Bars are better by the dozen

Hello Christmas my old friend, I’ve come to talk of you again.
One of the best parts of the Christmas season is that old friends and family who have moved away from London come home for the holidays.
For the last 25 years I’ve called London my home so I usually wait for people to come to me, but this year is different – this year I came back to the 519 after spending three months in Fiji.
At the risk of sounding cliché, there’s no place like home, especially during Christmas time.
And my timing couldn’t have been better. Not only would I be home for Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year’s Eve and my birthday – but I would also be home for the 5th Annual 12 Bars of Christmas.
Twelve bars, the brainchild of Dave Strano, is night of organized Christmas bar-hopping where CCH alumni –- and those who wish they attended Catholic Central – get together to drink, drink and be merry.
Now in its fifth year, the event has become the de facto meeting place for many friends who wouldn’t normally see each other. I, for example, have limited time in London and won’t get a chance to spend time with everyone I would like to see. One friend of mine is coming home from Belgium and only staying in town for a short time, another is now a proud father and doesn’t have time for partying, but we all decided to go out for 12 bars. The night is a one-stop shop for catching up with old friends or having a much-needed night out with familiar faces.
More than 150 people came out for the night, which starts in downtown’s south end and gradually moves northward one watering hole at a time.
Allow me to use a metaphor to describe the 12 bars. The event is like a snowball rolling down a hill. It starts out small, perhaps with old man Strano, his Fugazi crew and few die-hards. But slowly the snowball starts to pick up momentum as it gets rolling to new bars, and with each bar it picks up more and more people people. Eventually the snowball becomes gigantic and somewhat out of control (usually around the 8th bar) as a group exceeding 100 rolls down Richmond Row.
Most in attendance try to drink at least one drink before “the Skip” blows his trademark whistle signaling time for the snowball to roll out, but some seasoned veterans manage to down two beverages with time to spare.
At some of the locations, the 12 bars crew are the only patrons, while at other stops we mix in with students fresh off finishing exams, unknown locals – and even another, albeit much weaker, 12 bars party.
From fraternizing with a freckled friend who I see only once a year on 12 bars to telling tantalizing tales of my Fijian escapades to having a few drinks with some old pals I never should have fallen out of touch with the evening is an incredible success.
The night has a specific feeling that cannot be replicated on any of the calendar’s other 364 days. I don’t know where I’ll be living next year, but I’m already looking forward to coming back to London for the 12 bars of 2010.

A taste of the Pacific in London

One of the great parts about travelling is bringing a small piece of a foreign country back home: both figuratively and literally.

Last week I came back to my hometown of London, Ontario, for Christmas and I have never been so happy to be home. On Saturday my parents threw me a welcome home, Fiji theme party. Fijian folk music filled the air, the walls were decorated with wooden masks and swords purchased in Suva, there was a ton of food, and of course, plenty of kava being passed around.

With the exception of my parents, who visited me in Fiji, and my uncle Skip (who has been pretty much everywhere in the world) nobody in attendance had ever stepped foot on the tiny Pacific Island, and little was known about its culture.

All of my aunts, uncles, cousins and friends had lots of questions about the far away land that I now call home, and I was happy to showcase my new found knowledge of the country I once knew nothing of. I talked about food, politics, music, sports, living conditions and especially weather – all of which my family and friends were genuinely interested in.

Then came the part everyone was waiting for: drinking kava.

From reading my blog, everyone at the party heard plenty about the traditional Fijian drink – and its mouth numbing, relaxing effect.

We all gathered at the table while Hart brewed up a large pot of the brownish liquid. Those brave enough to partake in the festivities took a seat, while the fearful watched from a safe distance away.

When the brew was ready, Hart began passing a kava-filled coconut shell around the table in a clockwise direction. Some drinkers took the kava with grace and dignity while others ran for chasers. There were those who smiled after the drink and those who resembled Fear Factor contestants after drinking. Some requested high tides (big portions), while some opted for low tides (small portions). Even my grandma tried a drink.

Feeling loose from the kava, the party moved into the living room to view a slideshow of Hart’s and my adventures in Fiji. Hart put together an incredible 15-minute slideshow featuring some of our best pictures (we took more than a thousand) mixed with music.

People laughed; people were awed by the country’s beauty; and people asked questions.

After the slideshow, the party migrated back into the kitchen for some more kava and food.

Not only did the guests leave that night slightly mellower from the kava, they also left my house a little worldlier.

Fiji’s history and culture isn’t taught in Canadian classrooms – but that doesn’t mean it’s unimportant. The short time I’ve already spent in Fiji has been an incredible learning experience, and now I’m sharing what I’ve learned with my family and friends back home.

Despite being 12,343 km away, Fiji came to London, Ontario on December 12.

A terminal treat

Often people refer to airports as hell, but really they’re more of a purgatory.
Airports and purgatory are similar in the sense that there’s nothing to do there – except to wait around for what seems like forever. Like purgatory, nobody is happy to be stuck in an airport, and yet, there’s a sense of better things to come.
But as of late, I’ve found a positive aspect about spending time in an airport: the amazing newspaper selection.
One of the biggest limitations of newspaper circulation is the problem of proximity. Remember, a newspaper is unsellable after 24 hours, so it’s not feasible for papers to distribute too far outside of their market base.
Therefore, I’m in newspaper hell over in Fiji. Because the island is so isolated, there are absolutely no newspapers here except for Fijian papers – which, to say the least, aren’t great.
So I was actually excited about flying home this week because I haven’t cracked a decent paper in three months.
Suddenly, the prospect of a 10-hour layover in the LAX airport doesn’t seem so daunting; it will give me a chance to finally read every inch of the renowned Los Angeles Times. Living in London, Ontario, it’s impossible to get a copy of the LA Times. Yes, I know you can read it online, but it’s just not the same.
So while my travel companion Hart opted to take a nap in the LAX lobby, I dash off to the airport general store.
At the newsstand I feel like a kid in a candy store. Racks and racks of America’s finest papers filled the store. The smell of newsprint fills the air. Geography isn’t a problem at this paper shop because flights from all over the world are coming in – so it’s stocked with papers from every corner of the U.S.
Although tempted by both the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, I pick up my first copy of the LA Times. I headed for the nearest bench and open my paper with the excitement of a child opening a Christmas present.
For a few hours I actually enjoy my layover, while I read a great column by Steve Lopez (the reporter who inspired the Jamie Foxx movie The Soloist).
Which leads me to wonder: maybe purgatory wouldn’t be so bad if it just had some quality reading.

Surf or die

While my last weekend could hardly be considered a giant leap for mankind, it was more than a small step for this man.
I finally went surfing.
After nearly three surfless months in Fiji, I marked off a big check on my “to do in life list.”
Yes, like any dreamer, I have compiled – and continue to make additions to – a list of things I want to do in my lifetime. And unlike Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson, the stars of the Hollywood flop The Bucket List, I’m not waiting for a terminal diagnosis to get started.
For as long as I can remember I have always wanted to surf and figured travelling to Fiji would grant me an unlimited pass to the coveted pastime. However, there are only select spots on the island where the waves are big enough, and close enough to the shore, to make surfing possible.
On Saturday, I wake up at 5 a.m. and make the three-hour drive to one of Fiji’s best surf beaches: Sigatoka.
Upon arriving at my destination, I immediately head to the beach to meet my surf instructor, Ian. After getting a ten-minute lesson on the sand, Ian deems me ready to hit the water. I can hardly contain my excitement as I look out at the picturesque beach: white sand, crystal clear water – and giant waves.
Ian takes me to a spot where the waves are moderately sized. He tells to lay flat of my board and he will give me a push when the first wave comes.
Round I
This is it: the moment I’ve been waiting for. I prepare for take-off.
Suddenly I feel Ian push me and I start to elevate as the wave gains momentum. Trying to remember everything Ian said, I stand up on the board. My feet are shoulder distance apart; my front foot is angled 45 degrees; my arms are spread – I’m surfing!
“I’m riding a wave. I’m riding a wave,” I think to myself.
Then suddenly I’m somersaulting beneath the water like I’m in the spin cycle of a washing machine.
I eventually float to the surface feeling much like the Prophet Jonah after he was vomited from the whale’s stomach: happy to be alive but knowing there’s a lot of work to be done.
I paddle back out to Ian and repeat the drill for more than an hour. Sometimes I can stand up and ride the wave to the shore, but other times the nose of my board dips below the surface, and I’m thrown head first into the water.
Surfing is definitely harder than I thought.
Eventually Ian says that I’m ready to paddle into my own waves – the training wheels are coming off. But the new challenge proves difficult. Timing is crucial: stand up too early and the wave will break onto you, stand up to late and you will literally be on top on the wave before getting dumped.
After a few hours of getting tossed around I decide to conclude my first session.
I return home exhausted, hop into the shower and drift into a nap.
A few hours later, Hart wakes me, and we trek down to the beach for another ride.
Round II
It’s late in the afternoon, and the waves are significantly smaller now. And yet, I’m having more trouble getting up. Perhaps it’s because there are two 10-year-olds casually surfing circles around me, or maybe it’s because this time I’m surfing over sharp coral instead of soft sand. I hardly ride a single wave before calling it quits.
Later in the evening my surf party goes out for dinner and drinks But after the meal when people start ordering drinks I excuse myself. I want to wake up early and catch some morning waves.
Round III
The next morning I head to the beach to meet Ian. I am disappointed to see tiny waves rolling onto the shore. Ian assures me the waves will get bigger, but I insist on going somewhere else. He drives me to the other end of the beach, and I can hardly contain my excitement at what I see: a cycle of eight-foot waves crashing into the shore. Before taking off, Ian warns me of a strong riptide and tells me to be careful because these waves can do serious damage.
I paddle out and spend the morning getting destroyed by monster waves – and occasionally riding the odd one. After a few hours I am cut up and have drunken my weight in sea water, but nothing can wipe the smile from my face.
Surfing: check

The good, the bad and the boring

One of the reasons I got into journalism is because no day is ever the same. Each day brings a new – and potentially interesting – assignment.
However, the job isn’t all glamour and glory. City council meetings, groundbreaking ceremonies and press conferences need coverage just as rock concerts, sporting events and bikini competitions need reporting.
So far my time working in Fiji hasn’t been an exception to the craft’s steadfast rule: there have been some great assignments and there have been some mind-numbing ones.
For example, I just got back from a special opening of the European Film Festival. The evening was reserved for invited guests, but I happen to have a friend working at the European Commission who told me media is welcome to attend. I invite my travel companion Hart along for the night. He is instantly sold after hearing there will be appetizers and an open bar.
Working as a journalist in Canada, I never eat food at events, but that rule didn’t seem to make the 18-hour flight with me to Fiji, so I proceed to eat not one, but three plates of appetizers. However, I never drink while working – leaving Hart to do the drinking for two.

While Hart double-fists Fiji Golds, I take notes.
After watching the French film Le Couperet, meeting the French Ambassador, and of course, eating some more food, I call it a good night and head home to write my story. While typing, I think to myself that I have the best job in the world.
But then there are the other days.
My neighbour, who is a grad student at the University of the South Pacific, sends me a press release and invitation to an information and communication technology symposium.
Why be bored alone?
“Want to go to this thing with me tonight?” I ask Hart.
“Why would I want to go to it after you’ve been complaining all day about having to go?” Hart replies.
Good point. I grab my bag and head out solo.
After a two-hour lecture on computer science, math and statistics – broken up for a fifteen-minute break where chips and tang are served – I go home exhausted.
The next day I schedule an interview with a professor who organized the symposium. I ask some follow-up questions and dig for an interesting angle. The professor is an Australian in his 60s, who talks about information systems with unparalleled passion. The man is clearly proud of what he’s doing at the university. Now if I could just transfer his enthusiasm into my story I’ll be set. Feeling inspired, I go home and start writing. In the end, I come up with a decent 250-word story.
Contrary to what people may think, I appreciate every story I cover. Although it’s fun to cover film festivals and interview pagent contestants, reporting on a topic that I know nothing about – like computer science – is a challenging and educational experience. Each story I write comes with a new opportunity. Sometimes I gain knowledge in a new domain; I meet an interesting individual; or I’m inspired by a person’s actions. Other times, I remember why I love, and always will love, my job.

Who knows what tomorrow is going to bring.

Can't forget the forgotten

I always like to say there are three Fijis: the resort, the city and the village. But this week I ventured into the fourth and forgotten part of the country – the squatter settlement.
And when I say ventured, I don’t mean I just wandered into the settlement uninvited – that would be neither safe nor wise. Rather, I was doing a story on two Australians working in Jittu Estate, one of Fiji’s largest shack towns.
Entering the settlement was like stepping into another world. Hundreds of tiny tin shacks dotted the hilly landscape, which stretched for several city blocks. Pools of raw sewage, piles of garbage and malnourished dogs were everywhere I looked. I received wide-eyed stares as I passed the settlement’s inhabitants. For the first time in Fiji, I didn’t feel welcome.
Of course, I knew better than to go in alone. I was escorted into the settlement by a local liaison. He arranged for me to meet a typical Jittu family, the Silu’s: a mom, dad and six children living in a one-room, ten-by-ten-foot shack with no electricity. I entered the dingy dwelling and sat on the floor, because there wasn’t a stick of furniture. I couldn’t help but notice that it was early Wednesday morning, but none of the kids were in school. I ask the mother why her children weren’t in class, and she tells me that sometimes when there is enough money a few of the kids go to school – but that isn’t often. Her oldest son Esava, who is 15 years old, has never stepped foot inside a classroom.
I have never seen this level of poverty before. School in Fiji only costs $15 per term, but this family can hardly afford to feed their children, let alone send the kids to school. But it isn’t the poverty that strikes a chord with me – it’s the hopelessness that I feel. What can be done for these people?
There are those who will say laziness landed these individual in their dire situation, and why don’t they just go out and get a job? But those who say such things don’t understand the underlying complications.
Take Esava for example. He can’t read or write, and he can barely communicate. Having never attended school, he didn’t get a chance to learn how to socialize with other children his age. His mom fears for his safety in the settlement, so she doesn’t let him leave the house. There’s nothing in the home to entertain him: no television, no books, no radio – nothing. He literally just sits around all day long, a prisoner in his own home. The only people Esava interacts with are his parents and siblings.
How can he be expected to work anywhere? Who would hire him and what would he do?
No, the problem isn’t laziness; it’s a vicious cycle of poverty. It’s likely Esava will grow up and live in the same squatter settlement – it’s the only life he’s ever known. And thus, the cycle will continue.
But wait. Here’s where the two previously mention Australians come in. Ironically named Bryan and Chris Hope, the father and son duo travelled to Fiji to work in Jittu Estate. The Hopes didn’t want to put a “band-aid” solution on the settlement’s problems. Knowing hand-outs don’t work, Bryan and Chris want to bring a long-term solution to Jittu.
There is only one sure way to eradicate poverty: education.
Bryan found donors in Australia willing to sponsor Jittu families by paying the children’s school fees. The Hopes believe this method is far more effective than giving the families material objects, because now the children have the opportunity to lift themselves out of poverty.
Again, let’s go back to Esava. If he went to school he would know how to read and write. Now he would be able to make a resume and apply for jobs. He would have the social skills and communication skills necessary to work in a variety of fields. Furthermore, he would have the option of going on to university, college or a trade school. Suddenly he would be able to move out of the squatter settlement, support his family and one day send his children to school. Thanks to the Hopes, Esava’s younger brothers and sisters will get the chance to control their futures.
Poverty may be cyclical – but so is the solution.

Curse of the cab

The citizens of Suva depend on cabs, but the drivers here in Fiji are anything but dependable.
For example, I was recently assigned to cover the closing ceremonies of Ghandi week at the Indian High Commission. The event, which began at 6:30 p.m., featured guest speakers and a documentary.
6:20 p.m.
Realizing I’m running late, I fly out the front door and flag the first taxi I see.
“Hi, I’m going to the Indian High Commission.” I say.
“Indian High Commission?” says the driver, who happens to be Indian.
“Yes. Do you know where that is?” I say. “If not, I’ll have to get another cab, because I’m already running late.”
The driver assures me that he does in fact know where the building is located, and off we go. But soon I can’t help but notice the confused look on my drivers face as he passes through intersections. Eventually we end up on the outskirts of the city and pull up to a large gated-compound. I pay the driver and get out of the cab. I approach the security booth and identify myself as a member of the press.
“This is the residence of the Indian Ambassador,” the guard informs me. “I think you got the wrong place.”
I curse my cab driver.
6:35 p.m.
I hail another cab, but before getting into the car I ask the driver if he knows where the Indian High Commission is. He tells me he does, but I notice a tinge uncertainty in his voice. We start to drive back towards town; however, it soon becomes apparent that he has no idea where he is going.
“Are you lost?” I ask him.
But instead of answering me he pulls up beside another cab and asks the drive for directions to the Indian High Commission.
Now I’m furious. My eyes are drawn to the dashboard, but they aren’t focusing on the meter which has been steadily adding up. Instead, I’m focusing on the clock.
6:45 p.m.
The driver turns around and drives in the opposite direction. Within a few minutes we pull up to another gated-compound. I give the driver half of the fare and tell him he’s lucky to get anything. Again, I get out, approach the security booth and flash my press pass.
“This is the residence of the Indian Ambassador, not the High Commission,” the guard informs me.
Yes, I was at the same building, only this time I was at the rear entrance.
Again, I curse my cab driver and wish he was still around so I could do more than just curse him. I ask the guard to get me the address for the High Commission, and he tells me where it’s located. I flag another cab – a simple feat in Suva – and tell the driver where I’m going.
7:00 p.m.
Finally, I arrive at the Indian High Commission, hoping I haven’t missed the guest speaker. I speed walk down the hall into the conference room. As I prepare to tip-toe into the room I notice that nobody is seated yet and there’s lots of noise – the ceremony hasn’t started yet! It’s running of Fiji time. Suddenly, I am thankful for the Island’s chronic lack of punctuality.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I take a seat and pull out my notepad. Within a few minutes the opening speaker takes the stage and starts talking…in Hindi.
I find the media relations officer and learn that the entire ceremony will be all Hindi. I pack up my stuff and exit the building.
7:30 p.m.
Not wanting to step foot in another cab, I decide to walk home.
Just another day working as a journalist in Suva.

Happiness is a warm bill

Before leaving for Fiji, I went to Robert Q to purchase some Fijian currency. Upon receiving the wad of colourful bills I was surprised to see the familiar, friendly face of old Queen Victoria smiling at me.
Fijian dollars looked unexpectedly like Canadian bills. I guess that makes sense seeing as how Fiji – like Canada – is a former British colony, and both countries are members of the Commonwealth of Nations (correction: Fiji recently got the boot from the Commonwealth).
As I sift through my newly acquired wade of foreign dollars I come across another unforeseen treat: a $2 bill. The sight of this small bill sends a wave of nostalgia through my body. It has been nearly 14 years since my hands have touched a bill in a denomination less than $5.
At the age of 25, I am old enough to remember Canada’s long lost bills: the $1 and $2 bill. As I’m getting older my early memories are starting to blur, but I will never forget the sadness I felt upon learning the $1 bill was being withdrawn from circulation. The year was 1989, and I was 6 years old. Having a dollar was like having the world in your hand.

Here’s a typical break down of how little Dale would spend his dollar:
- Ten one cent candies (10 cents)
- One Styrofoam airplane (50 cents)
- Loan to my broke-ass older brother (25 cents) *still yet to receive payment*
- Deposit to my piggy bank (10 cents)
- Keep a nickel for my pocket (5 cents)

My disappointment was twofold in 1996 when the Canadian government introduced the dreaded Toonie and withdrew the $2 bill from circulation. Now to get my hands on some paper money I would have to have $5 – that’s a lot of money for an 11-year-old!
I don’t know if it’s because having bills makes me feel like I have more money or because my wallet doesn’t have a change pouch, but whatever the reason – I hate coins. I always have, I always will. Yet, I seem alone in this dislike. I’ve recently heard talk about eliminating the $5 bill and replacing it with a coin. Doesn’t this seem like we are moving backwards? Soon the day will come where big purchases are made with a large bag of coins, just as it was done in the olden days. Let us not forget that it was a big bag of silver coins that persuaded Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus, to give up his master.
In Fiji I love getting a fist full of $2 bills back when I make a purchase. It almost feels like I have more money than I did before I bought an item. My wallet is usually exploding with small bills, and my pockets are jingle-free. When I get out of cars I don’t have to look down at the seat to make sure my change didn’t fall out of my pockets. Now I’m not lying when I tell the endless string of beggars that I don’t have any change on me.
Although my time in Fiji is far from over, I already know I’m going to immensely miss the $2 bill when I return to coin crammed Canada.

Family ties

Fiji just got a whole lot better this week. No, I’m not talking about the political situation – literally. Instead, I’m enjoying the tiny Pacific Island more these days because of the latest import to arrive on Suva’s shores: my parents.

It had been more than 40 days since I’d seen a family member. For a man who has lived at home until the age of 25, this is a big deal. A famous quote from the Godfather, delivered by Don Corleon, comes to mind: “A man who doesn’t spend time with his family isn’t a man.”

Wait, so does this mean I’m still not a man? I thought moving out of my parents’ house, paying my rent, buying groceries, and running an independent household would take me out of boyhood and into the masculine marvels of manhood. And it’s not like I just moved down the street from my childhood home – I moved 12,343 kilometres away!

But the Godfather tells me I’m still not a man.

And who am I to argue with Don Corleon? I don’t want to get an offer I can’t refuse. My twin sized bed is way too small to hold a horse’s head.

Well now my parents are here, and I couldn’t be happier. They are staying for two weeks: five days at a resort and nine days in Suva.

They flew into Nadi at 5:10 a.m., and I arranged to have a driver pick them up. The driver, Fariq, was recommended to me by a neighbour. Early Monday morning my mom calls me to say that Fariq didn’t show up, but not to worry she found another driver.

A few hours later my extremely jetlagged looking father and surprisingly refreshed looking mother pull up at my gates.

Hugs are exchanged, and I welcome them into my flat where I have breakfast waiting on the table.

But before we can start breakfast my phone rings – it’s Fariq, the failed driver.

“I’m sorry, my car broke down. I couldn’t pick up your parents, but I’m available to take them back to the airport,” he says.

“Fariq, you didn’t even complete your first job. You’re fired,” I say in my best Donald Trump voice.

Had Fariq been in a boardroom, he would have walked out.

Knowing my parents don’t have a ton of energy after a 17-hour flight, I keep the first day simple. We go to the farmers’ market, and I take them on a long walk through downtown. For dinner we pick up barbeque from my favourite cook shack.

The next day my mom and dad awake well-rested and ready to take on the city. But first my mom has to fulfil her “spiritual obligation” and take me to church. After mass I head to work and set my parents lose to roam around the city. I appointed Hart as their chaperon, but they dismiss him.

Thankfully they return home safely in the late afternoon. For dinner, I suggest Tiko's, a restaurant on a ship. Fearing the boat’s rocking would make my mom seasick, but willing to take the chance because of Tiko’s great food and affordable prices, we go to the restaurant. My mom, perhaps still riding the high from being in Fiji, handles the rocking well, and a great dinner is had by all. After dinner we get a cab to the movies to see This Is It, the new Michael Jackson documentary.

Sitting in the theatre with my parents I realize something: this is the first time I’ve been at the show with them in at least 10 years. I quickly make a mental note to go to the movies more with them when I get back to Canada.

On the third day I introduce my mom and dad to my new Fiji family: my editor, Robert, and his wife, Lupe. We all sit around drinking coffee until Robert and I recognize that we should probably do some work. So again I set my parents loose in the city, and again they manage to return unscathed. Tired from a long day, they decide to stay in for a quiet night.

But I have a better idea.

Around 9 p.m. I sneak to the store and buy something to get the party started: kava, the traditional Fijian drink that has a sedative/numbing effect.

Before coming to Fiji, my mom told me she really wanted to try kava, but when I walk through the door with a few gallons of kava I can tell she is nervous.

“Is this going to get me really drunk?” she asks.

We start the kava session and my dad takes back his first dish of the greyish liquid with ease. When it’s my mom turn she hesitantly smells the brew before gulping it down.

“It tastes terrible! I need a chaser,” she says.

But instead of chasing the kava with water, juice, pop or even a lime, she chases it with salt and vinegar Pringles.

The kava session lasts hours, and soon we’re all feeling comfortably numb. After the kava runs out we switch to beer and wine.

As I sit at the table buzzed of the combination of kava and beer I realize just how happy I am to have my parents here with me for the next two weeks.

Meet the parents...in Fiji

Today I am welcoming my first Canadian visitors to Fiji. No, my first guest isn’t my brother, my best friend or even my beloved girlfriend – it’s my parents: Mike and Debbie Carruthers
That’s right; the two people who have spent the most time with me during my 25 years of life are travelling 12,000 kilometres across the world to get their daily dose of Dale.
It’s strange to think that as I write this they are on an Air Pacific 747 flying over the ocean at 900 kilometres an hour. I wonder if they get nervous when the plane hits vicious turbulence, like I did. I wonder if they know how to work their personal headrest televisions – a feat I never accomplished. I wonder if they, too, are stricken with a debilitating case of airplane insomnia, like I was.
While I am doing all of this thinking, I realize something: I worry about my mom and dad.
I’ve already arranged to have a driver pick them up at the airport because I’m concerned they won’t have what it takes to haggle with cabdrivers who always try to overcharge foreigners. I fret about my parents walking around Suva alone. I fear they will be attacked by one of the many stray dogs. I wonder if they will be able to handle the jetlag, the pollution, the heat, the mosquitoes – the country.
What the hell am I doing? I sound like my mom. Wait, now that I think about it she always told me that I would turn out like her.
Then I remember that my parents aren’t totally incompetent. They’ve travelled before. These are the people who would drive down to New Orleans every summer before Katrina struck. And the Big Easy ain’t so easy. This is the couple who spent time in Jamaica in the 80s – and actually stepped foot outside a resort. Hell, my dad grew up in East London.
So what am I so scared of?
I need to just sit back, relax and enjoy the next two weeks with my parents.
I guess my mom was right, after all. She has a habit of doing that sometimes: being completely wrong at the time but totally on the mark in the end.

The village people

Yesterday I experienced the real Fiji. Yes, there are authenticity levels to the small island country. I know because I have now experienced the various types of Fiji.
At the bottom of the rung is the resort. When most people think of Fiji the following elements come to mind: a white sand beach, crystal clear water and grass huts. Having been in the country for more than one month and not seeing any of these, I decided to check out a resort. While enjoying my pricey stay, I mixed with the other guests – who were predominantly Europeans, Australians and Kiwis – and ate my meals at the resort restaurant which served Western-style food. The only Fijians I interacted with were the hotel employees and a few locals who came to drink at the bar at night.
This definitely isn’t Fiji.
A step up on the rung is my hometown and capital of the country, Suva. Here there are plenty of Fijians and few tourists. When I first arrived I would get excited to see other white people because they were such a rare sight. What are they doing in Suva? I wondered. The city is busy, noisy and crowded. There are no beaches for miles and it’s not safe to walk around alone at night. Suva is no country for old men. And while both the Golden Arches and Colonel Sanders are present in the downtown, the city remains fairly franchise free. As for food, there are plenty of street vendors and small shops selling roti (potato and meat stuffed wraps), fish and chips, barbeque everything and curry anything.
Like driving in any developing country, the only rule of the road is rules don’t exist. Factor in vehicles drive on the left side and the insanity is increased. Crossing the street can be a terrifying feat during rush-hour.
This is Fiji – or so I thought.
But, on Friday, my editor, Robert Wolfgramm, invited me to his wife’s village for a visit. Despite having to get up at 7 a.m. for the journey, I gladly agreed.
We departed for Vutia Village bright and early, and after a 45-minute car ride our party pilled into two small motor-powered boats for the last leg of the expedition. We cruised down the picturesque Rewa River Delta, passing small fishing boats full of curious fishers along the way. After about 15 minutes we arrived at the village.
Vutia, which is situated at the mouth of the Delta, is considered the village of the warrior, because in the past its inhabitants were tasked with guarding the nearby grand chief’s residence.
The Vutia people welcome us with open arms – literally. After a round of introductions, hugs, and handshakes we are taken to one of the larger homes and served what is possibly the best watermelon in the world; the fruit’s flesh is so dark red that the juice dripping down my face as I eat looks like red wine.
Soon a village male offers to take us to their private beach. We travel 20 minutes through a thin path cutting through thick brush before arriving at what can only be described as paradise. The beach is perfect: white sand, blue water with big waves and not a single person in sight.
Hart, our new friend Knox and I immediately hit the water. We battle against the wall of waves and make our way deeper and deeper into the Pacific until we hear the motherly voice of Lupe Wolfgramm calling at us back to shore.
After a few hours at the beach we head back to the village where a feast is awaiting us. Laid out on a blanket is the freshest meal ever I’ve ever seen. There are plates of oysters, chucks of barracuda seasoned in coconut milk, boiled dalo (a starchy root), spicy prawn cakes and hollowed out watermelons filled with pineapple, bananas and melon. Everything we are about to eat came from less than 100 feet away – now that’s eating local!
We all sit on the ground and eat the food with out fingers. During the meal I ask if pineapples grow on trees and the village roars with laughter – apparently pineapples come from a bush.
We finish eating and I play some soccer with the village boys until I’m told it’s time to head back to Suva. As I’m getting into the boat a village woman hands me a going away present: a large bag full of fruits and vegetables.
As the boat takes me away from Vutia I can’t help but feel like I’m leaving the real Fiji.

Forgotten but not gone

I’m an animal lover. I always have been – and I always will be.
As such, I’m having a difficult time dealing with the sad situation of stray dogs in Suva.
I remember my first few days in Fiji, seeing dogs casually trotting down the sidewalk without a leash or even an owner in sight. I initially thought it was kind of funny to see these animals walking down the sidewalk as if they were human beings running errands. I noticed all the dogs seemed to have two things in common: they all appeared to going somewhere specific and looking for something along the way.
Now I know exactly what it is these homeless hounds are looking for – after all, I searched for the same things when I first landed in Fiji: food and shelter.
Everywhere I go I see stray dogs – big ones, small ones, old ones, young ones. Some are in pretty rough shape. Just the other day I saw a pack of dogs running down the street, and one of them was hopping on three legs because its front right leg was broken.
Other dogs are clearly starving to death, with rib cages and spines protruding from their emancipated bodies. Most have open sores and many others barely have fur.
Feeling completely powerless I decided to go buy some dog food from Suva’s one and only pet store. I figured I could carry the food around in my bag (which I take everywhere) and this way I would be able to give food to some of these dying dogs.
My roommate came home and saw the bag of food on the counter.
“Oh no, you better not have,” he says.
I should mention that I have previously talked about taking in a dog.
“Relax; I just bought the food to give to some strays,” I assure him.
“Do you think you’re going to solve Suva’s stray problem armed with your one bag of Kibble?” he says.
But for me it isn’t about solving the problem, although I would love to do that, too. I just can’t bear to see the shape some of these canines are in.
Soon after buying the food I encounter a new challenge: the dogs are terrified of everything. Whenever I throw the food towards the dogs they just take off running. After all, I’m sure these animals haven’t exactly been treated well in their lives. They have been conditioned to fear humans.
I start to feel even more powerless.
A famous quote from Ghandi comes to mind: “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”
But I can’t help but disagree with the Mahatma on this one, because the people in Fiji have been nothing short of amazing since I’ve been here. They are friendly, helpful and welcoming.
Nonetheless, the stray dog issue is a big problem in Fiji. Most Fijians cannot afford to get their pets spayed or neutered, and there seems to be an alarming lack of respect for animals.
Lately the newspapers are running columns, stories, and letters to the editor about the stray dog problem. This is a good sign because it’s bringing awareness to the situation, but the problem needs more than just attention – it needs action.
As a journalist I took action the way I know best: I wrote and article about a primary school that raised $1,200 for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Fiji’s only animal rights organization. The school's principal said he wanted to teach his students about the importance of treating animals with respect. Stories like this give me hope that things are moving in the right direction, but it’s hard to ignore the near-death dog looking at me with broken eyes as it hungrily hobbles past me on the sidewalk.

The Fiji Daily Ghost

I was at my neighbour’s flat a few nights ago when I was introduced to one of her friends.
“Oh, you’re the guy who writes for that paper nobody reads,” he says, reaching to shake my hand.
I wish this was an isolated instance but it seems to be an alarming trend.
Like many capital cities Suva has more than one newspaper. The three papers competing for readership are the Fiji Times, Fiji Sun – and the paper I write for: Fiji Daily Post.
The day I landed in Fiji I had a disturbing conversation with my cab driver.
“So what’s the best paper?” I ask.
“Oh, Fiji Times very good,” he replies.
That isn’t the answer I want to hear.
“Ya, what else,” I ask.
“Fiji Sun people like to read,” he answers.
Again, not what I’m looking for.
“What about the Fiji Daily Post?” I inquire.
“Oh yes, Fiji Daily Post,” he says.
Not a good start – but what does this guys know about papers, I figure.
After getting into town I head straight for a newsstand to grab a copy of the Daily Post, but there’s a problem: there aren't any copies for sale.
It probably just sold out…stupid cab driver.
The next morning I wakeup and decide to start my day with a thorough read of the paper I will soon be writing for.
“Daily Post please, sir” I tell the guy at the newsstand.
First a blank stare and eventually a response.
“No Daily Post.”
Confused I head back to my hotel sans newspaper.
I guess they just sold out really early today. It must be a very popular paper…stupid cab driver.
But I am starting to get worried.
Next day, same thing: No Daily Post.
I start to panic. Did I just travel 12,343 km to write for a paper that doesn’t even exist?
My fears subside on the fourth day when my travel companion, Hart, comes bursting through the doors holding a copy of the Daily Post like he had just found the original Dead Sea scrolls.
However, my relief quickly fades after my first day at work. My editor informs me that the paper is facing many challenges. I won’t bother with the details but the Daily Post is anything but daily. We usually put out three to four papers a week, but nothing is certain.
At first I am frustrated with the situation. But gradually I realize that working in a newsroom in a developing country will only make me a stronger journalist. For example, we don’t have working phones at the office, so I have to do all of my interviews in person – that’s a good thing.
But the daily Daily Post criticisms still hurt.
At the grocery store I pick up a copy, and the cashier asks me why I’m buying that paper.
I walk into my neighbour’s kitchen to see the Fiji Times on the table.
The barista at the café looks confused when I ask her why the shop never carries the Daily Post.
When I tell people that I write for the Daily Post, I’m informed about how the Post used to be the top paper in Fiji.
Just like Bruce Springsteen, the Daily Post, too, had glory days.
And although I wasn’t around for those days, I’m confident they’re coming back – soon.
My editor, a talented and visionary newsman, is in the process of redesigning the paper and changing it to a six-day colour publication. Yes, the Daily Post is going to be daily once again. No more Fiji ‘randomly published’ Post.

White man can't walk

I woke up today for another Sunday in Fiji. In Suva the city pretty much shuts down for the Sabbath. Shops and restaurants close, and most people go to church and then spend the remainder of the day at home with family. Even the fields that are normally swarming with rugby and soccer pick-up games are eerily quiet. Needless to say I’m not a big fan of Sundays here. I can’t get food at the market because it’s closed, I can’t even have a couple of beers because it’s illegal to sell alcohol on Sunday, not to mention locating a soccer game is more difficult than finding the Lost Ark.
Still suffering from a debilitating case of early risers’ syndrome, I awake before my roommate and instantly find myself dying of boredom. With my mom set to visit in two weeks I decide I better get to at least one mass before she arrives (Hell hath no fury like a Catholic mother scorned). I get dressed and set out on my mission to honour the 3rd and 4th commandments (observe the Sabbath and honour your mother and father).
Upon stepping outside I notice my neighbour’s newspaper and am briefly tempted to break the 7th commandment (thou shall not steal). I decide against it and head to mass with all commandments in tact thus far. I travel to the city’s cathedral using my preferred means of transportation: my feet. I like walking; I’m new to the country, and it gives me a chance to take in the scenery.
But then it starts.
I step out the gate and hear the first honk.
No, the honk isn’t from a friend who recognizes me, nor is it from a car full of bikini-clad girls wanting my attention. The source of the honk is always the same: a taxi. Surprising as it may seem, laidback Fiji is home to the world’s most aggressive cab drivers.
I can’t walk down the street without getting honked at by every single vacant cab that passes – and one out of two vehicles on the Suva streets seems to be a taxi.
Initially I would respond to these unwanted advances by waving the driver away or saying “no thanks”. But my wise travelling companion tells me to not even respond to the unsolicited honks or else I will lose my voice saying no or throw out my shoulder waving them off. And it should be mentioned that Suva’s 350,000 citizens aren’t victimized by the honks – this special treatment is reserved for tourists and foreigners.
Being a tall, white male roaming the town with an orange-headed sidekick, I am a prime target. Wherever I go I can feel myself being silently stalked by fare-hungry cabbies. The suspenseful music from Jaws would be appropriate for the situation as the taxi slowly creeps up and the driver stares at me like a piece of meat, salivating at the potential fare.
I can’t help but draw a parallel to what life must be like to be an attractive girl back home. Females walking down the streets of London – and any city for that matter – are often honked and hollered at. I’ve seen it a million times. Sometimes when I’m on the phone with my girlfriend, while she is walking somewhere, I can hear car horns blaring in the background. And, I must admit, in my more childish days I have even partaken the chauvinistic activity.
Now, having been in Suva for one month, I’m starting to get really annoyed by the honks. If I wanted a cab I would stick my hand out and hail one. Do these drivers think that the white man can’t walk? Or perhaps they can somehow tell that I have the ankles of a 92-year-old woman with advanced osteoporosis.
So here I am on a serene Sunday taking an early morning stroll down to the cathedral. The streets are nearly deserted, and I still can’t get any peace because I’m being bombarded by taxis trying to lure me into their backseats.
Realizing there’s no commandment forbidding me from telling taxi drivers to fuck off, I contemplate it but realize it wouldn’t do any good.
So I do the same thing all the girls back in Canada do: I keep walking with my eyes straight ahead and pretend I just don’t hear the advances.

SEE VIDEO: Duck for Diwali

As a youngster fire always fascinated me. I wasn’t an arsonist or anything crazy – I just liked flames. In grade 7 I was suspended from school for match dealing after one of my stupider clients tried to set the school bathroom ablaze. Some people just can’t handle their fire.
So it was only natural that the true object of my desire was fire in its finest form: fireworks. Sadly, I could only feed my firecracker fix twice a year on Canada Day and New Years’ Eve.
Then today I walked into my childhood dream: Diwali.
The Hindu holiday Diwali is held in October and is known as the celebration of the lights. Seen as a symbol of hope, Hindus believe that light indicates the victory of good over evil. Therefore, by spreading light through the lighting of candles and fireworks, the darkness will be destroyed.
Throughout the week in Suva there have been Diwali celebrations. Tonight I attended a Diwali event at a local elementary school. Upon arrival I felt as if I was entering a war zone. The place had more pyrotechnics than a KISS concert. The sky was glowing with florescent flashes, blue blasts and emerald explosions. Upon closer inspection I discovered that the impressive display wasn’t the work of trained crew of professional – it was the product of dozens of elementary school children clutching giant roman candles.
These kids were holding the fireworks while they detonated. And the parents? They were helping their little bundles of joy light the dangerous mini-rockets. Maybe if there was a little bit of order to chaos I would have felt better. But there was absolutely none. More than 100 children – some as young as four – were shooting coloured fireballs into the air in all directions.
To add to the insanity, some parents were setting off larger fireworks alongside their little ones.
Wait, a fireman just pulled up to the event. Surly he’ll put an end to this madness. But he didn’t seem to care about what was going on. My travel companion, Hart, taps him on the shoulder.
“This is a little dangerous, don’t you think?”
The fireman chuckles and just pats Hart on the back before walking away.
I later learn that it’s the fireman who is selling the firecrackers to the children.
My old addiction is rearing its ugly head and I start to wonder how I can go about getting my hands on some firepower. I am in mid-fire fantasy when a ball of heat rushes past my head. I look over to see a little girl – maybe 6 years old – holding a roman candle and looking at me with her mouth wide open. Turning to Hart, I ask him if she almost hit me.
“Man, it literally just missed your head,” he replies.
“You almost shot me in the head!” I say to the girl in a rather unpleasant tone.
The adult accompanying her bursts out laughing.
“Sorry,” she says unapologetically.
I decide the close call is a sign that I should get away from the danger. I want to go to the food area, but this means once again I have to cross though the firing range. After my close encounter, the thought of walking through the insanity is terrifying – and watching little girls calmly navigate the same path doesn’t make it any less scary.
Thankfully my love of free food is stronger than my fear of being shot with a roman candle. I figure that if I’m ever going to make it as a journalist I’ll need to learn to perform under pressure so I do a stand-up as I cross the war zone.
After safely making it to the other side I observe all the young children as they shoot their firecrackers into the sky. Some parents have to stand behind their tiny ones and steady them or else the recoil would throw their little bodies to the ground.
Looking at an overjoyed young boy double fisting giant fireworks I suddenly realize something about my childhood: I wasn’t a pyromaniac like my parents told me – I was just a little Hindu boy growing up in a Canadian boy’s body.

WATCH VIDEO HERE

Hollywood? Give me Papua New Guinea

I’m not one to be star-struck. The only interest I have in movie stars is watching their films and the only interest I have in musicians is listening to their music.
In September I was in Toronto visiting friends, and it happened to be the Toronto International Film Festival. The red carpets were rolled out, security was stepped up and throngs of celebrity seekers were out in full force hoping to catch a glimpse of Hollywood’s hottest.
And while I have no interest in spotting entertainers, I would much rather encounter another type of famous figure: the head of state.
As a young journalist one can only dream about interviewing a President, Prime Minister, Dear Leader – even a petty dictator would suffice.
So on Saturday when my editor asked me to cover the official book launch of a new biography on former Fiji President and PM, Ratu Sir Kamisese Mara, I was excited. I’m extremely interested in foreign politics and I knew this assignment would be a good opportunity to gain insight into Fiji’s political system.
My excitement turned to sheer anticipation when I learned that the guest speaker at the launch would be Ratu Mara’s long-time friend and Papua New Guinea PM, Sir Michael Thomas Somare. Also, the acting President of Fiji and the PM of the Solomon Islands would also be in attendance.
Jackpot!
On Saturday I put on my best dress clothes (this was the first time I’ve worn pants – and possibly shoes – in Fiji). I researched both the author of the book, Dr. Derek Scarr, and the subject, Ratu Mara. I even did something I don’t usually do: I wrote down a list of questions.
I arrived at the event and was seated in the media section. I received the usual icy stares from my fellow journalists. By this point I know the look well. It means, “Why are you (a foreigner) taking away one of our jobs?”
After an opening prayer and a traditional kava ceremony, Sir Michael spoke about the late Ratu Mara as a friend, family man and politician. It was evident that Sir Michael and Ratu Mara were more than just political allies – they were close friends. After the speeches and formalities there was a reception and book signing. While the rest of the guests beeline for the free wine and food, I lock sights on my target: the PM.
I enter my first media scrum (a journalism term for when multiple reporters are jointly interviewing a subject). But this scrum is different – everyone is sitting on the floor and the PM is sitting in a chair. I jostle for a good position in the ground scrum. Wait, does this mean I’m going to have to attempt to cross my legs? I decide to kneel and manage to ask two questions, to which the PM gives long and insightful answers. I shake his hand and thank him for helping me with my story.
I feel great – this is by far the biggest interview of my young career. It easily beats out the previous champion: an interview with four-term Sarnia Mayor Michael Bradley.
And while most people can’t even locate Papua New Guinea on a map and have never heard of Sir Michae, the experience will be forever etched in my memory.
Yes, PNG is an obscure, unknown country with little global importance, but that doesn’t mean its leader isn’t a strong statesman. With a population of 6-million speaking 860 languages, and 80 percent of its inhabitants surviving off agriculture, PNG is unlike any other country in the world. It takes a great politician to bring such a diverse nation together.

Without a doubt I would rather pick Sir Michael’s brain for 10 minutes than interview Miley Cyrus, Shia LaBeouf or Hollywood’s latest flavour of the week.

Just another day in paradise

Today started out like any other day in my new life as a Pacific islander. I wake up, have some fresh fruit for breakfast and get ready for work. But the second I step out the front door I realize something is different.
There is bumper-to-bumper traffic on my street. The sounds of wailing sirens fill the air. Sidewalks are lined with school children who should still be in class. Trucks filled with sandbags and others filled with police speed past me.
Another coup d’etat? Already?
Well, this is Fiji.
Then my neighbour shouts to me, “Dale where are you going?”
“To work,” I respond.
“Didn’t you hear?” he says. “There’s a tsunami warning.”
Another tsunami warning? Already?
Well, this is Fiji.
Immediately, I notice this tsunami warning is different than the one from nine days ago. During the last warning people seemed to act like the whole thing was a big holiday rather than what it really was: a national emergency.
And although Fiji was spared from the Sept. 28 tsunami, Samoa wasn’t so fortunate. Perhaps it was the number of deaths, 164, or maybe it was the newspaper images of carnage and devastation in Samoa that made Fijians take today’s warning more seriously.
Whatever the reason, there was now a sense of panic in the streets.
Even my roommate, Hart, who casually brushed off last week’s warning, admitted he was legitimately scared when the soccer game he was attending was cancelled half way through. To make matters more frightening the cell phone network in Fiji went down because of a system overload.
My editor emailed me and told me to meet him at a park that serves as an emergency evacuation point because it’s on the highest ground in the city. But I soon realized that getting a cab wasn’t an option, and it was too far to walk.
No, I was stuck. This wasn’t a bad thing because my flat is on relatively high ground.
However, after a few minutes pacing around the apartment, the journalist in me started to take over. I need to get outside and cover this event, I thought.
Armed with my usual arsenal of weapons – camera, notebook and digital recorder – I hit the streets. I went to a busy intersection where police were directing traffic that was backed up for blocks. I was initially hesitant to take any shots near police because they don’t like to be photographed. But today they had bigger things to worry about than ending up in a few of my photos. My adrenaline started flowing (yes, journalism does give me an adrenaline rush – and I hope it always will) as I snapped picture after picture of the somewhat organized chaos.
After reviewing my shots I realized I could probably sell some of them to foreign news agencies. I headed back to my apartment and started brainstorming who would be interested in my photos. I decided to go big and pitch the shots to Associated Press (one of the largest news gathering organizations in the world) and Al-Jazeera, an Asian news provider.
Since the phones were still out I called the companies on Skype. I didn’t get an answer at Al-Jazeera, but AP said it was interested. I was transferred to the Tokyo photo desk and was told to send in my pictures. I selected three of my best shots. As I hit the send button I could already envision my byline (name) under an AP photo. After all, these pictures could end up anywhere: The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Globe and Mail.
About one minute after sending the pictures I started religiously refreshing my email account to see if I had a response. Then suddenly the unthinkable happened: my internet crashed.
Within seconds I was out the door heading for the internet café. Upon stepping outside I instantly noticed something was amiss. Where were all the traffic jams? No sirens could be heard. The corners were suddenly without police. And the internet café was open – that isn’t a good sign.
No, no, this wasn’t happening. The warning COULDN’T be over. I needed that New York Times byline to add to my resume!
Sure enough after logging on to my email account I had received an email from the AP photographer reading:

Hi Dale,

Thank you for your offering of the three photos.
We will contact with you if/when the story will be much bigger here.

Regards,

Toru Takahashi
Photo Editor
AP Tokyo Photos

Of course, the story wouldn’t get any bigger because the warning had passed – I read the terrible news online. Fiji dodged another tsunami and I couldn’t have been more disappointed. No 15 minutes of journalism fame for me.
As I walked home thinking about the glory I almost tasted, I looked out at the great Pacific Ocean and suddenly realized just how vulnerable this tiny island really is. I suddenly snapped out of my self pitying state and decided I don’t care if my name never graces the pages of a world-class newspaper.
I, along with the rest of Fiji, got incredibly lucky not once, but twice in the last 10 days. That’s reason enough to be thankful.

Dude, where's my beach?

I have to admit that my reasons for coming to Fiji aren’t completely unselfish. Shocking as it may seem, I have ulterior motives for travelling to this tiny Pacific island. Although my craft – journalism – did lure me 12,343 km from the comforts of my home, there was another reason I came to Fiji. I came here to do something I couldn’t do in any of Canada’s ten provinces or three territories: surf.
While Canada may have Rockies, plains and unexplored terrains – it doesn’t have a single surf beach. Although Ontario does have some great beaches, I’ve yet to see anyone hang ten at Grand Bend, carve the concave in Port Stanley or wipe out on a Wasaga Beach wave.
So when I heard about a journalism grant to work in a developing country, I figured I could kill two birds with one stone: The award would let me gain some international reporting experience, represent Canada abroad, and maybe hit some waves while I’m at it. Wait, that’s three birds. Okay, this award would be a really big stone.
After arriving at the airport in Nadi, Fiji, I strike up a conversation with who I think to be a fellow Canadian. The man, who actually turns out to be American, asks me what I am doing in Fiji.
“A little of everything,” I respond. “What about you?”
“Well, the wife thinks we’re on our honeymoon, but this is really a secret surfing trip,” he says with a smile.
As he finishes his sentence his wife walks around the corner and he shoots me a look that says “don’t even mention surfing.”
“Well, good luck with everything,” I say, knowing that his marriage clearly needed more than just luck to survive.
But the encounter just reinforced my belief that surfing had to be the greatest pastime in the world. After all, here was a young man – he couldn’t have been more than 26 – willing to risk starting his marriage on a terrible note just so he could catch a few waves.
I jump in a cab to Suva with surfing on my mind.
Upon arriving in Suva I discover that the Pacific Ocean is pretty much a stone’s throw away (granted you weren’t throwing one of those huge stones I used to kill the three birds earlier).
I am ecstatic.
However, being a responsible person, I realize that I need to find an apartment before I even stepped foot on the beach.
Surfing wasn’t on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs – though if you asked that American from the airport I’m sure he would have said it should be.
After a few days in Suva I find a great apartment. And what better way to celebrate a successful apartment hunt than a relaxing day at the beach?
Suiting up in swim trunks and SPF 30, my travel companion and I head to the ocean. We ask a cab driver to take us to the nearest beach. After a short ride we pull up to the ocean. We step out of the cab speechless. But it wasn’t the beautiful scenery that stole our ability to speak, nor was it the enormity of the waves that silenced us. Instead, we are shocked at the sight of what this “beach” really is. First picture those screen savers that show white-sand beaches lined with crystal clear water. Now erase that image and picture this: choppy, grey, debris filled water washing up to a shoreline of grass, dirt and rubbish.
Welcome to the beach.
No sand, no people – and definitely no waves.
Were we even in Fiji anymore?
Thinking there must be some mistake we approach another cab and ask the driver where the nearest “beach” beach is – like the type with sand, nice water, and other people.
He assures us that it was just a ten minute drive away, and we pile into his car.
A few minutes later and I was standing on a new beach. The tide was out, revealing a sandy area roughly the size of a football field. There was no path down to the sand, only a rocky embankment. The water still looked cold, grey and dirty. Cargo ships could be seen in the near distance. However, there were a few people in the water at this beach. No, wait, that’s just an old washing machine.
Trying to make the best of the situation I suggest going in the water. After conceding that there’s nowhere dry to leave our stuff, we start to trek out into the intimidating ocean. Walking is painful because the ocean floor is lined with rocks. Where’s that white sand when you need it? After venturing out 20 feet we decide to head back to shore – if you can even call it that.
The day is a write off and we head back to the apartment.
What a waste of a day. I’m all sunscreened up with no place to go.
Back at my flat a neighbour informs me that there aren’t any beaches in Suva – the nearest one is 45 minutes away.
It looks like I’m surfless in Suva.

Wakeup call

It’s the most horrible sound in the world.
No, I’m not talking about the screech of nails scrapping against a blackboard, the high pitched squeal of microphone feedback nor the terrible scream of a wailing baby. The terrible sound I’m referring to is the blaring beep of an alarm clock. Yes, that piercing pitch that steals you from your sweet slumber every morning.
Upon arriving in Fiji I discovered that I automatically woke up at 7:30 a.m. every day regardless of when I went to sleep. I attribute my early rising to two things: the sun coming out so early in Suva and my lack of air-conditioning. It’s impossible to sleep in a room that feels like the cross between a tanning bed and a sauna.
Regardless, my early rising turned out to be a good thing. My days were longer and I enjoyed the brief quiet time before the streets were filled with traffic, pedestrians, and smog.
But on Wednesday morning I was snatched from my sleep by the ringing of my new cell phone. It was my editor at the Fiji Daily Post, Robert Wolfgramm.
“Dale, there is a tsunami warning in effect. Don’t come to the office. Stay at your flat because you are on higher ground,” he said.
I’ve never been pulled out of a sleepy state so fast in my life. Alert and running on adrenaline, I thanked him for the warning and then ran to the kitchen to get online. As I was connecting to the internet I told my traveling companion, Hart, about the warning. Hart responded with an incoherent rant about why – in his opinion – a tsunami posed no threat to us.
As he spoke, I thought about my favourite quote of all time: Ignorance is bliss.
Here I am frantically checking news sites for any updates on the situation, while Hart casually makes ham sandwiches.
Within a few minutes I discovered that an underwater earthquake near Tonga triggered a tsunami which hit Samoa and American Samoa causing massive destruction and, at that point, unknown casualties. As a result, Pacific nations – including Fiji – were put under a tsunami warning.
Fiji is 836 miles away from Samoa, but I was concerned nonetheless. And yet, I couldn’t help but wish I was closer to the action doing what I came here to do: report.
Then the phone rang: it was my editor. He told me that schools were being evacuated and the students were heading to higher ground. I was assigned to go cover it. (click to read story)
After quickly eating one of Hart’s delicious ham sandwiches, I ran out the front door. As I sat in the cab looking out the window at the Pacific Ocean, I couldn’t help but think about the 2004 Asian tsunami which killed 230,000 people.
Thankfully luck was on Fiji’s side on Wednesday, September 30. The tsunami warning was lifted and the island went untouched by any natural disaster.
Unfortunately Samoa wasn’t so lucky. So far the death toll is at 150, but many more are still missing. Entire villages, towns and resorts have been wiped out.
As a Canadian I didn’t give natural disasters much thought back home. Living in London, Ont., I’m safe from earthquakes, floods, hurricanes, and tsunamis. The only natural disaster that poses any real threat to London is the tornado, but those are rare and often small. But now that I’m living in Fiji I can only pray that luck is on my side.
Hurricane season in Fiji starts in November and runs until April (that just happens to be the duration of my trip). It really makes me realize yet another thing I take for granted back home: environmental safety.
Ignorance truly is bliss.

Soccer anyone?

Culture shock is unavoidable when traveling abroad. The food is different, rules of etiquette will vary, there may be a language barrier – but in my experience there’s one thing that remains the constant regardless of culture or country: sport.
Upon arriving in Fiji, I immediately set out to find a game of pick-up soccer. I soon discovered this wasn’t a difficult task. A few locals told me that I could always find a game at the field behind the courthouse.
So I strapped on my cleats and headed down to the field hoping to have some fun and meet a few new friends. Upon arriving I received a warm welcome from a group of boys, and they invited me to join the game. Everyone asked where I was from, how long I would be staying in Fiji and how I was enjoying the country so far. After a round of introductions, handshakes and exchanging pleasantries we started the game. The second the ball hit the ground all culture differences disappeared. It didn’t matter that I was from a far off country. It was irrelevant that some of the players didn’t even speak English. Nobody cared about the social status, political opinions or race of their teammates – all we cared about was playing soccer.
And that’s exactly what we did
The game continued until well after sunset when could barely see the ball anymore. We laughed when someone slipped in the mud, cheered when a goal was scored or a good play was made – but most of all; we shared our love for the game.
After the match, covered in mud and sweat, we huddled together and said a prayer. At this moment I realized that sport is the universal language of friendship.
Back at home in Canada – where it can get quite cold – we only have a few precious months where playing outdoor sports is possible. Yet, it seems like we Canadians don’t capitalize on this scarce time. Rather, most of my friends would rather sit at home and watch sports on television or the internet instead of actually getting out and playing a game. Yet here in Fiji, where the weather is great all year long, locals don’t squander their surplus of beautiful days. At almost every field I pass there seems to be a group of people kicking around a ball, practicing rugby or doing some other form of outdoor exercise.
Now my weekdays revolve around playing soccer. Everyday at 5 p.m. I put on my shorts and walk down to the field. Even as I write this blog I keep stealing anxious glances at the clock wondering if I will finish my assignment on time and make it to soccer tonight.
The citizens of Suva have been incredibly welcoming and friendly to me, but by far, the boys who I play soccer with are the ones who make me feel truly at home in Fiji.

Got kava?

Forget Java – here in Fiji the locals prefer to drink Kava.
Made from the Kava root, the greyish, brown beverage is sipped by Fijians of all ages, genders and classes. Kava acts as a mild sedative and has a relaxing, calming effect.
I had my first encounter with famous island drink when my real estate agent, Basil, invited myself and my companion back to his house after a long day of apartment hunting. Upon arriving I take a seat on the couch but notice Basil and our driver sitting on the floor. They beckon me to join them on the floor. I reluctantly comply, but as my long legs cross over each other memories of elementry school come flooding back. Although crossing your legs may seem like a simple task, mine are extremely long and I may just be the least flexible man ever. I twist my legs together like an awkward pretzel and pray that kava has the sedentary effects I've heard about, because already I'm in a world of pain.
I look on as a Fijian wearing a skully mixes the Kava in a large wooden bowl. I'm relieved when the first glass is goes to my friend instead of me. He drains the cup and doesn’t seem to mind. But my relief soon fades when I realize that everyone is sharing the same cup – don’t they realize it’s flu season!
My turn.
The cup is passed to me, and I bring it to my lips. I down it in two gulps. The liquid has mild aftertaste and within seconds my lips and mouth are numb. After everyone in the circle receives a cup, we sit around listening to British hip-hop and talking. Soon another cup was passed my way – and I was pleased to see it this time. After a few more cups I’m feeling comfortably numb, as is everyone else in the circle. And I don’t even mind sitting cross-legged anymore.
After the bowl is drained of every last drop our driver takes us back to our hotel. Immediately upon exiting the car Hart looks at me with a smile and says, “More kava?”
“You read my mind,” I reply.
So we set out on a mission to quench our thirst for the Fijian speciality. When we can’t find a kava shop – which usually isn’t hard to do – we start to panic.
We could go to a bar and grab a beer, but our mouths are salivating at the thought of more kava.
We stop off in a bakery and ask for directions to the nearest shop.
“Kava?” asks the man behind the counter. “We'll make you some.”
Success.
After buying some brownies the man ushers us to the back of the store into a tiny kitchen where an older man and woman are already sipping on kava and listening to music.
“Sit, sit,” says the woman.
We sit down and are immediately handed a cup of kava, which we gratefully accept.
It tastes similar to the last batch except this time the kava isn’t mixed out of a traditional wooden bowl – it was prepared and served out of a plastic bucket. But we didn’t care because we found more kava.
After nearly an hour in the cramped, unbearably hot kitchen we decide to head back to our room. We ask for some kava for the road and our hosts graciously fill us two coffee cups full. Back at the hotel we sip on kava into the late night – and the best part: we awake in the morning without a crippling hangover.
And I make a decision about the first thing I will buy for my new apartment: a kava bowl.

Time isn't on my side

Upon arriving in Suva, Fiji, I knew I had a lot of work to do. According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs I would first have to fulfil my physiological needs: food, water, sleep. So I headed to the Holiday Inn to satisfy these basic, yet essential, needs. After sleeping in a comfortable bed and eating an incredible brunch, I felt my physiological needs were all well satisfied. But there was just one problem – I managed to ring up a $428 bill in doing so. Maslow never mentioned how expensive it could be to fufil these needs! Clearly I couldn’t afford to stay at this pricey hotel much longer or I would end up like the Prodigal Son: broke, homeless and shamefully returning to my father’s house.
Now I needed to find an apartment and adhere to the second need on Maslow’s hierarchy: safety.
So I called a local real-estate agent. The agent, Basil, told me he would come to my hotel in 30 minutes and take me to look at a few places. But nearly an hour later there was no sign of Basil. Then a phone call from Basil. He said he was going to be seven minutes late. But wasn’t he already half an hour late? Oh well, he’ll be here in seven minutes, I thought. But seven minutes came and went and I was still waiting. I resorted to the progress call. Yes, he was on his way, the secretary assured me.
Finally, after another half an hour Basil made his much anticipated appearance at the Holiday Inn.
“Fiji time,” he said with a smile, as if that explained his lateness.
He showed me six flats, and I liked two of them. I told Basil I would make my choice after seeing both apartments for a second time. It looked like I would be spending another pricey night at the Holiday Inn. But this time I would keep my tab to a minimum. Note to self: no more $150 calls to my girlfriend…unless it’s a collect call.
Basil told me that he would be back in the morning at 9 a.m. to pick me up. Normally I would object to such an early appointment but I was still jet lagged and would be lucky to sleep past dawn.
I woke up at 7 a.m., showered, ate breakfast, and waited for Basil to arrive. By 9:30 a.m. I got tired of waiting and headed down to the pool. I told the front desk to send Basil out to the pool when he arrived. Now we’ll see how he likes waiting. But by 11 a.m. I was tired of swimming and went back up to my room. So much for making Basil wait.
Finally around 11:30 a.m. Basil once again came waltzing through the hotel doors.
“Fiji time,” he said again with a grin.
Normally I would be frustrated with this constant abuse of punctuality, but I was starting to understand that lateness was socially acceptable in island life.
The following day when Basil’s boss, Ohanah, told me she would pick me up at the hotel to sign the lease, I wondered if she would be on time. She said she would be there by checkout time, 11 a.m.
But 11 a.m. breezed by, and Ohanah was nowhere in sight. Fearing that the Holiday Inn would further pillage me if I wasn’t out of my room on time, I went down to the lobby to wait. But after sitting in the lobby for 20 minutes, I decided a progress call was in order.
I asked the woman at the front desk if I could make a call. But like everything at the Holiday Inn, the call would cost me, she said. Frustrated, I paid $5 to make a 20-second local call and learned that Ohanah was on her way.
Eventually Ohanah, along with Basil, pulled up to the front door of the hotel. Happy to be escaping the pillage and plunder of the evil Holiday Inn, I forgave Ohanah’s lateness. We headed over to my new flat to sign the lease. Ohanah called my new landlord, Mr. Singh, and told me he would be there momentarily. But 15 minutes later, he still wasn’t there. Sensing my frustration, Ohanah gave Mr. Singh a progress call. He told her he would arrive soon, but soon turned out to be 30 minutes. Mr. Singh, although a shred businessman, operated on Fiji time as well.
I don’t know if it’s the hot, sticky weather, the laidback island lifestyle, or just an excuse that local people give to foreigners, but everyone in Fiji seems to be late. However, unlike Western tardiness, which requires an elaborate excuse explaining why you are late, Fijians only offer two simple words: Fiji time.
And then something dawned on me. I was supposed to be posting a new blog entry everyday, yet I’ve been here for four days now and I’ve only posted once. I guess you don’t have to be a native Fijian to operate on Fiji time.
I, too, am on Fiji time now.