It's hard for me to
imagine how only several days ago
I was freezing. Phil, Dan and I were diving into a
river on the South Island of New Zealand. The icy
water felt like the North Atlantic. Now I'm rolling
around on the warm sand while tepid tropical waters
lap against my feet. Being here on Beachcomber Island
reminds me of all the beaches that I have visited
these past 12 months. Nothing conjures up the feeling
of being on holiday like relaxing by the seashore.
Whether it was eating brochettes at Ngor beach in
Senegal, scrutinising the cattle sunbathing on Fajara
strand in the Gambia, sipping G&Ts with Tiff in Grand
Bassam in Côte d'Ivoire, swimming in hammocks in
Chollo's bar with Rob and Jamie on the north coast of
Zanzibar, or watching whales breaching and dolphins
playing in the waters around Plettenberg Bay in South
Africa with Catherine, I doubt that Sutton Strand in
Dublin will ever hold the same magical allure for me
as it did when I was a kid. Not to mention of course
Australia's Whitehaven Beach, One Foot High Island, 75
Mile Beach, Bronte, Bondi and the coral coves of the
Bay of Islands in New Zealand. The Redrocks up by
Sutton Castle had many moons ago been my place of
quiet refuge, the one spot in the world I truly could
call home. Now will I settle for less than crystal
waters, pristine sands, glorious sunshine and swaying
palms? Will I still be endeared to Dublin itself? Is
Ireland's hold over me now well and truly broken?
Only time will tell. But I'd say the odds are no
better than 50-50. Once the initial euphoria of the
homecoming subsides, will I wish to be back here,
tanning nicely under the Pacific sun in Fiji?
Probably.
But it's great to be stationary and chill out for a
few days on a desert island after the hectic rush
around N.Z. I fell like I am on someone else's
holiday. Five star service for F $72 (45 Euro) a
night with all meals included. I get to fill my
platter with succulent morsels, while people address
me as "Sir". The Fijian staff of Beachcomber Island
even invited me to their quarters to swatch Ireland
beating an obdurate Italian side, and Wales succumbing
to the powerful English. So another Six Nations
campaign has started. It seems like a long time since
I spent a Saturday wandering aimlessly around the
Ville Nouvelle in Fez, Morocco, searching
unsuccessfully for a TV showing games from last year's
tournament. It is surprisingly comforting to be back
in a non-western country. On the drive to the ferry
port from Nadi airport on the main Fijian island of
Viti Levu, I could have been back in Zanzibar. Palm
trees, tin shacks, tropical vegetation and locals
going about their business. The only major difference
being the look of the people. The women dressed in
their Sunday best, sporting giant Afro's the likes of
which I thought died out in the 1970's. And corpulent
men with Saddam Hussein moustaches wearing traditional
Fijian skirts. It's bizarre to see an otherwise very
masculine figure walking around in what is basically a
dress. And there were lots of Indians in Nadi too.
Brought here by the British over a century ago to
stimulate the local economy, ethnic Indians now number
roughly 45% of the population of Fiji. And many
periodic tensions have risen between the Indian and
Fijian communities ever since, the most recent being
the failed coup d'état led by George Speight, who is
now safely behind bars. It is said that the ethnic
Fijians just weren't ready to have an Indian as their
Prime Minister and this was one of the principal
reasons for the revolt. In any case, there were no
indications that I had landed in a troubled country.
What few soldiers there were seemed very complaisant
and any policemen or security guards all shouted out
"Bula!" as our little van made its way to the docks.
"Bula" is Fijian for "Hello" and "Cheers"
and a has a
host of other subtle uses and you'll hear it
everywhere throughout the hundreds of islands that
make up the Fijian archipelago.
For a place so touched by tourism, my first impression
of Fiji was that it has remained a charming and
hospitable land. I was met at the airport by Emele, a
Fijian friend of my cousin, David, who had worked here
for a couple of years. Emele had booked four nights
on Beachcomber Island on my behalf and she had
arranged accommodation for the fifth night in Nadi
town with another mutual friend of David's, Nat. The
humidity of the place was immediately noticeable upon
disembarking the Air New Zealand plane. Emele sent me
on my way and I was soon making the 25 minute crossing
westwards from Viti Levu to Beachcomber Island on the
fast cat "Drodroliagi". The return transfer costs
F$55 (circa 34 Euro) and while very quick, is not as
inspiring as the 70 minute leisure cruise sailing to
the island offered aboard the three-masted schooner
"Tui Tui". The welcome upon our arrival at
Beachcomber Island was very warm. The Fijian staff
wore flower garlands and greeted us with cries of
"Bula!" I felt like an extra from one of those kitsch
"Elvis goes to Hawaii" movies. I was lodged in a
two-tier "Grand Bure", which is a nice way of saying a
large wooden dorm. The bunkhouse, only a stone's
throw from the bar, fitted 84 guests, but was
nonetheless remarkably quiet as there were no walls to
speak of and it was never full to capacity. This is
the off season for travel to Fiji and the coup has had
a negative effect on the tourist industry as well.
After talking to several other holidaymakers, I
realised that like myself many people, especially
other Europeans, chose to finish their global journeys
in Fiji, having done the classic South East Asia to
Down Under route. Only the North Americans tended to
be starting off on their travels.
It took less than ten minutes to walk around the
entire island. It was that small. One of the major
attractions of Beachcomber is that it is a party
island for single people or groups. Romantic couples
on their honeymoon tend to opt for more exclusive and
expensive islands. On the first night, a Sunday, a
crab auction and race was being held. The island was
brimming with young revellers out for a good time, and
never again would the place be so full. I purchased a
crab called Ferrari (representing Italy) at a very
reasonable price, but when it came to the race proper,
he performed more like a Fiat, and finished way down
the list. A lively guy from Northern Ireland by the
name of Glenn, who always seemed to be recovering from
the previous night's session, bought around half a
dozen crabs with his mates, and managed to win second
and third place with "Guinness" and "Bula",
representing Ireland and Fiji respectively. The
winning crab came from Canada, or it did so at least
after it was bought by a bunch of Canadians. There
were a host of nationalities on the resort and I got
to know many lively individuals such as Glenn, Alison
and Kristina from Australia, the very pretty Natalie
from New Zealand, Dave the chatty tattooed ex-army lad
from England and his mate Phil, three Irish guys from
Cork, Taidh, Kevin and Brendan, and the irrepressible
American, Amy. I also befriedned Conal and Colette, a
couple from Tipperary, who we discovered were good
pals of Ronan and Marguerite, friends of mine that I
lived with back in Brussels in 1995. Small world.
Even smaller island. Most interesting of all my
acquaintances, however, was a girl from Montana by the
name of Christine. Not only was she a Master scuba
diver (with over 80 dives under her belt as opposed to
my 23), but she also had a PhD in biology, had just
returned from four months research in Antarctica and
had applied to NASA to be an astronaut! Plus she was
very softly spoken for an American and quite cute.
That's the kinda girl I need to meet. With a
doctorate, an in depth knowledge of the South Pole,
and the likely prospect of a spot of space exploration
- or am I setting my sights a tad high?
There were plenty of activities organised by the
Beachcomber staff. On the island itself we played
volleyball and tip rugby on the beach, though the
occasional lump of coral hidden under the sand
provided much disincentive to fall down onto the
ground. The handling skills of the Fijians with whom
we played were just amazing, and it was easy to see
just why they are such world class exponents of rugby
sevens. Fishing, parasailing and snorkelling trips
were also on offer, but I put myself down for two
principal activities. The first was an island hopping
cruise, where we set off on the waves in the early
morning and made for an island two hours away with a
Fijian village and market. First we drank kava (the
local anaesthetic brew) with the chief and elders of
the village. Kava is to Fiji what Guinness is to
Ireland, only a lot cheaper. It looks like muddy
water, tastes like muddy water, and makes you feel
like you have just visited the dentist. It numbs the
lips and the tongue and if you drink enough of the
stuff brings on a certain feeling of dizziness. It is
not an alcohol, but a liquid narcotic, and I was very
wary of drinking it. But when in Rome, do as the
Romans do. So nobody in our group opted not to become
a Roman and thus insult the locals. Everybody clapped
once, said "Bula", drank in turn from the little
wooden bowls offered, then clapped their hands three
times as the elders had done and declared "Mada"
(meaning "finished"). They seemed pleased with our
efforts so they then let us loose on the market and I
managed to buy some exotic shells and tribal masks at
very reasonable prices. After lunch we stopped for
some snorkelling at Castaway Island, where the movie
starring Tom Hanks was recently filmed. The water was
incredibly warm and salty, but I had to wear a T-shirt
nonetheless as the sun, which hung directly overhead,
was unyielding in its intensity. Back at Beachcomber
in the evening it only took a couple of Fiji Bitters
to finish me off. The sun had taken its toll.
The early nights weren't a problem as I had two
mornings of scuba diving ahead of me. The four dives
I did with Subsurface Fiji were given to me at half
price as I was staying five days on the island, and
were the best dives I have ever done. On the first
day we went to "Pearl Head" for a recreational dive,
where I was amazingly enveloped by a shoal of
colourful Masked Bannerfish. I also discovered the
fun of scuba diving above another diver and being
surrounded by the air bubbles ascending from their
tank. It was like floating in a bottle of Lucozade
and was a completely sublime sensation as I punctured,
split and caught various bubbles. Then we made for a
diving site called "Supermarket" for a spot of shark
feeding. While waiting for the significant nitrogen
levels in our bloodstream to subside some of us opted
to skin dive (i.e. dive minus a wet suit and an air
tank by simply holding ones breath). From the
surface, we could see various sharks below patrolling
the sea bed. As I resurfaced from a deep plunge
below, I felt a tickling sensation. A long thin
cleaner fish had attached itself to my torso. These
black and white stripped fish normally cling onto
sharks and remove bacteria and other microscopic
organisms from the sharks' body. Given the thickness
of a shark's skin, they are not disturbed by the
actions of their small companions and live in a
harmonious symbiotic relationship with the cleaning
fish. However, human skin is significantly more
sensitive, and this little fella was tickling the hell
out of me. No matter what I did, I couldn't remove
him. So eventually I had to get back aboard our
speedboat, but even as I climbed up the ladder, he
busied himself nibbling at my feet until they too were
out of the water and he had to search for a new host.
After an hour or so, eight of us certified divers
(including myself, Christine, Conal, Colette, Taidh,
Dave, Phil, and an English girl) donned our equipment
and fell over backwards into the clear water. We then
settled in a row above a bed of coral ten metres below
sea level, as our guides opened a crate of fish
remains, which attracted little fish, then big fish
and finally sharks. I counted at least 16 sharks -
Black Tip and White Tip Reef sharks and then several
Grey sharks, which were as big as a human and had huge
mouths that inspired equal amounts of awe and fear
within us. Occasionally one or two of the Grey sharks
got too close to one of the instructors and they had
to quickly flap their fins to scare the sharks away.
To have such beasts swimming in and around me was
quite a thrill. I knew that technically they were not
man-eaters, but their jaws and teeth could to
considerable damage if provoked.
Such was the excitement produced by that dive, that I
didn't think it possible to have a better sub-aqua
experience. However, within 24 hours four of us - our
Fijian guide, myself, Christine and Dave (who had just
obtained his certification) - were below the waves
again, exploring the Salamander shipwreck. The wreck
is nestled on the seabed, 27 metres down. It was a
cruise ship that sank five years ago. I was amazed,
however, at the amount of sea life that had in that
time colonised the wreck. Not only were we able to
swim around the ship, but the four of us were allowed
to swim through the various decks and explore the
cabins. I felt like I was visiting the Titanic. I
remember clearly floating on my back along one of the
decks watching my air bubbles hitting the metal
ceiling above me. Slowly the air bubbles joined
together, pushing water molecules aside. It was like
filling a bath in reverse. When enough air pockets
were created I could see my disjointed reflection in
the ceiling. I experienced an immediate feeling of
freedom and wonder. To imagine that a few years
before the room I was in would have been above the
surface and home to a crew or perhaps a group of
passengers. Rust had taken its toll on the vessel,
but along with the marine flora somehow only added to
its mysterious allure. Over half an hour had passed
in what seemed like an instant by the time we finally
resurfaced and left the Salamander four atmospheres
beneath us. Our final dive was to visit the wreck of
a B-52 bomber that had crashed beneath the sea decades
ago. Given the force of the crash, the remains of the
aeroplane were scattered over some distance. However,
during my three-quarters of an hour under water, I saw
the engine of the bomber, the pilot's chair, a wing, a
couple of wheels and other aerial paraphernalia one
wouldn't normally associate with a sub-aquatic
environment. It was like swimming through history.
The evenings on Beachcomber Island were always good
fun. Often the staff would perform Polynesian floor
shows and then the visitors who had been on the island
several days would show the newcomers the moves of the
Bula dance, which we would all then do in the beach
bar. The Bula dance is basically a Fijian version of
the Macarena and left many participants exhausted by
the end of it. Glenn even got to be chief Bula dancer
one evening, probably due to his good patronage of the
bar along with his Aussie and American friends,
notably Amy. Neither of them seemed capable of
actually leaving the island. One night one of the
Yanks who had drunk a mind-blowing cocktail of
shooters and kava jumped from the upper tier of the
beach house into one of the giant fish nets draped
over a section of the bar downstairs. Incredibly, the
net just about held and he didn't break his back, but
he was seen by one of the staff and was given a severe
reprimand for his troubles. True to form, one evening
I got up on stage and did a few reggae numbers with
the band. This kind of behaviour on my part was now
getting so commonplace that I didn't even bother to
get anyone to take a photo, though Conal did video my
performance on his camcorder. I hope that it doesn't
come back to haunt me in years to come. The bar
generally closed around midnight after which some of
us would head to a Jacuzzi on the far side of the
island (that is to say, less than five minutes walk
away). Unlike a normal Jacuzzi, the tepid salt water
in the pool came from the sea, but the powerful jets
were still welcome to ease sore muscles after the
activities of the day. Normally by that time anyway I
was shattered, as I had risen early every morning, and
I even contrived to catch food poisoning one day, thus
cutting short an entertaining evening of riddle
telling and holiday celebration. However, the stomach
cramps were thankfully short lived thanks to a couple
of nice Danish girls who gave me some tablets to
combat gastric illness. So the Danish chat up line
that I learned (probably misspelled), "Var en kodu,
sket?" (How's it going, girlie?) finally bore fruit of
some sorts.
So now I'm all better and it's my last day on
Beachcomber Island. I've just finished splashing and
kicking about in the rising tide. I'm incredibly
ecstatic. I've got that warm holiday feeling all
over. To wile away the sunshine hours, I have decided
to make a list of the music that sums up the year
2000/2001 for me. So here's my aural choice. Tunes
for the traveller; musical momentoes of the twelve
months past. I have picked 52 songs, more or less in
chronological order, one for each week of my
travelling year. They range from the classical
through to the contemporary, from ethnic beats to
modern dance rhythms. They encompass kitsch melodies,
heartfelt ballads and socio-political anthems. Some I
like, others I love; but all remind me of certain
episodes on my route around the globe. You may hate
them. You may not. But that, I suppose, is
inevitable as they form an inherently subjective
selection. Musical souvenirs of a personal journey.
My journey.
North & West Africa
1. "Rise" - Gabriele (England)
2. "Bania" - Hassan Hakmoun & Zahar (Morocco)
3. "Sing Sing" - Babacar Faye (Senegal)
4. "Ema" - Touré Kunda (Senegal)
5. "Reverence" - Faithless (England)
6. "A Bang on the Ear" - The Waterboys (Ireland)
7. "Shuffering and Shmiling - Part 2" - Fela Kuti (Nigeria)
8. "Pure Shores" - All Saints (England)
9. "Porcelain" - Moby (USA)
10. "You don't know me" - Armand Van Helden (USA)
11. "Pauvre Type" - Amadou & Mariam (Mali)
12. "Premier Gaou" - Magic System (Côte d'Ivoire)
13. "Summer Moved On" - A-ha (Norway)
14. "Coffin for Head of State - Part 2" - Fela Kuti (Nigeria)
East & Southern Africa
15. "Sun is Shining" - Bob Marley & Funkstar de Luxe (Jamaica/Denmark)
16. "Never be the same again" - Mel C & Lisa "Left Eye" Lopez (England/USA)
17. "Moon" - Ezio (England)
18. "Bongo Bong/Je ne t'aime plus" - Manu Chao (France)
19. "Vuli Ndela" - Brenda Fassie (South Africa)
20. "Truth Don Die" - Femi Kuti (Nigeria)
21. "Bohemian Rhapsody" - Queen (England)
22. "Sex Bomb - Tom Jones (Wales)
23. "Rainbow Country" - Bob Marley & Funkstar de Luxe (Jamaica/Denmark)
24. "Black is the Colour" - Christy Moore (Ireland)
25. "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart(Austria)
26. "Lullaby" - Shawn Mullins (USA)
27. "Mona Ki Ngi Xica" - Barcelo de Carvalho Bonga (Angola)
28. "Redemption Song" - Bob Marley (Jamaica)
New South Wales
29. "Driftwood" - Travis (England)
30. "Blindfold" - Morcheeba (England)
31. "New Way, New Life" - Asian Dub Foundation (England)
32. "The Hijab" - Shooglenifty (Scotland)
33. "All the Small Things" - Blink 182 (USA)
34. "Freestyler" - Boomfunk MCs (Finland)
35. "Sandstorm" - Darude (Finland)
36. "The Real Slim Shady" - Eminem (USA)
37. "I Will Survive" - Gloria Gaynor (USA)
38. "At Last" - Hothouse Flowers (Ireland)
Australia
39. "Beautiful Day" - U2 (Ireland)
40. "Californication" - Red Hot Chili Peppers (USA)
41. "Ode to Joy" - Ludwig von Beethoven (Germany)
42. "Rebel Warrior" - Asian Dub Foundation (England)
43. "Wadjimbat Matilda" - Mills Sisters (Australia)
44. "Beds Are Burning" - Midnight Oil (Australia)
45. "Teenage Dirtbag" - Wheetus (USA)
New Zealand & Fiji
46. "The Payback" - James Brown (USA)
47. "Waterfall" - Stone Roses (England)
48. "Parklife" - Blur (England)
49. "Yellow" - Coldplay (England)
50. "First Cut is the Deepest" - Cat Stevens (England)
51. "La Donna e Mobile" - Giuseppe Verdi (Italy)
52. "Thank You" - Dido (England)
Knowing me I'll probably make a compilation album,
play it to death in a fit of reminiscence and then get
utterly sick of every track. But for the moment at
least each song brings back the taste or mood of
somewhere I've stopped along the way to catch breath.
If only my stupid Walkman worked. I guess I'll just
have to listen to the Beachcomber band playing their
Bob Marley and Eddy Grant covers in their inimitable
tropical style and have another slice of pineapple.
Yes indeed, life is sweet. It's Bula time. As the
clear overhead sky slowly takes on the colour of
another sunset in the tropics, the lyrics from an old
Van Morrison song come into my mind; "Yeah my Mama
told me, there'd be days like this."
Gav (8 February 2001)
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