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.