Sigatoka Sand Dunes

We crawled off the bus, our bums sore and our legs stiff after a few hours of driving the bumpy road from Nadi to Suva in cramped quarters. A young, athletic-looking Fijian man with long, beaded braids approached our party with a wide grin spanning his face.
“We’ll do the 2-hour walk! Follow me.”
His braids swung about his head and clinked together musically as he turned and began to make his way up the path. He led us up a staircase and into the wooded bush. Strange new plants created a green dome that closed around us as we let our feet fall to the path. Small vine-like plants crawled up massive trunks as thick as a man is tall. Their roots reached out in all directions like grounded man-o-war. The light disappeared almost altogether and we were guided solely by a tiny drop of white hovering ahead.
The sun blinded us as we stepped out of the forested area and onto the green stable dune. From the top of the ridge we could see villages. Red, white and gray rooftops reflected the sun making the surrounding forests appear all the more dark and mysterious. As we walked up and down the slight hills, our guide pointed out some of the vegetation. He showed us a small plant with tiny oval shaped leaves. As his fingers touched the leaves they snapped shut. I imagined they were like sleeping people awoken by the clatter of a tree branch on the window.
As we rounded the corner, our guide explained that dunes are unstable if they have no plants to protect them from erosion. We felt the ground change beneath our feet. Instead of hard-packed stable earth, we were soon walking on mounds of sand.
“Ok, everyone. That way.”
Our guide pointed up. Before us rose a seemingly vertical mound of sand a hundred yards into the air.
“You’re kidding!” was our response.
With us smile, our young guide hope-skipped one, two, three times to gain momentum and took a running start. I held back a few moments snapping pictures with my camera. Realizing that there was no other way up, I shoved my camera deep into my pocket, planted my feet and pushed off. I took one step and the sand slid sending me back to where I had started. For every foot forward it seemed like I fell two feet back, but I slipped and slid my way to the top where my view opened to the sea. Panting slightly, my legs shaking, I shook the black-speckled sand from my hands and grinned. I had made it to the top and the trek had been more than worth it.
Giant, untamed waves crashed onto the sand and circled around great logs of driftwood one of which was carrying six or so people on a tour of the waves. I rolled up my pants walked toward the loud, rushing water. A crest broke and rushed at me and swallowed my legs up past my knees leaving my pants soaking and my legs feeling refreshed but salty. I sighed, relishing the adventure.

Off to Namuamua- Part 2

At first I was unsure as to whether or not to include this in my blog. Then I realized that moments of discomfort and culture shock are a part of experiencing the worlds that other people belong to. As we motored up the river, we reached a shallow rocky area that was particularly difficult to navigate. I believe that the trouble we encountered here was normal and expected because a group of young boys were waiting to pull the boats through. Most could not have been older than 10 and some were probably as young as 5 or 6 yet as soon as our long boats appeared, they swarmed into the river. Their tiny hands gripped the edges of the boat and their skin paled as their little fingers tightened around the wood. Their strength was impressive and yet I could not help but be uncomfortable. Why should these little kids have to work to bring me to their village to watch them live their lives as if it were a side show? While I felt honored by the people’s generosity, I felt the same discomfort during much of the time in the village. I felt like an intruder on an intimate moment. Daily life went on while I walked through the village as if they were in a glass case and I was walking through a museum. It was as if our party was a great council taking note of the lives of our subjects. We were welcomed with cava, entertained with dancing, and treated with a great feast that we could not have finished had we eaten for a week yet when we asked our hosts to join us in eating they only shook their heads and encouraged us to eat more. I noticed this same behavior during our homestay. Often, my host sister would eat at a different time than the rest of us and my host parents would only begin to eat as I and my companions were approaching the end of our meal. We asked our Ta (host father) why this was and he explained it as a Fijian hospitality. He simply said that it is important to Fijians to take the best care of guests as is possible. It seems that the guest comes before anything. His or her wellbeing must be looked after with the utmost care.
I have tried to appreciate the great importance of this part of Fijian culture, but I still find myself uncomfortable especially when served by children. It took great restraint to not jump out of the boat, pull a child out of the water and push myself.

Off to Namuamua- Part 1

On my second day in Fiji, a group of friends and I went on a tour to a small village in the rain forest called Namuamua. A bus picked us up in Nadi and took us to Sigatoka where we hopped into longboats outfitted with small motors. We jetted through tiny rapids for a couple hours. Green forested mountains rose up on each side of us like arms enveloping us and drawing us into the forest. We arrived at a waterfall pouring down the mountainside and clamored up onto the rocks before jumping into the icy water. As we swam in the small pool surrounded by rocky cliffs the waterfall pushed us from one side to the other. Climbing out of the pool we saw a small ledge jutting out over the river and daring one another with a grin we passed off our cameras and lined up to jump!

I walked to the edge, as if walking the plank of a pirate ship. Butterflies made a windstorm in my stomach as I peeped over my toes to see the river below. The cheers and hollers of my new friends egged me on from behind. I planted my feet, bent my knees and threw myself into the sky. Suddenly I was falling, falling, falling,

until…

Splash!

Fiji Time

The sun begins to make its descent, as I step down the beach studded with broken shards of sun-bleached coral. Slowly, it settles in the valley in the distance, flanked by jagged deckle-bladed mountains. , a girl facing a well-used volleyball net volleys the ball through the air towards her opponent’s outstretched arms. Recognizing the sun as a measurement of the passage of time she calls out concernedly, “What time is it?” Her challenger returns the volley along with a carefree shout, “It’s Fiji Time!”
My party began to experience Fiji Time from the moment we touched down in Nadi. As our plane-full of international travelers stepped into the queue at customs we were met by a small collection of men in sulus and bula shirts strumming guitars and swaying to their own lively but relaxed music. According to their example, Fiji Time can be described as a carefree lifestyle in which time is far less important than the activities that people indulge in.
Our first day in Fiji was a lesson in all aspects of Fiji Time both the good and the bad. The line through customs took hours to die down and three trips were made to shuttle my group to the hotel. Learning to wait patiently was lesson number one. We waited yet again for the bus and then the ferry to our first destination, South Sea Island. Learning to relax and appreciate the slow moving nature of the Island was lesson two. Though you could snorkel, kayak, play volleyball, and laze about at your own pace, it seemed as though everyone’s pace had deliberately slowed to a sluggish crawl. To be honest, I was actually a bit bored. It took me the entire ten day trip to become accustomed to waiting and taking my time rather than following the hurried and precise timing customary in Massachusetts.