This is it

After spending 154 days in Fiji, I’m on my way back home to Canada today.
But sitting in the Los Angeles airport for a 10-hour layover, I’m at a loss for words – a writer’s worst nightmare.
It’s not that I don’t have anything to say; rather, the problem is I have too much to say. How can I sum up the last six months living abroad in a developing country? I promised myself I wouldn’t even attempt to do so in this final blog. After all, ending with a summary is reserved for academic writing, and I ain’t no academic.
And besides, my previous blog entries will tell my tale in far better detail than I could ever do in 500 words.
So instead, here are a few of the things I will miss most from Fiji:
My editor and mentor Dr. Robert Wolfgramm: Not only did Robert welcome me into his newspaper, but he also welcomed me into his family. Robert and I spent countless hours in cafes discussing everything from politics and sports to film and relationships. He will be a lifelong friend.

The food: From fresh fruit to fish curry to fiery chilli peppers, my palate spent the last six months in heaven – and occasionally hell (when I used too many chillies).

The scenery: Though I’ve made the four-hour, coastal voyage from Suva to the Nadi airport many times, I’ve yet to be able to read a single word during the ride, because I can’t take my eyes off the breath-taking view: the vast blue Pacific Ocean on one side and cloud-piercing mountains on the other side. It’s truly mesmerizing.

My dog, O.D.D: because a boy never forgets his first dog.

The Ocean: Growing up in London, Ontario, I never understood the power of an ocean. Now, not even a day out of Fiji, I’m already suffering ocean withdrawal. I loved swimming in the Pacific’s warm, salty waters, and watching the sun set into its horizon.

In closing, this was my first venture into the world of blogging, and I wasn’t sure how it would turn out. At first, I constantly feared that I would run out of things to blog about or that nobody would be interested in what I wrote, but the exact opposite happened. My friends and family have been incredibly supportive, and your encouraging messages and comments mean the world to this young writer. Thank you for taking the time to read my story.

Dining with a despot

For my final night in Suva, I went out for a bite to eat with a few good friends to a downtown restaurant. As I’m sitting around enjoying me fleeting hours in Fiji and some delicious fish fingers, I notice him walk into the restaurant.
Yes, I would recognize him anywhere, though I’ve never met him or seen him in person before.
As I stare at his face, I stop eating – something I rarely do.
First, a woman approaches him and shakes his hand. Then another woman gets up from her table to exchange some words and a warm handshake with him.
I, however, have absolutely no desire to do anything of the sort.
After all, this is the man who threw several of my colleagues at the Fiji Daily Post in jail. This is the man who sends a government censor to my newsroom every night to decide which stories are suitable to publish. This is the man who overthrew Fiji’s democratically elected government.
The man standing a mere 10 feet from my table is Frank Bainimarama, Fiji’s military dictator.
Just like people always seem to say when they see most celebrities, I notice he’s much shorter than I imagined.
But then again, dictators aren’t known for their height. Napoleon was 5’6”; Kim Jung Il is a mere 5’2”; Stalin was only 5’4”; and Hitler was only 5’9”.
Perhaps it’s an extreme little man complex that drives these tiny men to become dictators in the first place.
After greeting some of the restaurant’s patrons, Bainimarama and his entourage are seated in the back corner of the restaurant. There is one plain-clothed guard accompanying the party.
I turn my attention back to my friends, and my neglected fish sticks, yet I can’t help but wonder why Bainimarama chose to dine at Bad Dog’s Grill. Then I realize that he’s at Bad Dog’s for the exact same reason I’m here: it’s the only restaurant in Suva open past 9 p.m.
I guess dictators have to eat too.

Minority report

Here in Fiji, for the first time in my life, I’m the minority.
Fiji is made up of 58% Fijian natives, 38% Indo-Fijians (who the British brought to work as slaves in the 19th century), and 4% other ethnicities.
Now, after six months in Fiji, I’ve grown used to being a visible minority. Everywhere I go people seem to stare at me.
My editor’s wife, Lupe Wolfgramm, told me that Fijians like to stare and they don’t consider it rude.
When I walk down the street and a bus passes, it’s a given that every pair of eyes on that bus are fixated on me. In some cases, the stares will be so intent that mouths will be open, too.
Yes, Lupe was right. Fijians gaze, gape, gawk, watch, look intently, ogle, observe, eyeball, examine, view, survey and stare
And I can understand their interest. Fiji is one of the most geographically isolated countries in the world – it’s literally in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. And while Fiji is a tourist destination, most visitors don’t venture off the coastal resorts.
Here in Suva, where there isn’t a beach for miles, there aren’t many tourists. The Suva smog and the street dogs don’t seem to attract many visitors.
So, needless to say, white people are a rarity.
When the locals see me, they’re probably just wondering where I’m from and what I’m doing in Fiji.
I know this because I, too, now stare at foreigners.
While riding the bus a few days ago, the bus passed a blond-haired girl jogging down the street. In unison, every passenger, myself included, starred at the jogger as the bus drove beside her, and then we all turned our heads to watch her as we drove away.
“Where’s she from, and what’s she doing in Fiji?” We all seemed to collectively contemplate.
I guess starring is contagious.
Soon I’ll go back to Canada, where I’ll blend in with the crowd. But being the minority has been a priceless experience. And I can’t help but think that if everyone, at some point in their lives, experienced being the minority, then the world would be a more tolerant place.

Kookoo for coconuts

I’ve finally found a way to beat the hot Fiji heat.
For months I'd been trying to cool down by drinking cold beverages, but they didn’t seem to do anything for me.
Even Gatorade’s mighty electrolyte – known universally for its ability to refresh and rehydrate – was no match for the scorching Suva sun.
Then it hit me.
Well, thankfully it didn’t actually hit me, because that could have been painful.
Coconuts.
After all, the topical fruit is filled with sweet nectar, and Suva is littered with street vendors hawking freshly picked coconuts.
A few weeks ago, on my way home from the gym, I bought my first coconut off of a vendor for the economical price of $1.
Dying of thirst, I asked the teenage vendor to open the shell for me so I could drink it right away. He pulled out a machete – which seems to be the Fijian equivalent of the Swiss Army Knife, in the sense that everyone carries one – and chopped off the top of the coconut.
As I walked down the street sipping on my coconut, I noticed I was getting some strange looks from passing people. Then I realized that I must look pretty funny drinking straight from a coconut shell.
It’s hard to feel manly while you’re sipping fruit juice out of an edible cup. Drinking a beverage out of a coconut is something middle-aged women do at tropical resorts. One could even make the argument that it’s a rather fruity thing for a man to do.
Suddenly embarrassed, I contemplated what I could do to regain my masculinity. Tough guys are known to drink cans of beer and then crush the can on their head. Maybe I cold try that with my coconut? No, I would probably just end up with a concussion.
Perhaps double-fisting coconuts would make me look cooler? But that wouldn’t work either because it takes two hands to hold the coconut.
I could get the vendor to chop another hole in the coconut, and then I could shotgun its contents, but that could get messy.
Instead, I quickly walked home and enjoyed the remainder of my coconut inside my house. After drinking the fluid, I scooped out the fruit’s flesh with a spoon – it was delicious.
And I was hooked.
With each passing day I purchased another coconut and slowly grew more confident drinking them in public.
Soon I didn’t care if people stared at me as I gulped down a coconut; they’re probably just wish they had one too.
Now I’m proud to be a coconut connoisseur.

Here comes the story of the hurricane

Over the next 24 hours I will experience something I’ve yet to experience in Fiji: a hurricane.
It’s no longer a question of whether or not Hurricane Thomas will hit Fiji, it’s just a matter of how hard the disaster will strike.
But doesn’t this hurricane know that we share the same namesake? My middle name is Thomas – doesn’t that grant me some sort of special immunity?
It appears nobody on this tiny Pacific island is immune from Thomas’s destructive wrath. Fiji’s northern islands got their first taste of Thomas late last night. With winds blowing at 160km per hour, the category four hurricane tore roofs off houses and claimed the life of its first victim, a 31-year-old woman who was killed by a giant wave.
Already, thousands of Fijians have been evacuated from their homes and taken to emergency shelters. Schools and public transportation are shut down and the government imposed an 8 p.m. curfew.
Thankfully, the weather in Suva is still stable, albeit windy. I decide to stock up on bottled water and food, and, to my great relief, I discover the grocery store is open.
The store is packed with last-minute shoppers. The shelves are almost empty. The pop, chip and cookies isles are especially hard hit (Fijians aren’t overly health conscious).
On my way home the streets are eerily empty. For the first time in six months I walk a whole block without being honked at by a cab. The only sign of human activity is people boarding up their windows.
You can feel the fear in the air.
Even the street dogs have taken refuge somewhere.
Now back at home, sitting in my flat, I hear the wind picking up outside, and I can’t help but think this is one new experience I could have done without.

Not the type of dog you bring home to mom

Although I expected to become desensitized to the dire dog situation in Fiji, it never seemed to happen.
And my failure to disregard homeless hounds landed me in my current situation.
A few weeks ago I saw a small puppy wandering down the street near my flat. Upon seeing this sad pup, I regretted my decision to stop carrying dog food in my laptop bag.
A couple of days later I’m looking out my front door and who do I see, but the same little puppy looking up at me with hungry eyes.
I go back into the house and scour the cupboards for something that a dog will find edible. Finding only a can of sardines, I rush back outside.
I give the little dog the sardines, which he ravenously eats, and a bowl of water.
After eating his meal he trots off down the street.
Over the next few nights the puppy keeps returning to my door. I feed him whatever I can find: baked beans, meat, bread – even chips.
I decide it’s time to buy some dog food.
I go to the only pet store in Suva (people in Fiji are concerned with feeding their families, not animals) to buy some dog food. There are only two kinds of dog food available. I ask the clerk if there is a difference between the two types.
“Ummm…one is for big dogs and the other is for small dogs,” he says with a smile, clearly impressed with his impromptu answer.
I go with the kind for big dogs.
A few nights later I hear a noise outside of my window and see the little puppy sitting there.
Excited to give him his new treat, I go to pour the food into the bowl – but suddenly something unexpected happens.
The second the kibble hits the dish, a big, mangy street dog appears out of nowhere and devours the food as the little puppy runs away.
“Who the hell are you, and where did you come from?” I demand. But the big dog isn’t here to socialize; he’s here to eat.
Shoot, I should have bought the food for little dogs.
The next day I look outside my window to see both the little puppy and the mangy mongrel sitting near the food dish.
I go outside with the bag of food and try to shoo the big dog away, but he doesn’t budge. So I give both dogs a separate bowl of food. Within seconds the big mangy brute wolfs down his kibble and goes on to steal the puppy’s dinner too.
“Get out of here!” I say.
As the days pass the little puppy doesn’t appear outside of my window anymore. But that ugly, big brute is there every morning when I wake up.
At first I’m mad at him for driving away the cute little puppy, but then I have pity on the big beast. He’s the definition of a mutt – the product of years of street dog inbreeding. He’s skinny, balding, covered in sores, has a filthy coat of once-white hair, and yet he still has a happy look in his eyes.
I start feeding him regularly.
At night I hear him barking outside of my window, protecting my place from other street dogs.
Every morning he’s waiting at my door for his breakfast. When I come home from work he greets me.
I give him a name: Old Dirty Dog or O.D.D for short.
But then I face a new problem: O.D.D starts following me whenever I leave the house.
When I walk down to the grocery store he faithfully trots by my side. At first I’m embarrassed to be seen with such an unsightly animal. I don’t want people to think that this mangy mutt belongs to me. I’m a man trying to look fashionable in Fiji, and a ratty-looking street dog is not a cool accessory.
But O.D.D just keeps following me wherever I go. He even looks proud, especially when we pass other street dogs.
“Yes, that’s right, I have an owner,” he probably says to the other homeless canines we come across.
One time at the video store O.D.D tries to come inside with me.
“Get out,” I say, motioning for him to leave, which he does.
“What a good dog,” says the girl behind the counter.
“Oh, he’s not even my dog,” I say, feeling embarrassed. Immediately guilt rushes over me for denying O.D.D. I feel like Simon Peter after he denied Jesus three times.
It’s been a few weeks since O.D.D made his first, unwelcome appearance, and I’m starting to find myself talking to him. Also, I’m no longer embarrassed to be seen in public with him.
Even as I type this blog he’s sitting outside.
Now I embrace O.D.D’s company. After all, I’m here in a foreign country with few friends. Who am I to turn down an offer from man’s best friend?

Linda, I've a feeling we're not at the Westin anymore

*Guest blogger Linda writes about her experience in Fiji*
To the Western world Fiji appears to be another tropical destination that most can’t find the time to visit or simply is unaware of its existence. Many individuals believe the tiny island is part of the Caribbean – not knowing it’s on the other side of the world. Meaning, no one really has an extensive knowledge on this small Pacific nation supposedly known as “paradise” and I’m no exception.
My boyfriend has been there for more than four months prior to my visit, and although I had read every one of his blog entries and spoke with him countless times a day about his experiences, I had absolutely no idea what I was up against. My first indication of the hard times approaching was the purchase of my flight, where I soon realized I would endure a 24-hour plane ride and a 14-hour time difference before I would see the grand Pacific ocean. But, once again, ignorance is bliss; 24 hour flights have nothing on me! I'm infamously known to fall asleep anytime and anywhere – especially when there’s a movie involved. I even made a sincere attempt to stay up the night before my journey so I'd guarantee my exhausted state and my boarding of that dreaded, early morning flight. Unfortunately I failed (miserably) and I slept the entire drive to the airport. By the time I arrived I had slept a decent amount of hours and was not overly tired.
To spare you the gory details I survived the flight(s) and eventually find myself face-to-face with the person I miss and resent the most – my boyfriend. (Resentment is what forms when someone leaves you to deal with your first winter alone).
Delirious, eyes half open and trying to account for all of my luggage, I’m completely unaware of the amazing resort he has taken me to, thinking I was just going to his apartment four hours away in the capital city, Suva.
As Soon as I’m led into my new room, I’m in heaven. There, before me, sits a king-size bed with the perfect duvet and air conditioning that filled the room overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I had never seen anything more beautiful and nothing agreed with me more. With a quick (and by quick I mean rather lengthy) shower I fell into the bed and drifted into a deep sleep and my winter blues instantly dissipated.
As an early riser, I made no exception on my vacation. I woke at an hour most would find ungodly, and, eventually growing impatient, I was forced to wakeup my partner.
We strolled downstairs to see the largest breakfast buffet and it lacked NOTHING! My vacation continued to be getting better and better.
After a few days at the resort, I knew my time was running out. We would have to make the four-hour drive back to Suva where Dale lives, and I’d be expected to survive under much harsher living conditions. Two famous lines that formulated in this city were “I'm going to be sick!” (referring to the heat combined with the lack of air conditioning) and “this country has almost been the end of me on multiple occasions!” I can't seem to live them down either.
Once I had set up camp at his apartment, meaning I had covered every inch of his place in girly attire, smelly lotions and shoes galore, I set my sights on pure optimism. It couldn't be that bad! After all, I’d spent 5 years in Texas, and the south is known for its insanely high temperatures. Approximately 10 minutes later I found myself sitting in front of the fan … just sitting. It was all I could do! My optimism vanished.
My boyfriend, being the enthusiast, constantly cheered me on, coaxing me through the days; this is something that almost sent me into murderous action on several occasions. To pile the negative on thick, I was also stared at by several locals like I was a circus tramp there to perform tricks; I was followed at an uncomfortable, rather close and frightening distance; cars honked at me while my significant other was within viewing distance; and I endured a type of heat I’d never experienced before. The rules in Western society most certainly didn’t apply here.
But now, home, looking back, I consider it one of the greatest learning experiences in my life. I met some exceptional people, saw some amazing things and, most of all, opened my eyes to my sheltered life and received some perspective on what really matters to me. I'm thankful for every day I was able to spend on the island and the people that contributed to such an incredible trip. I'll miss my travel companion dearly and continue to count the days until he returns. But falling asleep the last night sans air conditioning (once again) was enough to make me wish I could close my eyes, tap my heels three times and think to myself, “There's no place like home.”