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.