This is it

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dining with a despot

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

Minority report

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

Kookoo for coconuts

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

Here comes the story of the hurricane

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

Not the type of dog you bring home to mom

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

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

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

A familiar face in Fiji

When you live in one of the most remote locations in the world visitors are rare and pop-ins almost non-existent.
In fact, the only company I get these days is my five-year-old neighbour, Rico, who regularly appears at my window demanding his daily potato chip ration, which I exchange for his promise to guard my house.
So when a friend from graduate school tells me he’s vacationing in the South Pacific and will be in Fiji for three days I’m thrilled.
Upon arriving he calls me and asks to meet up. He’s staying at a resort about 2 hours outside of Suva and informs me that he’ll rent a car and drive to my place the next day. I caution him that cars drive on the opposite side of the road here, but he assures me he’ll be alright having driven in New Zealand before.
But do mules, pedestrians and cows jockey for space on New Zealand’s one-lane roads? I wonder.
The next morning he calls and says his hotel doesn’t have any rental cars available.
“I don’t get it," he says, “last night they assured me there were plenty of cars.”
Sounds like the hotel suffers from the Seinfeld-esque problem: they can take reservations but cannot manage to hold the reservation – and that’s really the most important part.
He ends up hiring a driver to bring him to Suva. When he asks for my address I look outside my door only to realize I don’t actually have an address.
Although not homeless, I'm officially of no fixed address, so we arrange to meet at the nearby grocery store.
We spend the day touring Suva on foot, bus and taxi. I show him the Fiji Daily Post, the University of the South Pacific and some other local landmarks.
Noticing that he’s sweating profusely, I suggest going somewhere cool for a beer.
For the rest of the afternoon we drink ice-cold beers at the Holiday Inn bar.
After grabbing some barbeque from a streetside grill, we head back to my flat.
During breaks in the conversation our eyes glance over at the small bed that we are ultimately going to have to share.
“We could just go back to your resort tonight and sleep in the comfort of your air-conditioned room,” I suggest.
He calls his father, who he’s traveling with, to okay the plan.
“Hey dad, do you mind if Dale and I come back to the hotel tonight?” he says. “Dale’s place doesn’t have air-conditioning and his bed doesn’t even have sheets.”
Slightly embarrassed, I ask if it was really necessary to mention my lack of sheets.
But his dad says we are welcome to come whenever we please.
Around 10 p.m. our driver arrives and we leave bid Suva goodbye.
Within the first 30 minutes on the road, the driver pulls over twice to urinate.
Had we not been drinking beers in the backseat we might have been concerned.
With the windows rolled down and Bob Marley playing we lounge in the backseat catching up on old times and talking about future plans.
Although I’ve met some great people here in Fiji, there’s no friend like a friend from home.

40 days and 40 nights

This Wednesday marked the beginning of Lent, the 40-day holy period leading up to Easter.
The Lenten season is a time for self-sacrifice where Catholics choose to give something up, usually an unhealthy habit.
As a young child I grew to fear these dreaded 40 days of depravity. My mom became the de facto Lent police.
“What are you giving up this year?” she would demand.
“Umm…maybe popcorn or gum” I would answer.
“Not good enough, you don’t even eat popcorn or chew gum” she would bark. “Give up something harder!”
“Oh, okay, candy?” I would suggest.
“That’s acceptable,” she would say.
Then to make my candyless life even more difficult, my mom would give up pop and chips, which meant my dad wouldn’t buy any on the groceries; therefore, I would give up my beloved pop and chips as well.
As the long days to Easter dragged on, I would be tempted to break my Lenten resolution, but I never could bring myself to do it. Although I knew I might be able to trick my mom, I worried about disappointing someone else – someone who couldn’t be fooled.
Now older – and I would like to thing much wiser – I look forward to the challenge of Lent.
But what would I give up in Fiji?
I don’t have a TV, so giving up television is out. I don’t have any friends to drink with, so eliminating alcohol would be too easy. I’ve even outgrown my love of candy.
No, I needed to give up something hard, something I’ve come to depend on.
Then it hit me: Pastry.
At first this may not sound like a difficult sacrifice, but anyone who has been to Fiji knows just how much self-control this requires.
Sweets are everywhere on the island. Ordering chocolate cake after breakfast is the norm here. Every café boasts a dazzling display of cheesecakes, cupcakes and pies. There are even cake vendors on the street corners, peddling pastry like it’s a drug.
“Hey man, do you got the pie?”
“Ya, chocolate and banana, $10”
“Oh man, I only got $5. Come on, help a brother out. I gotta have it.”
Yes, I’m addicted to desert.
And in September I became hopelessly addicted to a Fijian speciality: the coconut bun. I developed a one-bun-a-day habit.
I desperately needed a desert detox.
Lent arrived just in time.

Special delivery

Every Christmas my girlfriend asks her dad for the same present: a designer handbag.
Louis Vuitton, Michael Kors, Marc Jacobs – there’s more designer bags in her closet than there are designers still in the closet.
But this year she made the painful decision – albeit reluctantly – to ask her dad for something different: a plane ticket to Fiji.
I was thrilled that she was coming to see me, but scared she was now going to expect me to fill her insatiable appetite for handbags. Thankfully, the thought of escaping the cold Canadian winter seemed to make her forget all about purses, satchels and clutches.
On a frosty February morning, my dad drives her to the Detroit airport. Having never travelled outside of North America, she’s both excited and nervous to be flying to the other side of the world. But, as an avid reader of this fine blog, she knows from second-hand experience just how gruelling the flight to Fiji is.
She boards the plane, and two calendar days later, arrives in Fiji at 2:10 a.m. Sunday morning.
I’m eagerly waiting for her at the arrivals gate when she burst through the exit.
“I need a bathroom,” she squeals.
It’s surreal to see her face. Since returning to Suva I’ve been slowly counting down the days until her visit.
After finding her a washroom, I load her into a cab.
Although I tell her we’re making the four-hour drive back to Suva, I’m really taking her to one of Fiji’s finest resort destinations, Denarau Island.
When we arrive at the Westin, I tell her we have to catch a bus the rest of the way home. Jetlagged and exhausted she accepts everything I say.
Finally, when I open the door to our suite she realizes what’s happening.
We spend the next three days lying on the beach, swimming in the Pacific Ocean and eating great food.
But this isn’t my Fiji, and soon I’m eager to take her back to the Suva city life.
It still feels surreal that she’s actually in Fiji. I’ve spent so many days wishing she was here to share my adventures, and now she finally is.
Like many tropical destinations, this island is full of lovers from honeymooners to retired couples. Yet, the closest thing I’ve had to a significant other is my childhood friend, Hart.
And although Hart is a great travelling partner, paradise isn’t quit the same without the girl you love.

Hot hot heat

While my fellow Canadians are suffering from an especially harsh winter this year, I’m on the other side of the world enduring the opposite misery.
I’m too hot.
Because Fiji is located in the southern hemisphere, summer starts in December. While I may have escaped the Canadian winter, I walked straight into a topical inferno.
I know some of you reading this are going to say, “So what, hot is way better than cold.”
But is it really?
Why then is Hell scorching hot instead of icy cold?
Although I personally have never visited Satan's lair, I imagine it’s only a few degrees warmer than Suva.
The heat is unlike any heat I’ve ever experienced. Yes there’s humidity, but the sun is the real killer.
I spend my days carefully avoiding the sun like I owed it money. I run my errands early in the morning while the sun is still tolerable. Walking down the street, I seek the shelter of every shadow I see, however small. Sometimes I wish I had a tall companion to walk beside so I could enjoy the coolness of his shadow. But then I snap out of my heat-induced craziness and remember nobody is taller than me.
I see Fijians carrying umbrellas on sunny days, and I wish my pride would allow me to do the same.
Even though it’s sweltering outside, I wear long-sleeved shirts to protect myself from the merciless sun.
It’s a good thing Hart went home in December because as a red-haired Irishman, he wouldn’t make it though the summer.
Even in December the sun was starting to overtake him. He would be house-bound for days after sunburns, and he even began wearing a windbreaker outside.
Now I know how he felt.
One of the worst parts about the heat is trying to sleep at night. Even the moon seems to radiate warmth.
While looking for an apartment I was adamant about having hot water, but now I take only cold showers.
I find myself seeking refuge from the heat at the air-conditioned movie theatre. But there’s only one problem: the movies here are terrible. However, I’d rather endure two hours of horrible Bollywood acting than two hours of horrendous heat.
As a Canadian I appreciate each of our four seasons. Although winter can be painful, it makes us appreciate summer when it finally comes around.
Hot, sunny weather all year long may sound appetizing, but remember, everything is better in moderation.

It’s a small island after all

Everywhere I go in Suva, I seem to see people I know or people who know me.
With a population of nearly 172,000, Fiji’s capital isn’t exactly a major metropolis – but nor is it a small town, either. Yet I can’t walk down the block without running into at least one acquaintance.
And I’ve only been here for four months so I don’t even know that many people.
On my third day back in my adopted developing country, I’m walking to the gym when a car pulls up beside me.
“Hey welcome back,” exclaims my former landlord, Son Singh.
After asking me how I like my new flat, he invites me for tea and then speeds off.
When I get to the gym I see my friend Knox lifting weights. He too welcomes me back, and we make plans to workout together.
After the gym I walk over to the video store where I see my real estate agent Basil and his wife Ohannah.
“Welcome back,” they both say simultaneously.
They too ask how I like my new place.
While strolling home I approach a man waiting at the bus stop. He’s a large, intimidating-looking male wearing a tank top, and the majority of his muscular arms are covered in tattoos. I keep my eyes down and quicken my pace.
“Hey, my friend!” he exclaims.
“Oh, hey,” I say, trying to figure out how I know the man.
“When did you get back?” he asks.
“Umm…a few days ago,” I reply.
As I walk away I cannot figure out how I know this hulk, but am grateful I’m somehow in his good books.
Later in the evening I go the mall to buy a phone card.
“Dale, do you remember me,” a girl asks.
Try as I might, I can’t.
“You bought a bracelet off me for your girlfriend,” she says. “Did she like it?”
Now I remember.
“Yes, she loved it.” I say.
After leaving the mall I stop off in the grocery store and have yet another encounter – this time with a fellow foreigner.
A red-haired girl standing in front of me at the checkout turns and takes a long look at my face.
“How do I know you?” she asks.
“I met you surfing in Singatoka,” I respond.
She remembers and invites me to play extreme Frisbee at the park next Monday.
I politely accept the offer but know full well that I’ll never go near the park on a Monday.
Although a proud sportsman, throwing a Frisbee is my athletic Achilles heel; I’ve never been able to do it.
Leaving the supermarket I hear my name shouted. I look across the street and see Eli, a friend I met playing soccer.
After each of these encounters I walk away smiling. Sometimes it’s hard living in a foreign country, but the people of Fiji have been beyond welcoming to this Canadian.

A fan is born

As much as it shames me to admit it, up until yesterday, I’d never watched a rugby match in my life.

This isn’t an admission one makes in Fiji – a country where rugby is religion for most.

So when I’m assigned to cover the Suva International 7s tournament I feel a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

However, upon entering the National Stadium my apprehension melts away instantly and my excitement increases as the speaker announces the next game: the Canada Maple Leafs versus Rt Filise.

This must be a sign I should start watching rugby, I think as I take my seat.

As the match gets under way, I cheer on my Maple Leafs and wonder why I’ve never watched a rugby match before.

Then something in the crowd catches my eye. I could spot this symbol in the fiercest Canadian snowstorm: my national flag. Across the stadium two girls decked out in red and white are waving Canadian flags.

Canadian Heather Burly, 26, and Laura Gent, 23, made the trip down from Nadi, where they work, to cheer on the Maple Leafs.

Sporting a sunburn that matches her red flag, Burly predicts Canada will win the tournament.

I like the way she thinks.

Seeing fellow Canadians in Fiji is like spotting water in a dessert – it’s a rare but welcomed sight.

I take this as the second sign I should start watching rugby.

By the end of the first half Rt Filise is up 7-5.

But Canada can’t lose, I say. Doesn’t the team know that this is my first game, and I need to see a victory?

Just seconds into the second half, as if he read my mind, Canadian captain Phil Mack scores, giving my home country a 10 – 7 lead, which they hold on to until time expires.

I take the victory as the third sign I should start watching rugby.

After the match I interview Mack. When I tell him I’m from Canada his eyes light up, and he says I better come to their next game against Samoa.

I assure him I will and wish him luck.

Yesterday, at age 26, a rugby fan was born.

Hard knox life

Politics, it could be argued, is like a sport: it’s played in teams; there are both winners and losers; with experience comes expertise; some players act honourably, while other cheat; and it’s followed by the masses.
However, there’s nothing political about sports. But, all too often, politics have a habit of crossing over – albeit unwelcome – into the sports world.
As a reporter for the Fiji Daily Post, I often cover sports stories, usually Australian Rules football, or footy as it’s called.
Aussie Rules, a game that mixes rugby and soccer, is hugely popular in Australia. Recently, the professional league, the AFL, launched the sport in Fiji. As part of the effort to get Fijians interested in the new sport, the AFL recruited local talent to play professional footy in Australia.
Naturally gifted athletes, Fijians took to the new sport like, well, Fijians to sport. The top performers won scholarships to train with pro AFL teams.
One such athlete, 22-year-old Inoke “Knox” Ratu, was selected to play for the Western Bulldogs.
I met Knox at an AFL press conference. Decked out in bright blue Western Bulldogs gear, standing 6’5”, with the physique of a professional swimmer, Knox introduces himself to me. He tells me he’s working in local high schools setting up footy teams and helping assemble a Fiji boys squad to compete in the upcoming Oceania Cup.
I ask Knox what it’s like to play professional footy and he says he hasn’t actually played in a pro game yet. I think nothing of his answer and assume he’s still training or perhaps it’s the off-season.
Later when talking to my editor, I find out the shocking reason Knox hasn’t played with the Bulldogs.
It turns out his father is an officer in the Fiji military, and Australia and New Zealand have imposed travel sanctions on all members of Fiji’s ruling regime – and their family members. Therefore, Knox can’t enter Australia.
This outrages me.
Fiji isn’t exactly the land of opportunity. Their average household income is $5,000. But playing pro footy in Australia – regarded as the land of opportunity in the Pacific – Knox could make a good living doing something he loves.
And yet he’s stuck in Suva.
I’ll regularly see Knox at the gym, usually sporting Western Bulldogs gear. But his despair doesn’t show. Instead of complaining, Knox spends his days training young Fijians to play the sport he may never get a chance to play. Like an uninvited party crasher, politics continues to show up in sport.

Hazardous occupation

I have one of the worst occupations in the world.
So says the Wall Street Journal’s list of the 200 Best and Worst Jobs of 2010.
Coming in at 184th, newspaper reporter is just 16 spots from the bottom of the list.
The best job, according to the Wall Street Journal, is an actuary.
What is an actuary you ask? It’s someone who manages risk. These workers are usually employed in the financial sector, specifically in insurance.
Sounds boring, but then again, I’m probably just jealous.
Maybe I should have consulted one of the risk assessors before getting my masters degree in journalism.
My beloved profession ranked behind undertaker (134), farmer (161) and chauffer (160).
Somehow shoemaker (174) managed to cobble its way ahead of print journalist.
Reporter is even considered a worse profession than seaman (183)!
But my job isn’t that bad, is it? A journalist is a legitimate gig, right? My family and friends supported me when I told them I’m travelling across the world to work at a newspaper. Imagine how they might have looked at me had I told them I was travelling to Fiji to be a furniture upholsterer (140). And yet it’s ranked 23 spots higher than my chosen vocation.
I find it ironic that the Wall Street Journal – USA’s most circulated newspaper – published this list. I can only assume the reporter tasked with putting the list together already quit his job and is now working somewhere as an actuary or a software engineer (2).
Well, it could be worse. At least I’m not working the worst job on the list: a roustabout (circus worker). Although the way newspapers are doing lately, I can’t even rule out running away with the circus

Shake hands with the so-called devil

Yesterday I did something I had yet to do in my journalism career: I interviewed a communist.
And I’m not talking about a bearded art student with hemp shoes and a Che Guavera t-shirt, who proclaims allegiance to Karl Marx. Rather, I spoke with an unelected official from the People’s Republic of China.
I was covering a story about a new brass instruments music program the Fiji government is trying to implement. However, instruments can be quite costly so the Fijians are asking the Land of the Rising Sun for a little help from a friend. After all, the Chinese – the kings of cheap manufacturing – are wholesaling saxophones for less than $100.
I met with China’s Ambassador to Fiji, Fei Mingxing.
This was my first time coming face-to-face with a real life Communist. Although I was born a little late to remember much of the Cold War, there’s still a lingering negative stigma attached to Communism. The “Us versus Them” attitude lives long beyond JFK, the Vietnam War and the fall of the Berlin Wall.
I can’t help but star at Mingxing during the press conference. It's like setting eyes on a rare and fabled species for the first time. But, by all accounts, he looks like any other Asian person I’d ever seen: he's short, wore rimless glasses and a short-sleeved button up shirt and has neatly cropped jet black hair.
Would he be rude to me because I’m a Western Capitalist? I wonder.
After the press conference I approach Mingxing and introduce myself. He flashes a warm smile and shakes my hand – firmly but not too hard.
I ask him a few questions about the music program and he responds in the typical diplomatic fashion. I thank him for his time and move on a little disappointed. He seemes like the countless other diplomats I’ve interviewed – except for his business card, which was cheap and flimsy.
So that was a Communist? This was the enemy that millions of Westerners grew up fearing and hating?
He didn’t seem evil like the villains depicted in James Bond films. Nor did he appear intent on converting me to Communism like numerous American presidents had often warned.
In fact, Mingxing isn’t all that different from me. He’s a foreigner working in an unfamiliar country. He probably gets starred at when he walks down the street or enters a room just like I do. Most likely he misses his friends and family back home, too. And, like me, he yearns for a home-cooked meal.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I have in common with Mingxing. And this led me to realize that all too often we dehumanize people with different political ideologies. But in the end, we’re all the same.

Blog blocked

Before heading back to Fiji on Monday I took one last look at many things I wouldn’t see again for months: my family, snow, my two cats, Hart’s orange hair, my girlfriend’s giant eyes, a clean bathroom, milk – and my beloved blog.
Yes, I won’t be seeing my blog until April when I return to Canada. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be adding new posts.
It was mid-November when I first realiz something is amiss. I try to log on to blogspot.com, but keep getting an error message. And it isn’t just for my blog. I can’t view anything on blogspot.com or wordpress.com. The sites must be down, I figure. But after a few days of the same thing I do what journalists do best: I start digging. First I scoure the net for news of the sites being down, but find nothing. Second, I hit the street and go to Vodafone, my internet provider.
The clerk assures me that it isn’t the company’s policy to block any domains, but when he sees the unsatisfied look on my face he leans over and whispers to me.
“Nobody can access the blog sites in Fiji; they’ve been censored.”
Now I'm satisfied with his answer.
But I'm not satisfied with the situation.
I love blogging, and lots of people back home enjoy reading my blog. It gives me a way to keep in touch with friends and family in Canada. In the words of my mom: “Reading your blog makes me feel like I’m there with you.”
What would I do now?
I consult some web-savvy friends about ways to get around the internet filter. One of the nerds gave me the name of some free software that would allow me to access any blocked sites. I thank him and wish I had discovered the software in high school.
The software works, and I’m a blogger again. But now I’m a paranoid blogger, so I decide to play it safe and not even write about the censorship issue.
But within a few days the software ceases working for reasons beyond my limited computer comprehension. Once again I’m blog blocked.
This time I try a new approach. I write my posts and then email them to my girlfriend to put up for me. After a long tutorial she successfully posts the entries and pictures.
But there’s just one problem with this method: I can’t even see my own blog.
I love tweaking the layout, resizing the pictures, creating links and ensuring the blog looks just rights. I thrive off reading readers’ comments. It gives me insurmountable pleasure to see a new post go up. Now I can’t do any of this.
But I guess this just adds to the experience and makes me appreciate the freedoms I have back home.
Oh Canada, the true North strong and free, I can’t wait to return to you and view my blog in thee.