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.