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Surfers trodding "home". | |
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6:35 AM July 20th, 1999 "Early bird catches the wave!" I unzipped the tent door and saw Kirk with his surfboard. We walked to the beach and found six other surfers already in the water. There wasn't a breath of wind, which made the early morning perfect for surfing. Giant, heavy waves crashed every 15 seconds, and I was amazed that we had this vast section of paradise all to ourselves. The surfers made it look easy until Kirk, probably the only guy from Saskatchewan to own a surfboard, finally duck-dived his way out to the "safe zone" and caught his first wave. He stood up and rocketed down as the swell crested only to crash miserably an instant later. His head didn't pop up for a full minute, but he fought the foaming froth and went back for seconds. He kept wiping out, finally coming ashore an hour later with coral cuts over every inch of his body and a nasty gash on one ankle. He was pumped up, though, and I gave him credit for fearlessness. We decided to walk the four kilometers for cigarettes after giving most of ours away last night over drinks. About a quarter of the way there a woman motioned to us from her bure. She opened a locked chest filled with booze, cigarettes, and things like sunglasses and watches that were most likely stolen. I bought 40 individual smokes for five cents each and Kirk bought some "Indian tobacco" for himself, full of seeds and shaggy leaves yet smelled enough like pot for his liking. We spent the afternoon hacky-sacking and playing soccer in our bare feet with travellers from around the world, and I was full of splinters in no time. A guy from Holland cut his foot, which had to have canine crap wiped off before it could be bandaged. I didn't give him long to live. We cooked some corned beef that Kirk puked up after only three bites. I reminded myself that I was already over-budget since leaving Halifax, and forced it down. I couldn't afford to stay at Club Masa another night and planned a bus ride to Suva, Fiji's largest (and only) city. Kirk sold me his "Lonely Planet: Fiji" book for F$3 and I said goodbye. 8:28 AM July 23rd, 1999 The morning's mission was to find a boat ticket to Ovalau. I wanted to see at least a second island before I left, and the Lonely Planet guide said Ovalau was the last place in Fiji to stop the practice of cannabalism. I'd wasted two days in Suva playing next-to-free arcade games while kids looked over my shoulder critisizing my skills. The city was full of hookers, drug pushers, and cheap hostels crammed with weirdos that loved hookers and drugs. I needed to find the scenic, friendly Fiji again. I bartered with a back-alley vendor for a disposable camera, and got the price dropped from F$24 to F$6. It's amazing how having no money helps to beat the scammers at their own game. I had been told that Ovalau was rarely visited by tourists and that I should take along some cava powder in case a village refused to let me stay. I bought a half kilogram for F$8. An old guy waiting at the crowded and chaotic bus station gave me a nectarine that he had bought from a vendor behind us. I offered to pay him but he shook his head without a word. We each sat and ate one quietly while people scurried past us. I thought he might be senile when he started mumbling in a low voice, but as I listened with my ear close to his mouth he proved to be very intelligent. When the bus came an hour later, the waiting mob violently pushed toward its door. I helped the old man up but he fell forward into me as if paralysed. I grabbed him under his armpits and had to almost drag him to the end of the huge waiting line while keeping an eye on my pack the whole time. I had to stand up the whole stinky, smoky bus trip as a Fijian woman pronounced words in the Lonely Planet while reading over my shoulder. I was glad when the bus finally stopped two hours later. The ferry to Ovalau was covered in rust and squeaked as it floated by the wharf. A cute girl stood next to me near the bow during the trip but an older man, probably her father, never left her side and I didn't find a chance to talk to her. Ovalau got closer and closer; it had amazing green hills that became steep cliff faces at the shore. It was about ten kilometers square and dead-smack in the middle of the Pacific ocean yet it didn't seem vulnerable. There was a lone, run-down building where we docked, and everyone piled onto another bus that went to Lavuka. The narrow road of soupy red clay zig-zagged along some cliffs most of the way, passing three miniature villages along the way. Children ran along the bus waving and women stopped hanging clothes beside houses made of scraps to wave. They had no electricity, shingles, or cars, and a group of teenagers played soccer with a hollow ball woven from twigs...but every single person looked happier than a lot of Canadians I knew. |
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