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.