Jonathan Franzien Ruined My Fijian Vacation!


Whereupon a boy who has barely been out of the U.S. takes a south pacific holiday with his girlfriend, and withers beneath the scythelike pen of a brilliant novelist.



 

Home at last.  Two weeks in a tropical island paradise where they would never dream of making an aging bodybuilding champ-cum-action-film-star a candidate for governor proved to be a bit much for me, though I suspect Dr. Edwards would have been happy to extend our stay.  That's not to say I didn't enjoy the escape.  It's just that nine or 10 days into our mosquito-bitten odyssey of hiking, sailing, camping, whitewater kayaking, snorkeling, and um, reading -- LOTS of reading; I think I've finished more books in he last 15 days than in the prior ten months -- I was ready to re-enter the Matrix.  The Fijians' lives are surely no poorer for lacking drip coffee and high-speed internet, but as Adam Sandler once observed (though I think he may have been quoting another contemporary philosopher), "We are living in a material world, and I am a material girl."  You can take Klimek out of the suburbs, it seems, but you can't take the suburbs out of old Klimek.

Make that Older Klimek, as I celebrated the completion of my 27th year on Tivua Island last week, in the company of two new friends and our (ahem) chef.  (Hey, I never said we were roughing it the whole time.  If you must know, we divided our 14 days abroad between camping on islands sans electricity and staying in swanky resorts that accept Visa.)  From the Dept. of Funny Conincidences: Four guests occupied Tivua Island on the night before my birthday.  The names of the two ladies in attendance were Autumn . . .  and Sommer.

Actually, counting down the hours and piling up the bottles of Fiji Bitter with our new friends as my birthday approached was one of the trip's highlights.  Sommer and her husband Simon, an expat Australian, are Good People.  So is Avi, the man who prepared my birthday feast and who accepted our invitation to drink away the final hours of Year Twenty-Seven.

Simon and Sommer were visiting from Venice Beach, so it's a good shake we'll be seeing them again.  A reunion with Avi is less likely, which is a shame, because he is an affable fellow possessed of a rare good humor.  Example:  When Autumn pulled him aside from our celebration to inquire after a detail concerning the following day's travel arrangements off the island (a seaplane!), Avi wisely assured her: "We will talk about it tomorrow at breakfast, because talking while you are drinking is different from talking during the day."

A word about Fiji Bitter:  As it is the flagship brew of this island nation -- a place so groovy it actually underwent a coup d'etat a couple of years back without a drop of blood spilt -- I will diplomatically describe said libation as "an acquired taste."  Upon first tickling the palette it recalls no beer so much as the Milwaukee's Best you drank before you knew any better.  If recalling this memory becomes painful for you, my advice is to order another Fiji Bitter, and another and another, until awareness of the drink's less-than-Ivy-League pedigree subsides.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll begin at the beginning and press on until I, or you, lose interest.

Autumn and I landed in Nadi (rhymes with "candy") on Aug. 28, a Monday morning, just prior to sunrise.  We left L.A. at 11:30 Saturday night.  We were in flight for only 10 hours, so Sunday the 29th vanished into whatever temporal Bermuda triangle swallows up the hours of those who fly to close to the edge of the world.  We would be compensated for our missing Sunday with an extra Saturday 12 days later, when our return flight touched down in Los Angeles some nine hours prior to when we left Fiji.  Ah, the surreal delights of intercontinental travel.

28 July -- Monday
Disembarking from our 747 in Nadi, we immediately climbed aboard a Truman-era puddle-jumper for a 45-minute flight to the southeastern tip of Viti Levu, Fiji's largest island.  From there we took the first of many pulse-pounding taxi rides to our bure at the Raintree Lodge, where we would spend the next two nights sleeping away our jet lag beneath a canopy of mosquito netting.  Our first day, after a few hours' nap, we went for a hike in the Colo-i-Suva forest preserve.  Reaching the waterfalls, Autumn and I lamented that we had not dressed for swimming.  It is now winter in Fiji, and thus a bit too cold to do without towels.  

I took a bunch of photos of the wild orchids growing in the forest.  I need to learn to focus my camera manually if I'm going to continue taking closeups of foliage.

That evening, we caught a bus down to Suva for dinner.  Suva is the capital of Fiji and its most industrialized city.  Western music and clothing are everywhere, but Hindi women dressed in Saris are more abundant here than in the States, and the people are friendlier, the buildings smaller, and the cars older.  Curiously, there isn't a windshield on the island that doesn't have the logo of a stereo manufacturer stickered across it -- Pioneer, Sony, etc., etc.  This trend appears to be one of fashion rather than commerce, but the fact that the drivers of these vehicles are mostly men in their forties and fifties makes it difficult to know for sure.

Our adventurous spirit having faded somewhat by dinnertime, we took our evening repast at the Bad Dog Cafe, a place recommended by the Lonely Planet Guide on the bookshelf at the lodge.  So-so Indian food, but outstanding coffee -- the only decent cup I had in Fiji, matter of fact.

29 July -- Tuesday
Whitewater kayaking on the upper Navua River -- yessssss!  Still on North American Pacific Time, I was up an hour before the sunrise, which I watched from the porch of our bure.  Spent the quiet hours of the morning absorbed in Jonathan Franzen's "The Corrections," the novel I'd begun while waiting to board at LAX a day-and-a-half earlier.

Autumn and I were dressing for breakfast when one of the lodge staff knocked on our door to say our taxi had been waiting for us for half and hour.  Oops.  At dinner the prior night, the manager of the Lodge, a chain-smoking, white-haired Ozzie, had told us to be ready to leave at nine.  As we later learned, the guides taking us on the river trip had told him we needed to be at their office -- a 45-minute, pulse-pounding cab ride from our lodge -- by nine.  I snarfed down a pair of the Balance bars I'd packed for such a contingency.  (The box of 15 in my suitcase would run out halfway through our trip.  Don't leave home without 'em, say I.)

Following our arrival at Pacific Harbor, we were loaded into the back of a tarp-covered truck for a bumpy 90-minute drive into the highlands.  Save for one other Californian in this group, our companions for the were river trip were all Australian tourists.  The eldest of them, a youthful 60 perhaps, would endear himself to me by exclaiming "Rock and roll!" at random intervals throughout the afternoon.

Prior to hitting the river, we were received by the Chief of the villiage nearest our departure point.   His son was one of our guides on the river trip.  When the Californian who owns the river tour company first set up shop here seven years ago, he had to get the Chief's permission to take tourists down this stretch of river.  In addition to our guide, the Chief-in-waiting, three of the other river guides grew up in this villiage.

All but one of our group accepted the Chief's offer of a bowl of Kava, the ceremonial drink in the Fijian villiages, where alcohol is forbidden.  Kava is made by soaking a cloth full of ground Kava root in an elegantly-carved ceremonial bowl.  Those who would drink it must sit on the floor around the bowl and clap their hands once before drinking, and three times after.  You may request a serving size of "high tide" or "low tide," but you must down your bowl of Kava in a single swallow or you risk offending your host.   The beverage looks like muddy water and tastes like sour mouthwash -- the first effect you notice is a tingly and swollen tongue. I accepted a second bowl, which most of our number declined.  

It was under the presumptive influence of this narcotic beverage that I embarked on our kayaking adventure.  As this was the only occasion on which I drank Kava without also drinking beer, I should mention here the effects I noticed after drinking two bowls of it: none, save for the warmth of having been made welcome.

The river turned out to be much tamer than the others I'd rafted on in West Virginia.  The low water level meant I got stuck on he rocks frequently, but I was never knocked out of my kayak.

30 July -- Wednesday
We spent the morning reading in the lodge again, then walked/bused down to Suva for lunch.  I became an instant fan of public buses, which have open-air passenger compartments from which upbeat Island-pop blares incessantly. 

I paid $25 Fijian for a pair of sandals at the flea market, intending to replace the long-lived pair I ruined on yesterday's river trip.  My new sandals literally came apart on my feet three hours later.  At $8.33 per hour Fijian (about $5 per hour U.S.), they were the most expensive shoes I ever owned.  Good thing Autumn didn't let me throw away my old sandals.

Lunched on superb vegetarian Indian fare at the self-declared "world famous" Hare Krishna restaurant.  Took a bunch of photos of urban Suva.  I felt frustrated with the shots I was getting at the time, but when I looked at them upon my return home I thought they had captured the city reasonably well.

The Villiage Six Cinemas in downtown Suva had the expected slate of numerically-titled American pictures -- "Bad Boys II," "Terminator 3" -- in addition to "Whale Rider" and a couple of films whose countries of origin I could not discern from their posters.  One was an apparent sex comedy called "Fat Pizza."  The other two appeared far more interesting.  I wish I'd thought to jot down their titles.


31 July - 3 August
A four-day sailing cruise among the Yasawa Islands, returning each evening to our camp on Drawaqa (pronounced "ra-wanga") Island.  I spend most of my shipboard hours engrossed in "The Corrections," and, upon finishing that one, William Goldman's "Hype and Glory."  The latter was a necessary tonic after the former.  

I can't recall when another work of literature or art has induced in me such a dour humor.  Franzen's satire is sharp; his prose is often gorgeous; his characters are rich and complex; and his portrayal of old age is the most frightening thing I've ever read in my life.  The book made me want to open my wrists with a box-cutter before I become too withered to look after myself.  I put on a sociable face for the friendly strangers sharing this cruise with us, but to Autumn I must have been miserable company for two or three days.  My grandmother has Parkinson's, just like the old man in the novel.

I got to know a fair number of our 27 fellow sailor-campers somewhat, and were on the whole a delightful bunch hailing from Australia, the U.K., Germany, Austria, and the States.  Stuart Guest, a secondary school vice-principal from Birmingham, England, speaks with exactly -- exactly -- the same accent affected by Christopher Guest in "This Is Spinal Tap." Coincidence?  Stuart's the quintessential polite, reserved Brit until you put a couple of Fiji Bitters into him, whereupon he is transformed into a party animal with arsenal of card tricks and jokes at the ready.  His wife, Becky, does a fine impression of Red from "Fraggle Rock."

Autumn becomes fast friends with Brannon and Erica, a couple from Philadelphia.  Like most of the couples we will meet on the latter part of our trip, they're here on their honeymoon.

The same Fijian crew of eight boys and men cooked for us, steered the ship, and entertained us with their songs in the evenings.  They work seven days a week, 15 hours a day.  When I asked one of them, Bosse, if he feels tired, he said no.  "This good job," he averred, beaming.

On Day 3 of the cruise, we all go charging out to sea with our snorkeling gear when one of the crew members reports seeing manta rays feeding close to shore.  We swam within inches of them.  I haven't seen Autumn's photos from the underwater box camera we bought yet, but I hope they turn out.

I finish the William Goldman book Vegas loaned me, his memoir of the summer he served as both a juror at the Cannes Film Festival and a judge at the Miss American pageant.  I move on to Chris Vogler's "A Writer's Journey."  Like every book I've tried to read about screenwriting not written by Bill Goldman, it's dry as dust.  These are books to be consulted rather than read. 

Day Four:  The accumulated stomach-churn of three long days at sea coupled with the hangover from our last-night-on-the-island party have greatly inflated the value of deck space today. We're all trying to hold down the excellent Indian food we are served for lunch.  Amazingly, everyone does.

4 Aug. -- Monday
Happy birthday to me.  Had a great time drinking with Simon, Sommer, and Avi last night.  When Autumn and I checked into our bure in the afternoon, a cryptic note written in felt-tip pen on the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom led us to a stash of pot hidden in the wardrobe by one of the prior guests.  Can't take it back through customs, I guess.  Neither of us smoke, but we appreciated the gesture all the same.

When our seaplane arrive, Simon offers the the pilots cash to take him and Sommer to Beachcomber Island.  They've a reservation, but no affordable way of getting there.  The pilot accepts, then gets on the radio with his boss, then he lowers the price Simon has already agreed to pay by $60.  Does it matter than the pilot of your airplane be an honest man?  Discuss.

The Beachcomber detour means we get to experience on ocean landing.  When we get back to Nadi, we land on a runway.  Two more flights and a boat ride later, we're on Matangi Island in the fanciest accomodation of our trip.  It's a treehouse.  The whole resort is beautiful and well-appointed, and it ought to be:  We're spending a quarter of what we pay in rent each month to stay here for one night.  This place was wrecked in a hurricane back in January but you'd never know it now, except for the condition of the trails away from the resort proper.  My first attempt to go for a run since we arrived in Fiji turns into a beach walk when I find the trail barred by uprooted trees.  

Autumn and I sit at dinner with the San Jose honeymooners we met on the boat ride over here from the main island.  Just as the first course is served, an elderly couple joins us.  She is a chatty woman who apparently owns this island but not this resort, or perhaps vice versa.  She tells us to call her Auntie Chick.  She says she's half-Fijian, but she talks like an Australian, and she talks a lot.  Her husband is a Kiwi whose handsome face makes me think of Patrick McNee from "The Avengers."  He tells us to call him Uncle Tom.  He tells us he was a Brigadier General in New Zealand army, and that's he's turning 70 next month.  After reading "The Corrections," I am relieved to find myself in the company of such an energetic pair of senior citizens.

Chick shakes her head when she mentions, appropos of nothing, that back when Malcolm Forbes used to own the next island over, he would scandalously pick up Fijian boys in the villages and take them to New York City.  That old, gay, rich bastard apparently sold the island some years ago, and the owner of the Red Bull energy drinks company own it now.

After dinner, Nico, the resort's Jack Russell terrier, follow us home and comes into our treehouse.  So does an orange cat whose name we will never learn.  Nico sits on Autumn's lap as she reads, and when we get into bed, he hops up and tries to tunnel under the mosquito netting to get in with us.  He sleeps at the foot of the bed, outside the net, all night.  In the morning I tell Autumn we're getting a dog.

5-9 Aug.
We wrap up our stay with four nights at the Maravu Plantation Resort.  Beautiful grounds, beautiful beach.  All of the other guests here are Americans save for one German couple.  

I spend a lot of time killing time.  My quadriceps burn as I return from my 10-day layoff, running 17 miles in three days along the coastal road at sunset.  The islanders smile and wave as I run past.  Dinner is served each night at 7:30.  Afterwards, I dig into the big stack of comics I brought with me ("graphic novels" if you must).  There are two volumes of Eddie Campbell's autobiographical "Alec" series, plus the first two collections of Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" fantasy series, which I haven't looked at in years; Alan Moore's "Promethea," which I finally get through this time, and a forgettable, ugly tome by Kurt Busiek.  As if I needed any more convincing that superhero books are the reason comics remain stuck in their cultural ghetto.  Actually, that's one of the major themes of "How to Be an Artist," one of the two Eddie Campbell volumes.

Autumn and I both take massages, which are the only amenities at this resort that aren't grossly overpriced.  We pay $80 Fijian for a ride to the villiage at the other end of the island and an escort to the International Dateline, which despite its power to consume days whole is nothing more than a sign next to a rugby field.  The Catholic church built in 1907 has some nice stained glass, but only a profound lack of competition qualifies it as a tourist attraction.  I'm clearly ready to go home.

Friday morning, we hike up a horribly-maintained, ankle-twisting trail to the Tavoro Waterfalls.  The scenery is spectacular, and I'm grateful for the exercise, but I wouldn't exactly say I'm having fun.

Saturday we link up with two other couples on the same flight back to L.A. as us to kill the six-hour layover in Nadi.  One of them is going home to Charlottesville, VA, but the other lives in L.A.  We have a big dinner at a pizza parlor someone recommended to the L.A. couple.  He's an investment banker who, mercifully, can talk movies.  She used to be an lawyer, but now she's a novelist who just got an agent after finishing her third manuscript.  Naturally, I grill her about it.  She's personable, and certainly not dumb, but she isn't a genius, either.  It must be possible, then, to get an agent solely through craft and hard work.  I've been hearing this for years.  I must make myself believe it so I can act accordingly.  

The lawyer-cum-novelist says she interned at a production company, where she read 100 or so scripts and recommended two.  My odds of being the next governor of California are almost as good.

Our 11-hour flight home takes off two hours late, because Air Pacific is stuffing the plane to the seams with refugees from cancelled flights earlier in the week.  If we hadn't been in line to check in four hours before the originally scheduled takeoff I don't think we would have gotten seats.  I score a little sleep on the flight.  I've read every printed word I carried with me into Fiji at least once.  For the last two hours before we land, I'm listening to a nonfiction audiobook about Steve Jobs.  I wake up to another anecdote illustrating Steve's volatile and mercurial disposition.  We're kept in our seats for another 45 minutes after we touch down.  Another jet is occupying our gate, and our seats are in row 62.  When we finally amble, rubber-legged, across the jetway, I want to kiss the terminal floor.  As this is only my second time returning to the U.S from abroad, I have forgotten that I must go through customs. We wait in line for another 75 minutes so an agent can glance at our passports, read our names aloud, and then stamp us back in to the United States of America, where premium drip coffee can be had on every street corner for a mere $2 a cup.

I won't go back to Fiji.  But I'm glad I went there once.

Posted: Thu - August 14, 2003 at 12:17 AM        

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