Back in Fiji

5 February, 2007
Suva, Fiji

There’s something about being thousands upon thousands of miles away from home that puts things in perspective. Sitting in the crisp and fashionably appointed Republic of Cappuccino, slightly chilled from the conditioned air and the banana smoothie, I might mistake myself for being somewhere else, maybe back in California. The palm tree fronds dancing in the wind and glint of sun off the ocean would narrow it down to the coast between Santa Barbara and San Diego. But the clouds give it away. Clouds don’t look the same in the northern latitudes. Here, on this equatorial patch of sea-locked land, the clouds puff into so many textured bulges that they take on shapes undreamt of by their northern cousins. California in the summer has no clouds. If you gathered together all the clouds that appear in Los Angeles over the summer and layer them as artfully as a cake baker, you would simply lack the material needed to flesh out a single one of these tropical giant dragon floats.

It feels good to be here. It is good to be back on land, even if it’s just a small chunk of Eocene ocean crust. The flight was made bearable by an upper deck, a good selection of movies, and the extra padding that constrained my head from flopping onto the shoulder of the Canadian next to me. The four-hour bus was a little more difficult, at least in terms of head bobbing. I remember mostly fighting with all my spent strength to keep from falling asleep, then coming to as my head was either plummeting downwards or jerking upwards. In between bobs, though, I caught some excellent views of ocean breakers and a few of the new military checkpoints that have blossomed since the December 5^th coup.

My final transportation of the endless morning was a taxi ride from the posh Holiday Inn to my more modest South Seas Hotel. The taxi driver warned me about getting ripped off by sword sellers and street hagglers, then charged me an extra dollar for the ride. I asked for the rest of my change. He gave me what I asked for, then asked me to get out of his cab.

Seana, the woman behind the desk, was new, but she gave me my old room, number 39. I unpacked, grabbed a pair of shorts and a clean shirt, my towel, soap and shampoo, and went straight for the shower. There is no better medicine for a groggy morning of tropical hot-season travel than a cold shower. I scrubbed at the grime of the airport and airplane, the grime of the bus and the grime of the taxi. Only after all the layers were rinsed down the drain did I once again feel in my own, cool skin.

That fresh feeling is a fleeting sensation in this climate. The ten minute walk from the hotel to the WCS office was enough to soak the belly of my shirt. Dave and Linda had sent me with so many gifts for their Fijian friends that I had to take along an extra duffel bag. Unfortunately, the duffel’s zipper was a rather weak affair to begin with, and the luggage handlers were not kind to it.

In a spectacular testament to the high state of technological solutions achieved by entomologists after WWII, none of the ant specimens pinned in the foam of my wooden insect box were damaged. The gifts fared less well. The duffel arrived on the baggage carousel in a plastic bag. That was odd, because I only remembered putting plastic over my backpack. As I yanked the duffel off the belt and removed it from the plastic bag I realized that the belly of the thing was split wide open, and many of the tissue wrapped gifts had spilled out.

This was particularly affronting to me because I had been priding myself though the course of the customs line as a model of the practical traveler. I had practical closed toed shoes that I could slip on and off without laces. I wore practical cargo pants with lots of pockets and tightening straps. My light cotton long-sleeved shirt was fashioned with a front pocket of perfect size for my pen, passport and ticket stubs. My carry-on was stocked with water, headlamp, valuables and an extra layer. The orange visor may not have been essential in the customs line, but it would be the envy of the world in the equatorial glare of the Fiji noon sun.

You can imagine the shame I felt, when, in front of that girl in the two-inch stiletto heels and that fellow in the sweltering North Face jacket and that couple whose backpack straps were dragging on the ground – I pulled that disaster of a duffel off the belt. Cursing something in Spanish under my breath I shoved my visor farther down over my face and took my time stuffing the torn gift packages back inside the belly of the beast.

When I unloaded the duffel and its twenty pounds of gifts off at the office, the leaden burden was transmuted into golden rejoice. For the past year, the WCS staff has been under the belittling thumb of a woman who is throwback to fairytale stepmothers of old. They pine for life the way it was when Dave was in charge, and these tokens are tangible reminders that he still thinks of them and still loves them.

I took Cagi and Moala out for a “working lunch” to fill the void that had become my appetite and to talk over what remained to be done for the upcoming workshop. I relished in the bowl of dhal soup, the pumpkin curry, the fried cassava and the model of elegant competence that is Cagi Tokota’a. She had the workshop under control, and we spent most of the lunch crossing off all the questions that were scribbled in my notebook.

Just as we got up to leave, a mongoose flashed across the floor from outside, streaked past shrieking diners and went straight into the kitchen. Even now, as I write in the sophistication of the capital’s most refined coffee shop, I notice that the tickling sensation on my sandaled toes is actually a cockroach. It’s good to be back in Fiji.