The Villager Throwing Tantrums on an Idyllic Paradise

macabre forks

A year and half down the line, I have ended my brief love affair with New York City, and yet again I found my self dragging huge bags across the globe for an idyllic slice of a paradise on a rock- Fiji. As I write, I am sitting with ballooned feet and damp armpits by the hotel pool side on what is probably a nice comfortable evening - if only my body would acclimatise fast enough!! I am listening to the hotel band do a terrible version of 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight', which seems to be very well received by an enthusiastic local and expat audience. I am distressed by the possibility that a few months from now, after the overload of New York social and cultural indulgence has waned, I may actually come to see this music as the best in the world. The same depressing thought crossed my mind when I first went to the 'best' Japanese restaurant in town.  

The move from the Big Apple was uneventful, except for the split-opening of my carry-on. This is what happens when a tiny woman tries to push bags twice her weight on uncoordinated wheels. The carry-on dropped, cracked open and started spewing its entrails all over the airport corridors after me. A duct-tape from one of the airport shops in LA saved the day. 

So, here I am starting a new life again in paradise. At least that’s what my friends seem to think - and so did I. Where else in the world do you land at the airport after 11 hours of an exhausting flight and be welcomed by a cooing band of guys in skirts (sulus) with flowers in their hair at six o’clock in the morning? Fiji is a colony of lush verdant islands surrounded by pristine fine white sands and warm turquoise waters that are guaranteed to sooth away all your worries. Or so I am told. Except for the leafy greenness, I am yet to see the azure islands and feel their tranquil waters lapping at my toes. Suva, the capital, is none of these things. Although my sausage feet are literary 40 metres from the ocean, no one is swimming in it. Suva has no beach, and the water is murky and heavily polluted. The city is perched on a hilly peninsula, which means at any point in time, I am either hurtling down or huffing up a slope. And whichever way I am heading, it’s guaranteed that at some point I will swallow fresh gulps of thick diesel fumes from a badly maintained city-line bus struggling up. On another grey note, the hills mean clouds, which means rain. Lots of it. Now I understand why no sane tourist comes to Suva. 

The first thing one notices of the people who call these remote islands home is their size. The natives are huge and strong. The men look like rugby players, which goes to explain why Fiji is pretty good at rugby. They have massive necks and well-proportioned gigantic torsos resting on equally huge feet. The feet are normally clad in standard black sandals with the buckle left open; hanging and flapping behind their thick ankles as they walk. Yet, Fijians carry their bulk with an easy and unhurried graceful gait. Fijian men walk straight and tall like proud warriors with their gray or black sulus gently twirling around their massive hairy calves. Even young women in shorts have well-defined quads to rival those of seasoned footballers. Older women too are strong with wide swinging hips and generous bosoms. But the intimidating size does betray a warm-hearted people. Fijians are soft-spoken people with calm gentle eyes. They greet you ‘bula’ like a long lost friend. Coming from NY, where people are afraid of eye-contact and wary of a stranger’s smile, I initially greeted the open friendly faces with suspicion. Even, Malawi, the warm heart of Africa, is not that friendly!! I am already adjusting to the warmth and find myself smiling back and responding ‘bula vinaka’. Similarly, my New York crazed sprint has mellowed and I no-longer have to overtake everyone on the street.  

The first few days of landing in Fiji, and being black, I had somehow convinced myself that I was going to maintain the anonymity I had enjoyed in New York. Wishful thinking!! I am constantly being asked where I am from. This includes random taxi drivers stopping in the middle of the road to inquire of my origins. It’s exhausting. Fijians usually try to prove themselves right by guessing that I am either from Vanuatu or Solomon Islands. I have not yet been to either of the two islands but I am already curious to see what the people there look like. What surprises me the most is that Fijians do actually know Malawi. They know her as having one of the finest netball teams in the world. Netball is pretty big in Fiji; it ranks 7^th on the International Netball Federation. Malawi ranks 5^th of course.

Fijian women wear their hair natural, which can be kinky like mine. I was therefore looking forward to having my hair done by people familiar with it at a reasonable price. Another wishful thought. To make matters worse, I had actually heeded the advice of friend, Caucasian, in New York, and threw away all my dreadlock products on the premise that Fijians have the same hair and that the needed products are readily available. So far the only dreadlocked people I have come across are a Caribbean and a Kenyan, both of whom get their hair products from home. I didn't dare ask the dreadlocked mad man I see on Suva streets. But I suspect that if I don’t find a solution soon, my hair too will start to look like his.

I associate islands with fish, lots of it. Fiji somehow is an exception to this rule. Restaurants only serve tuna or mahi mahi! I used to mildly tolerate tuna steak on my plate; two weeks of Fijian restaurants and I absolutely I loathe it!! No restaurant serves snapper, mackerel, grouper, or any light fish for that matter. Similarly, the islands are fringed with countless coconut trees, yet no one is selling! I am literally dying of coconut-water-thirst whilst surrounded by a zillion coconuts. Restaurant plates, on the other hand, are brimming with lamb! Did I mention that I have slowly started to hate lamb too? The Fijian diet, and that of the rest of the Pacific, has changed so much since first contact with westerners. Meat, especially corned beef, is now seen as central to modern living. Turkey tails, mutton flaps— don’t even ask— discarded (as in sold) as unfit for human consumption by New Zealand and US are eagerly sought after by the Pacific Islanders. Apparently, the turkey tail (now banned in Fiji) is not even a tail but a gland that attaches the tail to the turkey's body. It's filled with oil that the turkey uses to preen its feathers. It’s almost 50% fat and the Islanders think it’s delicious. But this crazy diet, coupled with sedentary urban lifestyle, goes to explain why the Pacific Islanders are the most obese people on earth!

Despite my disappointment with what I had expected of Fiji, the island is a lot like Africa. Life here is so laid back, which is why nobody is picking and selling those coconuts to restaurants! The Anglo-bastardised names are pretty much the same (see Malawian Names Blog); Sitiveni (Steven), Laisani (Laison), Elisapeci (Elizabeth), Joni (John), Keresi (Grace) Teitus (Titus), Alisi (Alice), Walota (Walter), etc. But their fascination with South African music is something I am still trying to understand. A radio show is not complete without a Lucky Dube song. The city line buses labour uphill blaring ‘Wandering up and down the street of Soweto’. Even the mad man passed me the other day mumbling a Brenda Fassie song.

Their inquisitiveness, however, is unparalleled. Fijians are wanton intrusive questioners. As soon as I get into a taxi, the driver starts firing questions –in a Fijian-style gentle way of course –and will not let up until I get off. ‘Where are you from? Which road do you want me to drive? Where do you work? Are you married? How much do you pay from your apartment....?’ If they are not interrogating, then they are unburdening all their problems onto me. One taxi driver informed me the other day that he is thinking of divorcing his wife because she has picked up a job and now HE has to pick up their kid from school! Coming back to the routine inquiry on my marital status, Fijians, like Malawians, measure a woman’s worth based on her marital status and her ability to clone herself. I am still trying to find a diplomatic way of answering this irritating question as I don’t really appreciate the pitying expression I get from Fijian women when they learn of my state of affairs. A colleague in Vanuatu told me she was brought a 21-year old boy, who came with his father’s blessings, for companionship because the locals felt sorry for her being alone. I hope my situation doesn't come to that!

Indians are not a novelty to me, but it is worth mentioning that 40% of the Fijian population is Indian. The Indo-Fijians share the same unfortunate problems as their counterparts in Africa. Like Afro-Indians, they too were indentured labourers imported by the British Empire. While the descendants of Afro-Indians fought man-eating lions to build railroads, Indo-Fijians labourers hacked their way through sugar plantations—native Fijians were too laid back for this kind of work. Indo-Fijians too decided to stay after their masters left and three generations later, they too are still regarded as foreigners with the power to control the local economy. In spite of their plight, the Island got to them too. Unlike their cousins on the Indian sub-continent, Indo-Fijians have acquired the Fijian unhurried way of walking, Fijian mannerism, a meat based diet, and of course the Pacific inquisitiveness. 

Fijian Islands are at the mercy of the ocean and unpredictable weather. The volatility of the Islands seems to be reflected in the personalities of its people. I am still finding it difficult to reconcile to the severe warnings I have received so far; that these same gentle smiling giants would not hesitate to rob me on the street, even in broad daylight, if the opportunity arose. Muggings and house break-ins are a daily occurrence. Sexual violence is rampant. The Pacific ranks as the region with the highest sexual and gender-based violence. Fiji is no exception. Ever since the security training, I can’t stop wondering what is really lurking behind those seemingly Zen Buddha eyes. The political landscape is equally unpredictable. Since independence, Fiji has had four coup d’etats and nobody knows what the coming elections will bring.  But even the revolts are usually done in a way only Fijians can—in a laid back fashion. Apparently the declaration of the last coup was delayed for three days due to a rugby match.

When it comes to finding a church, the choice is overwhelming. Amazingly, nearly all native Fijians are Christians—an irony considering the violence levels. But I guess the same could be said of Christianity and HIV in Africa. I understand that the original bearers of the gospel didn’t have it easy with the natives. There was heavy resistance, which culminated in the feasting of Mr. Baker; the very same unholy communion to which the missionaries were trying to put to a stop. Thomas Baker was the unfortunate, some say proud, missionary who was cannibalised by the locals in retaliation against his good news message. To snack on an enemy was the ultimate revenge and humiliation. Fijians even had special dainty cutlery for devouring the flesh of their nemeses. I am looking forward to decorating my apartment with the macabre forks.

I am aware that my first impressions of Fiji are not exactly what one envisions of a paradise. I am disarmed yet confused by easy-going giants whose newspapers are full of deranged men preying on the innocent. The expats who have been here for long time assure me that Fiji is a fantastic place to live. I am hoping that once my head has found a way of dealing with these contradictions, once my sausage feet are able to fit into my shoes again, once I have figured out where to buy fish that’s not tuna or mahi mahi, and once I have swam the Fijian balmy soothing waters, I will learn to appreciate and enjoy the Fijian paradise. Or maybe, just maybe, the island itself will worm its way into my heart, just like it did to the Indo-Fijians.