amazing tree climbers. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, for instance, to be walking along a village road and pass under a giant mango tree that a dozen or so Fijians have scaled in order to pluck the best fruits from the most unreachable locations and drop them down to their partners waiting below. And I have indeed seen eleven year old kids monkey their way up coconut trees to cut down the fronds for making brooms or to knock down mature coconuts. I’ve seen this in person so you think I would be able to explain to you how they manage to do it, but I can’t—they just sort of shimmy up using only their hands and feet. Unfortunately, there are no extension-cords long enough to travel the same height for a string of lights and even if there were, having a place to plug them in is an even rarer find.  

So, then, the answer is no.

But that didn’t stop me from decorating my own house with some cheap baubles I found in Suva. I had all the village children come over to help and we made a big event out of it one night a few weeks before Christmas.

My front door :)

The morning sun makes this one rather hard to see but there are several ornaments hanging!

Do you sing carols?

            Only in church…or I suppose I do when I’m in the shower.

Church getting out on Christmas day.

 Do you give gifts or cards?

            No, people just provide ample food and grog and share it all around. Usually, food with family and anyone walking by that wants to come in and grog with everyone.

What do you actually do on Christmas?

            1) Eat lots of food that you usually wouldn’t get in an everyday meal. This includes beef, pork, and chicken, which are generally only slaughtered and eaten for important events (holidays, weddings, and funerals). We also were treated to juice. Typical meals in the village will often be abundant in whatever food is available but almost always lacking in beverage. I’ve noticed that Fijians hardly ever drink any liquids (except for tea and of course grog, which is actually a diuretic), so if I ever dine at another’s house I’m sure to bring my water bottle. However, special events usually mean that we’ll get to drink juice. Juice means Tang. And usually they add sugar to it. Indeed their taste for sugar can be so strong that they would prefer this powdered drink with extra sugar to a mash up of passion fruit, mango, papaya, and banana mixed with some water and honey, which I once made and brought to an event...it stood more or less neglected next to the nearly empty jug of tang. But I drank it so that it wouldn’t feel sad and unwanted. Also, alcohol is not permitted in the village.

            2) Go to church. We do a lot of singing in church including some songs that I know from home (aka O Come All Ye Faithful, which I almost started crying to when they began singing in church) but naturally it’s in Fijian. No where else in the world will you hear women capable of such dazzlingly high soprano voices or men with such incredibly low baritones. It’s always an awkward event for me since I can usually sing best when I’m following someone else’s singing and since I can’t even remotely reach these two extremes I end up croaking out some noise somewhere in between and hoping that no one is standing near enough to hear it.  

            3) Drink grog. All day and all night…and if you’re still drinking grog into Boxing day that is perfectly acceptable as well…or into the day after Boxing day. But usually by that point most people slip into a grog coma, upon waking up from which they start drinking grog again. But it is a big village wide party in the chief’s house where everyone is dressed nice and the children are running around, the women are selling chasers (lollipops and the likes), a couple people are playing the guitar, the ukulele and singing, someone is walking around putting baby powder on people’s faces, and everyone is drinking grog. It’s usually a downright raucous party that everyone enjoys and gives everyone ample opportunity to joke around.

Lots of color.

Drinking grog can definitely be a challenge...especially when you are on your 32nd bowl.

Baby powder gets everywhere.

Passing out the grog.

Well in case I haven't said it yet: Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah and Happy Holidays to all! And to all a bright sunny tropical day! :)

The New Village

Back to the village. I had a very tearful goodbye to my old village and felt immensely sad as I drove away in the car, quite possibly never to see these people again. The transition was a bit rough, with a few popped tires and at least one missed ferry. But I did make it to the new site and only a few hours later than intended!

I have been adjusting as best as I can and find that I really like it here. The people are great and since their village is much smaller than my first, I already know most of them fairly well. The house is nice, with an indoor bathroom this time and an army of ants. The best part of the house in landscaping with lots of colorful flowers, passionfruit and papaya trees, and a beautifully walled garden. The village is powered with solar panels - each house has one. This is the result of a project with habitat for humanity several years back. The only downside is that there are no outlets, so the solar only provides for lighting, which to be honest with you I would most happily do without if it meant I could charge my phone or laptop.

The beach and view of the ocean is breathtaking beautiful. The pictures I have here unfortunately were taken on a rainy day so the colors aren't so apparent but just imagine waters of the most intense turquoise, azure, and cobalt blue with little sandstone islands scattered here and there and mountainous islands in the distance.

My inherited cat named Melanie. I'm not a huge cat person but I like having her around; she's affectionate and a good friend. <3



My bed. All the walls in the house are pink.



New kitchen area. Filled with ants. No matter how many meausres I take against them...

The outside. That's my veranda...lol. I did make the windchimes you see hanging though!

Imagine how you would feel if you turned the tp around and got this instead. It's not as big as Larry but I think that location counts for a lot. Still just picture how big that is... imagine the face you would make.



A bit of the village itself, which is very very small. Maybe only 25 houses total and set in a cul-de-sac formation. My house is situated right at the base of the lollipop and top of the stick if you can picture that.



Tomitomi (picking up trash) with the village children. I give them fake coins for helping and then after a certain number of trips they get to buy simple toys from me (like stickers, balls, glowsticks, pencils, etc). This is a project that the previous volunteer started and I'm just continuing. This and group teeth brushing with the kids every morning before school. 

**If anyone is interested in donating some CHEAP toys I would be happy to chat with you! It would be much appreicated :)**

Ocean view from the edge of the village. We're up on a little hill.

The best volleyball court I've played on since coming here. I have also had the most fun playing the game in this village. People are still really good and serious about the rules but everyone seems to just have more fun, especially when it is raining and we run down to jump in the warm ocean waters when our team isn't playing.

The beach looking northwest towards an elbow in Vanua Levu.

Straight out to the southweest. You can't see it well on this day but on clear days you can see the large island of Taveuni in the distance spanning much of the horizon. 

The beach looking right to the southeast.



Looking back towards the village beach from a popular swimming lagoon.

That's all for now! Looking forward to being in touch as I being project work!

The Centipede

Have you ever seen the movie James and the Giant Peach? It’s a great story about a kid flying to NYC on a giant peach with giant insects as companions. One of them is a giant centipede, named, cleverly enough, Centipede. He is a rascally character but likeable just the same and is a good guy. This centipede is nothing like that centipede. Except maybe size-wise.

So this one night, I was sleeping contentedly underneath my mosquito net when I rather unexpectedly awoke. Why I woke up, I’m not sure. It doesn’t really matter; what does matter is that after waking up I heard some pitter-patter on the floor. Great. Another mouse. Deciding that I had to pee anyway, I got up with the intent of chasing the mouse off on my way to the bathroom. I retrieved my nearest whacking object (which happened to be a badminton racquet) and my shoddy flashlight (shoddy only because the battery was dying and was only dimly working in a flickering B-Horror-Movie kind of way) and proceeded to investigate.

I quickly scanned the area looking for signs of movement and caught some whipping around the doorframe (the door frame that is only about 3 feet from my bed where I was standing and doesn’t actually have a door but a curtain). I stalked closer and gave the curtain a quick jab in hopes of flushing the mouse out. This plan made perfect sense to me at one in the morning and, as it turned out, I did manage to ummm…flush it out. From the outer rim of my flashlight’s illumination, this long black segmented body with far too many moving parts emerged from the shadows of the bottom corner of the curtain; it rapidly ascended the fabric until it came to my eye level, roughly six inches in front of me, where it stopped and hung motionless. Definitely not a mouse. In the amount of time that it took for me to realize this I also managed to let out a mangle yelp, hurl myself backward, fling the racquet into the window, and say, “I’m gonna die.”

As I stood there, dumbfounded by the absurdity of my situation, the centipede took the opportunity to migrate to the other side of the curtain. Its movement spurred me into action. Okay, I have to kill it. Right. Get the cane knife. I swept into the next room through the other centipede-free doorway and scanned the area for my hand-held lawn mower, at which point I swore loudly because I remembered that I had in fact left it in the shed near my garden outside the village. I reevaluated - what else could I use? Kitchen knives?…gross. The racquet?...too blunt, probably wouldn’t kill it. A sneaker? … my feet aren’t even remotely that big. What I ended up deciding was that I definitely had to kill it but I didn’t want to attempt to whack it off only to muddle the job and have it escape wounded and keen on revenge, which it would exact upon me the next time I snuggled under my bed sheets and discovered that I wasn’t alone…And I wasn’t confident in any of my remaining household objects to do the job, especially since the first attack would be made whilst the creature was on the curtain, not a very good whacking surface.

Deciding then that there was nothing else for it, I threw open my front door and marched across the grass to my neighbor’s house all of twenty feet away, swallowed whatever pride I was harboring, and gently started rapping on the door – “Ta Te…Ta Te…Nei Nai wake up; it’s Tina.” Within seconds, after some brief commotion inside, the door was torn open to show both Ta Te and Nei Nai standing there looking like they expected to see me on fire with rabid dogs dangling from my appendages. And suddenly I felt like I was four and needed my daddy to kill a spider in my bedroom. After a short and mutually startled pause, I bah-ed out some sheepish statement about there being a big centipede in my house and not having a cane knife. When they just continued to stare I repeated my situation with a little more gusto deciding that I still really did want him to come over and kill it for me, no matter how ridiculous the whole thing was.

Once I finally managed to convey the situation to them, the three of us went back to my house. Ta Te asked me where it was and I pointed to the spot on the curtain where it most assuredly had not moved from. His first remark was, “Just use your sa-sa.” The sa-sa is a Fijian made broom derived from the stems of coconut tree leaves. Oh, right, how silly of me to not think of killing the giant centipede of death with my sa-sa broom. However, imagining that there was no doubt some Fijian trick to killing centipedes with your sa-sa that was as of yet unknown to me, I began searching for it. Ta Te, however, chose not to wait; he found some piece of scrap wood (that I think may have been broken off of one of my support beams) and began hacking madly in the centipede’s general direction. I was terrified that he was missing or worse yet had managed to fling the thing onto my bed in the next room. But to my delight it chose to escape towards the doorframe and he was able to pin it good against the wood. A few more whacks and it was severed in half. Ta Te putted the remains out the open front door with the bit of wood, handed it over to me, said, “Set?” And before I could really force any noise to come out of my mouth he and Nei Nai went back to bed.

By the time I went outside the next morning to use the bathroom, the whole village knew. I know because from that moment on throughout the rest of the day people would stop me, greet me, and then say, “So a centipede huh?”

Now, when I shared this story with my parents the first thing my dad asks is, “Well, did you get a picture of it??” Well, unfortunately, for some reason I was a bit distracted at the time to think of the photo op. BUT as luck would have it, I got another rather large (but considerably smaller than the first) centipede to take up residence on my doorway curtain within two weeks of the first. I was informed that this was because they were rebuilding the house next door and by upending the foundation all the centipedes had to find a new home. Apparently, my curtain was prime real-estate. This time, I did think of taking a picture before I hacked it using that same slab of wood. So, for your viewing pleasure:

So I measured that - it's about 8 inches long. Imagine the first one being 2-3 inches longer and maybe a little less than twice as wide...

Beautiful Bloody Beaches

My first full day back to the old village (this was all before the move too) from phase two of training was a Sunday. I was sitting in church after the service had ended and was talking with the other villagers as is custom when these two white people came over. I got excited and in my head exclaimed, “Wow! Look! White people! Why are there white people in the village?” Not that I ever forget the pasty shade of my own skin but it is rather unusual to see any other white people, except for the occasional tourist in town. They were visiting from Germany and were staying with Bobo, that awesome villager who owns a small B and B resort. Turned out they were all going snorkeling out at Naigani Island (Mystery Island) the next day and were inviting me to come!

We left mid morning in Bobo’s fiberglass boat. Me donning my always fashionable PFD (as Peace Corps requires), Bobo steering, the young lady holding his fishing line as it trailed behind us in the water, and the young man sitting way up on the bow to make sure we didn’t flip over backwards from zooming about at breakneck speeds (of about 10mph…Bobo really wanted the fish to notice his lure). Took about 30 mins to get across and we made a quick stop to check out the one resort on the little island, which is super cheap and nestled on some beautiful little white beaches. After, we rode around to the other side of the island, anchored in open water and hopped in. Turns out only the boat was on open water and when I rolled backwards into the water it was only a few feet above the reef, a space that was even more limited because a white tipped reef shark was already occupying the area. Woops. Right, I should’ve looked before backing into the sea but I was excited. Freaked him right out though!

The beach and corals on Naigani.

Bobo pulling the boat in.

Bobo proceeded to catch our lunch with his makeshift spear gun - basically just a metal rod with a pointed tip that you shoot with some elastic hosing. He almost nabbed a 3 foot long Spanish mackerel but sadly missed and we ended up having an assortment of reef fish (of the parrot and surgeon varieties and a couple others) instead. They tasted quite good but it was still unnerving to think about what I was eating and where I used to work…

Some surgeons (or maybe pacific tangs?) and a parrotfish. Delectable.

I tried my hand at shooting things underwater and was less than shocked to see that all I managed to stick was the sand on the bottom. One thing to keep in mind, I thought as I was desperately swimming deeper and deeper trying to get the rod, is to make sure you don’t send your spear (or rather Bobo’s spear) zooming off into some deep ocean trench where it is irretrievable. For me deep ocean trench is maybe thirty feet…

The rest of the day passed peacefully enough and on the way back I got to hold the line to try and catch some fish en route. Well we caught something monstrous as all of a sudden I felt myself being yanked backward out of the boat. But I caught myself on the bench seat and the line (it was a 100 lbs line!) snapped. Bobo said he needed a new one anyway but all I was thinking about was what sense did it make to have me be the one holding the line? Obviously if anything bit in open water it would be stronger than me on the other end just casually sitting on the wooden bench of the boat. Then I wondered if maybe Bobo had intended for me to be launched out of the rear of the boat for his own Fijian amusement…

~~~

When I got back to the house I immediately went over to my water filter on the kitchen counter for a drink when I noticed something low down on the wall. First, I should say that while I was gone, my na took care of the place - airing it out now and then and she even changed the curtains! Apparently, she also made it her mission to rid me of my rodent infestation. While I was crouched down, closely examining this interesting mark on the wall and wondering if it had been there before I left, my Na walked in and proudly told me that she had been successful on one account of her pest raid and managed to get rid of the giant rat that had only recently taken up residence. As I stood up and turned to greet her I thought yay! No more rat! I noticed that she too was looking at the wall and as I turned around once more it dawned on me just what the mark was…As it turns out she did kill the rat… by squishing it between a board and my wall until its head exploded…I wish I was kidding …

I'm not sure this needs a caption...

And no, you don’t want to see what else was behind that board. I would have cleaned it up, but I hadn’t had running water in my house for most of that past week since the village men were fixing the damn and putting in some new tanks. I had been taking my baths in the river.

But since I don’t live in that house anymore I don’t really mind it! I imagine that one day, if I ever manage to get back and visit, you know like twenty years from now, that blood stain will still be there…

Life in the Village

Like Dante emerging from the depths of Hell, I too have returned from my harrowing journey to... THE FRIENDLY NORTH! (that's the nickname for Vanua Levu Island). Though, while poor Dante only managed to elevate himself into the lowest level of Purgatory, I had slightly higher hopes in mind for my new site change and, indeed, I think I may be fairing better than our Divine Comedian ever did (...except perhaps when he was hanging out with some angels up in Heaven).

...Feel free to slap me at any time if you are within arms length...

In all seriousness, I have now spent just over one week in my new village and am feeling quite happy all things considered. BUT before I go and share with you all the things I have been doing whilst gallivanting around the country, I would like to post some older stories that I had been working on pre-apocalyptic-upheaval. So, here they are, I edited some but then just got lazy and distracted so half of them (like the one about the garden) will be in present tense...as if that is where I am presently living...but don't be fooled...because I'm not...living there that is... All these stories are from my old Ovalauan village but with universal (the Fijian universe) application.

I thought it would be nice to highlight a few things that are closer to home: some things that I see more or less every day, some things that I definitely don’t, but all in all very much representative of life in a Fijian village.

Life in village is always busy but never rushed. There is always time for a cegu mada (rest) and always time for tea, which they drink almost as much as they drink grog (or kava). Most days will see the women cleaning, cooking, or fishing and then men working in the plantations. But often enough there are variable days where groups meet, solis (fundraisers) are conducted, and projects worked on.

I have the delightful privilege of immediately being welcome at or involved in any of these events, which is simultaneously awesome and challenging. I’m here to be involved and to facilitate my village to work on projects sustainably but it’s hard when there are so many things to do and places to be. For them, resting comes naturally, for me, I feel like I have to schedule it in…Tea at 8 am, meet with the women’s group, have a beach cleanup, rest at 10 am, at 11 go to the fish ponds to take pictures, 12 pm is lunch…etc. I would just as soon skip the 5 teas/breaks in a day but that’s not the way of life here and it baffles my counterparts and I think it sometimes may even irritate them a little – why is the crazy white girl not resting with us? Too busy to spend time with us? Isa…

The first harvesting of the village's fish ponds. Most of the village got involved and muddy and wet. It was great. Everyone was working together and joking and laughing and no one was uncertain about getting involved, especially when the frog throwing fight broke out. The ministry came and assisted the village with the weighing and sales.

The Women's Group dying some fabric; it's called Kesakesa and the women do it partly as a fundraising activity where people pay a little money to the group and give their bed sheets, pillow cases, curtains, etc. to be dyed.



One of the completed bed sheets.

There is also the occasional formal event such as when a man is requesting permission to marry a woman. In this particular case, the man doing the requesting lives in a village that is in the interior of Ovalau. He came to our village with a congregation of his family, friends, and village representatives to officially make the marital request. The family, friends, and reps from our village met with them and held the ceremony. The man’s family presented the woman’s family with a tabua or whale’s tooth, which is economically rare, culturally valuable, and constitutes a very old tradition. It was all very interesting but difficult to understand because so many people kept speaking and the tabua was being passed around frequently. The culmination of the ceremony was a long night of celebrating and drinking grog. 

This is the tabua (or I suppose two of them) that were being presented at the wedding request ceremony. Oh and I'm told they are from sperm whales.

Cheif of the man's village presenting the tabua.

Drinking grog for a soli (fundraiser to pay the village nurse).

So in my free time when all of these exciting things are not happening or when I’m just not involved I should say I spend my time doing any number of things. One of which is gardening! I was so very excited to start my garden here in Fiji and to know that I would be able to get fresh produce from my backyard even if there was none in town. Oh how young and naïve I was all those months ago. Back in the states, the extent to my gardening was when I was a little girl and eating the dirt that my mom was digging up whilst planting things in our backyard (when I was a little older, I upgraded to munching on chives…).

Therefore, regardless of my high level of gung-ho-ness and my handy little gardening in Fiji guide (standard peace corps issue) I am woefully unskilled at making much more than grass come out of the ground. Being gone for three weeks (at phase two of training) didn’t help all that much. I came back to find a small jungle had decided to grow in lieu of any edible vegetation.

There are two exceptions to this:

1)      My squash is growing out of control and has more or less blanketed three of the five beds I had set as my garden area, although there are no squash yet

2)      The bean seeds that I planted grew! And they sprouted bean pods! And I ate them!

 

The squash plant of doom.



Long bean and french bean. :D

I was also starting some plants in starter pots. These included tomatoes, chives, capsicum, and eggplant (which I transplanted a while back only to discover the next morning that all I had succeeded in doing was giving the mud crabs a delicious dinner). As I have previously tried to make clear, I’m not a good gardener (Yet! There’s always hope!). Apparently, what I thought were chives and capsicum growing spectacularly in their pots were actually neither of those. A fact that I discovered after carefully and lovingly transplanting them into my beds and only upon hearing my family laughingly ask me why I was putting so much effort into growing grass…

To be fair it didn’t look like regular grass; it was more weird-weed like plant than grass that was cunningly similar in appearance to a more desirable plant. But since I have no idea what capsicum leaves actually look like, I was easily fooled. There’s no excuse of the chives though, being that I used to eat so much of them.

My carefully grown grass...sorry for whatever reason it won't upload the properly rotated picture. Hopefully, you can figure it out.

....More stories to come tomorrow when I have access to them. Until then, I hope you have been amused. :)

Some Sad News

First of all, vesoti au for not putting up any blogs in a long time. I know that your lives have no doubt been devoid of meaning in my absence. Rest assured that I have been working on a number of fun stories to share and pictures to accompany them - many related to random village occurrences but some dealing with my three weeks away at Early Service Training (EST or Peace Corps Training Part Deux).

However, it is my terribly sad duty to share with you some unfortunate news. Next Wednesday (11/2 I believe?) I will be leaving my village and will not be returning. Due to a recent incident involving a volunteer from a different organization (who worked at the school), Peace Corps is concerned about my safety within the village. The circumstances are such that the only responsible decision to make is to remove me from site and place me somewhere else.

Although I understand the decision that has been made and feel deep down that it is indeed the right choice, I won't lie and say that it isn't devastating. I have worked harder than even I realized to feel truly integrated into this community. It's difficult to really convey what this means. It is more than simply being comfortable; it is being at home - a place where I know the village like I know my house back home, where I know who I am and how the village perceives me in turn, where I can joke around with the chief over a bowl of grog, where I am finally able to work on projects with a very excited and enthusiastic village, and even given what has happened, where I have never felt unsafe while staying there.

I love my house and all my neighbors around; my papaya tree that was quite small when I first arrived is sprouting its first little papaya; the dog that was sort of my dog before has indeed become my dog as he follows me everywhere and sleeps on my doorstep; I know all of the shop owners in our small town - the owner of the internet shop was helping me learn Hindi; all of the children at the primary school know me well and are always at my house teaching me Fijian while we color in coloring books; the metal serving spoons hanging on hooks in my kitchen make a beautiful chime when the wind blows in just right... I know this may sound a little ridiculous but these small details are what I truly love about where I am, what makes me know I'm home. And now I am being removed and placed somewhere else to start all over again.

I learned a new word this week - sad. I guess I just never needed to use it before and, thus, had never learned it. It seems it's all I have been saying this week... au sa rarawa dina. In turn, the village has been responding with isa Tina! They don't want me to leave and some are even protesting Peace Corps over it (for all the good it will do).


But, although I am grieving over my soon to be loss, I am trying to remain hopeful and even excited about the new place I am being sent to. I don't know much about the village other than it is near Savusavu on the northern island of Vanua Levu. I hear it's nice there. I'm doing my best to stay positive and to remind myself of the challenges that I took on when I joined the Peace Corps. I will have to work doubly as hard to accomplish my work within a shortened amount of time...but I think I can do it. :)

Wish me luck on this next (rather abrupt) journey and I will do my best to fill you in over the weeks to come.

Vinaka vakalevu (or as the dialect is in the region I am moving to - Vina'a va'alevu)

Christine