The South Seas Cronicles

"We're very busy right now," he said, "mainly because of Fiji".
God that pissed me off! I'd already seen a little of what was to come in New Zealand, every lackluster Brit twerp was now going going somewhere like Raro instead of Fiji. Where do these people get off? Much of the attraction of Samoa, Raro and Tahiti as the promise of a more interesting class of traveller. I didn't want to go there and be confronted with refugees from Fiji. It just wasn't fair -- I could murder George bloody Speight. Quite apart from having to deal with the 'Lets Get Piiissed Brigade', their presence meant I lacked the freedom to move around, as all of the accommodation had been booked solid for weeks. Urgh! In fact it occured to me that the only place I would be able to avoid the displaced Fiji holiday backpackers and get accom by simply walking into a place was Fiji. Man, this was just the kind of headache I didn't need, my head hadn't quite caught up with my body and was still in NZ. I mean hell, I'd already done Sunday there. Eventually we agreed I could sleep on the floor for tonight. I relaxed a little and drank some sake donated by some cool Japanese guys, and chatted with some business travellers from American Samoa. That night dogs barked in the distance, rain pelted hard and I climbed under the cover of pristine mosquito net, for the first time in so long thinking this was all a bit too authentic,especially for someone who was mentally still back in Auckland.

I'd say it took about three days for me to get into "the Samoa Zone", long days of restlessness soon became short days of doing nothing and loving it. However, whereas my head had adjusted my stomach was lagging behind somewhat and flat refusing to get with the plan. Shortly after I arrived Apia had some rain. I don't just mean some rain, I mean a lot of rain - call it torrential, call it monsoonal, call it whatever you like but its that kind of bucketing rain you don't ever see the like of in the far reaches of northern Europe. The next morning after another airless night in my fale (or traditional hut) I desperately needed of a shower but all over the capital the water was a muddy brown due to the flooding. One by one the visitors started to get sick with a vicious tummy 'thing'. Everyone seemed to be succumbing except yours truly, I assumed it was because I was a hard b*st*rd having been through "every malaria ridden flea pit" (as my mate Padraig so eloquently put it) in the previous year. And just in case you were in any doubt that pride cometh before a fall, it wasn't long before I was puking up into a little bag too.

Much has been said and read about the Polynesian friendliness and hence, in its role as the Cradle of Polynesia, about Samoan hospitality. Indeed I found them to be a highly welcoming and fun loving bunch. It did take me a while to be receptive to it, because with my Asian battle scars I kept looking for angles and wondering if they were going to get round it either:
(a) Selling me something
(b) Trying to get me to have sex with them
While there was a little element of (b) with some of the younger lads (esp. when they discovered I was on my own), they were easily put off and quickly accepted you as a potential friend rather than a potential bedmate. Simple things like walking down the street were likely to end up in a conversation with an erstwhile stranger about their job, their family and where I was from and whether I liked Samoa. Personally I attribute this to an Islanders natural curiosity about anything different. Day to day life doesn't change too much on a small South Pacific island and meeting a palagi (cf. Mzungo) was probably the most exciting thing that would happen all week. What they don't tell you is that Samoan people will be friendly and persist at trying to talk to you at all times even when you happen to be in the midst of one hell of a stomach cramp, concentrating on not throwing up on a public bus.

This was the unfortunate situation I found myself in on the day I decided to leave Apia and explore the main island of Upolo. In hindsight I had felt bad that morning but time was a'wastin' and I was getting antsy after having slept in the same place for four nights. The plan was simple I would get the Lalomanu bus as far as Mutiatele, however getting a bus in Samoa is rarely a simple affair. Public buses do have a timetable but given that the driver-owners operate the buses, they generally run to his whim. To paraphrase a note on a Polynesian island about their boat services, in Samoa "the bus arrives when it is here and leaves when it is ready". I arrived at 09:40 in order to get the 10am bus but by then it had already left. I was forced to wait on the next bus which wasn't due to leave Apia till 11am. I think it was actually 11:45 by the time we left the town, I'm not sure because by this stage I was getting very sick. I knew I needed to get to a bathroom; I was doing a good job of hanging in until the periodic sharp-as-a-dagger cramps started. All the while I have Mr. Friendly frigging Samoan trying to make polite conversation, with that and the loud cheesy dance/reggae music (incl a local version of "we're going to Ibiza" called "we're going to Samoa") this was indeed the voyage from hell! I knew I needed to crash and fast...

A few days later while straggling around Lalomanu, I got talking to some people, who casually mentioned that Polynesian Airlines had cancelled their flights to Fiji. This was indeed worrying, as I'd just bought my ticket with them before I left Apia. Was I going to have to swim to Fiji? I resolved to go back to Town the next day and sort it out. On arrival I checked email and found that my travelmate-to-be for Fiji, and Irish guy called Ciaran who I'd done some diving with in Sydney, had ducked out. The situation had deteriorated in the previous weeks, or at least had been percieved to have deteriorated. The Irish Embassy was apparently advising people not to go. I wasn't very surprised and I could blame anyone in their right mind for not wanting to go, if anything I was surprised that he'd held on so long. On the up side, since I didn't have to meet Ciaran I could spend a few more days in Samoa and take the Air Pacific ('Fiji's International Airline') flight the next Monday. So I arranged to have a few extra days to explore the big Island of Savai'i and as a special treat for myself I got an internal flight from Asau in northern Savai'i back to Apia, which would take 30mins, intstead of the usual 6hrs when going by ferry. I imagined that getting the flight out of the nearest airport to where I was staying (Asau) would make it easier to get to the plane, rather than leaving from the main airport. This was as good an example of flawed western style thinking as its possible to get. Firstly I had to ring to confirm even though I bought the ticket only 4 days before I was going to use it. Lucky thing too, cause when I rang the day before the flight, the times had changed - it seems the airline schedules are about as reliable as the bus timetables in Samoa. Adding to my difficulties was the fact that my flight was on a Sunday and there is practically no buses happening. Not that there are any buses which make the 20min journey from my Beach Huts to Asau airport, so I had to pay a guy to drive me there. I would have been loads better off had I decided to fly from the main airport almost 3 hours away by public bus. Despite all of this and the fact that I was stressing at the airport - there wasn't a single soul there when we arrived - the flight was cool. I'd never flown in a twim engine nor in a plane without air-conn and I got some excellent birdseye views of the islands, the coastline and the reefs. Planes are certainly very civilised and in one short hop I was back for my last night in Apia. With all the constant heat and rain, and without a breeze the town resembled nothing so much as an inescapable sauna most of the day. Inescapable that is, apart from McDonalds, which was playing lip service to air-conditioning and the Polynesian Airlines office, which was positively cold, serving to make the return to the outside all the more shocking. But no matter how sweaty and sticky the day, by evening Apia had descended to a kind of amniotic warmth - with the edge gone from the sun, the air was a comforting temperature making the humidity just on the right side of bearable, provided you didn't move too fast. And hell, in Samoa who wanted to?

There were good times had in Samoa, it truely is the Heart of Polynesia. The dancing, the water, the sunsets and I will never forget sitting on a beach in Savai'i watching the stars while out at sea a thunderstorm was lighting up the sky. Dreams are made of these my friends, dreams are made of these...

Pacification 4 : Flown the Coup!

The first day I spent in the company of a couple of English gals I met in Samoa who had a 10-hour stopover to fill. We got talked into a half day tour of the Nausori Highlands by one of the many vultures at the airport who descend on the hapless few tourists still coming through Nadi airport. I was told that under normal circumstances there would be 1,500 people a day through the airport, these days it was about 200 but from what I saw I doubted if even a quarter of these were actually staying overnight. We headed off pretty clueless in the company of our jovial Indian host Michael, passing the machine gun toting, and smiling guards at the airport gates. It was a fairly pleasant day, not counting Michaels constant reminders of how little he got paid, what a bad life he had and how his earnings had evaporated in the aftermath of the coup. I wasn't at all surprised when he reluctantly admitted near the end of the day how he lived off his tips. I'd already tried kava in Samoa but the English chicks hadn't. Kava is a ceremonial, mildly narcotic drink used all over Polynesia, but made particularly strong in Fiji where it is often used in a not strictly ceremonial setting. Ever accommodating, Michael arranged for us to have a bowl or two at a house deep in the hill country. We were halfway through the ceremony when Michael, exchanging his tour guide hat for that of UN Envoy, remarked, "They say there is a problem with the Fijians and the Indians in this country. Here I am Indian, he is Fijian, this is his house - No problem". Hmm, trite to say the least...and certainly for our consumption.

What followed after the tour was a very Indian kind of carry on, involving everyone we'd come in contact with trying to shaft each other out of the commission on the souvenirs the English girls wanted to buy. Michael proceeded to tell us how we'd given him such a good tip (English girls did, I didn't cause I'm a cheap wise-ass or vice verse) that he didn't want us to go to a commission shop. The Fijian guy who'd originally sold us the trip said that we could leave our bags in his office and when we returned he'd give us a lift into town to do shopping (!). Michael told us he take us to another shop that had good prices, but half way back he said there was too much traffic and could he take us to another shop instead. I was dubious, the girls did shopping and I stood around trying to make the sales staff nervous by practicing my Hindi on them. By the time I got to the girls to try and get them to attempt to bargain it was too late the price had been set and the commission given. We didn't even get to have dinner like we planned as we were bundled into a 'courtesy' cab paid for my the shopkeeper, to take us back to the airport where the girls could get their flight and I could (hopefully) reclaim my bags. After that I managed to find and settle into a practically empty backpacker haunt in Nadi. I think I was about to get food when I ran into an Ozzie traveller in foyer. We got to chatting, he had just quit a job on a yacht due to problems with the skipper and was heading off the next day to and island to relax before going home. It turned out he'd travelled in India and worked in South Africa. We spent the rest of the evening yarning to each other and drinking Fiji Gold beer and watching a couple of geckos copulate. You wouldn't think it but after enough beers this is pretty fascinating...

It was midday before I was even vaguely conscious the next day. I don't remember putting mossie repellent that night but I woke up to find a hole burned into the plastic cover of my journal where I obviously spilled some DEET. My only roommate had left and later a chick arrived. We got talking and went to town for internet and pizza. After that brief triste getting hassled by everyone we saw, I decided I'd better book to leave Nadi asap, but choosing from the dozens of islands of the west coast alone was one hell of a task. Finally I settled on a local dive operation/ guesthouse on one of the smaller islands as I'd heard good reports from the guy in the dorm who'd just come back from the place. The next morning me and Dave, a weird English guy got picked up in a minibus. Near where Dave was staying there was graffiti, proclaiming in large green letters "Speight - Dick Head". Apparently not everyone loves the leader, certainly not in the Western District. We got driven to Lautoka in the north and simply left there, being told that our bags would be taken care of, that we should get lunch and return to the same spot in two hours. Dave was none too cool about this, neither was I particularly but I had enough experience to get Zen about it - what is to come, will come (whether you worry or not). We walked around, got hot, got lunch and some guy attempted to rip us off but I was too clever for him. The last trial was the boat journey which was 90mins and non too comfortable although it might have been more easy without Dave's constant complaining of how the engine fumes were making him sick.

Shortly after I arrived there was a sign up for a trip to a rugby game between 'Big Waya' and 'Little Waya'(our island). There isn't much to do for entertainment in the smallest inhabited island of the Yasewa group so an interisland rugby match was about the most interesting this that was going to happen all week. So we went. It seemed the whole island was going too, it took a few boatloads to get us all across the narrow strip of sea between the two islands. We were lead to quite the most picturesque rugby field I am ever likly to see. The beach was directly behind us and Waya volcanic peaks rose behind one of the goals and half of the pitch. It was only the second live sporting event I'd ever been at and I had the same problem I had watching that Man Utd match in eastern Slovakia - I couldn't make out what the hell was going on. Unforntunatly TV cameras are usually the best seat in the house and from ground level its all rather unfathomable to me. More interesting than the game itself was the reaction of the crowd to the games. Mistakes were greeted with peels of laughter and mostly from the supporting crowd...good play elicted praise from even the opposition's fans. Both teams were undoutably tough, some of the players were playing without shoes!!

During a break in the rugby game I sneaked off to stretch my legs. The beach was only a few meters away but beyond the pitch and buildings there was very little sound. Walking along watching the clouds rolling on the it was easy to imagine how the first explorers felt on happening upon these far flung yet remarkably beautiful shores...
A little later the game was over and it was time for us all to pile into the boats and retreat to Wayaleilei. The Pacific was tamed now and spread out in front of us in perfect lake like blackness. Speeding along with the wind in my hair with the shadows of the smaller islands etched out against the sky, the locals laughing in the dusk light, sometimes life just doesn't get any better...

Eventually I tracked down the instructor dudes so as to arrange a few dives. I thought they might be glad of business but Semi, the guy I dived with, didn't seem happy at all at my interruption of his doing nothing. It was my first tropical dive; the divemaster nearly collapsed laughing when I said I needed 7 weights. He wondered if I planning for a lot of time on the bottom - I'd forgotten that the wetsuits you need for warm water diving were much, much thinner and smaller than I'd used and so I didn't need even half that amount of weight to sink. It was pretty cool all in all but the water clarity wasn't as good as I'd been lead to believe and I'm not sure of it was worth risking a coup for - guess you live and learn. What was cool was that I got to see some underwater hunting. It was Saturday and the guys were collecting stuff for the traditional Sunday feast, any opportunity was used to add to the food stockpiles. This was more like it - I'd observed, I'd conserved now it was time to get down in there and kill some stuff!
Actually I wasn't too keen on shooting the harpoon myself. I'd probably hurt myself or lose the spear, which would surely incur the wrath of the local dudes. Parrot fish were proving the easiest to kill; they were sensible that knew they were dead and gave up immediately when you shot them. There were some other buggers whom, when you put a spear through their head, wriggled free and swam off in a most annoying fashion, quite unaware that they had been killed fair and square. Just as I was getting comfortable with the growing numbers of dead and semi-dead fish on the line I, as assistant hunter, was carrying, Semi set his sights on a moray eel. All divers are told about Moray eels and how they are to be avoided. Not that they are naturally aggressive but they tend to live in crevices and tend to bite if you stick your hand in their holes (!). Like sharks they have inward facing teeth so if you get bitten any attempt to extricate yourself will only make things worse. Anyhow, back to the scenario; we're 20 meters under, with well enough fish in our basket, facing the eel on his own turf and I find myself buddied to some nut who wants to try and kill it. HELLO! This thing bites, is strong and doesn't need a Scuba unit to breathe - we are at a distinct disadvantage here. However given that these sentiments are a little hard to convey through dive sign language I decided it was better to keep my distance until this thing was well and truly dead - it took ages! Eels, provided they are dead, are fascinating creatures up close - smooth like satin and all muscle. Apparently they are quite tasty too.

The rest of the Fijian trip passed off without too much incident. I went to Pacific Harbour about an hour away from the capital Suva and found this usually bustling tourist town and service centre for the nearby Beqa Lagoon divesite, all but deserted. I stayed a couple of nights in an empty hostel, did some nice diving, got rained on and returned to catch my plane via a night in Sigatoka in the southwest - mostly cause I couldn't bear to spend one miniute more than was necessary in Nadi. The Sigatoka Club where I (almost) stayed was a pleasent surprise - a Raj style club cum sports bar nicely situated along the banks of the Sigatoka river, it had more than a little smack of colonial hangout about it. Where better to meet some decidedly dodgy ex-pats? No sooner had I returned from my postcard run than I found Ken and Ralph. Ken was an English Old Boy of the ilk that I thought had become extinct long ago. Complete with handle bar moustache and stories of 'The War' (WWII - I kid you not!) he reminded me of a somewhat less comedic Sydney James(of Carry-On fame). Ralph was an Ozzie, but being orginally from Syndey, not a typically one. He can come to Fiji with the idea of doing some enviromentally friendly civil engineering - one wife lost and two dogs later he was still there trying to make a living, mostly it seemed because he had nowhere to go back to. The evening passed quite amicably, I was prepared to let Ken's many sexist and blatently unfashionable views pass me by because these are the things you have to do when you're starved for company. Of course the many Fiji Golds made for a mellowed mood in me too - something I was to regret from approximately 12am to 9am the following morning. I had accompanied Ralph to his house to feed his dogs, with the idea that we'd return to the bar shortly. Thats when I got sick! At the time I was sure it was entirly the fault of the dodgy Indian eatery I'd been in for lunch where I'd made the mistake of drinking the glass of water provided with the mountain of fried rice. On reflection perhaps all the beer was none too good for my constitution either. In any case I proceed to be very ill all night, finally getting some sleep about 9ish.

All very well you might say, however you weren't flying to Rarotonga that afternoon and you weren't still in Sigatoka which is a good 2 hours by public bus from Nadi where the plane. Needless to say it wasn't one of my best days but I did catch the plane...

Pacification 5 : Notes from a Small, Crowded Island

Later on that night I was to find myself in possibly the unfriendliest hostel I'd ever been in, with the exception of the place I stayed in Sydney. Either everyone here was travelling as a group and I was an unwelcome intruder or I was seriously losing my charm and social graces (not an unreasonably hypothesis given 15 months on my own). The last theory was that I was now in the bowels of the Rarotongan tourist boom consisting largly of lackluster twerps on the run from Fiji. At least there was a decent stereo so I closed my mind wishing I was anywhere else ... I would have closed my eyes but I didn't as yet have a bed and our host was in the unenviable position of having taken my money while failing to get anyone else to check out. My head was begining to hurt -- so much sun today, and I'd lost my hat somehow and a bus in Fiji, I suspect I was also dehydrated. I prayed to all that was holy for a bed to appear soon, the though of having to listen to these people until they all went to bed and I could sleep on the couch was more that I could bear. I began to fantasise about nights alone being violently ill -- it seemed so much more fun than my present situation.

Pacification 6 : La Polynesie Francaise? J'en ai Marre !

It was Sunday but unlike practically everywhere else in Polynesia, in Papeete the capital of Tahiti you wouldn't know it. I'd been in Tahiti less than 12 hours and already I'd had enough, I wanted out. It wasn't just the expense (although the prices here are prohibitive) nor the rudeness of the inhabitants (I suspect 'beligerant' has become a synonom for 'French' in the English language) but after 16 countries in the 15 months I was sick of dealing with it all and in particular sick of dealing with everything by my self. Enough was enough and this chick was ready to hang up her hat.

By Monday I'd relaxed somewhat, having spent the day with three tres sympa French people and having found a space to store my bag for free (in a French naval institution -- which is probably a story best told in person) I decided to try my luck and visit Bora Bora and Moorea in the week or so remaining. After having spent too much time marveling at the facilities and checking out the black sand beach at the Circle Naval just outside Papeete I couldn't reach the cargo boat to Bora Bora on time. Chances are with the high speed ferry, on Ono Ono en panne permanently, the boat was full so I surrendered and went to Moorea like everyone else. Things got better briefly when on arrival I was able to catch a bus straight away to my camp site and Michael, a friendly local, who ran the shark feeding tour not only helped me pitch my tent in the dark but gave me some food as all the shops were closed. My bonheur was all too short lived, I was soon to realise, I'd lost the ability to be social and meet people. I sat in the kitchen willing someone to talk to me, watching a South African traveller effortlessly join a group of English types at another table. I found myself completely unable to do likewise. Perhaps I was just feeling sorry for myself, but I blame it somewhat on my experiences in NZ and the rest of the Pacific. Many of the hosteliers are pommies doing their gap year or sometimes just out of Uni. Even when I do try to join the conversation, it seems nothing I have to say is of any interest to them. If this is what it's like to be old, just shot me now! After eating I felt better (there is not much a sweet croissant can't fix for me) but the chocolate high was short lived and certainly no match for the depression and boredom which arises from having noone around that reacts or responds to you.

The following day I begged and pleaded with Air New Zealand to get me an earlier flight to LA, but to no avail. With the boats being full to Bora Bora, I was stuck on Moorea for entire week. As much as I tried to tell myself I was acting spoiled and that there wasn't a person I knew that wouldn't kill to be stranded in French Polynesia, it just didn't cut it. I began to investigate the plausibility of spending the time drunk.

Actually things didn't turn out to be so bad, once I resigned myself to the fact that I had to be there for 10 days and that I couldn't get to any of the other islands on the cheap, I began to enjoy myself. I found my social ability returned somewhat, at least enough for me to get 'in' with a few of my fellow campers and a couple of good nights playing cards till late were had. I even managed to laugh at the exremely French (read biligerant) chief at the nearby Rotisserie chicken stand - his humour, was as bad as his chicken was worth waiting for and it was the best meal I'd had in ages. Managed to do a whole load of nothing in between hiking in the hills, cycling the 60kms around Moorea, sneaking into the outragously priced and extremely naff Club Med disco and feeding some sharks (although thankfully not with my person).

Sooner than I'd expected it was time for me to leave. My flight wasn't till late that night but I had to get back to Tahiti and pick my bag up from the 'Circle Naval' before the cloakroom closed at 3pm. This ment only one thing - a looong day for me baby-sitting my unmanagable bage by the pier, not very interesting but not particularly difficult. In this synopsis however I had failed to properly comprehend how difficult it might prove to be to actually be sitting at the pier in Papeete with my bags. I needed to get the 11am catamaran from Moorea in order to get the French Naval base in time. The campsite I was staying at was about 25kms from the quay and there was a public bus serving all ferries which someone said left around 10am. After a slow morning of packing up and making sandwiches out of my remaining food supplies, I checked out of the campsite at 9:45am. Here the receptionist told me the bus in fact left at 9:30am and worse the slow ferry at 1pm, which might (with a push) get me to Tahiti in time to reclaim my bags, wasn't served by a bus. With no other option, I immediatly started hitching. More than a half an hour rolled by and I began to wonder if I'd even make it to the 1pm ferry, when the receptionist came rushing out saying there was an Island guy about to drive to the quay to try and get the Catamaran - result! With some hair-raising driving, we arrived at the quay with about 90secs to spare...it appeared the day might be salvaged after all.

I had not however made provisions for the vaguearies of Madame Tina's teabreak! After a while wandering aimlessly in the heat of Papeete I decided it was time to bite the bullet and pick up my horrid heavy bag. When I had left my bag in the baggerie no.16, Madame Tina, who was responsible for it's key, told me I need only to look out for her as she was always "around". Sure enough when I got there, Madame Tina was nowhere to be found! Time was running out, the only thing I could do was ask at the offiers mess. It must be noted that the French guy who'd stayed there and under whose my bag was stored, was not even in the Navy himself, he'd just chanced his arm and got in here. Calmly and in my best french accent I enquired of the Offcier behind the bar as to the whereabouts of Madame Tina. Sure enough, he'd never heard of her. He rang the front desk and asked for my name and the name of my mari. I was absentmindedly wondering if impersonating a French naval officer's wife constituted a crime in the territory, when the front desk rang back to say they didn't have a clue either. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I saw my plane take off without me...

For the next 20mins, me and Naval Officer No.1 went dashing around the vistors quarters asking all and sundry about Mme Tina. All the time, in a reversal of the usual mode, I'm trying to say as little as possible least he question me on my funny accent. At last Mme Tina was located - Hurray! "Alone this time?", says she. Oh she was suss alright - I reamed off something about having to go home early on family business and was about to high tail it out of there when Monsieur Navel Officer asked me to the mess for a drink. Well, I had to go, it would have looked strange if I'd have refused. Boy was I thankful when he said he was tired and had to go to bed after a quick soft drink, then I really did high tail it out of there, although I don't think I was back to normal til I reached the docks!

The remainder of my time was spent whileing the hours away reading and listening to music. That evening I had my last meal at Papeete's famous Roulottes, mobile eateries which popup every evening in the dockside carpark. The toilet keeper and his daughter took me under their wing, watched my bags as I ate, talked to me and walked me to the airport bus when it was time. It had been a wonderful five weeks and now was time for the next adventure...

Coming...one of these days...