Somehow, a lot of time has passed since my last blog post. I would blame “island time,” that curious slowing of the passage of time that tends to occur in the South Pacific, but it would be disingenuous. The fact is that Michelle and I have been so busy that I just simply haven’t taken time to write. You may be asking yourself, “what exactly do Peace Corps Volunteers do that could possibly keep them so busy?” Well, here ya go… Day to day living takes up a lot of time in the Peace Corps. When the dishwasher stops working I can’t just call a repairman, mostly because Michelle wouldn’t appreciate it if some stranger showed up at the house and started using a screwdriver and a crescent wrench to poke around on her. Like most of the rest of the world’s population, we don’t have fancy electrical appliances to assist in daily chores. Thus, a lot of our time is spent doing by hand chores that folks in the U.S. just push a button to achieve, including laundry and dishes. Additionally, we generally don’t have the convenience of the pre-packaged foods available in the U.S. You won’t find “salad in a bag” in Fiji or sometimes even something as ubiquitous in the U.S. as jarred pasta sauce. And the closest thing we’ve got to a microwave is the heat generated by the tin roof in our kitchen in the hot season, although with the humidity I’m pretty sure you could cook a pot of dry rice on the counter without adding any water during that time.Furthermore, unlike in the U.S., we don’t have a convenience store on every corner if we need something like milk, butter, or an onion. Our nearest markets are an hour and fifteen minutes by bus and the selections, as I noted previously, generally don’t rise to Western standards. So we have to plan our food and meals carefully, which takes time. You don’t want to store so much food that you just end up feeding the weevils and rats, but you also at least want enough that you don’t find yourself eating oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until the next time you can get to town. So planning is important. Add to that the time that I spend catching fish (time I don’t mind spending, but time, nonetheless) as well as tending the garden, and the simple act of survival seems to take up most of our days. In any event, a good portion of our time is dedicated to preparing and cooking meals, chores, and miscellaneous repairs or other projects. However, looking back over the past six months we’ve accomplished a lot in addition to simply surviving. In retrospect, it seems like we’ve been working non-stop on a number of projects and, at times, feel as though we work harder here than we do in the U.S. It has been challenging, frustrating, and rewarding at various times. Our projects have ranged from the small and routine to the complex and sophisticated, including everything from helping design a Village Development Plan to establishing income generation projects. Nonetheless, at one year into our service, we feel like we have contributed a lot to the well being of the village and its people. The Village Development Plan (VDP) was a huge undertaking…and probably one of the most important things that we did. Many villages in Fiji have a VDP, but most of those plans are no more substantive than what a 6 year old would send Santa Claus come December…nothing more than a wish list. As facilitators, we actually sat down with village leaders over the course of six meetings and helped them work through priorities and discuss the advantages and disadvantages of different projects. We helped them create a vision statement, organize and prioritize all the projects, justify the priorities, and develop brief timelines for the top 5 proposed projects. In the end, the village had a long-term, comprehensive plan that they could be really proud of that showed the level of thought and consideration put into each proposed project. Each future project we took on as volunteers extended from that plan, but the plan also provides the guideposts for the village after we leave. More importantly, each time village leaders meet with a government minister or NGO they can hand the document over with pride knowing that they’ve done a lot of the difficult planning preparation for a brighter future in the village. One of the first projects I took on at the request of the village was to help them set up a well-managed marine protected area. Marine protected areas (MPAs), or “Tabu Areas” as they are known in Fiji, have been used traditionally in Fiji for millennia. However, traditionally the Tabu Areas were unilaterally put in place by a chief and generally only for short periods of 100 days in association with a ceremonial event like a funeral. But one thing that the very observant Fijians noticed about Tabu’s is that, in terms of producing more fish in the protected area, they work. There was no need for me to even cite the science that proved it; they had seen it with their own eyes. The villagers knew my background in managing fisheries and asked me to help them set up a Tabu Area that better met the needs of the people than the one the chief had unilaterally put in place that disenfranchised most of the people. So I set about helping the village to design an MPA that would balance the needs of the people living nearby with the needs of the environment. Over several months we did some research, a lot of outreach, and drew some maps. We had several meetings and got the local authorities involved as well. In the end, we created a Tabu Area that the people designed and agreed upon based on well-founded criteria established by the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) and the University of the South Pacific (USP). After months of work and outreach, we held a ceremony in the village to dedicate the Tabu Area that even included a blessing by the High Minister of the Methodist Church. Most importantly, we’ve started to see the impacts of having the Tabu Area in place with many of the locals, including myself, increasing our catches out on the reef in the open areas. I also helped the village start a community based tree nursery to grow sandalwood, locally known as “yasi”, as an income generation project. Initially, I worked with one of the villagers to write a proposal to get professional nursery materials provided by the Department of Forestry. After repeated attempts to prompt action on the proposal, it was clear that the project was going nowhere, so we changed strategy and asked simply for a workshop to be conducted by the Department on how to plant and care for yasi trees. Several phone calls and personal meetings in Labasa and Suva later, I finally got them to commit to coming to the village for the workshop. I actually did very little to get the project off the ground. Once the workshop occurred, the village took the initiative to build a nursery using locally available materials. When the Department officials returned a couple of weeks later to do a soil mixing and seed preparation workshop, they were stunned with the amount of work that the village had put into building a nursery out of natural materials found around the village. We got some great press coverage as a result in the Fiji Times. This is exactly what you want as a Peace Corps Volunteer…you provide the spark and they fan the flame and build the fire… Michelle has also done a lot in the village. She has singlehandedly helped the village put together what will ultimately be the only community based virgin coconut oil business in all the South Pacific. The idea started with a visit Michelle made to Fiji back in 2003, when she was introduced to virgin coconut oil. In Alaska’s cold and dry climate, it was one of the only things she found useful in combating dry skin. With a little research, she also discovered a myriad of health benefits associated with VCO, including antifungal and antiviral properties. So when we arrived in our village and discovered acres of surrounding coconuts, she suggested VCO as a potential health/women’s empowerment/business project. After learning how to make VCO herself, Michelle taught three of the village ladies how make VCO using materials they already had on hand. Those three ladies went on to teach the other ladies in the village how to make VCO. Again, it’s exactly what you hope to see as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Seven months later, Michelle has organized the village businesses (including copra and the yasi nursery) into a federally registered cooperative, established savings accounts for the women in the cooperative (many for the first time in their lives), and helped the village secure funding for a small VCO factory to scale up production and potentially start exporting a superior product abroad (place your orders now, folks!). In just six months, the ladies have made over $7000FJD, which is HUGE in a village. Furthermore, proceeds from the VCO project were used to build a community copra dryer to support better income from that source. In addition to the VCO project being a sustainable source of income for a village that had very limited opportunities in the past, the project has been an enormous source of pride with many people throughout Fiji taking notice. It has boosted the women’s self-confidence and is a source of optimism for the future. Moreover, the factory will serve as a model and training facility for other communities in Fiji. What she has achieved in this short time with the VCO project is nothing short of incredible.But wait, that’s not all! Michelle has also assisted the regional nurses and village health aides (sort of a village nurse) to become more empowered and effective, particularly our own village health aide with whom she has become very close. I helped one of the young men write and submit a proposal to the Fiji Government and Fiji Water Foundation to replace the village’s failing water infrastructure, teaching him about computers in the process (we’re still waiting on the results, but were told it was one of the best proposals they’ve ever received). With the architectural design help of my sister, Doreen, Michelle developed and introduced a proposal to build a village health dispensary to house medical supplies and tools for our village health aide. Thanks to a digital projector I purchased, we’ve been able to share numerous educational programs (and some just plain fun ones!) with the village on semi-regularly scheduled “movie nights.”

With the sponsorship of a wonderful Australian woman named Delia, who owns Daku Resort in Savusavu, we helped organize two separate village ecotours with the Cousteau Ocean Futures Society and a Nia Dance group.

We’ve also worked with the school, teaching occasional classes, leading the Environment Club, and even teaching the teachers how to use Microsoft Office products with the two working ancient computers that they have at the school. To top it all off, we provided training sessions for the new group of volunteers at two separate training events and I’ve represented the volunteers at regular meetings as an elected representative of the Volunteer Advisory Committee…whew!

All that said, some of our greatest personal triumphs have been the small things. For me it was when one of the young men I had been working with, Elima Rabuli, came to Michelle and I and told us how proud he was that he had completed an 8-week life skills training and hospitality training course he had sought out of his own volition…and then proceeded to tell us how we helped inspire him to do so. For Michelle, it was when she took one of the local women, Timaima Serakula (Kula), to do a presentation on VCO at a local resort. Kula was terrified and told Michelle that she “prayed and prayed” that she would not make a mistake. After the presentation the attendants (most of whom were American, Aussie, or Kiwi) all went to Kula and thanked her for the presentation and the great job that she did (and proceeded to buy about $150 of VCO!). Kula was simply glowing after this and it was clear that she had found a new confidence within herself that was not there before. In the end, it is the people of Wailevu Village that have made everything about our experience special. The people and their ability to come together represent the main reason we can consider our experience successful so far. Somewhere in all the previously described craziness, we managed to visit Tonga and swim with humpback whales, travel to the Yasawa island chain and help another volunteer with his projects, dive uncaged with bull sharks…twice…, and swim with dolphins (all subjects of future blogs/videos). Yes, it’s been a busy year, so I hope that you’ll forgive my absence from the blogiverse!

Those of you who know me know that I love to fish. It has been an important part of my identity, not to mention my mental health, since childhood. So, you can imagine that being sent to the South Pacific would be more or less a dream come true for any fisherman. And you would imagine correctly if you did.

Nonetheless, since coming to Fiji I have had few opportunities (at least not as much as I would like) to get out on the water and fish for a number of reasons. First of all, Peace Corps is not just hanging out on a remote island, going fishing, and drinking grog with the locals. We actually work on a daily basis, which sometimes includes working all day, or at least through the best tides. Second, the high chief for our region closed off the fishing area immediately adjacent to our village, forcing me and the rest of the village fishermen to walk more than a half mile in either direction down the beach to reach the nearest open areas…which aren’t necessarily the best areas. Lastly, when you’re limited to wade fishing in shark infested waters, you generally have less motivation to slosh around waist deep while chasing skittish fish that tend to struggle and bleed a lot when you hook them.

"Thaht's mah boaht..." Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump

That’s all changednow that I’ve built my bilibili (pronounced “mbilimbili”). A bilibili is a traditional bamboo raft that has been built since time immemorial by the Fijian people to transport goods, traverse open expanses of water, and, yes, fish. Fijians are historically known as great boat builders in the South Pacific, creating large dugout war canoes and very seaworthy sailing vessels. However, as much as I would’ve liked to build a 40-foot long sailing vessel from all native materials and methods, I simply don’t have the time, energy, or authorization to take the local materials. So, my options were limited to building the bilibili from some stands of bamboo owned by the village next door.

I will say that building a bilibili is more complicated and labor intensive than you might imagine. You would think that simply lashing bamboo together would be as simple as tying a few knots around some pool noodles. Oh, but you would be wrong. I had no idea what I was in for building a bilibili, but I was determined to have a watercraft to get beyond the outer reef where the possibility of Spanish mackerel, wahoo, and dogtooth tuna become a reality.

We had been in the village for over 10 months before I finally convinced one of the locals, Tevita Beka, to secure permission for me to harvest some bamboo from one of the local stands near the Nasekawa River. It turns out that it is much easier to build a bilibili on the river where you can lash the bamboo together in the water without worrying about being constantly pounded by the waves in the surf. Unfortunately, the river is about 2 miles away from our village. But, beggars can’t be choosers, so I asked our friend Tevita to guide me to the bamboo stand and assist me in building the bilibili.

The day started on a Saturday at 8AM when I walked down the beach to the neighboring village of Dreketi to meet Tevita. Tevita was waiting, cane knife in hand, ready to go andassist his vulagi friend in building a marvel of Fijian engineering. Ten minutes later we were traipsing through the jungle, ostensibly toward an unseen stand of bamboo. I was dressed in my standard Fiji attire of shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops. I also had a backpack containing my cane knife, a saw, about 100 feet of nylon rope, and a 1 liter bottle of water...I should’ve brought a gallon.

It was an evil kind of hot…the kind of hot where you are really more chewing and swallowing the air than breathing it. Moreover, there was not a breath of wind inside the jungle. The air was just freakin’ heavy. As we traversed the jungle to the bamboo stand I was dripping in sweat and so hot I thought I was going to pass out. This was a hot like I’d never experienced before, and I know hot. Between two-a-day football practices in mid-August Texas heat and the nuclear plant of a U.S. warship in the Persian Gulf, I thought I’d seen and felt the worst given that either of those two instances I was sure were second only to hell itself. But this heat was like doing aerobics in a sauna while wearing sweater, pants, and a knit cap, which were all made of wool and soaked with hot water. I began to think that no project was worth this kind of punishment.

We finally came to the edge of the jungle where a large stand of bamboo rose above the jungle canopy. Bamboo is amazing stuff. In some cases, it grows literally feet a day and is so strong that in China they still use it as scaffolding when building high rise buildings. It happens to be great for a bilibili material not only because of its strength, but because it is chambered. So if one chamber splits and floods you literally still have dozens of chambers remaining to keep you afloat. Thus, while it may not be a Boston Whaler, a bilibili is a pretty safe watercraft for the expense!

My admiration of the superior building material quickly faded as we began to cut select pieces of bamboo with our cane knives. A cane knife is a pretty effective tool…fairly light, sharp, balanced with an easy swing…so you would think that it wouldn’t take much effort to cut down a hollow piece of wood. Again, you would be wrong. After cutting just 2 lengths of bamboo that were about 8 inches in diameter at the base and 20 feet long, I thought I was going to vomit as that imaginary sweater and knit cap seemed to enhance gravity as well as temperature. But, being a man, I was not going to let Tevita see me sweat…or at least hurl up my breakfast. So, I swallowed my pride…and vomit…and kept hacking away at the bamboo. Ten lengths later, we had the base materials for making the bilibili.

After trimming all the branches from the bamboo we dragged them down to the river and lined them up in the shallow water. Tevita then disappeared into the bush to return a few moments later with three pieces of hardwood that would form the perpendicular structural support for the craft. We then cut notches in opposing sides of the first and largest chamber of each piece of bamboo where one of the pieces of hardwood would pass through and form the primary support for the bilibili. The other two pieces would be lashed on top of the bamboo further back and would help cinch the lengths together. Thus, in the shallow water and gooey mud of the Nasekawa River, the keel of the F/V My-C-shell was laid.

Tevita had said that this would be the “easy part.” I can’t say it was easier, but at least it was cooler standing in the river and out of the oppressive heat of the jungle. It took both of us tying knots, pulling, looping, holding, and bracing our feet against the bamboo to pull everything together. After about two hours of rope burns, splinters, and an advancing sunburn, we had successfully cinched the raft together.

After a handshake and a hearty “vinaka vakalevu”, Tevita handed me a slender, 10-foot long piece of bamboo and like a modern day Tom Sawyer I started poling downstream. It was one of the moments in Fiji that has really made me smile. As I poled downstream (with that Rush song stuck in my head) my heart swelled as I thought, “this is the adventure that I was looking for.” Then I got a dose of “be careful what you ask for” when I hit the swells at the mouth of the river and thought, “OK, this was a little more adventure than I wanted.” After struggling against the crashing waves and nearly being washed off the bilibili several times, I made it back to the shallow side of the reef edge and started poling toward home. At 4PM, I finally poled up in front of our beachside home.

Over the next week I would build an anchor and a platform like all the other bilibilis in the village, only my platform and anchor would be like no other. Anchors in the village basically consist of anything heavy…a cinder block, an old lawn mower engine, an old pedal sewing machine. Sure, they’ll hold the bilibili in place in even the roughest weather, but all of these anchors basically crush anything they land on when thrown into the water. So I made a coral anchor using some small gauge rebar, an old piece of 2 inch pipe, and some concrete mix, which is designed to cause less damage to the coral by hooking onto the coral substrate rather than crushing it. The Fijian’s thought I was crazy for putting so much work into an anchor, but someone has to set the example. My platform perplexed them even more. The Fijians basically use any combination of old lumber and bush wood that they can find in the village and secure with any combination of nails, wire, and rope. My platform was squared, nailed, and glued using appropriately sized lumber. Moreover, I am fairly certain that my bilibili is the only one in Fiji, if not the world, designed with oars. I am absolutely certain that my bilibili is the only one with rod holders.

On its inaugural sail, Lucas Nene, another Peace Corps Volunteer, joined me in christening the F/V My-C-shell by catching a respectable juvenile giant trevally, which also happened to be the largest fish he’s ever caught. More importantly, we are now mobile, able to access and explore parts of the reef we had not been previously able. A “flats cat” or Glasply she is not, but the F/V My-C-shell gives us a new freedom to explore even more of what Fiji has to offer.

Recently, we experienced our first funeral in the village. This is something that all Peace Corps volunteers experience at some point during their service. It is a natural part of life that people die, sometimes unexpectedly and sometimes with advance warning. Different people and different cultures deal with death in different ways. Nonetheless, human emotion is universal and grief is no exception.

The good thing about funerals in Fiji is that when someone in the village dies everyone, including the animals, eats very well. It’s not what you think…the Fijians have long abandoned their cannibal days and the bodies are treated with complete respect. However, much like an American wake where any number and variety of casseroles and lime jello molds may surround a picture of the deceased on their dining room table, the Fijians pull out all the stops in preparing a feast that commemorates the departed.

Typically, several pigs, chickens, and at least one cow are slaughtered to support the feast and associated mourning period, which, in our region, lasts about 3 days. While the human emotion of grief is no different than anywhere else, the process of mourning bears some similarities and some differences to American culture. Some aspects are familiar and some might seem more foreign. One thing that stood out to me is that the Fijian ceremony is much more personal on several levels.

The man who died was named Matia. He was an older man, about his mid-60’s, but bore the scars and deeply creased skin of a man who had spent his entire life farming in the Fijian bush. Nobody had seen him on the day he died after he left for his farm at 6 a.m. that morning. They found him that evening around 4 p.m. in his dalo farm, his body prone with his right arm stiffly outstretched and his left hand clutching his chest; tell-tale signs of a heart attack.

The police were called and dispatched a Toyota Hilux truck to retrieve the body at about 9 p.m. They brought the body to his wife, Akessa, for a positive identification before delivering the body to Labasa for autopsy and preparation for burial. Interestingly, the police investigate every death in a village, no matter how clear and benign the cause of death may seem.

Michelle had grown close to Akessa over the previous weeks, so we had gone to lend support to her during this time of grief. The police truck arrived before us and the police were inside Matia and Akessa’s modest tin house consoling the widow. Outside, we waited near the police truck where Matia’s body lay in the bed, contorted beneath a blue tarp with only his worn and twisted feet visible on one end. This was not the first time I had seen a dead body, but it seemed oddly peaceful knowing that here, underneath a South Pacific sky full of stars where the Milky Way glows warmly absent the city lights that drown it out in most parts of the U.S., was a man that lived a simple, serene life that was uncomplicated by much of the meaningless clutter we accept as part of American life.

The following day brought the funeral preparations. As I said before, the funeral was a three-day event. The first was a day of mourning for the widow and immediate family to grieve in private. Meanwhile, relatives from every corner of the South Pacific and reaches beyond poured into the village in taxis, transport trucks (loris), and private cars, practically doubling the population of the village overnight. The village men put up several temporary sheds constructed of bamboo, bush wood, and sheets of roofing tin to provide for shelter from the sun and rain. The women began preparing the food that would feed hundreds over the next two days.

The next day, the widow and family received visitors while families gathered on porches and beneath the shelters. Yaqona was plentiful and there was much ceremony at each tanoa bowl as ministers and associate ministers gave thanks and shared scripture related to the death in some form. A tea was held that afternoon with an abundance of cakes, scones, and a variety of traditional desserts made from tavioka (cassava). Two hours after the tea, there was a full meal that consisted of several curries, pork and dalo (taro) cooked in a lovo, waci (dalo leaves cooked in coconut cream), and several other dishes. Occasionally, you could hear uncontrolled sobbing erupt from Akessa and other relatives through the thin panel of tin on the house that was only about 30 feet away.

The last day there was a morning tea at about 10 a.m. with more mounds of food and a lunch with even more food following at about 1 p.m. There was so much food that the dogs, which were usually so emaciated you could see their ribs, were turning up their noses at pork and beef bones tossed their direction, nearly bursting from the scraps of a monumental feast. Then the pastor made an announcement and people began to stand and head toward the edge of the village where the burial ground sat inconspicuously between the last homes and the jungle.

The ceremony started rather abruptly. Fijians from several clans gathered around the grave and began singing hymns, many of which the tune was familiar even if the words were not. Shortly thereafter, several young men carried the casket toward the gravesite in a solemn and methodical fashion. The casket was wrapped in elaborately crafted woven mats made from local plants, representing days of work on behalf of the women who made them. The mats were beautifully decorated in unique patterns and included brightly colored fringes of yarn. The sound of the hymns only slightly overwhelmed the sobbing of many of the relatives, as the men slowly approached the grave.

The ceremony might have been like any in the U.S., except that the pallbearers, and many of the extended family, were immediately involved in physically lowering the casket into the ground. Men, young and old, gently placed the casket in the ground. Each man then took a shovel or digging fork and covered the casket completely with soil. Stones were then carefully piled on top of the soil followed by the men wrapping the entire structure with swaths of brilliantly colorful fabric and flowers that surrounded the entire rectangular perimeter of the gravesite. The personal involvement of the family lent an air of finality…of closure…that I think sometimes is not achieved in funerals in the U.S. where sometimes people never even see the casket go into the ground.

The senior pastor made a final benediction and people went on their way, some in sobbing tears, others in solemn silence. In any event, the privilege of observing this ritual reminded me of the saying that, “the measure of a man’s life is not made by the number of people who come to his birthday, but by the number of people who come to his funeral.”

I have traveled the world and eaten an amazing array of cuisines ranging from bamboo worms in Thailand to aged tripe sausage in Paris (between the two I’d probably take the bamboo worms over the andouillette if I had to do it again). I’ve even eaten the still-beating heart of a yellowfin tuna fresh from the ocean. However, nothing compares to the uniquely Fijian meal I ate last week.

Late on Wednesday night, I heard a knock at my door accompanied by a polite request of “bogi” [pronounced BON-ghee; meaning “good evening”]. I came to the door to find my neighbor with a big smile and holding a loose bundle of dark and light fur attached to some leathery wings. It was a fruit bat.

South Pacific (Insular) fruit bats (Pteropus tonganus) are the only indigenous mammal in Fiji and often the largest flying creatures found on many South Pacific islands. The largest reach 40 centimetres (16 in) in length and attain a wingspan of 150 centimetres (4.9 ft), weighing in at nearly 1 kilogram (2.2 lb). Fruit bats, as their name suggests, feed solely on the abundant fruit that grows in the jungle canopy…and in the trees around people’s homes. For the last two months we have watched and listened to fruit bats swooping into the breadfruit trees surrounding our house at nightfall and proceeding to fight noisily over the ripe breadfruit. They sound dreadful; screeching and squealing in a way that invokes visions of Vlad the Impaler. Even worse, as they move through the trees in the twilight, they look like something only H.R. Giger might imagine as their shadowy, leathery wings tipped with claws reach from branch to branch. Then again, they really amount to nothing more than a Chihuahua with wings (although that vision is actually far more disturbing to me than one of a blood sucking minion of Count Dracula).

Anyhow, Mere, our neighbor, said “kana beka” [roughly “eat bat”] and motioned for me to take the bat, so I thanked her and took what is often the largest flying animal in the sky, save the occasional frigate bird or heron, into our house for closer inspection. This particular bat was not exceedingly large, being a juvenile that was only about ¾ of a pound even if its wingspan was over 2 ½ feet. So then I thought, “now what?”

I’ve dressed a lot of animals in my time ranging from things as mundane as rabbits to those as exotic as an alligator, but I’ve never field dressed anything remotely as strange as a bat. I wasn’t sure where to even start. Luckily, my Fijian friend Elima Rabuli stopped by to drop some things off after Mere left. I told him I had a bat and he looked at me in amazement, almost with a sense of pride. “No, I did not kill the bat.” I told him, “Mere brought it to me.” He looked disappointed that I had not killed it, but was no doubt impressed that I even planned to eat it.

Elima is a local expert on bats; how to get them, dress them, and cook them. I’m sure some of you are asking yourself, “How, exactly, do they get these creatures.” Well, let me tell you, in a country where nobody owns firearms, you would be impressed. I have personally seen Elima cut about a 2 foot long stick from one of the dense local hardwoods using a cane knife, then take that same stick and wing it with unimaginable speed and accuracy to take out a bat in mid flight about 35 yards away. I have a friend named Brad Tyler in Texas that would probably miss that same shot using a 10-gauge shotgun fitted with a skeet choke and loaded with 3 ½ inch #6 shot maximum loads and this Fijian guy has better aim and killing efficiency with a stick! Nonetheless, knocking them out of the air is only the first step.

Elima explained that there are basically two ways that Fijians clean and cook bat. The first involves putting the bat in boiling water…fur and guts and all…and boiling the bat until everything is soft. This method was simply not an option for me. No matter how adventurous an eater I like to think I am, I don’t ever intend to eat the anus or feces of any animal…unless, of course, it is mixed in as part of bologna or hot dog weiners (you did know they use every part of the cow/pig making those, right?). Even worse, there were these mites that looked just like spiders that would crawl about the thin, soft fur when you disturbed it…and spiders were definitely not on the menu. The second option was to skin and gut the bat and then either fry or roast it. That sounded much more appealing, especially since removing the skin would simultaneously remove the fur and, ergo, the gross little mites. Not to mention the fur harbored the musky stink that falls somewhere between ferret and skunk. Thus, I asked Elima for instructions on how to skin the bat. Of course, I had to insist that I wanted to do it on my own or, in Fijian tradition, I would’ve been the confused valagi standing there and watching the Fijian do everything.

After Elima gave me basic instructions and went home to take care of his own family, I preceded to skin and gut this bat in our kitchen. Now some of you might be thinking, “How in the world would Michelle ever allow something like this in her kitchen?!” Well, first of all, she’s actually intrigued by these bats and was interested in seeing one up close. Secondly, and most importantly, however, she was out of the village when all this transpired. Anyhow, I made the incision up the back of the bat from the tail to the head and cut the collars around the first joints of the “arms” and legs. With one moderate pull the skin of the bat came off rather easily, leaving a pinkish body and head that looked like something straight out of Stephen King’s imagination.

Surprisingly, the guts were easily removed as well…and did not smell all that bad. I guess when all you eat is fruit things can’t get too terribly stinky. However, after cleaning the gut cavity I decided that leaving the head on was a little more than I could bear, so I cut the head off as well. Don’t worry, none of it went to waste! The kitten was more than happy to take it off my hands as he thought it was simply delectable!

After washing the bat well inside and out, I seasoned it using a combination of spices and positioned it as one would a chicken or turkey on top of a bed of cabbage, carrots, garlic, and onion in a small roasting pan. I also made sure to insert garlic and onion into the body cavity. I then proceeded to roast the bat and vegetable ensemble in a makeshift stovetop oven for about 1 ½ hours. It smelled as good as anything else we might cook in the same manner. Later, I turned off the heat, let it cool, and then carefully removed some of the vegetables and gently placed the bat on top for the proper presentation. And it was…

…ABSOLUTELY DELICIOUS! Once you got past the fact it was bat, it really did have a very nice texture and flavor something like rabbit or quail (I will NOT compare it to chicken, which is the least descriptive way you can ever describe a cooked meat!). Moreover, it tasted far better than most wild game we Americans spend millions on chasing and shooting only to wrap it in piles of bacon, breading, and strong spices trying to make it not taste like strong cow’s liver. In any event, it turns out the Fijians were right when they told me that bat was one of the “finest meats in Fiji.”

So I’m sure that some of you cringed and squirmed, maybe even gasped and grimaced at the thought of eating a bat, but this is part of the Fijian culture and a mundane experience for most Fijians – as common as you eating a hamburger. But before you judge, my western friends, remember that many of you eat ground up unidentifiable meat paste (including lips, noses, bone, and, yes, assholes – not to mention stabilizers, preservatives, and an FDA limit for rat feces) molded into cylindrical shapes and then either boiled, grilled, or roasted on sticks as a ritual celebration of our nation’s independence every year or, at least, at ball games and backyard barbecues.

It’s hard to say many good things about the transportation infrastructure in Fiji. With regard to getting around in Fiji, it is definitely a third world country. If you want to get somewhere, nothing is easy in Fiji. I’ve had days where I would relish being stuck on a transcontinental flight in coach next to a talkative guy named Del who is a shower curtain ring salesman that likes to air out his socks while flying. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we are not allowed to drive anything…period…not even an outboard motor…so we’re stuck with being dependent on a less than stellar public transit system. However, only part of the difficulty is simply the poor infrastructure. There is also a cultural component to traveling in Fiji that can be far more challenging than finding a functional mode of transport.

One of the most frustrating things about traveling around Fiji is the sheer lack of concrete schedules for any form of transportation, be it ferry, bus, or even aircraft. Even if you hire a private taxi to pick you up you may find yourself waiting around for a lot longer than you expected. There is a “general understanding” among Fijians as to when buses go by or when planes leave, but they never know exactly when a bus goes by a particular stop or even when the ferry arrives. Nonetheless, when you’re on “Fiji time” it doesn’t seem to matter if you get there in an hour or in four hours (or even the same day, for that matter), so it seems to work just fine for the locals. For us valagis who are used to trains, planes, and automobiles designed to run like clockwork; this can be a little more than frustrating.

Take for example a trip Michelle and I were taking to Suva, the largest city on the southern island of Viti Levu, for a Peace Corps training session that we were supposed to attend. We had planned to travel from our village to Labasa, where the flights seemed to be more reliable than in Savusavu, to catch a flight to Suva. Before leaving for Labasa, however, Michelle needed to stop at a nursing station on the way in the village of Nabalebale for a meeting with the Village Health Aides. She had asked the head nurse when the buses go by for Labasa and the nurse responded, “oh, there are buses almost every hour.” We were looking at about 1.5 hours on the bus and had arrived in Nabalebale at about 9AM and didn’t need to be in Labasa until 4PM, so we felt pretty safe about making it to our flight on time.

As the meeting progressed, we watched a bus go by at about 10:30AM and then another at 12:30PM, so it was clearly not “every hour” that a bus went by. I was feeling a little nervous about making the flight, so I asked when the next bus was going by and the nurse said, “I think about 2PM.” This statement was from a woman who works every day next to the stretch of road where the buses go by and waves at most of the drivers because she knows them personally, so why would we have reason not to trust her, right? Oh, how wrong we could be…

If there is one thing Peace Corps Volunteers learn in Fiji, and usually it’s the “hard way,” is that you never, ever trust what any Fijian tells you about when any form of transport arrives, passes, or leaves. This moment was our lesson. Some volunteers use the “law of averages” and simply ask multiple people what time the bus comes and pick a response somewhere in the middle. We were not that well versed in Fiji travel to have considered that method, although it could be as equally uncertain as asking one person.

We sat at the bus stop until 2:15PM when another Fijian told us, “Oh, the nurse was wrong, there used to be a 2PM bus, but it doesn’t run anymore.” We were reaching the point where we would not be able to make our flight riding a bus, but in what seemed a bit of luck, a taxi full of Kiwis (tourists from New Zealand, not flightless birds or fruit) stopped to buy some drinks at the canteen at the bus stop. We asked the cabbie, who was obviously coming from Labasa, if he could pick us up on the return trip from Savusavu. This would be perfect because return cabs are required to charge the same $4.50 USD as the bus and would be a whole lot faster. He agreed and we assumed that, given the timing in a car between Savusavu and Labasa, we would have just enough time to make our flight…but you know what happens when you assume…

Lo and behold, the bus that was supposed to come by at 2PM showed up at almost 2:30PM. Given how long it would take for the bus to get to Labasa, we would barely have enough time to make our flight…maybe…if we took that bus. But we had already asked the cabbie to return and trusted that he would be back by soon enough and would likely pass the bus on a more direct route to the airport. So we watched the bus pull away from the stop toward Labasa in a cloud of dust. (Sigh) We were so naïve…

When the cabbie didn’t arrive by our crunch time we only had one choice left. The canteen owner at the bus stop had a truck he was willing to “charter” to the airport in Labasa. We negotiated from an outlandish $45 USD (about 20% of our monthly stipend) down to $30 USD and he swore he could get us to the airport in 30 minutes, which would allow us to just make the flight. So we hopped in the truck and zoomed down the road toward Labasa. When my watch indicated we were at 50 minutes I just conceded that we were not going to Suva that day, but Michelle insisted that we go to the airport anyway where she hoped to plead to be allowed on the flight.

Unfortunately, just weeks before, Pacific Sun Airlines had instituted a 30 minute check-in policy that they were strictly following (never mind that they frequently cancel or change flights when you are there hours in advance). We watched the other passengers board what would’ve been our flight and take off for Suva as I watched our driver sheepishly slink out the airport entrance. Luckily, there was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Labasa that was kind enough to let us stay with her for the night until we could catch the next flight the following morning.

The thing about the whole situation was that nobody intended to be malicious or dishonest about what they said or did. Time, for the Fijians, is simply relative. Nobody worries about missing a bus because they’ll just catch the next one. They don’t necessarily have to be at their destination at a certain hour or even on a certain day in many cases. Why worry about a specific schedule or time for transport when your own schedule is so flexible? So when you ask someone what time a bus arrives, they don’t look at their watch (rarely do you even see Fijians wearing watches), they just recite this vague notion of when they recall a bus going by the previous day or week. Unfortunately, this vague notion is almost never accurate and certainly not precise enough for us westerners.

In any event, our adventure in missing our flight to Suva was not my only painful travel experience. In early December, I had another meeting in Suva I had to attend. This time, I planned on flying out of Savusavu, knowing personally the schedule for that city much better and feeling more confident about being able to make my flight. I scheduled my flight for 4PM on Monday afternoon, giving me ample time to return on Monday morning from another Peace Corps Volunteer’s site we were going to over the weekend to assist with a project in his village. Unfortunately, on Friday afternoon, as we were on our way to the other volunteer’s site, the regional carrier, Pacific Sun Airlines, called me on my cell. This is the conversation that transpired:

Me: Hello? Pac Sun Representative: Hello, is this Mr. Cook? Me: Yes, this is he. Pac Sun Representative: Yes, Mr. Cook. I regret to inform you that we are rescheduling your flight on Monday from 4PM to 8AM. We are very sorry for the inconvenience. Me: What? Wait, don’t I get a say in this? Pac Sun Representative: I’m very sorry Mr. Cook, but you understand that there is only one flight per day out of Savusavu and we are experiencing mechanical problems on one of our planes. Thank you very much for flying Pacific Sun. [click]

I sat baffled for a moment about the conversation that had just occurred. I suppose I should be thankful that they called, but the fact that the decision was made for me was a little more than irritating. Moreover, there was really no other choice at that point as I was forced to take whatever flight was on Monday because of the bus schedule from the other volunteer’s village of Nakobo…which presented a whole suite of problems in itself.

When we got to Nakobo, I told Ben, the volunteer there, what had transpired with the airline. Not at all surprised, Ben said that there was a guy in the village with a truck who could take me back at least as far as the next bus stop, if not all the way to Savusavu, on Sunday so that I could make my flight on Monday. So I didn’t worry too much until Saturday night, when the guy with the truck had not returned to the village. Not to worry, according to the folks in the village, because there is a bus that comes by Bagasau, the nearest village with a bus stop, on Sunday at 10AM. Moreover, one of the men in the village could take me to Bagasau by boat for $4.50 USD. Problem solved, right?...wrong…some of us never seem to learn…

My day started early on Sunday. At about 9AM, I waded out into the bay where an older Fijian man wearing a truckers cap and Oakley knockoffs was waiting in a wooden punt with an outboard mounted on it. This started what was actually the most pleasant part of the whole day. There was just a breath of a breeze and the crystal waters were slick calm. Our captain poled the punt out to deeper water where he pulled the cord on the outboard and the smell of 2-cycle and salt water filled the air. As we pulled further from shore you could see large stands of coral of every different color and kind passing beneath the boat. A little further out, about a half dozen small blacktip reef sharks cruised the surface chasing bait. Ten minutes later we approached the shore at full speed, clearly aiming for an entrance that only he could see. I had started to grip the rails and grit my teeth right before we skimmed just beneath the overhanging trees and into a river. As we entered the mouth of this small river, I was awestruck at the beauty of a complete canopy of mangroves covering the winding stream that was probably 40 feet across at its widest point. The cool, shaded breeze ran across my face as we wound our way up to a bridge where I disembarked and paid him for his kind service. “What a great way to start!” I thought to myself.

Unfortunately, things just went downhill from there. On my way to the bus stop someone told me that I had just missed the bus, which actually comes at 9AM and not 10AM. “No worries,” he said, “another bus comes at 11AM. I should’ve known where this was going. But I had a copy of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time and a covered bus stop, so I wasn’t too concerned. I just kicked back and started reading about temporal anomalies and event horizons, which made me wonder if maybe Fiji is at the edge of a black hole where time almost slows to a stop.

There was a bus at 11:30. It stopped at the bus stop and people filed off. When it appeared everyone who wanted had gotten off the bus, I reached for the handrail and stepped up with my right foot…and the bus pulled away with a purpose, nearly knocking me off my feet and leaving me standing in a cloud of dust and exhaust. “What the f***!” I thought to myself, as I turned to look at a group of equally surprised Fijians. “That bus is an express bus that does not have an agreement to pick up passengers here,” a Fijian told me. I restrained a growl and asked when the next bus was to which the answer was “12PM”.

At 12:30PM another bus came rumbling up the road toward Savusavu. By now I was alone at the bus stop and anxious about being stuck in Bagasau, so I stepped toward the edge of the road, raised my hand, and mouthed the words “Savusavu”. The bus did not even slow down. The bus driver just looked at me with a grin as he passed with a half empty bus. Agreement or not, he just passed up an additional fare on a bus with plenty of room. With that, I looked at a pile of fist-sized rocks at the edge of the bus stop and thought, “the next bus driver is getting one of those in the face if he doesn’t slow down or tries to pull away.”

Some locals in Bagasau had been watching this all transpire and took pity on me, inviting me over to have lunch with them. They told me the next bus was not until 3:30PM. “Sure it is.” I thought to myself. In any event, their kindness and generosity was greatly appreciated and the conversation was good, too. About 3PM, we walked back toward the bus stop and a commercial truck was driving by that Semisi, the patriarch of the house that took me in, flagged down. Abrahim, the driver, pulled over, invited me inside, and I hopped in, thrilled that it finally looked like I was going to make it to Savusavu to catch my flight the next morning.

The day that started well, but almost climaxed in a potential assault charge ended well when Abrahim refused to take payment for bringing me what would’ve been an almost 3 hour bus ride to Savusavu. So all in all, it wasn’t a bad day even though I had started traveling at 9AM and it was now almost 5PM…just to go about 30 miles.

In America we have public transit systems in many cities like Washington D.C., New York, and San Francisco that virtually eliminates the need for a car and an amazing array of options for air travel anywhere in or out of the country, but watch folks reactions when a train is a minute late or their flight is delayed an hour. We live in a society that is built on strict schedules and a pumping, repetitive cycle that has us living to work and not working to live. Thus, there are some things that we could learn from the Fijians about slowing down. Learning to slow down and enjoy life is something that we Americans have all but forgotten as we strive to make more money and buy more stuff. God forbid we don’t work ourselves to death in order to buy that 5 bedroom, 2 ½ bath home so that we can fill it full of crap that we’ll rarely use and ultimately dump in a landfill in a few years.

It's not often that I have a lot of "free time" in Fiji, but sometimes I do. Of course, there's always something to do to pass the time. One thing I've been able to do here that I haven't seemed to have time for in the U.S. is creative writing and I truly, truly enjoy it. I was asked to submit something for a monthly publication written for Peace Corps Volunteers by Peace Corps volunteers and distributed by the Peace Corps (making it a "government" publication). Below you will find the two pieces I wrote that were both rejected because they were considered a tad risque. They are, no doubt, edgy, but by no means offensive and are aimed at being amusing and humorous. Alas, the government is not allowed to have a sense of humor lest they offend someone.

Both stories are completely fictional. The first was intended to be a monthly column written by my alter ego, Sir Reginald Copperbottom. His run was short-lived, unfortunately, as it seemed unproductive to continue writing submissions that would be summarily rejected. Sir Copperbottom, as you will see, is a legend in his own mind and an expert on Fiji's wildlife. The second story is one of adventure and intrigue experienced by Peace Corps Volunteers seeking perfect tomatoes. Both are riddled with innuendo and suggestive language. If you're easily offended, I suggest you exit the blog now and go live in a cave in the Himalayas to shelter yourself from all reality where no one is offended, birds sing Justin Bieber tunes constantly, and everyone craps rainbow colored marshmallows.

Sir Reginald Copperbottom's Fiji Wildlife Corner

(Sir Reginald Copperbottom is a self-proclaimed British naturalist and distant [really distant] cousin to renowned scientist David Attenborough. He has no real credentials, but once met Jane Goodall in a train station. He’s not even really a knight. Nonetheless, to be fully comprehensible, this must be read in a British cockney accent.)

Welcome to the first installment of Fiji Wildlife Corner! My name is Sir Reginald Copperbottom and I am here to be your guide through the wilds of Fiji. As you well know, Fiji was once a British territory, so who better than myself to describe the perils and wonders of the Fijian wilderness, if I do say so myself. I must say that the invitation to contribute to your esteemed publication, The Coconut Wireless, marks one of my most significant achievements to date and I relish the opportunity to educate and inform the Peace Corps volunteers about Fiji’s abundant fauna.

Today I would very much appreciate your attention to a grave danger lurking in the Fijian jungle. The danger of which I speak is one that can easily be avoided, but some Peace Corps volunteers seem to have deliberately sought it out. The danger I speak of is bufotoxin. Bufotoxin is a poison secreted from the parotoid gland of a number of species of toad. The poison can contain a variety of compounds that include stimulants, laxatives, and even hallucinogens. Specifically, some toads harbor a very potent hallucinogenic tryptamine known as 5-MeO-DMT that has been known to cause such visions as being in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies as well as cellophane flowers of yellow and green towering over your head…at least that’s what some spacker from Liverpool told me.

Here in Fiji, there are at least three species of toad that possess bufotoxin, including Bufo marinus, otherwise known as the cane toad. Indeed, the cane toad possesses a level and mixture of bufotoxin that can prove deadly. Most unfortunately, it seems that some PCV’s have intentionally engaged in the dangerous game of “toadlicking,” presumably seeking those toads harboring hallucinogenic properties in an effort to temporarily escape the trials and tribulations they experience as volunteers.

To illustrate the extreme danger of toadlicking, I must relate to you the story of one unfortunate bloke we all know quite well, but that we shall call Smalden Pitts. Smalden had been experiencing some particularly taxing ordeals following his assignment to a remote village on the island of Vanua Levu. Smalden had hoped dearly to find a Fijian wife upon his arrival in his village. Unfortunately, Smalden was of a very slight build and, despite his most admirable efforts, his advances were categorically begged off by the fairer sex, who seemed to be seeking a more strapping specimen. In a swirl of despair and utterly disenchanted with the effects of yaqona, he sought a more powerful escape from the rejection of the village totties.

On a particularly warm and humid South Pacific evening, just as the toads were emerging from their burrows, Smalden ventured out on what almost became his final quest in Fiji. Determined to reach a new plane of existence, Smalden set about to find a toad to take him away from his unbearable pain. Unfortunately, Smalden did not know the slightest bit about psychoactive toads, or much less toads in general. Smalden licked several frogs and even a gecko before coming across his first toad, but a bloody good toad it was! Indeed, the toad was the dog’s bollocks for a short time.

As the toxin entered his bloodstream, the psychoactive elixir drove his imagination to mither of giant singing tacos dancing in a Broadway revue. Not satisfied with this vision, and becoming quite annoyed if not frightened by the content, Smalden sought out another toad in hopes of “changing the telly” so to speak. Alas, things went even more pear shaped as the next toad only intensified even more frightening images of a group of circus clowns chasing him whilst each waggling an artificial phallus in their right hands above their ginger quiffs. Whilst running to escape the evil jesters intent on buggering him, he felt a searing pain flushing over his skin, following which he looked down to see his knickers ablaze. The last the villagers observed of Smalden that fateful evening he was shrieking wildly whilst dashing naked through the middle of the village. In an unintelligible conclusion to a presently confusing situation, Smalden screamed “Eskimo Pies!” before disappearing into the jungle.

The next morning the villagers found Smalden knackered, bare arsed, and covered in his own cack (turns out one of the toads had the laxative compound) in the middle of a dusty road with both hands covering his John Thomas. Thinking him a bit nutter, the village immediately held an emergency Bose va Koro in which they voted unanimously to expel Smalden from the village, permanently.

Smalden has since recovered from his psychadelic bumble through the terrors of the Id, but, being banned from returning to his village, he is forced to wait out his days in the city of Savusavu, hoping that his exploits do not become widely known. So let this be a lesson to all of you chipper young PCVs, the perils of toadlicking are dire. Although Fiji’s wildlife holds unfathomable wonder and beauty, there is danger around every corner. Until the next installment of Fiji Wildlife Corner, don’t ponce about, take life by the bollocks, and keep Peace Corps chuffed!

Masters of the Garden Universe

Of all the Peace Corps Volunteers in Fiji, Brian Smithers is by far the most profound expert at home gardening or other quasi-agricultural endeavors. He is especially well known for his ability to grow certain vegetables in conditions that mere mortals simply would not be able to achieve, but is also a skilled leader and diplomat capable of sowing peace and goodwill among his cohorts. The following story is sort of truthfully based on events that were confirmed after being repeated third-hand from a guy in Germany on Facebook, thereby ensuring their absolute veracity. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (Brian’s complete name is used because he is far from innocent…).

After being in Fiji for almost four months, Meg B had been missing home terribly. One of the things she missed most was salsa and chips. Unable to find a respectable salsa in the entire country, she determined that the only way she was going to have decent salsa was to grow her own garden, including those ripe, red tomatoes that are critical for the most popular condiment in the world.

While some of her vegetables did modestly well, Meg’s first attempt at growing tomatoes was less than stellar. For hours of effort that included getting her nails dirty, squishing icky bugs, and actually scooping real poop to fertilize her plants. she was rewarded with less than 10 small tomatoes that looked more like developmentally disabled marbles than tomatoes. Needless to say, her first efforts did not produce the fruit, or the salsa, that she so desired. However, Meg remained desperate for her salsa fix.

Like a commoner seeking wisdom from a mountaintop yogi, Meg trekked to see Brian and learn from the master. Upon reaching Casa del Smithers-Moyce, she saw a paradise of green, like she had stepped into the Garden of Eden. There were big round pumpkins in a variety of colors, large ripe melons covering every spare patch of soil, and the intoxicating fragrance of bulbous chrysanthemums paired at the end of each plot. And then there were the tomatoes…big, plump, brilliant red fruits the size of softballs that seemed to scream, “eat me!” As usual, Brian was hunched over in his garden of plenty, unaware he was exposing his golden underpants from under his pocket sulu while mumbling something unintelligible about someone named Joseph Smith.

“Brian?” said Meg tentatively, not sure if the golden bloomers did indeed belong to the man with the gilded green thumb.

“Giiiiiiaaaaaannnnnnttttttssssss!!!” screamed Brian unexpectedly, flailing and seeming to jump out of his own skin.

Brian was still suffering from a condition known as worldseriesosis, which results in paranoia, tunnel vision, impaired hearing, an inability to focus on anything other than very discrete television or radio signals, and an unquenchable hunger for roasted peanuts. It is a disease that is incurable, but fortunately the symptoms only manifest annually for a short period of time. Gardening was the only thing that seemed to alleviate the symptoms for Brian. Nevertheless, the unanticipated visitor startled him almost to the level of incontinence.

Meg nearly fell backward onto a blanket of enormous acorn squash before regaining her footing next to a row of round eggplants that came up to her chest.

“Brian, it’s Meg. I’ve come seeking your guidance and wisdom. You have to help me with my garden. I’m desperate!” said Meg.

Brian stood up with his back still turned and slowly rotated toward Meg. Placing his hands together while his right eye twitched uncontrollably (no doubt a side effect of worldseriesosis) he said, “Then you have come to the right place, my child. What is the knowledge that you seek?”

Almost in tears, Meg exclaimed, “Brian, I’m desperate to make some salsa and I absolutely must grow some tomatoes! I’ve tried everything and all I get is these…” She extended her hand and let a half dozen misshapen, marble-sized tomatoes drop to the ground.

For the next ten minutes they engaged in a question and answer designed to eliminate every possible problem that Meg might be facing with her tomatoes. Beetles, slugs, nematodes, blossom rot, planting over an Indian burial ground…Meg had either solved or had not even experienced it all. In the end, Brian sat confounded, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger while maintaining one raised eyebrow. Then a sly grin slowly overtook his face and he looked at Meg directly while extending his arms and grabbing both her shoulders firmly.

“Meg, what I’m about to tell you is one of my greatest gardening secrets. I am about to pass on knowledge to you that very few people on this planet know.” Brian said with a tone of seriousness.

“Uh, OK.” said Meg. “Is this going to cost me anything?

“Not a dime.” said Brian. “The secret to my tomatoes, aside from the organic fertilizer and my godlike gardening skills, is something special I do when I tend my garden. You know that I’m prone to remove my clothing at any opportunity. When I tend my garden, I do it naked!”

“Really?!” exclaimed Meg. “But what about the villagers and the modest dress code here in Fiji?”

“Not a problem. I do it after the grog session shuts down in the middle of the night. Nobody is awake to see anything at 2 a.m. in the village.” Brian said. “Oh, by the way, if you decide to follow my advice you might want to see Dr. Fina about some more mosquito spray.”

“That’s it…naked…that’s all I have to do?” she questioned.

“Yup! Works for me! Look at my pumpkins, melons, tomatoes, and even my papaya!” Brian responded emphatically with a smile and a jig that looked like he was in an Appalachian hoedown.

So Meg went back to her village and set about practicing the wisdom that had been passed to her by Brian. A few weeks went by and Brian, wondering whether she had heeded his advice and whether it had worked, decided to call Meg and see how things were going.

(ring)

“Meg! So how’s it going? You got some good tomato action goin’?” Brian said over one of the better Digicel connections he’d experienced.

“Um, well, better I guess.” said Meg rather unsurely.

“So since you’ve been gardening naked you have seen an improvement in your tomatoes, right?” Brian responded.

There was a pregnant pause that made Brian think that maybe the call had been dropped.

“Meg, you there? You’re garden is doing a lot better, right?” he said again.

Meg responded in a very cautious but deliberate voice, “Not exactly. The tomatoes are still doing about the same, but now I have cucumbers, zucchini, and bananas that are three feet long!!!”

This last month I shoveled a lot of shit. Yes, yes, yes, I can hear the comments from the peanut gallery all the way from Fiji…”But Bubba, you did that every day when you were in the U.S! You didn’t have to go all the way to Fiji in the Peace Corps to do that.” I also packed a lot of sand. Again, I can hear the comments of “But Bubba, we would always tell you to pack sand when you were shoveling shit, but you never did, so why are you doing it there?” Ah, it’s nice to have such good “friends”… First, let me clarify that the two preceding described activities were literal, not figurative metaphors. Second, they were borne out of necessity to ensure that Michelle and I aren’t subsisting on a diet comprised solely of starchy native root crops. Lastly, gardening, the activity resulting from those two activities, in the tropics is more difficult than you might imagine.

As part of our Peace Corps Training, we were encouraged to start our own vegetable gardens once we arrived at our sites. The idea was in part to ensure we received proper nutrition ourselves, but also to encourage others to observe, question, and potentially engage in growing their own vegetable garden. I should explain that this is not an effort to reduce hunger in our village or even in Fiji. Unlike many of the places where Peace Corps operates like Africa or some places in Latin America, there is an overwhelming abundance of food in Fiji. So apart from small pockets in urban areas where hunger may exist as a matter of access, for the most part people in Fiji never go hungry. Of course, that does not mean that they are not malnourished.

“Sega ni lavo, sivia ni kana.” No money, but plenty of food is a motto in Fiji. Thanks to the tropical climate, rich volcanic soil, and abundant rain, lots of stuff grows quite well in Fiji. Their staple crops are dalo (taro), tavioka (also called tapioca, manioc, or cassava around the rest of the world), and uvi (yam). These represent the “root crops” that yield a big, starchy root that, pound for pound, provides more energy than virtually every other crop on the planet. If you happen to be watching your carbs, the Fiji diet will definitely not be one you want to follow, but it will keep your stomach full. The root crops are also ridiculously easy to grow, literally requiring that you just plug a cutting in the ground in all cases. Furthermore, the root crops are resistant to virtually all pests, which makes it easy to understand why the crops are ubiquitous throughout Fiji.

Unfortunately, while the root crops pack loads of calories and really do grow like weeds, they are relatively nutrient poor. Hence Peace Corps’ focus on vegetable gardening to encourage the consumption of those brightly colored and vitamin packed veggies including beans, carrots, cucumbers, squash, peas, and other delicious plants that are the bane of existence to every 4 year old sitting in a high chair, but are critical to ensuring proper nutrition.

I have to admit that I was pretty excited about starting a garden and growing something with my own hands. We recently watched the film “Food, Inc.” before coming to Fiji and gained a new appreciation for industrial food production in the U.S., so I was looking forward to growing something that had not been subject to massive amounts of fertilizer, pesticides, hormones, transgenic manipulation, or antibiotics. My intention was to do everything organically…that was my intention…

Not long after we arrived in the village I asked if we could stake out an area for our garden and we were offered a sufficiently large area, approximately 40x40 feet. The only problem was that it was literally in the middle of the jungle and covered by multiple varieties of vines, ferns, palms, and other vicious jungle plants. Michelle and I set about clearing the area before shortly being joined by a number of the children who were just finishing school. The kids were thrilled to be helping the valagis and brought a variety of garden tools to help. Michelle and I were equally thrilled to have the help given that it was oppressively hot and humid.

Nonetheless, those precocious little scamp’s efforts, while appreciated, ultimately resulted in one of the biggest headaches in tending my garden. As we were forking with the kids in the garden (that is using a digging fork to turn over the soil…that was not a misspelling, perverts…), we would occasionally pull up small bulbs attached to ornamental plants called “elephant ears” in the states as well as small roots that belong to the ginger family that smell a little like Kellogg’s Froot Loops when you cut them open. Interestingly, the kids, either out of curiosity or just boredom, would cut each bulb into about a thousand pieces and pitch them about the garden plot. There was only one problem with this…it has the same effect of cutting the arms off a starfish and throwing it back in the ocean. Even the tiniest little shaving leads to a new plant that shades everything growing beneath it. So I’ve been continuously pulling these evil (insert your own series of graphic expletives here) plants since I started my garden.

So with round one of planting I selected a series of seeds that included pumpkin, zucchini, carrot, corn, pinto beans, and Chinese cabbage. But here’s something that I learned the hard way about seeds…always buy new ones. I just assumed that the seeds the previous volunteer left would work fine, and I’m sure that he did too, but everyone knows what happens when you assume. After 5 weeks and nothing popping out of the ground, it was more than a little disappointing to discover that the plants didn’t even germinate. To add insult to injury, bugs were annihilating the plants that did germinate, especially the okra. Those that weren’t getting destroyed by the bugs were getting uprooted by the birds. And those that actually reached maturity seemed to have their own problems thanks to some other kind of worm, fungus, or mildew. My first attempts were less than successful...

As I said before, my goal was to have an organic garden. After an impromptu trip to the garden at dusk, I discovered that the mystery marauders attacking my okra were actually big, fat, gross jungle slugs that despite lush vegetation in every direction decided that they liked my okra the best. They also ate my Chinese cabbage down to ground level before it even had a chance to really even get started. Once discovering that these slimy pests come out just after dark to feed on my hard work, I made it a nightly ritual to go out in the evenings with a thin, sharp piece of bamboo to make “slug kabobs.” I would routinely fill 3 or 4 12” pieces of bamboo with at least 15 slugs each before conceding that it was a losing battle, so I went to step two…the beer trap. It turns out slugs love beer (I’m sure to some women this comes as no surprise). The beer trap worked, but would overfill so quickly that it too was a failure, not to mention a disgusting ball of slime in a bottle. Thus, I was only left with one option…screw the organic method; I had to go nuclear on the slugs!

My next trip into town I went to some of the agricultural supply stores looking for something for slugs and came across a product called “Blitzem.” Blitzem is slug bait produced in Australia that is apparently irresistible to those slimy, brainless blobs of goo. Moreover, they had a brilliant marketing campaign. On the front of the box there was a statement in bold letters that said, “Now with Child Taste Deterrent!” I don’t know about you, but this was exactly what I was looking for in my slug bait, because the last thing I needed was some kid picking through the dirt in my garden and nibbling on the morsels intended for my invertebrate arch-nemeses. In any event, that night I went home and spread the almost certainly toxic green pellets throughout my garden.

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” [angels singing and light shining down from the heavens]. As I stepped into my garden the next morning I witnessed something that made my heart swell and compelled me to dance with joy…hundreds of squishy land mollusks writhing in agony from ingesting a poisonous concoction that they simply couldn’t resist. Even more satisfying was watching them bake into leathery, black crisps as the morning sun rose higher on the horizon. Finally, I thought that I might be able to get something in my garden growing successfully…oh, but I was wrong.

By eliminating the competition from the slugs, I just made way for the cutworms to move in and take up the slack. Nothing, and I mean nothing, organic deters cutworms and there simply ain’t enough bamboo to make the requisite number of kabobs. The organic hot pepper and garlic au naturale pesticide concoctions mixed with soap seemed only to spice up the cutworms virtual buffet of my okra, bell pepper, and corn. Once again, it was time to go nuclear on the next round of pests.

Michelle and I had to go to Labasa for a training session for a few days, so I just figured I’d wait until I got back to take the next step of eradicating the cutworms with a healthy dose of Orthene (which is at least somewhat less toxic than other options), but not before I husked some coconuts to keep the mynah birds from plucking the plants from their roots. I have no idea why these obnoxious birds do this, but they have a habit of simply uprooting any seedling that happens to be planted in a garden. Since I cannot be there every moment to plug them with a slingshot, I have to put split coconut husks around the base of the seedlings to keep the bastard mynahs from causing me yet additional frustration.

We’ve learned a lot about coconuts since coming to Fiji. We’ve made coconut cream, coconut chutneys, and virgin coconut oil. The basic conclusion that I’ve come to regarding cooking with coconut is that it is the equivalent of bacon in the U.S. Just like using bacon in any American recipe, you can cook anything in coconut cream and it will taste good. Of course, there are a variety of types of coconuts that are used for different things. The “bu” is a green coconut, which once opened yields a delicious and refreshing coconut water that once saved hundreds of U.S. soldiers lives in World War II as a substitute for blood plasma. “Niu” is the familiar brown coconut, which yields coconut cream/milk and the familiar grated coconut. For those of you who are wondering, grated coconut does not fall out of a coconut shell magically dusted in powdered sugar…that is the job of their version of the Keebler elves that live inside a Dakua tree. There is also the “vara”, which is a coconut that has started to sprout, creating a spongy web of coconut inside the shell that is a little like dense coconut flavored cotton candy. Then there is the “niuca” or the “bad coconut”.

This is an important word of advice. If a 10-year-old girl tells you a coconut is “bad,” listen to her. I did not, I paid the consequences, and they were dire. In my quest to find coconut husks to protect my plants I went about picking up coconuts to split and place around my plants. I found a half dozen or so and carried them to my garden where I planned to cut them in half with a single swipe from my cane knife. At least two of the coconuts were “bad” as had been shown to me by the young girl, but my thought was, “well, I’m not planning on eating them, just using them in my garden, so how bad can they be?” Famous last words…

Buka, the young Fijian man who had been tending the Methodist minister’s coconut plantation nearby, was busy cutting coconuts for sale to the local mill for use in low-grade coconut oil production as I walked past to my garden. We exchanged greetings in Fijian and I set about lining up my coconuts to split the husks. Buka was watching nearby as I raised my cane knife and brought it down hard on one of the bad coconuts. What happened next can only be described as simply awful.

As my cane knife pierced the husk of the coconut and made contact with the interior coconut shell, there was a sound akin to someone opening a soda can, only what emerged from that shell was nothing like soda. As the pressure released from that coconut it spewed the most foul, putrid substance that I have ever experienced short of the inevitable results of a friend of mine in high school who downed a bottle of rum along with two McDonald’s McRibs. It reeked like a mixture of vomit and sour milk combined with the juice you might find in the bottom of a dumpster next to an Old Country Buffet. As a result of the direction in which I swung my knife, this pressurized putridity sprayed over me from head to toe. To add insult to injury, it was also filled with squirming maggots…

Covered in a foul stench the likes only Andy Duframe of The Shawshank Redemption could imagine and holding back a gag reflex that I was sure that would qualify as “projectile” were I to let it go, I calmly picked up my cane knife and walked back past Buka…who had seen the whole thing transpire…and who I could tell was trying desperately not to burst into laughter. With my head held low, I made the walk of shame back to our shower where I proceeded to wash with multiple applications of soap and shampoo to ensure that every particle of stink or maggot was removed. Unfortunately, stupid doesn’t wash off.

Eventually, I recovered and placed my coconut husks around my seedlings and carefully mulched every part of the garden using leaves and grass from around the house and garden. As I stood back and admired my work, I looked forward to soon having some vegetables from our own garden upon our return from a week in Labasa. Again, I was mistaken…

As we walked into our village from the bus stop after returning from Labasa, what was once my garden looked as though a D-9 Caterpillar bulldozer had plowed right through the middle of it. A pig…a (insert extreme colorful metaphor) pig…had all but destroyed the months of work that I had put into the garden. Angry doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt at that moment. I had beaten the slugs, I was winning against the insects, I had deterred the effing mynahs, and now this. Michelle just stood clear and timidly walked away, understanding fully that no consolation was appropriate at that moment. I set about trying to recover whatever I could…and that bastard pig reappeared about 10 minutes later.

This was not a wild pig…it belonged to someone in the village, but I did not care…that pig was going to die, get butchered, and be gift wrapped and distributed throughout the village. I sharpened a bamboo pole to a razor sharp point, aimed as carefully as I could, and slung the spear with everything that I had in me. Dammit if it didn’t glance off the branch of a small breadfruit tree and just graze the pig’s back. It squealed and went running into the jungle with me shortly behind carrying the sharp bamboo pole in hand. After about a half mile running through mud and dense undergrowth, the pig won and I watched the vegetation jerk and sway as that terrified pig fled squealing and bleeding through the jungle and I struggled to catch my breath.

At the next village meeting, I brought up the problem of loose pigs, how the law in Fiji says you can kill them on sight if they are not tied up, and how people should be more considerate of other’s hard work. In another cultural learning lesson, the response from the pig owner was like BP to the fishermen and sportsmen of the Gulf Coast…”I’m Sorry! I promise it won’t happen again!” This is little consolation to the people who’ve put all their work into something that’s been destroyed by someone else’s irresponsibility in a matter of seconds. Nonetheless, I’ve been clear with others in the village that the next pig I find near my garden becomes community property, except that I’m keeping the loin for myself.

Despite all the challenges, we now have a variety of vegetables growing that includes tomatoes, pumpkins, lettuce, cucumbers, eggplant, zucchini, carrots, Chinese cabbage, green beans, long beans, sweet corn, cantaloupe, bele (Fijian spinach), and bell peppers, not to mention basil, coriander (cilantro) and mint. It is still not an organic garden, but at least we’ll have vegetables to supplement our limited diet. But I'll be damned if the papaya tree I've been nurturing for the last 5 months has turned out to be a male tree that bears no fruit...worthless males...

While I have been clearly delinquent in my writing, it has not been without reason. We have both been very busy since before Thanksgiving. Some may think that “island time” means that things move at a slower pace, but it seems that there is always something going on in our village. Between several events and meetings with government officials, Michelle and I have been in and out of town much more frequently than we would’ve expected or liked. Nevertheless, as we approach Christmas…our first Christmas in a Fijian village…I felt compelled to write. It is summer here and 90 degrees Fahrenheit with around 90% humidity, which makes it feel far from Christmastime. Having grown up in coastal Texas, however, these conditions are not unusual to me. I can remember wearing shorts and a t-shirt (and still sweating) the year I got my first bicycle for Christmas. In any event, a “white Christmas” is totally out of the question for us…unless you consider the sand on the beach. Even aside from the cognitive dissonance imposed by the weather, it also doesn’t feel like Christmas in Fiji for another reason. There are no audacious twinkling lights on any of the homes, no inflatable seasonal yard art purchased from Wal-Mart, no images of a fat man in a red suit anywhere, no constant bombardment from every source of media to “BUY, BUY, BUY!”, and, most outstanding, Christmas music has not been playing non-stop on any radio station since before Halloween. In Fiji, especially in the villages, they truly are focused on the birth of a little Jewish boy 2011 years ago. In Fiji, the Christmas tradition is for families from all over Fiji to come together to catch up on the past year’s events in each other’s lives, tell stories, laugh, play, and, of course, eat lots of food and drink yaqona. In many cases, Fijians save up the entire year on very meager incomes just so they can have enough money to travel to spend time with their families at Christmas. On Christmas Day, it is generally like any other Sunday, with all villagers walking to the church for a special service followed by a big holiday meal. If presents are given, they are usually modest, including crops that were grown, crafts that were made, or fish that were harvested. The mass consumption that is the American holiday tradition is simply not present here…and we are grateful for that. Along with many Americans, Michelle and I have come to like the Christmas season in the U.S. less and less every year. The nonstop commercialization of the holidays that force-feeds us a message insisting that we buy everything in sight, whether we need it or not (or have the money for it or not!), has drowned out the “Spirit of Christmas” that is love, compassion, charity, kindness, and peace. Somehow, we have turned the simple act of kindness offered by the magi to that little Jewish boy in a manger into a circus of gluttony that is exemplified by stress, greed, debt, and general excess. Despite Charles Schultz’s admonition over 40 years ago in “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”, instead of returning to the true, simple meaning of Christmas, we continue to immerse ourselves further in gross overindulgence like a frat boy at a beer bong. Some might say, “Oh, you’re just a ‘scrooge’!”, but I’m not. I love the feeling of warmth and comfort I get that comes with the thoughts of brilliantly twinkling lights, the smell of pine from a tree covered with ornaments from my childhood, the taste of my mother’s sugar cookies cut into different Christmas shapes and coated with creamy icing, and the memories of gatherings with family and friends that were filled with laughter. I can remember well the anticipation and excitement as a child of discovering what lie just beneath the boughs of the tree on Christmas morning. As an adult, I can vividly recall the satisfaction and happiness that came with finding the “perfect” gift for one of my family members or my wife. I have, indeed, dropped some serious coin in the past on gifts for my family, particularly when I’ve been traveling overseas. And I honestly and truly enjoy doing that immensely. The thing is, the exorbitant gift giving and materialism that generates it has nothing to do with celebrating Christ’s birth. This last week, while perusing that massive social experiment that is Facebook, I was struck by a series of comments that seemed to be repeated on several folk’s pages. They usually consisted of something like, “Jesus is the reason for the season” or something to that effect followed by something like, “Gammy got little Jimmy the latest X-box with every game for Christmas and Jim is getting me a new Beamer!”. These folks are also the same ones who imply that there is a “war on Christmas”...and they are absolutely right. There is a war on Christmas, but it has nothing to do with whether a crèche can be displayed on government property…it is waged on the front lines by people just like them. It seems that increasingly more Americans seem to think that giving, or more importantly receiving, bigger and more expensive gifts along with spending incredible amounts of money on decorations, parties, and, well, things, has something to do with Christ’s message, or worse, that He would want us to behave in this way! The reality is that the more that we make Christmas about the consumption, materialism, and excess, the less it is about the example that Christ lived for us to follow from his birth to his death. All this got me thinking about WWJD, or, more specifically, what Jesus might do if he returned to the U.S. as an ordinary man on Christmas Eve. He would give comfort and counsel to the young gay man sitting alone and contemplating suicide at the only open diner in town after being ostracized and abandoned by everyone in his own family, just like He comforted the woman at the well. He would volunteer at a soup kitchen feeding the homeless and hungry while one of the line cooks yells from the back, “Hey Eddie, where in the world do all these loaves of bread and fish sticks keep coming from?!?” He would sit and read to a 98-year-old woman in a hospital bed who lived a very private, some would say meek, life in which she never married or bore children, but touched an extraordinary number of people in a way that changed their lives for the better. He would stop at a home for wayward youth and give them all the most valuable gift that he could give at that moment, which also happens to be the one they’ve yearned for most of their lives from an adult…His time. Given His comments on camels threading needles, my guess is that He would be decidedly unsupportive of the massive amounts of money spent to fuel the beast that Christmas has become rather than spending that money for things such as feeding and clothing the poor, comforting the sick, and finding ways not to further spoil the earth. Moreover, given the rampant consumerism and flagrant waste of resources that Christmas has become in the name of profit, I would suspect that, given the opportunity, He would treat those that promote the current vision of Christmas no different than he did the moneychangers in the temple. Of course, those that want to keep Christmas moving further toward a simplified, idiocratic holiday focused on mass consumption are legion and seem to be winning…at least for now. Fortunately, the people of Fiji, for the most part, continue to celebrate Christmas in a way that “Jisu” would likely approve through family, fellowship, kindness, and generosity. While we miss our families terribly and wish them a wonderful and warm Christmas, we feel fortunate to be away from the craziness that the holidays have become and to share a simple Christmas with our new Fijian friends that would make Charles Schulz smile. So far Fiji remains relatively untouched by the rampant materialism that is the signature of the American Christmas tradition…except for fruitcake…they’ve got towering stacks of the stuff at all the local markets….and I haven’t seen a single person buy a fruitcake here either!

While I have been clearly delinquent in my writing, it has not been without reason. We have both been very busy since before Thanksgiving. Some may think that “island time” means that things move at a slower pace, but it seems that there is always something going on in our village. Between several events and meetings with government officials, Michelle and I have been in and out of town much more frequently than we would’ve expected or liked. Nevertheless, as we approach Christmas…our first Christmas in a Fijian village…I felt compelled to write. It is summer here and 90 degrees Fahrenheit with around 90% humidity, which makes it feel far from Christmastime. Having grown up in coastal Texas, however, these conditions are not unusual to me. I can remember wearing shorts and a t-shirt (and still sweating) the year I got my first bicycle for Christmas. In any event, a “white Christmas” is totally out of the question for us…unless you consider the sand on the beach. Even aside from the cognitive dissonance imposed by the weather, it also doesn’t feel like Christmas in Fiji for another reason. There are no audacious twinkling lights on any of the homes, no inflatable seasonal yard art purchased from Wal-Mart, no images of a fat man in a red suit anywhere, no constant bombardment from every source of media to “BUY, BUY, BUY!”, and, most outstanding, Christmas music has not been playing non-stop on any radio station since before Halloween. In Fiji, especially in the villages, they truly are focused on the birth of a little Jewish boy 2011 years ago. In Fiji, the Christmas tradition is for families from all over Fiji to come together to catch up on the past year’s events in each other’s lives, tell stories, laugh, play, and, of course, eat lots of food and drink yaqona. In many cases, Fijians save up the entire year on very meager incomes just so they can have enough money to travel to spend time with their families at Christmas. On Christmas Day, it is generally like any other Sunday, with all villagers walking to the church for a special service followed by a big holiday meal. If presents are given, they are usually modest, including crops that were grown, crafts that were made, or fish that were harvested. The mass consumption that is the American holiday tradition is simply not present here…and we are grateful for that. Along with many Americans, Michelle and I have come to like the Christmas season in the U.S. less and less every year. The nonstop commercialization of the holidays that force-feeds us a message insisting that we buy everything in sight, whether we need it or not (or have the money for it or not!), has drowned out the “Spirit of Christmas” that is love, compassion, charity, kindness, and peace. Somehow, we have turned the simple act of kindness offered by the magi to that little Jewish boy in a manger into a circus of gluttony that is exemplified by stress, greed, debt, and general excess. Despite Charles Schultz’s admonition over 40 years ago in “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”, instead of returning to the true, simple meaning of Christmas, we continue to immerse ourselves further in gross overindulgence like a frat boy at a beer bong. Some might say, “Oh, you’re just a ‘scrooge’!”, but I’m not. I love the feeling of warmth and comfort I get that comes with the thoughts of brilliantly twinkling lights, the smell of pine from a tree covered with ornaments from my childhood, the taste of my mother’s sugar cookies cut into different Christmas shapes and coated with creamy icing, and the memories of gatherings with family and friends that were filled with laughter. I can remember well the anticipation and excitement as a child of discovering what lie just beneath the boughs of the tree on Christmas morning. As an adult, I can vividly recall the satisfaction and happiness that came with finding the “perfect” gift for one of my family members or my wife. I have, indeed, dropped some serious coin in the past on gifts for my family, particularly when I’ve been traveling overseas. And I honestly and truly enjoy doing that immensely. The thing is, the exorbitant gift giving and materialism that generates it has nothing to do with celebrating Christ’s birth. This last week, while perusing that massive social experiment that is Facebook, I was struck by a series of comments that seemed to be repeated on several folk’s pages. They usually consisted of something like, “Jesus is the reason for the season” or something to that effect followed by something like, “Gammy got little Jimmy the latest X-box with every game for Christmas and Jim is getting me a new Beamer!”. These folks are also the same ones who imply that there is a “war on Christmas” and they are absolutely right. There is a war on Christmas, but it has nothing to do with whether a crèche can be displayed on government property…it is waged on the front lines by people just like them. It seems that increasingly more Americans seem to think that giving, or more importantly receiving, bigger and more expensive gifts along with spending incredible amounts of money on decorations, parties, and, well, things, has something to do with Christ’s message, or worse, that He would want us to behave in this way! The reality is that the more that we make Christmas about the consumption, materialism, and excess, the less it is about the example that Christ lived for us to follow from his birth to his death. All this got me thinking about WWJD, or, more specifically, what Jesus might do if he returned to the U.S. as an ordinary man on Christmas Eve. He would give comfort and counsel to the young gay man sitting alone and contemplating suicide at the only open diner in town after being ostracized and abandoned by everyone in his own family, just like He comforted the woman at the well. He would volunteer at a soup kitchen feeding the homeless and hungry while one of the line cooks yells from the back, “Hey Eddie, where in the world do all these loaves of bread and fish sticks keep coming from?!?” He would sit and read to a 98-year-old woman in a hospital bed who lived a very private, some would say meek, life in which she never married or bore children, but touched an extraordinary number of people in a way that changed their lives for the better. He would stop at a home for wayward youth and give them all the most valuable gift that he could give at that moment, which also happens to be the one they’ve yearned for most of their lives from an adult…His time. Given His comments on camels threading needles, my guess is that He would be decidedly unsupportive of the massive amounts of money spent to fuel the beast that Christmas has become rather than spending that money for things such as feeding and clothing the poor, comforting the sick, and finding ways not to further spoil the earth. Moreover, given the rampant consumerism and flagrant waste of resources that Christmas has become in the name of profit, I would suspect that, given the opportunity, He would treat those that promote the current vision of Christmas no different than he did the moneychangers in the temple. Of course, those that want to keep Christmas moving further toward a simplified, idiocratic holiday focused on mass consumption are legion and seem to be winning…at least for now. Fortunately, the people of Fiji, for the most part, continue to celebrate Christmas in a way that “Jisu” would likely approve through family, fellowship, kindness, and generosity. While we miss our families terribly and wish them a wonderful and warm Christmas, we feel fortunate to be away from the craziness that the holidays have become and to share a simple Christmas with our new Fijian friends that would make Charles Schulz smile. So far Fiji remains relatively untouched by the rampant materialism that is the signature of the American Christmas tradition…except for fruitcake…they’ve got towering stacks of the stuff at all the local markets….and I haven’t seen a single person buy a fruitcake here either!

It’s not often that a day goes by where we aren’t intrigued, amazed, or even astounded by the Fijian culture. Since arriving in Fiji we’ve seen and experienced things ranging from utterly sublime to outright appalling. I couldn’t possibly write about all of them. However, there are some things that are either so funny or so absurd they make your brain hurt, such as running across a guy in the middle of the jungle wearing an honest to goodness “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt (I wanted to ask Michelle to stand next to him so I could take a picture, but my guess is that she would not have been the slightest bit amused.).

Nonetheless, some of the most amusing instances arise from everyday occurrences involving some of the ever-present vices. Just like anywhere else in the world, there are vices present in Fiji. Some overindulge on yaqona. Others partake in that universal social lubricant known as alcohol. A few even consume that evil weed known as marijuana. A large portion of the population smokes. Each of these vices has its own associated baggage in Fijian culture as I will explain further.

I’ve referenced yaqona (also called “kava” or “grog”) previously. As I noted before, yaqona is a native plant grown in many parts of the South Pacific related to the pepper plant. When the root of the plant is dried and pounded into a powder, it is then mixed with water in a communal bowl known as a tanoa and distributed to all the people in the room through a single cup known as a bilo. It started in the ancient Fijian culture as a ceremonial drink shared only among high chieftans in very small portions. As humanity is often prone to do, however, the Fijians took it to a whole new level.

Never mind the public health issues that arise from 20 or so men drinking from the same cup that is dipped in a bowl of dirty water sometimes mixed by the bare hands of a guy with questionable personal hygiene. You may as well be French kissing every dude around the tanoa bowl in terms of communicable disease. In fact, I am almost 100% certain that a fever I contracted after a late night grog session was the direct result of drinking from what amounts to a giant petri dish. After 3 days in bed and a fever exceeding 102 degrees, what do you think was the solution proposed by a villager?.... “You should drink more grog to cure your fever!” Just like suffering the consequences of a bad night with Jose Cuervo that ends with puking your body inside out, the last thing you want to taste on your lips after a bout of “grog bowl fever” is that tongue-numbing taste of dirt and bark that is yaqona.

Today, yaqona is no longer a ceremonial drink, but is a social drink. Many Fijians will openly admit that these days they simply abuse yaqona. Our local Methodist minister even confirmed that most Fijians abuse the drink…right before slurping down what was probably his 20th bilo. The thing with yaqona is that it works exactly the opposite of booze with respect to tolerance. With alcohol, the more you drink, the greater the tolerance that you build, and the longer it takes for you to get drunk. With yaqona, the more you drink, the more saturated your liver and bloodstream become, the less tolerance you retain, and the faster you get “doped” as they call it here in Fiji. Nevertheless, even once you’ve saturated your system, you may have to sit around and drink up to 15 bilos over a 2-hour period just to feel doped.

I’ve only been doped on grog once since coming to Fiji. It feels a little like being drunk on alcohol except your mind remains fully functional while your motor skills degenerate and all you want to do is find someplace to pee. So, in short, you retain the mental faculties that allow your brain to work faster than your body can move. Upon leaving the grog session feeling a little waterlogged and off balance, I reached for a handrail that I completely missed. As my hand sailed past the spot where I was sure I intended to place it, my mind thought about what I had for breakfast that morning, part of a book I had just read, the complete lyrics of a song I was learning on guitar, and, finally, the words, “shit, this is gonna hurt” right before the left side of my face hit the ground. Luckily, the grass hadn’t been cut for a while and it was a relatively soft landing resulting in only a few stars. I can’t say I really enjoyed the experience because I spent the remainder of the night getting up from what would be a sound sleep to pee every hour.

So it’s difficult for us westerners to understand why Fijians drink yaqona. At every grog session I’ve ever been to I’ve watched every single one of the men grimace and recoil after each bilo as if it were one of the worst 3-stomp whiskeys you could buy in a plastic bottle. I’ve yet to meet anyone, Fijian or otherwise, who honestly likes the taste of grog. Just like you’ll never find “Marlboro Ice Cream,” you’re equally unlikely to find a “Yaqona Candy Bar.” But I guess it boils down to the two most important things for any drug: (1) it’s free – you can grow it legally all over Fiji – or at least really cheap; and (2) it messes you up. Taste and health impacts are irrelevant with respect to those two factors. Moreover, you might not be able to drink anyone pretty or pick a fight with someone twice your size on yaqona, but (despite the feeling of wanting to barf from being so full of liquid) the actual sensation of being “doped” does feel pretty good. Nonetheless, yaqona hangovers are brutal and are likely the single largest reason for reduced productivity in Fijian culture.

Booze is less prevalent among the Fijians, especially in the villages where funds are limited. A considerable sin tax makes alcohol prohibitively expensive even for westerners visiting. For example, even a cheap fifth of whiskey can cost as much as $50 USD. The Indo-Fijian culture seems to love the stuff, though. My guess is that probably three-quarters of the annual production of domestically purchased alcohol goes into Indo-Fijian homes. Alcohol, in and of itself, is not a bad thing. Humanity has used booze as a ceremonial and social centerpiece of eons. However, “everything in moderation” is an axiom that Fijians, or Americans for that matter, have failed to recognize.

Fijians, and Indo-Fijians from what I’ve seen, treat alcohol the same way that they treat yaqona. Sometimes they even go as far as to drink it “Taki Style”, which means that a group shares a single bottle and glass just like a tanoa and bilo. Each person takes a turn drinking a small glass into which the single bottle is poured…until the entire bottle is gone. Then they do it again. If someone shows up with a 12 pack of one liter bottles, just like if someone shows up with a full waka (bundle) of yaqona, they drink it all in one sitting. There doesn’t seem to be such a thing as “having a few beers to relax.”

I’m not even going to elaborate on the issue of marijuana in Fiji. It is controversial enough in the U.S. and the U.S. has clearly played a role in establishing drug policy here in Fiji. I just want someone – anyone – to give me a rational, reasonable, and logical explanation based on scientific data and health statistics that justifies why alcohol is legal and marijuana is not. Here, just like in the U.S., the penalties for marijuana possession are more harsh and steadfastly enforced than domestic violence or child abuse violations, which is just…well…stupid. Even more appalling is the way that the Fijian medical establishment states as scientific fact that marijuana causes schizophrenia (it doesn’t and has never been shown to do so), which under Fijian medical standards requires institutionalization and electroshock therapy…electroshock therapy! I guess on the bright side they aren’t requiring lobotomies.

Of course, the most prevalent vice here in Fiji is the same vice one may find the world over. It is the #1 cause of preventable death, creates the single largest burden on the health care system, and is perfectly legal for sale everywhere. Yes, I’m talking about the most profitable poison distributed globally over the last millennium …tobacco. Here in Fiji, just like in every other developing nation, men and women spend unjustifiable amounts of their meager incomes on a product that the producers deliberately make as addictive as possible even while knowing that it is deadly.

Fortunately, there appears to be very little effort by the tobacco companies to advertise in Fiji. We certainly haven’t seen, “9 out of 10 doctors in Fiji prefer Camels.” However, one of my friends has observed either one of the most brilliant subversive advertising maneuvers by the tobacco industry or a misunderstanding that makes you want to laugh, cry, or both.

So my friend, who happens to be a slave to the nicotine monkey himself, was at a yaqona session late one night when one of the other men asked to “kerikeri” (borrow) a cigarette. My friend obliged and passed him the pack. The man looked at the pack, scowled, and pitched the pack back to my friend without taking a cigarette. “I only smoke unborn baby. I don’t like cancer.” said the rangy Fijian man. My friend was stunned and could not figure out what the hell the man was talking about, so he asked. The man explained that there were three flavors or grades of cigarettes for this brand: (1) unborn baby; (2) cancer; and (3) heart disease. He then showed my friend on the package where the distinguishing language was…which was in the bold type of the health warning required by the Fijian government to be put on every cigarette pack that is sold.

My friend tried desperately to explain to the man that those words did not indicate in any way a difference in that brand of cigarettes, but the man, and apparently many other Fijians, swear that they taste different. My friend nonetheless argued for a while and tried to explain what a warning label is, but it’s hard to argue something is bad for you when one is smoldering in your hand. Nonetheless, it makes me wonder what other warning labels they interpret as a flavor or grade. Maybe the "seizures" grade of bathroom cleaner has a more delicate finish on one's palate?

Sometimes people do things even though they know in the end it will be bad for them and others, and that doesn’t seem to change regardless of the culture. In the end, I guess we should celebrate the fact that in the U.S. we have the personal freedom to slowly poison ourselves and others if we so choose, but we should also celebrate the fact we have a government that cares about its citizens enough to try and protect them through meaningful regulation that is rooted in science and evidence. There might not be people who look for unborn baby or cancer in the U.S., but there are plenty of morons who refuse to believe any science showing something is bad for them. And to be honest, rather than deal with people who are “willfully ignorant” because someone told them to think that way, I’d rather deal with folks who are “actually ignorant.” At least someone who truly doesn’t know can be educated, someone who refuses to be educated is hopeless.

You would think that if you were a Peace Corps volunteer that lived right next to the ocean you would be in the water all the time. Well, think again, For a variety of reasons, Michelle and I have gone snorkeling a grand total of four times since we arrived at our site 2.5 months ago. And we literally live right ON the beach. It is not an exaggeration when I say that I can walk 30 paces out my back door and be standing in the South Pacific Ocean. So there’s really no excuse that we should not have spent more time in it, except that our days seem to be filled with construction projects on my side and weaving socials with the women on Michelle’s.

Nonetheless, when we have managed to get out on the water we’ve seen some spectacular things. Thanks to the low population density and subsequent relatively low pressure on the reef from overfishing, effluent pollution, and destructive fishing that results, the reef in our area is in comparatively good shape. Since the ban on dynamite fishing and poisons that include a naturally derived cyanide made from an indigenous plant (Fijians are nothing if not resourceful…), the reef in our area has fared remarkably well. It’s not pristine like Kingman Reef in the Northern Hawaiian Islands chain, which is renowned as one of the least impacted reefs on the planet, probably for no other reason than it is simply too far for fishing vessels to travel economically. However, it’s also not Hanauma Bay on the island of Oahu further south, which is, despite it being the introduction to snorkeling for millions of tourists, an ecologically dead reef. It turns out that the millions of tourists stomping on the reef, breaking off pieces for souvenirs, washing off gallons of sunscreen (which happens to be lethal for coral according to recent studies), and, of course, relieving themselves to the tune of hundreds of thousands of gallons of urine annually, happens to be bad for coral and, subsequently, all the other critters that depend on it.

So things are pretty good on the reef just offshore of Wailevu Village. There is some evidence of localized overfishing, with large reef fish virtually absent in some spots, but an abundance of other small reef species. This observation is further confirmed by the catches that the fishermen bring home, which include reef species that are only 3 inches long…seriously, 3 inches long. Given that some of these species can’t even reproduce until they are about 10 inches long, you can imagine what the population trend may look like. And there is some minor damage from some of the locals who engage in reef stomping as well as minor debris from the village and Savusavu, the largest city on the other side of the bay. Reef stomping, as another Peace Corps volunteer described it, is the process of identifying the most sensitive and fragile species of coral and placing your foot squarely in the middle with all your weight and crushing it into rubble in the process…they call it walking. The good news is that there are LOTS of sharks!

Recent studies show that a predator/prey ratio skewed toward an abundance of large predators is a strong indicator of good reef health. More often than not, I have visited the reef, either while fishing or snorkeling, to spot between 1 and 3 sharks. Only one that we saw while fishing from a bilibili (a boat made from bamboo) was a real potential hazard. It was about 8 feet long and appeared to be a bull shark, which are notorious “man-eaters” in other parts of the world, bearing in mind that more people die each year from bee stings and dog bites combined. The rest have all been grey, whitetip, and blacktip reef sharks, which, unless you are a bleeding reef fish, are relatively benign.

On our very first snorkel out on the reef, Michelle and I were swimming along and I spotted a shrimp goby in a sandy area between the coral. Only geeky fish-types like myself would notice or even care about a 3-inch long fish that has a face and personality like one of Jim Henson’s Muppets. But they are absolutely fascinating to me…because I am, by admission, a true “fish nerd.”

The reason that shrimp gobies are so fascinating is because they share a symbiotic relationship with a burrowing shrimp. The burrowing shrimp excavates and constantly maintains a long corridor and anteroom that the goby and the shrimp, like Oscar and Felix of “The Odd Couple,” share. In exchange, the shrimp goby provides in-house security for the shrimp, brazenly attacking fish that are considerably larger than itself that present any threat to the shrimp. It is utterly amazing that this relationship has evolved and nothing short of astounding to watch in person something that up until now I have only seen on The Discovery Channel.

So, upon spotting my little Muppet-like friend and his shrimp buddy, I was so excited that I had to share it with Michelle. As I tugged on her arm and pointed toward the sand she gave me a look that said, “Yes, that is sand.” So I tugged harder and pointed more forcefully in the direction of the shrimp goby in a way that resembles an American talking more loudly and gesticulating emphatically to a non-English speaker as if they were deaf rather than unable to understand. “Right there! Can you not see! There! Why are you not seeing it and as excited as I am?!”

Then the tables turned suddenly and she started tugging at me frantically. “But the shrimp goby...” I thought despondently. Then I realized what she was pointing at. A 6-foot long whitetip reef shark was circling by less than 10 feet away…or in temporal terms, less than a second away. Time stopped as we watched this beautiful combination of teeth and muscle with silvery gray sides terminating in stark white tips on its fins cut silently and gracefully through the crystal blue water. Our eyes made contact with the shark’s, confirming that it was curious, even if ambivalent, about our presence. As the shark slowly cruised out of view the wheels of time began to turn again as we became aware of our increased heart rate and the sound of waves crashing around us. It was indescribably exhilarating to see such an amazing and graceful predator in such close proximity!

We also recently got to experience another amazing event in the village in which an even larger, charismatic megafauna took center stage. At a rugby game about a month ago, we sat with the villagers and watched the game while also playing guitar and singing periodically. The village was using the rugby game as an opportunity to raise money for the local school, selling food, tea, and seeking donations from the locals. Amidst the flurry of activity, the crowd suddenly stopped and looked seaward.

Michelle and I were perplexed as scattered murmurs of “ika levu” (big fish) rose around us. As people walked toward the shoreline directly across the field where the rugby game was in process, completely ignoring the game and players on the field, an eruption of cheers and gasps erupted from villagers already gathered on the beach. As we approached, my first thought was, “it must be a big manta ray or maybe a whale shark!” A ray or shark it was not, but it was indeed a “tavuto” or, as we English speakers know it, a whale. More specifically, it was a Humpback whale mother and calf.

The calf, like any playful baby mammal, was leaping and playing, all to the great delight of the villagers. Every time the baby would breach, the villagers would jump and cheer with excitement. Meanwhile, the mother seemed to be encouraging her offspring by slapping her tail fluke on the surface as well as rolling and lifting her pectoral fins out of the water as if to wave to the people celebrating on shore. Maybe it was the celebration of life, a new season, and the imminent return to the rich Antarctic waters that had the whales exhibiting such energized behavior that seemed infectious among the villagers on shore…who knows. Regardless, it was only the second time in the memory of the village that they could recall seeing a tavuto.

Humpback whales in the southern hemisphere migrate annually between the food rich waters of Antarctica to the South Pacific where they breed and give birth. While in Antarctica, the mother Humpback whales gorge themselves on krill (a small, shrimp-like crustacean) and small fish in preparation for their long migration to and stay in the relatively nutrient poor South Pacific. While the mother whale is in the South Pacific, she does not eat anything, depending solely on the fat reserves she accumulated in Antarctic to sustain her and her calf. During this time she loses between 30-50% of her body weight while her calf gains an equivalent amount. However, it is not typical for these whales to visit Fiji, especially Savusavu Bay, as they tend to go to other island chains throughout Polynesia and more remote areas on the periphery of the Fijian chain.

Michelle and I have seen many of the southern Humpback’s northern cousins in Alaska. So close have we been to them that at one point that we were covered with whale breath following the explosion of three gaping maws just yards in front of us as we sat in our kayaks. In case you are wondering, whale breath smells absolutely horrid…something like a mixture of rotten fish and sour milk. But as amazing as those experiences in Alaska were, we felt far more privileged to experience what we did on that remote beach in that Fijian village. To see their response…their excitement…their awe…resulting in cheers and tears of joy…was nothing short of inspiring. Many viewed it as an omen or a blessing from God and, given their response, I'm not one to disagree...

But even some of the less grandiose species in the South Pacific are just as fascinating. Take for instance the lowly sea cucumber, also known as a beche de mer or sandfish in many parts of the southern hemisphere. The sea cucumber is not a green vegetable as its namesake garden fruit might suggest, but an animal that resembles a big slug that moves slowly along the ocean floor sucking up fish poop and any other detritus that it might come across. Picky about its dietary habits it might not be, but it does perform a very important ecological function as the “janitor” for the coral reef.

Again, as a fish nerd, I find this critter extremely interesting. I found it even more interesting after Michelle and I watched a TV show before we came that was specifically on Fiji and had a segment on creative ways the Fijians use their resources. You see, despite the lack of a true brain or certainly any semblance of consciousness, some species of sea cucumber have adapted very specialized and intriguing defensive mechanisms. Some sea cucumbers, for instance, puke up their guts when attacked by any predator. The predator either eats the guts instead of the sea cucumber itself or is so confused that it doesn’t bother to eat the sea cucumber. It’s an elegant design, really.

In this TV show we had watched, they profiled how Fijians would walk through the shallow water and find a “leopardfish,” a unique sea cucumber that not only pukes up its guts when threatened, but the guts themselves possess a quality similar to an industrial adhesive. When the Fijians find a leopardfish, they grab it and throttle it like Homer Simpson does Bart. The leopardfish barfs up a wad of long, sticky threads. Then, they take the puked up guts and carefully lay the threads across their feet, where it sticks better than the best duct tape that money can buy…double-sided and waterproof duct tape, that is. The Fijians then step in the sand and…voila…reef shoes!

So you can imagine when I came across a leopardfish when snorkeling with Michelle how excited I was! When I saw it I instantly grabbed and throttled it where, much to my glee, it barfed up its guts just like in the TV show. Ensuring that I didn’t touch the threads, I kicked over to Michelle to show her, sure that she would remember the TV show, too. After all, like any woman, she can remember exactly what I said in an argument years ago. What reason would I have not to think that she would remember this unique occurrence in the TV show we watched together?

She did not. When I carefully placed the squishy, slug-like critter on the coral head in front of her so that she could admire it and take a picture, she reached out and grabbed it by the “business end.” When the adhesive intestines wrapped around her hands and arms it seemed to contract on her skin and hair. As it began to pull at the hair and skin, Michelle began to panic as the pulling hair and associated pain made her think that maybe this thing had poisonous stinging tentacles. It was clearly my fault, (those of us married men who are smart enough to concede so know that it is always our fault) so I endured a panicked verbal attack that questioned my level of intelligence among a peppering of names that I’d rather not repeat here. My insistence of, “But honey, we watched this show!....” was no consolation.

Michelle eventually recovered from the sea cucumber attack and we later went fishing together on a borrowed blibili. I’ve managed to do far less fishing than I would like since arriving in Wailevu, despite watching mackerel jump outside the fringing reef on a regular basis. When I have managed to get out there, I’ve caught several jackfish and other reef fish. I’ve also had several follows by sharks and BIG barracuda. As much fun as it would be to snag a shark or big ‘cuda, I’m not ready to lose all my line just yet for just a few seconds of excitement. So at this point, I’m still exploring and learning while supplementing our protein occasionally with reef fish. Once we build our own bilibili, though, our access to the offshore reef will dramatically increase my opportunities.

Nevertheless, I recently reverted to one of my childhood techniques and took a hike to a large river mouth nearby. After talking to the locals, I learned that they would regularly catch large mangrove snapper, on the order of 20+ pounds, at the river mouth on setlines. So one evening, I went down to the river mouth with two set lines rigged with 10/0 circle hooks, 90# braided wire leader, 130# swivels, and 200# mainline. Using my cast net, I caught a couple of 10-inch mullet for bait. After baiting and setting the lines, I went home to wait for the low tide the following morning.

The next morning I walked to the river to find the first line with no bait. The second line, however, was drawn tightly from its secure tie on a stump at the river’s edge. “Woohoo!” I thought as I saw the taut line and picked up my pace over to its location. Nonetheless, as I picked up the line the resistance disappeared and I pulled in the line to find it separated about two thirds of the way down. This was 200# poly line that was separated in a way that indicated it was pulled apart, not cut, not slowly abraded, but literally pulled apart. When I told the villagers, I became the talk of the town and the most recent fish story. It was then that I learned of the bali, which the villagers insisted was what broke my line.

The bali is apparently a fish that lives in the lower river and estuary that reaches an unimaginable size. When I ask them to describe the fish, they insist that it is not a shark and has a mouth as wide as a man can spread his arms and a body that tapers to a small tail. Local legend says that during strong tides the fish just opens its mouth and eats everything that drifts through with the tide. The last one that was caught back in the 60’s supposedly had to be hauled from the river using two cows and had a sea turtle in its stomach. I have no idea what this fish is, but now I’m intrigued…and determined to catch one!

I'm looking forward to more exploring on the reef and offshore very soon once we get our bilibili built. We still have a lot to learn about the marine environment near our home and I have a lot to learn from the locals about the local fish calendar. Nonetheless, I am confident that very soon I will be catching lots of big fish. I’ve also become good friends with the local spearfishing expert who’s promised to show me the hot spots and best techniques for fish and lobster...yes, lobster. Michelle and I are also very much looking forward to some diving on some spectacular South Pacific dive sites. So look for some entries soon of more fish and diving pictures!

“EEEK! A rat!!!” she squealed as she danced on her toes and held each side of her skirt in her fingertips while standing on a chair in the kitchen (it was almost that cartoonish). “Don’t just stand there, kill it!!” I yelled to her. “With what?” she said. “Grab a kitchen knife and start whackin’! You’re bound to hit a vital organ eventually…” I responded. The following disgusted look clearly indicated that I would have to be the one to take care of the rat that was living in our bathroom outside and scaling the electrical wire coming to the main house and into our kitchen. As I picked up my cane knife (a 2.5 foot long heavy machete commonly used to cut sugar cane in Fiji) and proceeded to head outside she asked, “What are you going to do with that ?!” My response was, “Hopefully, I’m going to cut that nasty little vermin into as many pieces as possible…or at least bludgeon it if I’m lucky.” (Cue the disgusted look once again) Unfortunately, the rat did not fall victim to my cane knife, as much as I would’ve enjoyed that prospect. We had just received a visit…a rat scout if you will…scoping out the prospects of any uncontained food items that might be in the house. Fortunately, this would be the first and only rat we have experienced thus far in Fiji. It was also just one of the Polynesian black rats, which are much smaller and a lot less disgusting than the Norway rats most folks in the U.S. are familiar with. In either case, they are disgusting little disease vectors that deserve to be poisoned, trapped, sliced, squished, stomped, scorched, exploded, or otherwise made dead by any means convenient and close at hand. Despite the presence of our little furry friend, we felt lucky that there was not a greater presence of rats. Other Peace Corps volunteers have had toes nibbled in the middle of the night, heavy plastic containers gnawed completely through to get at their last precious stores of chocolate inside, and underwear crotches completely eaten away. I could probably deal with rats chewing into my food containers. But I can say this with absolute certainty…if I am ever bitten by any rat while sleeping it will be the last thing that rat, or his family, will ever do. I will go completely “Soprano’s” on their little rat asses! In any event, this unfortunate home invasion was more than enough to prompt us to get the best rat eradication device known to man. This is the face of a cold-blooded killer. He may look cute, but he may as well have been the angel of death when it came to bugs, lizards, and rodents. Unfortunately, this is actually our first kitten, Benjamin. Ben met an early demise in an event that would be yet another cultural learning lesson for us. About a week after we had received the kitten, I fashioned a collar and tag out of a piece of blue string and a small yellow plastic fishing float with our names written in Fijian. We placed the collar on the kitten, who almost immediately went missing that afternoon. Michelle told the Turaga ni Koro’s (the mayor) wife, Kula, the next morning that the cat was missing and she said she would ask around. About a half hour after Michelle told Kula about the cat, a young boy crossed the school grounds carrying a briefcase (not a common accessory item in a Fijian village) and stopped outside our field of view. Strangely, immediately after the boy crossed back into our field of view little Ben came bounding back into the house, sans collar. So I fashioned a new collar out of 130# fishing wire that, short of wire cutters, was not coming off. The next evening, as we were meeting with the Turaga ni Koro, the kitten playfully bounded out into what would be his last sunset. About a half hour later a group of children showed up at the door saying in broken English “cat died” as one of them handed Michelle a wire collar with a yellow plastic tag that, short of death, could not have been removed from the kitten. Needless to say, Michelle was very upset and demanded to know where the cat was and the children said it was in the neighboring village, which seemed suspicious given the kitten never strayed far from the house. The children went to retrieve the kitten and returned with a limp, lifeless, and wet body that was once little Benjamin. The best that we could surmise based on the disjointed stories from several children was that “something” bad happened to the kitten and “someone” tried to revive it in water. It wasn’t until later that we learned from one of the village girls that three of the young boys deliberately chased down the kitten for the express purpose of killing it…so they could get the little plastic yellow collar off of his neck. It turns out that the previous collar had become a rare and sought after item of status with another child and these other children wanted one just like it. At this point we learned that, no matter how much evidence that you may have that Fijian children may have done something bad, they will not cop to it under any circumstance. This was confirmed by the story of another Peace Corps volunteer who had her Ipod stolen by the only child in her house at the time after she had walked into another room and returned to find the child, and her Ipod, gone. After going to the child’s house and confronting the child to no admission, she barged in and turned over the kid’s room…and found the Ipod under some clothing. Go figure, the child had no idea how the Ipod got there. All we wanted was an honest admission and explanation of what and why regarding the kitten, but even after the Headmistress of the school sent the three boys to talk with us and I laid the best Biblical guilt trip that I could on them, they would not budge. And as much as I was looking forward to them working their debt (and their asses) off in my garden as compensation, we’ll never have the full picture of why three little boys would want to kill a cat that belongs to someone else for a little yellow piece of plastic.

As a consolation, the family that gave us Ben brought us our second cat, which happened to be from the same litter. Meet Loki, our resident pest prevention and removal service. Just like Ben, he is a killing machine. I’ve seen him take out nine June bugs and a six-inch long gecko in about a one-hour period. He’s always particularly proud when he kills something. He’ll kill it outside, come galloping inside to the middle of the room, and drop it on the floor before batting it around and polishing it off with a “crunch, crunch, crunch.” I think it might also be his way of showing us just what he’s capable of. In any event, he’s an ethical hunter, eating everything he kills. Michelle is completely disgusted by all of this…I couldn’t be more proud…

Last week, while I was at a grog session on the other side of the village, I got a panicked text from Michelle including the words gecko, kitten, and gross. Apparently, Loki had caught one of the big geckos. These guys are meaty, like a small sausage, probably weighing about a quarter of a pound. He was so proud of this conquest that it wasn’t enough to drop it in the middle of the room for all to see. No, he had to make sure that Michelle could see what he had done. So he didn’t just drop a bleeding, squirming, dying gecko in front of her, beside her, or otherwise near her…that simply was not good enough. For a prize like this, he needed something equivalent to neon signs and a sound truck. So Loki galloped up like a proud show horse and dropped the fat, squishy gecko right ON her bare feet as she sat in a chair reading. Now I wasn’t there to see exactly what happened after that, but my guess is that it will probably require therapy when we get back to the U.S. Despite the screaming and panic that I am sure ensued, Loki managed to eat the entire gecko before I returned, which was no small feat considering it was probably about a fifth of his body weight. I can’t wait until he does the same with a rat… Unfortunately, Loki hasn’t really learned his limitations. He has, at times, let his attitude write checks his furry little body simply would not be able to cash. Like when he decided to growl and hiss at one of the friendly village dogs named “Snoopy” that came to our door. You could almost hear Snoopy, who outweighs Loki by at least 20 pounds, saying, “He’s kiddin,’ right?” And then there was the time Loki thought he would go after one of the chicks belonging to one of the dozen or so chickens that live around our house. No amount of attitude can prepare a kitten for the wrath of a mother hen. I saw him sitting at the doorway, eyeballing a group of small chicks with a fat white hen. As the hen and her brood passed out of my field of view, Loki launched from the step. What followed was a tumbling mass of fur and feathers punctuated by a loud “bawk-AWK!!,” subsequently followed by a little tabby with an newfound attitude adjustment launching back into the same door he leapt from seeking protection from a big, mean chicken. He looked a little like Bill the Cat from the old Bloom County comic strip as he cowered at my feet while breathing heavily and conveying a wide-eyed expression that said, “What the in the HELL was that?! That was, like, CHICKENZILLA!” To give him credit, the chicken did probably outweigh him, but nobody wants to admit they got their ass kicked by a chicken.

Speaking of chickens, this is Elvis. At least that’s what I call him. I call him Elvis because he’s a crooner…and he loooves the sound of his own voice. Elvis is also quite the ladies man, too. He owns our front yard and the schoolyard, never having fewer than three hens around him at any given time. Unfortunately, this strutter also has a poor sense of timing and doesn’t seem to see the difference between 3AM and 7AM when stretching his vocal abilities. All I can say is, “Thank GOD for earplugs!,” but sometimes even the earplugs just don’t cut it. So Elvis and I have been in intense negotiations over the past few weeks in an attempt to establish a truce. It is an uneasy truce, like the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, and we often exchange fire without any major casualties. Nonetheless, the terms of our agreement are as follows: (1) Elvis refrains from crowing near the house before 7AM; and (2) as long as Elvis complies with the first term, I will refrain from killing and eating him. Pretty simple, really. Yet it’s been an uneasy truce that was almost broken about a week ago when Elvis decided to open up his pipes directly under our bed. Following an ear piercing crow that I am convinced is designed to reach all the way into your cerebral cortex and trigger the “massive irritation and anger node,” I loaded my slingshot with a round piece of coral and stepped out the back steps and crouched down to view Elvis, still standing directly beneath our bed. Elvis had a look about him that said, “Hah! You don’t have the room to accurately throw a rock!”, indicating that he’d been through this drill before. He was mistaken. The coral left the slingshot and whizzed toward Elvis, or more specifically, Elvis’ backside. I like to imagine that Elvis received a coral suppository and judging by the puff of feathers and the yelp that came out of that obnoxious bird, that was entirely possible. Needless to say, Elvis keeps his distance these days.

We have other farm animals nearby as well. Michelle calls this guy “Wilbur”. He very well may be “some pig,” but I think he deserves a more suitable dignified name, like Sir Frankfurter Loin Bacon IV. It is a simple difference of perspective, really. When Michelle looks at him, she gets all googoo-eyed and sees the talking pig from “Babe.” When I look at him I think of grilled chops or a rack of ribs smothered in a dry rub and barbecue sauce. Michelle would really like to have her own piglet. However, when I remind Michelle of the inevitable fate of the “cute little piggy” and how it would be no different for our pig she insists that the eating of our pig would be forbidden and that “pigs make great pets.” I got a similar response to the idea of having our own chickens or goats. Yes folks, given the opportunity we would have Fiji’s first unofficial petting zoo. One of the interesting things about Fiji is that the concept of “pets,” especially as family members, is completely foreign if not simply bizarre to most Fijians. Animals in Fiji essentially fall into one of two categories, tools or food. A cat is a rat removal tool. A pig is food. Sometimes, they may fall into both categories if they fall into the food category after running up their use in the tool category, but rarely, if ever, are animals kept without some purpose. This purpose almost never includes companionship, which is why most of the villagers are perplexed by the way that Michelle treats Loki. They especially don’t understand why she takes all the time to cook and package food expressly for the kitten, given that they think cats should be kept hungry to stay more motivated to eat rats. That’s just the domestic animals, though. Fiji has loads of interesting wild animals that we are just beginning to discover. Take for example the matalade (matah-LAHNdeh), or “face jumping,” tarantula. About the size of a dinner plate and possessing fangs about a half an inch long, the matalade tarantula is known for hiding in dark places like kitchen cabinets and clothes drawers where, when startled by a person seeking a coffee cup or a fresh pair of undies, they exhibit the curious habit of hissing loudly and launching directly at the face of the person who so uncourteously let in the light. While not deadly, the venom apparently causes one to lose control of all bodily functions and soil their underwear. Who wouldn’t crap their pants if the saw a giant spider leaping at your forehead like one of the facesuckers out of the movie “Alien”? OK, so the matalade tarantula is a complete fabrication, but Fiji does have its share of dangerous or otherwise scary critters. There are two species of spiders that have a leg span of about three inches in diameter and will run AT you if given the opportunity. Poisonous or not, an eight-legged monstrosity bigger than a Vegas dollar coin running straight at you would be enough to give anyone the heebie jeebies. There is also a centipede that gets about 12-16 inches long that the villagers call “tolu vula” or “three months” because that is how long it takes to fully recover from the bite. The centipede is a shade of red that says “don’t touch” and the bite apparently causes swelling so severe that limbs sometimes require being lanced to prevent the surrounding skin from bursting on its own. Garrett, the Peace Corps volunteer that we replaced, was so paranoid about the centipedes that it resulted in about the most embarrassing instance I can imagine. One day, while Garrett was performing his best rendition of Rodin’s “The Thinker” in the outdoor toilet, he felt something crawl between the bed of his sandal and his foot. It could’ve been a gecko, skink, or even a sand crab, but in Garrett’s mind it was unquestionably the tolu vula. In a moment of pure panic and reaction, Garrett flung his foot forward and screamed like a schoolgirl, nearly kicking the door of the toilet off its hinges. It was lunchtime and the parents in the village had gathered at the kindergarten to have lunch with their children. Did I mention that the door of the toilet opened directly toward the kindergarten? As Garrett’s flip-flop sailed through the air toward the kindergarten, the parents tried to shield the eyes and ears of their children from the overexposed white man sitting on the porcelain throne screaming profanities. And there is simply no graceful way to recover from that. You just have to apologize profusely, cover yourself as best you can, lean forward, and slowly pull the door shut, closing you and your shame behind a half inch piece of weathered wood. There are also two species of poisonous snakes in Fiji, but neither are of consequence. One is a brown snake that spends most of its time buried in Fiji’s jungle soils. Most Fijians have never even actually seen the brown snake it is so reclusive. The other is the banded sea snake, which is deadly poisonous but is so docile that Fijians pick them up and toss them aside as if they were just a stick lying on the beach. Even if a sea snake were provoked enough to bite you, their gape is so small they would have to bite you between your fingers or toes. If one bites you there, you probably had it coming. We’ve only seen a few of the other reptiles besides the geckos and skinks, but there are a few species of iguana that exist in various parts of Fiji that haven’t been invaded by any number of pests that people have introduced. Probably the worst of the pests, the mongoose ranks in the top of brilliant ecological mistakes, devouring native birds and reptiles as fast as it can shimmy its little weasel body through the underbrush. As the story goes, the introduction of the mongoose throughout the South Pacific was a stroke of genius by a biologist who thought, “Gee these rats that were introduced seem to eat a lot of native birds and their eggs, we should find something to control the rats. I know, mongoose are vicious little creatures that eat rats in captivity! Let’s conduct a completely uncontrolled experiment and release a relentless and unstoppable predator throughout the Pacific Islands!” Indeed, the mongoose is one of the nastiest snarling, spitting, growling weasels on the planet. Looking a little like a slender, tan and smaller version of a river otter, they are known for their remarkable ability to kill a king cobra (remember “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi?”). What the errant biologist didn’t think about was that mongoose are diurnal predators and rats are nocturnal scavengers…and never the two shall meet. Rats continue to pillage the nests of the last remaining individuals of some bird species at night while the mongoose sleep soundly, and as the rats clock out as the sun rises, the mongoose take on the day shift doing the same. So the biologist simply compounded the problem of extinction on the islands by introducing yet another predator of native birds and reptiles…and an incredibly efficient one at that. The good news is that Fijians eat mongoose and, yes, according to them it apparently tastes just like chicken. So these are some of the critters we’ve encountered or at least heard about since arriving in Fiji…at least on the terrestrial side. The sea and air deserve their own focus in later entries. In any event, the bipedal mammals have been the most interesting critters so far and are probably still more dangerous than any snake or face jumping spider.

“I – state your name – do so solemnly swear…” The last time I saw these words I had absolutely no idea what I was getting into, at least until someone informed me that NAVY actually stands for “Never Again Volunteer Yourself.” Of course, when you’re 18 and saying those words, six years doesn’t sound like all that much time…until you’re in your 5th year under a tyrannical Captain (think The Caine Mutiny except someone much less likable than Humphrey Bogart’s character) and a lead officer that (A) has the intelligence of a clump of dirt, (B) lacks the managerial competence of even a below average McDonald’s manager, and (C) possesses the people skills of an eel. It turns out that the easiest way to eliminate incompetence in your unit/division in the Navy is to promote the problem to their highest level of incompetency. Some say that in the military the cream rises to the top. Well, that may be true, but turds also float. Between enlisted officers with 15 years of experience and the leadership skills of a goat in addition to line officers that only had authority because they were born with a silver spoon between their butt cheeks and possessed a college degree (usually in business no less; the worst were the legacy “Academy Grads” that had less brains than a houseplant but a lineage dating back to the Civil War), like most of my shipmates I left the Navy less than enchanted with my experience. So after one less than palatable volunteer experience in government service I didn’t come to the decision to volunteer in the Peace Corps lightly. The difference is that in the Navy, you’re stuck. Once you swear in and sign the papers the only way you’re getting out is (1) shutting up, keeping your head down, and doing your time (also a successful strategy for prison), (2) even if you weren’t asked, telling leadership that you like showering with other men…a lot, (3) knocking over a convenience store during your off time and getting thrown in jail, or (4) coming home in a box draped in an American flag. Numbers 1 and 4 will get you an honorable discharge, but obviously come at a considerable cost. Death may be forever, but 4-6 years of conscripted service can seem that way too. Numbers 2 and 3 can shorten your term, but will also obviously be at a considerable cost in which both potentially involve uncomfortable descriptions of sodomy. Given the consequences of options 1-3, at times number 4 may even seem like a preferred option. Don’t get me wrong, I will be forever thankful for and proud of my military service. I, in fact, excelled while I was in the Navy, acquiring several leadership roles and awards. And there were at least a few outstanding examples of leadership, such as a Chief that I knew that should’ve been a Captain but for that whole silver spoon thing I referred to earlier. However, while I wouldn’t take a million dollars for my experience in the Navy I wouldn’t take a billion to do it over again. In contrast, the term volunteer takes on the actual meaning it is supposed to have in the Peace Corps. In other words, the Peace Corps is not about to force someone to stay in a placement that they despise. Nothing good comes out of forcing someone to stay where they don’t want to be, as the military sort of learned with draftees in Vietnam. Moreover, it’s a little antithetical to the mission of the Peace Corps if you have someone who hates who and where they are trying to build the bonds of friendship and improve development. Just as voluntarily as one joins the Peace Corps you can voluntarily leave at any time as well. But given all we went through just to get to Fiji, we, of course, have no intention of leaving. As we came to the conclusion of 7 weeks of Peace Corps training, all those long days of language and cultural training that amount to an intellectual and emotional boot camp also came to a close. The last thing to do was to say those magic words that changed us from trainees to volunteers. I’m not talking about “ala peanut butter sandwiches” or “pocuscadabra, abracapocus,” but almost those exact words that I had spoken almost 20 years ago. Only this time, rather than going into it “knowing it all” but in reality almost completely blind as I had before, I felt a resounding sense of comfort and tranquility in the confidence of the decision that Michelle and I had made together to join the Peace Corps. On the day of swearing in, Peace Corps had erected a large tent on the grounds at Nadavi, the site where our journey had begun. They had invited several dignitaries to speak and, most importantly, had invited members of our host families to attend the swearing in ceremony. In reality, however, the ceremony itself seemed more like a formality at this point, with us more or less going through the motions after already passing our language proficiency exams and knowing our site placements. Nonetheless, the ceremony was very tastefully done, with some inspiring words spoken by a U.S. Ambassador for the South Pacific region and the Peace Corps Fiji Country Director, Ruth Larimer. When the time came, we all stood up and swore that we would proudly represent our country followed shortly by the announcement and presentation of the FRE-8 volunteers. Like any graduation day, the moments that followed were filled with joy, anticipation, anxiety, and some bittersweet sadness in knowing that, almost immediately, friends that we had made over the preceding weeks would be departing for their prospective sites in all directions. We had one last opportunity for pictures and a few repeat meke performances before dispersing to all corners of the Fiji islands. Some were leaving straight away, others that evening, and, ourselves, we were in the last group leaving on the following day. As buses and taxis raced about between shouts of “Good Bye!” and “Take Care!”, we slowly prepared ourselves psychologically for our own departure the next day on the ferry M/V Suilvan, which would take us on a 12 hour ride to the port of Savusavu on Vanua Levu and, ultimately, to the place that would be our home for the next two years. Staging and training was over and it was now time to get down to the core of Peace Corps service. As we stepped on to the ferry and said goodbye to our friends on Viti Levu I thought, “Let the adventure begin!”

About 5 weeks ago, the Peace Corps Fiji staff announced where each individual or couple would be headed for their 2-year assignment. This is the culmination of all the work and effort that trainees and staff have put in to identify what sites would best meet the needs of the local people as well as the needs of the volunteers. Keep in mind that the trainees/volunteers, once they’ve reached this point, have already been heavily vetted, so Peace Corps generally has a pretty good idea of where most people will fit.

The Peace Corps application process is no small task. Michelle and I began our application 18 months prior to our selection for Fiji, which was just 6 weeks before we stepped on a plane to the South Pacific. The time in between was filled with multiple interviews, a psychological profile, medical/dental exams and immunizations, essays upon essays, questionnaires, recommendation letters, and a “wish list” of where we’d like to go. Just making it through the application process is a testament to the determination and dedication of the applicant. If you can at least manage to make it through all that bureaucracy, you’ve shown that you have the patience and resilience to be a good Peace Corps volunteer. Imagine a track and field event involving endurance running and randomly placed hurdles where a line judge decides to arbitrarily stop the race for individuals where they see fit and you have an idea of the Peace Corps application process.

Given our passion about the oceans (not to mention my interest in – not addiction to – fishing), Michelle and I selected three regions on our wish list including: (1) the South Pacific; (2) Southeast Asia; and (3) the Caribbean. Bear in mind that those of us in Fiji are a percent of a percent of a percent of all applicants to the Peace Corps. Last year, about 16,000 people applied to the Peace Corps for only 8,000 available positions. Of that 8,000, most volunteers end up in Africa or Latin America. Only 5 percent of all Peace Corps applicants go to the South Pacific and only a percentage of that end up in Fiji. Currently, there are about 30-35 trainees who are annually selected for Fiji, making the overall percentage of Peace Corps volunteers who apply for service and end up in Fiji about 0.45 percent of all Peace Corps applicants per year. Nonetheless, placement is at the pleasure of the Peace Corps and we could have just as easily ended up in a landlocked African nation like Niger (for those of you confused by a recent Vice Presidential candidate, Africa is a continent, not a country). Thus, we feel very fortunate that we were selected for not just the South Pacific, but for Fiji specifically.

So for site announcements, the Peace Corps Fiji Training Director, Rose Armour, held a dinner at her home in Suva to announce our site placements. Prior to the dinner, two large maps of the north and south islands, Vanua Levu and Viti Levu respectively, and a smaller one of the Yasawa Islands, were placed on a large plywood platform covering what would be a swimming pool. Anticipation was allowed to build as trainees browsed around what would be their prospective sites on the map while other staff and current volunteers arrived. Next, large envelopes where handed out to all the trainees, who were instructed to await an announcement for everyone to open their envelopes simultaneously. Shortly after, the announcement was made to open our envelopes and, like 6 year olds on Christmas morning, the trainees all tore into their envelopes to varying degrees of surprise, confusion, satisfaction, or disappointment. Everyone dreams of that idyllic thatched hut on a beach surrounded by palm trees and crystal blue waters for their site placement. However, the reality is that Fiji is a developing nation and its needs vary just like any other developing nation. This includes needs in urban and rural as well as interior and coastal areas. While most trainees seemed satisfied with their placements, there were a few who expressed outward disappointment with their placement. In previous years, some trainees have apparently cried they were so disappointed. I can understand mild disappointment with a placement, we all yearn for that tropical paradise, but I do think perspective is in order.

Nowhere in Fiji are you more than 2 hours from the beach. Furthermore, the tropical jungles and mountains are amazing in and of themselves. Taking this into account, and considering my description of the total percentage of volunteers in Fiji, it makes it hard to understand how anyone could really be disappointed, but it apparently happens. I guess you can’t please everyone all the time and some folks can find the dark cloud in every silver lining, but I can’t help but suggest to those folks that they could’ve been in Kazakhstan living in a concrete Khrushchev surrounded by snow or in Niger living in a mud hut surrounded by scorching sand. That said (and not to be smug) Michelle and I were incredibly fortunate because not only did we get the Idyllic beachside villa, but our house is about 1000 square feet, made of wood (much of it mahogany no less), powered by hydroelectric (thank you China for your attempt to buy U.N. votes), and has reliable running water. So we really don’t have anything to complain about.

Our site assignment package described a site on Vanua Levu in a village called Wailevu, about an hour bus ride from the main southern city on the island, Savusavu. Savusavu is a town of about 5,000 people including surrounding communities, hardly making it an “urban center” by U.S. standards, but it is as urban as it gets next to Labasa on the north end of Vanua Levu at 24,000. Wailevu is comprised of the village proper and several small settlements outside village boundaries amounting to about 300 people. The village is on a small river delta sandwiched between a coral coast and beautiful rocky peaks over 1000 feet and blanketed in lush, green jungle. Michelle was assigned to address public health and education needs while I was assigned to address environmental needs in the village. We probably couldn’t have asked for more…this is as close to paradise as it gets in terms of our assignment. So later that night after an amazing Mexican dinner (you have no idea how hard this is to come by in Fiji), many of the trainees went out either to celebrate or drown their sorrows and we, very content with our assignment, went back to the hotel where we were staying to enjoy another precious night of air conditioning, hot showers, and the Discovery Channel before returning to our host village and buckling down for the last two weeks of training. In any event, the last big step before swearing in as Peace Corps volunteers was complete and we were all able to rest easier with at least a little more certainty of what we were getting into.

There are three things in Fiji that I have determined are absolute certainties: (1) a dropped slice of buttered toast always lands butter side down…on a trail of ants; (2) a cat that falls out of a tree always lands on its feet…immediately before being eaten by the village stray dogs; and (3) the child with the largest snot bubble inevitably targets the biggest germaphobe in your group like a heat seeking missile…and I’ve seen some trophy snot bubbles since arriving in Fiji! From the single-nostril slinger to the nose-to-lip green double runner, I’ve seen some whoppers. Now, this gets me to a discussion about public health in Fiji. It wasn’t that long ago in the U.S. that people thought getting wet when it was cold outside caused head colds, so I make no judgments about the Fijian peoples understanding of what causes disease or illness. Since Leuwenhoek first peered through his pinhole microscope at the little monsters in a droplet of water over a century ago, western science has come a long way in understanding that disease is not caused by evil spirits, curses, or the weather, but by tiny little critters we now know as viruses and bacteria. Fiji, especially rural Fiji, is still learning about these advances. One volunteer, who came down with a particularly bad case of explosive diarrhea, was told by his Fijian host family that it was the result of him walking past the “devil tree.” Now, this is not like the proverbial and hypothetical “ugly tree” that many of us in the U.S. have experienced either first hand or after a long night drinking and the donning of the “beer goggles.” These particular folks genuinely believed that this devil tree, which happened to be a common tree in the region, caused sickness just through the simple act of walking past it. Why they just didn’t cut the tree down and solve their disease problems altogether I have no idea, but my suspicion is that they felt an even greater curse than the trots would befall them if they did. Either way, it makes no logical sense to those of us with even the most rudimentary health education. In Fiji, ailments are also often blamed on the weather, the wind, and, of course, missing church. However, when people do not have access to the same level of health education that we in the U.S. benefit from, you can’t expect them to understand that bacteria and viruses spread through human contact, water, or food are really causing the disease and, moreover, that it could be easily prevented, or at least mitigated, by simply washing using soap and water and thoroughly cooking food. But even “cleanliness” has a subjective meaning here in Fiji no different than it does in the U.S. One good example of the impact of culture on the concept of cleanliness involved a volunteer living in an Indo-Fijian settlement. This volunteer, in an effort to win over her family, committed to preparing an entire Indian meal for a special dinner. After hours of preparing roti, chutney, and various curries she came to the point where she was ready to serve the meal. What she didn’t know was that despite the hundreds of times she likely washed her hands and dishes throughout the day she was unclean! In the course of conversation with one of the older Indo-Fijian women, they came to the subject of women’s cultural role in the Indo-Fijian society where, through some unexplained diversion the subject of women’s monthly visitor came up and that women experiencing this are deemed “unclean” and are limited in things that they can do during this time. So the volunteer expressed, “Well I guess it’s a good thing that I’m just coming off mine!” Collective gasps and shocked expressions preceded the women virtually picking her off the floor as they shuttled her to the most remote part of the house in a swirl of saris and indistinguishable panicked Hindi expressions in an effort to remove the unclean creature from the presence of others and the food that had been prepared…by her. Yes, the most offensive of offensive things that one can do when Aunt Flo comes to visit is to prepare food with unclean hands! After some discussion, and the realization that the ENTIRE meal for about 15 people had been prepared by this volunteer, they were able to rationalize that since it was the end of her period that they could overlook her filthiness just this once. But there are issues of genuine hygiene and sanitation that have a profound impact on public health in Fiji. Much of it stems from the lack of clean running water or the fact that when it comes down to buying two loaves of bread or a bar of soap for $1.15, the bread is generally going to have priority. Shampoo isn’t even a consideration for a number of reasons including expense. Nonetheless, some of the most problematic health issues could be resolved with these simple substances. A good example is the profound existence of boils in Fiji. A boil is a staphylococcus infection that encysts at the base of a hair follicle. For those of you unfamiliar with what a boil is, imagine the worst zit of your teenage years so large and swollen that it hurt to look at or touch, much less squeeze. Multiply that times 10 and place it anywhere on your body and you have a boil. These things are so tenacious and painful they can prevent you from walking or sitting…depending on where the boil is located. And, as many Fijians exhibit, they can leave physical scars if not treated properly. They can be treated with antibiotics, but it’s much easier to simply avoid them to begin with by washing with an antibiotic soap. The soap may not prevent them completely in Fiji’s brutal heat and humidity, but it least it improves your chances of not having a swollen, red, oozing sore the size of a golf ball where your lip should be. Boils are just the beginning. There are plenty of other preventable health issues in Fiji as well. One of my favorite stories from a current volunteer involves the prevalence of lice in the rural areas. Keep in mind this is an absolutely true story, or, as we called it in the Navy, a “real no shitter.” This volunteer was walking home from training one day when she came upon what appeared to be an outdoor hair styling session where the person standing appeared to be removing bobby pins from the hair of the woman sitting in the chair and placing them in her mouth…only they weren’t bobby pins and she wasn’t just holding them in her mouth… It seems the current method, at least in this village, of dealing with lice is to use an herbal wash to try and remove the crawlies and then pick the nits, or the eggs, from the hair using one’s fingers…followed by placing it in your mouth and biting down to a crisp ‘pop’. It makes sense, really. This way you’re killing the lice whereas if you just through the nit in the grass another person could get lice from that discarded egg. And if you’re wondering, neither I nor the volunteer who witnessed this asked what it tasted like, but my guess is the response would be “like chicken.” This volunteer kept her composure, though, and, very matter-of-factly, asked about lice and how common it was in the village. Unfortunately, her inquisitiveness was misinterpreted by some of the young girls standing by and one fresh-faced youth stepped forward to proudly exclaim, “I have the most nits of all the girls in my village!” I guess everyone needs to be the best at something… How this volunteer suppressed an expression of being completely appalled I have no idea, but she has my respect and admiration. Nevertheless, overall the people in Fiji are relatively clean, happy, and healthy. Every day education, and public health, improves and, maybe one day, things like boils and lice will be concerns of the past and they can have the luxury of worrying about things like cancer from environmental toxins and type II diabetes caused by a processed food diet like we do in the U.S.

I must first apologize for the long lapse since my last post. The pace in Peace Corps training is frantic and, in addition to other community obligations, I had precious little time to commit to anything other than what the Peace Corps staff had given us as assignments and the string of community events we attended. But I’m back and ready to thrill with tales from the South Pacific!

There’s a lot to catch up on since my last post. We’ve since received our site announcements, parted ways with our Peace Corps colleagues, and traveled to our permanent sites where we are now settling in. But before I get too far ahead, I want to talk a little about what the great prophet Whitney Houston professed before she married Bobby Brown and got the dain bramage from all the crack cocaine…I believe the children are our future.

The children of Fiji are just like children anywhere around the world. They are unassuming, inquisitive, accepting, playful, and absolutely engrossed with anything or anyone who seems out of the ordinary…like a white guy with a red beard married to a beautiful blond living in their village. You learn to appreciate their interest in you as a case of unbridled innocence that reminds you of “how things should be.” In any event, as a Peace Corps volunteer, no matter where you go in Fiji you are in a fishbowl. You just don’t act, dress, or look like anyone else and, therefore, stand out like a Great Dane in a room full of wiener dogs. Thus, you simply have to get used to being stared at or otherwise being the center of attention. The children are especially prone to offering this sort of interest.

In our village, there was one little boy who provided endless hours of entertainment for the rest of the volunteers and myself. This little boy was probably 5 years old and looked a little like Buckwheat from the old “Our Gang/Little Rascals” TV shows, except that his hair was WAY bigger. He was very interested in us, often running to the door to yell at the top of his lungs “VALANGI” as any of us passed by the modest tin house where he and his four other siblings lived. The word “valangi” in Fijian is roughly the equivalent of being referred to as a “gringo” in Mexico, or, if you are any non-American visiting the Southern United States, a “furriner” (excepting, of course, anyone who even remotely appears to be of middle eastern descent who would be simply labeled “turrurist”). Anyhow, you get the picture that “valangi” is not the most endearing label this little boy could have used to address us. I guess this was OK, though, because to this day I still only know him as “Lil’ Freak Boy.”

This little boy clearly had an overactive imagination and very obviously lived in his own little world. Any nearby inanimate object, or sometimes small animals, often became some prop in the filmstrip playing in his head. At other times, for no visible reason, he would twirl around in circles and flail his arms wildly while yelling incomprehensible gibberish, all while making some of the most outrageous and contorted faces. Yes, in the U.S. this kid would almost certainly be on Ritalin.

One night, as we were practicing our village meke, Lil’ Freak Boy was sitting in the back of the community hall being his usual self, rolling around on the floor and making fart sounds with his mouth. All of the sudden, he just stopped as if time itself had done the same. He sprung up on to his feet. Then, his eyes began to squint and his lips curled back, revealing his clenched, bared teeth. Simultaneously, he reached with his left hand into his oversized, poofy hairdo and began to scratch violently while making a noise that sounded a little like a miniature version of Chewbacca. Needless to say, while he was an adorable and entertaining child, he had some hair-related personal hygiene issues that he and his mother really needed to deal with.

Lil Freak Boy was not the only child who we came to know and love while living in Nabua. There were several little girls who captured our hearts and memories as well. The first was Silo (SEE-low), the little girl on the left in the inset photo with the impish smile that I will post shortly. Don’t let the cuteness fool you! This little girl is trouble with a capital “T”. And she is “cheeky” in more ways than one. Much to her mother’s chagrin, she’s been known to leave school (often well before it’s actually over) and return home where she promptly strips down to her birthday suit and runs around the house giggling and singing…all while dodging the shoes and other various household items her mother is throwing at her while yelling at her to put some clothes on.

Precocious only begins to describe Silo. She was also one of the brightest children in the village, knowing virtually every detail of every traditional song and dance of the Rewa District and, specifically, Nabua. She was, in fact, the village choreographer. As the precocious child she is, when teaching the mekes she often showed either the flamboyance and demand of Robin Williams in “The Bird Cage” (“Madonna, Madonna…”) or the disinterest of a California valley teen (“whatever…”). I suppose she was just like any other 10 year old anywhere in the world, but she was certainly exceptional to all of us.

Then there were the “yalewa ca”, or “bad girls”. The weren’t really “bad” (they were actually quite wonderful little girls) but, boys being boys, it was always fun for myself and the other male volunteer to get a rise out of them by calling them bad in their native tongue. Moreover, Olivia and Margareta were two girls that were probably too smart for their own good, which made it all the more entertaining to tease them. Olivia was a little heavy for her age, resulting in the village boys teasing her by calling her “levulevu” or, as an American might recognize, fat. She took it in stride though, and carried one of the most beautiful smiles of all the girls in the village. And when Michelle found out what the boys were calling her…those boys didn’t know what they had coming… Margareta was quite the opposite, being rail thin and about 35 pounds soaking wet. She was also a very pretty little girl that would no doubt break a lot of hearts and give her father lots of heartburn one day. Nonetheless, Olivia and Margareta were seemingly inseparable pair, making it even more entertaining to tease them together.

Of course, two of our favorites were the grandchildren living in our host family’s home. Koli and Joe were the children of our Ta and Na’s two oldest daughters who were working in Rorotonga and Nadi. In this culture, it’s common for grandparents to take care of grandchildren while their parents are working abroad to support the family. The boys were a source of endless entertainment and lots of smiles while we stayed in the home.

One day, I came in to find Joe holding a new beach ball that we had brought with us to Fiji. He didn’t realize I was watching as he held it to his face, closed his eyes, took a big sniff, and opened his eyes wide to accompany the big grin that had stretched across his face. It seems that pungent, toxic smell of new plastic that as Americans we’ve learned will probably lead to a tumor growing out of your forehead means something completely different to a child in Fiji. To this little boy, that vinyl smell laced with dioxins meant something new, which is not something you always find in a family of limited means in Fiji. As someone who grew up in an area saturated with chemical pollution and drowning in materialism, I couldn’t help but think, “you don’t know how lucky you are, kid, that this is the first time you’ve smelled a new beach ball.”

The younger of the two boys, Koli, really kept us laughing. Anytime a camera was around, Koli was sure to be in front of it doing something outlandish. When Michelle asked him who his hero was he said, “Mr. Bean.” He was, indeed, the village ham. At 9 years old, he seemed destined to be the first Fijian sitcom child star. At times, he was funny without even trying, like when we went to go watch him play rugby. Koli is all of about 30 pounds including the weight of his attitude and confidence, which makes watching him play rugby with kids much bigger than him hilarious. For starters, Koli can fit his entire body into one of the legs of his favorite pair of shorts…and have room to spare. Secondly, and even though I’ve got to give him credit for heart, when he runs after the other boys on the rugby field his legs look like two toothpicks attached to a string bean. But he was, nonetheless, a happy, funny kid.

In any event, as the novelty in the village, it wasn’t long before the kids took to us like human jungle gyms. For the last 3 weeks I was in the village it seemed like there wasn’t a moment during the day when there wasn’t at least one kid hanging off my arms or dragging on one of my legs. It was a little like watching a caribou on the summer tundra in Alaska. In the summer in Alaska the bugs get so bad that they virtually cover the poor caribou, driving them to near madness. Every once in a while, the caribou get to the point that they just can’t stand it any more and they buck, snort, and shake violently until all the bugs are thrown from their body…only to return less than a second later. Eventually, the caribou just seem to accept that they can’t get rid of the bugs. However, I did use one of the tricks the caribou use to escape the bugs. Head for the water!

One day, I decided to go swimming with one of the other volunteers in the river next to the village. The day before, I had gotten a sunburn on my neck and arms and thought this would be the best thing to cool those areas down and simultaneously keep the kids off. What I didn’t count on was that the kids had never seen a sunburn on a whiter-than-white guy. The questions about what happened was easy enough to answer, even if they didn’t understand, but I really wish they hadn’t thought that they could “rub the red off” as if it were a stain or dirt.

Anyhow, the next part of the story is another cultural learning lesson. While we were swimming in the river, we found an area where we could stand on the sand and, with our entourage of children ages 6 to 14, we started a game of “chicken fighting”, where one person sits on the shoulders of another and tries to knock the person in the same position of another person’s shoulders. They were already familiar with this game, so we weren’t teaching them anything new, but I was about to teach them something that resulted in devastating repercussions.

I hoisted one of the local boys on my shoulders and went up against Palden, my colleague in Nabua, and one of the other boys on his shoulders. Reverting back to our own childhoods, we were having a blast. However, as the boy on my shoulders began to lose ground, instinct kicked in and winning became imperative. Without thinking I did what any 9-year-old boy in America would do to gain an advantage at the waterline position…I reached out with both hands and twisted Palden’s nipples whereby we promptly won the match. The next thing I knew there was an eruption of nipple twists in every direction! Boys twisting boys, girls twisting girls, and (GASP!) boys twisting girls!!! “WAIT!!!”, I yelled, trying to gain some control over the nipple twisting melee that had ensued. I then tried to explain to them that even though I had done that, it was inappropriate to do so, especially so for boys to do that to girls.

Children are smart, and pick things up quickly, much to my dismay in this case. And, in another instance of cultural learning, it was again reemphasized with me that even though there are certain assumptions over what is appropriate conduct in our own culture, those same assumptions may have no bearing whatsoever in another…even the simple ones. I only hope that none of them went home that night and had to explain to their parents, “the valangi did it and he’s from America so it must be OK…”

The Beginning

The Site Visit

Cultural Experience 1

Cultural Experience 2

Cultural Experience 3

Michelle and I have been placed with wonderful family in the small village of Nabua (pronounced Nam-bua), which is about a 20-minute bus ride capped by a 2-minute boat ride from Nausori. It is a beautiful little village on the Rewa River about a 30-minute boat ride from the ocean. Nabua has a population of about 90 people in the village proper distributed through 27 homes. Our host family owns one of the larger homes in the village which consists of a 2-story cinder block home that is nicely decorated…and, again, far more than what we expected. When we arrived, we were immediately told that we were considered “one of the family”. Ta (Father; first name “Kolinio”) and Na (Mother; first name “Sainimoli”) Tavuki have been incredibly gracious and accommodating since we’ve been at their home. Ta is a 59 year old retiree of the Fijian Army and an incredibly kind and generous soul. Na is a 54 year old school teacher who is just as caring and an accommodating as Ta. Needless to say, we feel incredibly fortunate to have been placed with this family. Also in the house are Paulo and Meke, two nephews in their early 20’s, Emmi, a daughter of 18, and Josaia and Koli ages 8 and 10, two grandsons from a daughter who is currently working and living Rorotonga of the Cook Islands.

Ta and Na have been ensuring that we’ve been gaining weight, serving the best of Fijian cuisine including RouRou (shrimp wrapped in taro leaves and cooked in coconut milk) and, of course, plenty of cassava, taro, and potatoes. And, of course, there have been several “grog sessions” involving kava drinking. Grog is more of a social event than anything in the village, even though traditionally it was reserved for formal occasions that involved only chiefs. For those of you familiar with King of the Hill, the community hall is the men’s “alley” where they go to hang out. I swear to you the other night I heard the words “Io (ee-yo; Fijian for “yep”)…io…io…uh-huh” come out in sequence from four of the men. Now, supposedly, you can get intoxicated from drinking kava, but I think it’s the same way you can get stoned from smoking banana peels or hemp rope…you’ve got to ingest a crap-ton of it to feel any effects. So far, the only effects I’ve felt are mild relaxation (which could also simply be due to the heat and humidity that hangs on you like a pile of hot wet rope) and the need to get up and pee at least 5 times during the night. Needless to say, drinking grog doesn’t make for a restful night’s sleep despite the sedative properties.

The first night drinking grog, I was positioned as the “chief” since I was the eldest male in our village group of Caucasians. I went through the ceremony like I’m supposed to, honoring their traditions and practices…except for sitting cross-legged on the floor for extended periods. Given that I haven’t sat that way since Mrs. Hendrick’s 4th grade class at Polk Elementary, my hips and knees just don’t have the stamina necessary to sit on the floor for longer than it takes to sing, “Mary had a little Lamb”. Anyhow, while I’m sitting there, one of the older men passes me a banana leaf with something wrapped in it and says something that sounds like “Evie nut”, suggesting that I should eat one. Upon looking into the leaf, my first thought was, “dear God, please let this not be what it looks like.” Now, the term “nut”, in American culture, can mean a variety of things, one of which includes a certain part of the male anatomy. I can tell you that the “Ivi” nut looks exactly like that part of the anatomy, only large enough to belong to a large animal. It was then I realized that everyone was staring at me waiting for me to take a bite. So I smiled, took a deep breath, and bit into, thankfully, what was actually a seed from the Ivi tree that is also known as a Tahitian chestnut. It smelled a little like feet, but didn’t taste bad, not that I would go out of my way to eat them given the chance. In part, I think this is because they prepare them by boiling, which for those of you who’ve had boiled peanuts can attest are an “acquired taste”. In any event, it was one of the first steps I took to integrate into the culture that will become mine over the next two years.

Understanding culture and integrating is an important part of the Peace Corps experience. One thing that we’ve all come to understand is the profound impact our own American culture has had on the rest of the world. There is virtually nowhere in the world that you can go today where you will not find American music, fashion, and food. McDonald’s is a great example. The only continent where McDonald’s does not exist is Antarctica, and I hear that they are considering one at McMurdo Station. Now, at the risk of being completely politically incorrect I’d like to use the next story as a teachable moment to demonstrate the sometimes negative impact of globally exporting our culture.

Anyone who knows me knows that, regarding my sense of humor, I am a 15 year old boy trapped in a 37 year old man’s body. The dumbest, most infantile humor can make me laugh hysterically, which is why TV shows like South Park and Family Guy are two of my favorites. Irony and absurdity is comedy king in my book. If you can incorporate a midget, a monkey, and a poop joke, you’ve hit the funny tri-fecta. So, I can easily find humor in many things that others find offensive. I say this as a preface to this story because the story demonstrates how American culture is not immune from the law of unintended consequences, and how what is offensive in one culture may not necessarily be interpreted that way in another.

One of the older volunteers (early 60’s) was assigned to a more urban area. Like all of the rest of us, he got a family profile in advance that described the village, family, and other attributes, including if anyone in the household smokes and whether they have a family pet. So this volunteer is reading through his profile and comes across the name for the family pet. Let me pause to explain that the Melanesians living in the South Pacific have not been subject to the same influences in the states, so when they hear a term used, say, on BET, a Chris Rock comedy special, or a Tyler Perry movie, they assume that it is common practice to use that term. So the volunteer has read the name of the family dog and feels the need to ask the Peace Corps country staff, “Excuse me, but how do I pronounce this?” She responds, “exactly how you think it should be pronounced.”

Now, I will say that if a dog were named “Ni__er” in the U.S. there would almost certainly be a lawsuit, but here in Fiji, even though the Melanesian people have very dark skin and might even be labeled with that epithet if in the U.S., they seem to think that it is perfectly acceptable, because that’s what they’ve heard on American TV. My reaction when I heard this was, of course, shock, but then I couldn’t help but say “oh…my…Gawd!” and laugh at the absurdity of it. Even funnier was the look on the volunteer’s face at the thought of saying “Here Ni__er!” to call the family dog. My next thought was that if The Dave Chappelle Show were still running, this would be comedy gold…

One of the other politically incorrect things I observed this last week was a result of our own American cultural influence as well. It turns out that Americans ship a lot of our secondhand clothes to other places around the world, so it’s not uncommon to see a campaign shirt for a state senate seat in Oregon from 1980 or a T-shirt with such timely phrases as “Where’s the Beef?” when walking around Fiji. The other day, I saw something that I couldn’t help but laugh out loud about, because I’m sure the guy wearing the shirt had no idea about the irony of wearing it.

At the ferry landing across the river, there’s a young man who is missing his legs from the waist down and is confined to a wheelchair. Before you condemn me, I’m not about to make fun of his handicap, but I will make fun of his shirt as it relates to his handicap. He was wearing a T-shirt with an image on the front of Charlie Brown flying through the air after trying to kick the football that Lucy has pulled away at the last minute once again. Now this is not so funny, but on the back, in 5 inch high letters across his back, is the word “AAARRGH!” Now I don’t care who you are, that’s funny…

So, needless to say, not only are we learning a lot about the Fijian culture, but we’re also learning a lot about our own.

We’ve been in Fiji for a little over 3 days, but it already feels like it’s been several weeks. From the moment we stepped of the airplane in Nadi it feels like we’ve been going non-stop. We stopped first in a town called Deuba (pronounced Day-oom-bah) and attended our first sevusevu, or traditional welcome ceremony, where our “chief” represented us before our Fijian counterparts. Our chief was a fellow Peace Corps volunteer named Tony, a silver fox in his 60s with a personality reminiscent of a combination of Don Rickles and Mickey Rooney and a personal history that reads like a character out of a Jimmy Buffet novel…experience ranging from high school dropout to enlisted Navy, then Air Force officer, then lawyer, and then one of the most prominent purveyors of menswear in California prior to retiring and joining the Peace Corps. In Fijian culture they place a strong emphasis on age as a measure of respect. Since Tony was of an age that he probably personally knew the inventor of the wheel (Come to think of it, he does remind me of Mel Brooks’ 2000 year old man…), undeserved or not, he received the status of “chief.” Unlike in the U.S., wisdom is just assumed with age even if in fact you possess the wisdom of a garden slug. Don’t get me wrong, I do sincerely like Tony…he’s one of my favorite people in the group and I have tremendous admiration and respect for him. Nonetheless, I only hope that I’m half as cantankerous and crotchety as him when I’m his age... At a community hall not far from what would be our night’s accommodations, our new Fijian families treated us to both a traditional Fijian ceremony as well as a traditional Hindi welcome ceremony. The formal sevusevu ceremony is rich with tradition and custom and has an air of solemnity similar to any formal religious ceremony. The guests are seated in the “upper house” or the forward end of the room. Near the center of the room, the hosting chief squeezes pounded kava root in a cloth bag while facing the guests and flanked on either side of the kava bowl by two additional senior village officials. A large braided rope about 6 feet long with large symmetrically attached cowrie seashells extends from the bowl toward the guests. Before entering the room we were issued our Peace Corps sulus (yes, this is the first time Bubba wears a skirt), which consisted of a piece of silk-screened cotton fabric about the size of a large beach towel. We all put on our new skirts…over our clothing of course…at least until we all learn to sit cross-legged without giving everyone a show…it is a family engagement after all. Then we entered the room, removed our shoes, and followed Tony to the head of the room, crouching slightly to show humility and respect before sitting cross-legged in a semicircle behind Tony. Chief Tony sits immediately before the extended braided rope and the Fijian chief recites a series of what sounds like prayers as other members of the Fijian contingent chant abrupt affirmations that seem to punctuate the end of the chief’s long, methodic hymns. The Fijian chief then offered the first bowl of kava to Chief Tony, who was obligated to drink it all in one fail swoop. Now remember my previous description of kava…muddy water sucked through a dirty sweatsock. The look on Tony’s face was priceless… We all then shared cups of kava as it was passed around to all the new Peace Corps volunteers. With each cup handed out the recipient was required to ceremoniously clap once before grasping the cup and then clap three times upon passing it back toward the chief. And the clap is important, too…no golf claps or girly claps. The goal is to get a deep, manly, resonant clap by slightly cupping your hands and using your palms more than your fingers. After everyone had received a couple of cups of kava, the Hindi ceremony began with the Indo-Fijian Chief bringing out a tray containing a flammable incense, a colored paste (tikka), and an additional tray of sweets. The incense was ignited and a black, sooty smoke was wafted in a circle around Tony’s face and the colored paste was smeared on his forehead…again, the look was priceless…and everyone was offered a variety of Indian cakes and candies representing the “sweetness” of the new relationship. This concluded our initial introduction to the Fijian way of life less than 3 hours after we set foot on Fiji. We then attended a training on appropriate dress and some cultural and security concerns…basic things like “watch what the locals do” and, regarding personal security, what boils down to “don’t be stupid.” Actually, those two rules work well in any general situation where you’re trying to fit in, especially the latter. Later in the afternoon, we had water safety training. (Hallelujah! *angels singing*) Five hours in Fiji and we’re headed for a secluded sandy beach to relax in swimmable water! Coming from Alaska, you have no idea how much we appreciate this considering that any water in Alaska is cold enough to make any man question his gender upon entering…usually you squeal like a little girl and George Costanza’s “shrinkage” is given a whole new meaning shortly thereafter. Water safety training requires us to wear life preservers as a mandated protocol. Now, at least they don’t issue us the orange bricks that fit like a public square stockade around your neck, but the ones they do issue are the full vest-type that basically perform the same function as an 800 fill power down ski vest in addition to being a floatation device…keep in mind that it is what has been described to me as “oppressively” hot during certain times of the year here. Nonetheless, we were basically told in no uncertain terms that we were to wear these mobile ovens any time we were on, near, or even thinking about being near the water. One current volunteer described how she was required to wear a life preserver crossing a stream that was 50 yards across and slightly better than ankle deep. We may die of heat stroke, but at least we won’t drown! Ah, the government… In any event, it was great to get in the water and feel the gentle waves rhythmically lapping against our skin. We went through some basic water safety rules (again “don’t be stupid”) and had sort of a swim test where a small boat took us out about 50 yards and dropped us off to swim back. After learning about some of the dangerous sea creatures in the area (stingrays, stonefish, sea snakes, cone snails, and fire coral…oh, and sharks…lots of sharks) we were allowed to swim and snorkel around the area. At that point I was thinking, “hmmm, I could get used to this Peace Corps thingy.” After heading back from the beach (which, if I failed to mention, was about 75 yards from where we were staying) one of the volunteers named Sarah offered to conduct a yoga session that evening. Now, I’ve never done yoga, but I decided there was no time like the present to try. So later that evening, as the sun was setting, we went back down to the same beach to participate in a free yoga lesson. Sarah went easy on us, but I definitely discovered that guys named Bubba simply just aren’t made to bend or balance certain ways. Nonetheless, stretching and breathing on a South Pacific island beach as the sun was setting was spectacular! We then went back to the compound we were staying at to eat for what felt like the 8th time that day. It turns out Fijians LOVE to eat…and they love meaty, starchy foods that they serve at every meal as well as morning and afternoon teas. They had chicken and fish served along white bread, white rice, and white potatoes. The only green on the entire table consisted of a few peas mixed in the chicken stir-fry. Green vegetables are not very popular here, cooked or otherwise. Furthermore, I asked the Fijian cooks what kind of fish it was and they looked at me and said “fried” as if I had an arm growing out of my forehead. The combination of jetlag, no sleep on a cramped, stinky, and hot overseas flight, and being stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey led to one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had in a long time. Moreover, it’s been a long time since the most important thing I’ve had to worry about is when the travel constipation might subside (the plumbing has since been working smoothly in case you were wondering). There is something truly amazing about being able to unload all your existing responsibilities. It’s like taking that evil monkey off your back, beating the crap out of him, dropping an elbow from the top rope, and tossing the little furry bastard bleeding and whimpering into a gutter…and not feeling any remorse whatsoever. It took about a day, but once I accepted that all my previous responsibilities are now someone else’s (sorry, Heather!) it was incredible how good that felt. No email, no Blackberry, no calendar, no meetings…aaaaahhhhh! Needless to say, I slept like I’d been chloroformed. The next morning started with a breakfast of Chinese cereal knockoffs that included “Weeties,” “Happy O’s,” and these small bricks of supposedly whole-wheat product with the consistency and flavor of drywall called “Wheat Bix”. I can only hope that these were the “melamine-free” versions (I think that’s an ad campaign for Chinese products now, like “fat free” or “cholesterol free”). We had fresh papaya, too, which was great, but I got the impression that fruit might have been reluctantly placed there on request. On the other hand, there was plenty of white bread… We then loaded up and traveled another 2.5 hours by bus through Suva to a facility just outside Nausori called the Center for Appropriate Technology and Development, where we would spend the next few days in training. Now, I’m not sure why you would want to put such a subjective term like “appropriate” into your title, but my guess is that people here like the idea of giving it their own individual meaning. What is “appropriate” technology or development? I guess only an attorney would even pick this out…”go with the flow” I have to keep telling myself. I was actually somewhat stunned by the accommodations we had received thus far, with Michelle and I actually receiving a separate room from the rest of the folks crammed into boot camp style barracks. Not that I regret missing the belching, scratching, snoring, and farting that was surely pervasive in the men’s barracks, but Michelle and I came prepared to actually be separated for the first 7 weeks. Moreover, we both expected much more Spartan accommodations, when in actuality the quarters we received were much nicer than where we would stay if traveling independently. One of the places we stayed while traveling in Honduras we had to ask the staff to please clean the cat poop from in front of our door…before we even paid for our room. Not that I’m complaining, but so far this is not what I expected from Peace Corps. We’re OK with that, though! For now we’ll enjoy the running water, showers, scenic overlooks, and all the greasy, starchy food we can eat. I’m sure we’ll be tried and tested soon enough!

...like a herd of turtles! Tonight we checked in and submitted our paperwork for departure. We also got to meet some of our cohorts that will be joining us as Peace Corps volunteers in Fiji. It was an interesting and exciting mix of personalities, ethnicities, ages, and cultures. In other words, it was truly representative of everything that makes America great. We were surprised to find out that there is even another married couple joining us on this adventure; a delightful couple from Minnesota who are almost as sure to melt as we Alaskans are when the plane hits the ground in Nadi (pronounced "Nahndi").

Tomorrow morning at 8AM we begin pre-departure training. We're not entirely sure what that means, but we're sure it involves more paperwork and probably some commentary about personal safety (which can be summarized in the statement "Don't be stupid!"). Shortly thereafter in the evening, we board an Air Pacific jet for a 10.5 hour flight to the South Pacific Island Nation of Fiji! Everyone is excited about the "swim test" that is supposed to occur en route between the plane and the training facility. We will also attend a traditional welcome ceremony (called a sevusevu) where I suppose some of us may try kava for the first time (Michelle and I already have and it's a little like sucking muddy water through a used sweatsock...but it makes you feel very relaxed!!).

Anyhow, we're slowly letting go of our lives in Alaska and getting excited at the prospect of living and working in an island paradise. For those of you who haven't bothered to research where Michelle and I are disappearing to for the next two years, I'll make it easy for you. Just go to this link for the basics: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fiji

We may be sans interweb for a few days as we settle in, but look forward to pictures and posts soon describing our experience on the ground in Fiji!!

Well, the last two weeks has flown by. It’s kind of been like we’ve been in training to be astronauts…slung around continuously at breakneck speeds. In terms of pace, it’s like we have been living the movie “The Right Stuff”, except that we don’t anticipate being violated like the two characters who found themselves waddling down a hallway with an object shoved in an uncomfortable place…at least until we reach international airport security in L.A. Nonetheless, over the last two weeks we’ve both been scrambling at our jobs to tie up loose ends and make sure our respective organizations are left in a good place. This means, in part, cleaning up and organizing things at work that have probably needed it for over three years. It’s a little like finally getting around to organizing that kitchen “junk drawer.” You all know what I’m talking about… In any event, no matter how hard you try to prepare things in advance, you always seem to be running around like a squirrel that found a tasty little white rock in a public park until the last minute. Despite the best laid plans and preparations that really started over 5 weeks ago, it is absolutely true that no matter how hard you try you will never be completely done. It’s like an asymptotic curve...you keep halving the distance, but never completely get there. But at least one of these things we got out of the way 5 days early! Or at least we thought we did… Miracle of miracles, we managed to get everything that we need…or at least we thought we needed…packed into our 160 pound allotment with at least 3.5 ounces to spare! Of course, it was not without serious contemplation about what really constitutes a “necessity.” Someone, who shall remain nameless, finally decided that since we can actually buy shampoo in Fiji, that it might not be necessary to bring the 4 pound bottle of shampoo she was originally planning to bring. For my part, I took out a pair of heavy cotton dress slacks on the recommendation of a Peace Corp volunteer in-country who recommended not bringing them despite Peace Corp’s suggestion. It turns out that the warm, wet climate and high concentration of mold can turn your khaki Chinos into a pair of furry, green disasters in short order. My guess is furry green slacks may be appropriate for a pimp, but not a Peace Corps volunteer. In any event, we got things pared down to a “manageable” level into something that resembles “necessities.” Then one of the in-country volunteers informed us that the 160 pound Peace Corps limit is not enforced and that in reality you are only limited by the airline restrictions, which is 50 pounds per bag…annndddd the packing process starts all over again… Michelle immediately says “Woohoo! That means I’ve got 40 more pounds to work with!” Notice that I’m not even given the option of reconsidering repacking underwear as my weight allotment simply defaulted to my wife. Michelle was also careful to point out that the metric conversion of Air Pacific allowed for 50.7 pounds, because that additional 0.7 pounds is important. Of course, we discovered this only 3 days before we were planning to leave to go visit friends in L.A. (Cue the Dukes of Hazzard banjo music and speed up the film 4x…) If there’s one thing I’ve learned about international travel, it’s that you can never anticipate everything you might need. The other thing I’ve learned is that even though you can’t anticipate it, no matter how hard you try to anticipate what you need, you will bring something that will prove itself utterly useless in time. Thus, it becomes important to intently consider every item by honestly asking questions about each item you pack such as “does it make sense to pack a coat?” or “should I bring monkey repellent?” If you ask these questions honestly, you can’t help but acknowledge that: (A) unless you were raised on the surface of the sun you couldn’t possibly find any season in Fiji cool enough to need a coat; and (B) there are no monkeys in Fiji. Bat repellent on the other hand, may be a consideration…http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MegabatNeedless to say, we now have 4 checked bags that are within 0.2 pounds of the limit that are filled to almost bursting with…um…necessities… Then we have our carry-on’s, too, which are at least 20 pounds apiece. You can’t really call it “carrying” when you have 6 bags that total 240 pounds. It’s more like “mounding and dragging.” I’m pretty certain that I’m going to have scoliosis by the time I get to our duty station in Fiji. As it is, I’m already starting to hunch over and drag one foot like Quasimodo... Nonetheless, it’s still hard to feel “excited” at this point, as the reality hasn’t sunken in yet about what we’re actually doing. Maybe once we’re on the plane…

The packing experience for the Peace Corps introduces a whole new level of frugality for Michelle and I. Keep in mind that we generally don’t have a lot of “stuff.” We live well beneath our means and because we live in a 490 square foot condo we have no choice but to limit what we accumulate. Fortunately, we own everything outright and will be renting our condo fully furnished when we leave, allowing for minimal storage of toys and winter clothes in our garage. However, packing away our household is a story all to itself, so in this entry I will just focus on the stuff we actually plan on taking to Fiji.

For good reason, the Peace Corps deliberately restricts the amount of stuff you can bring with you. We each have 80 pounds total that we may bring with us and of that 80 pounds only one bag may be 50 pounds. The idea is that you bring enough clothing and absolute necessities to last you for 2 years. If you think that’s easy, well, think again. Imagine if you had to pick 80 pounds worth of things that would constitute all your worldly possessions for the next 2 years. Most of us would have a hard time just narrowing that down to the most important ton, much less the most important pounds.

Luckily, thanks to that wonderful series of tubes called the interweb, we were able to get some advice from current and former Fiji Peace Corps volunteers. Of course, there are things that some think important that others consider frivolous. For some, a surfboard is a critical item, for others a coffee press is an absolute necessity. For me, those who know me know I wouldn’t go anywhere without some fishing gear. I can openly admit that sorting through my “important” fishing gear required some serious triage on my part (I stand by my conviction that it is still a hobby and not an addiction!), but I managed to get it down to about 5 pounds of tackle and 5 pounds of rods and reels. This was no easy task, but I’d as soon leave behind all my underwear before I’d leave behind my fishing gear. Furthermore, as divers, we were told by several folks in Fiji that they regretted not bringing their own dive gear. That means for us that one bag and 50 pounds instantly became fully allocated.

Even clothing decisions become complicated. You would think that oppressive heat akin to being permanently trapped in a sauna and humidity that suggests you might chew the air before inhaling would easily dictate your clothing choice…like going buck naked. Unfortunately, letting it all hang out is simply not an option and, besides, for guys as white as me there are certain parts you just don’t want getting sunburned. Lucky for us (and for the people of Fiji) it turns out that there are moral standards in Fiji just like anywhere else and they require covering your goods. And there is even a certain standard of dress for both men and women to ensure that the appropriate modicum of professionalism is maintained. This means skirts for women…and for men, too… Nobody has given me a straight answer yet on what you actually wear (or don’t wear) under your skirt, known as a “sulu,” but it brings to mind the image of Mel Gibson with blue paint on his face screaming “Freeeeedommmm!” in his role as William Wallace in Braveheart. In any event, this has clearly influenced my thought process regarding clothing to bring…or not to bring.

Before I go any further I have to exclaim that I love my wife dearly. She is the most compassionate, considerate, and loving woman that I have ever known. I can’t imagine embarking on this adventure in the Peace Corps with anyone but her. However, in travelling over the last 4 years to different places around the globe, I’ve learned a lot about Michelle and her packing habits. Now, I have to admit, there have been times where I have appreciated things that she has brought along against my recommendation, such as pillows, hammocks, etc. However, we’ve also given complete tours of foreign countries to other items that we’re never even removed from our bags.

Two weeks ago, we started to pack. So dive gear was set aside, at exactly 50 pounds, and we each went about sorting through our clothing and other sundries to set things aside for our trip. It took me about 2 hours to sort and set aside all my clothing, which came to about 20 pounds. This would’ve been less except that Michelle kept adding to the pile faster than I could remove insisting that I had to bring certain shirts that she likes on me. As I suggested earlier, men are much less discerning of what they wear and naked is a viable option if allowed. All of this (with the exception of my 3 rod tubes and a collapsible Hawaiian sling) fit well within the same sea bag I used during my 6 years in the Navy. This left me the 10 pounds I needed for all the fishing gear I intended to bring. Done and done, right? Then I looked into the corner where Michelle had been accumulating things…

Now, it’s hard for me to describe the size of the pile without the appropriate image, but she has strictly forbidden me from taking a picture and posting it here. And to be fair, most of what she has set aside might actually be used at some point during our time in Fiji. But less than 80 pounds? Not even close…

Thus, since she’s forbidden me from posting the picture and I’d really like to tell the story, I’ll let Mel Brooks describe it for me in the accompanying video…

OK, ok, it’s actually not that bad. She’s not bringing a hair dryer or a suitcase of Mary Kay cosmetics. But there is a pile of travel books, about 4 pounds of empty ziplock bags, 17 pounds of toiletries, a bowling ball, and a rubber chicken…ok, so there’s not a rubber chicken…or a bowling ball…but there is 17 pounds of contact solution, shampoo, conditioner, and facial cleanser. To say the least, we have less than 3 weeks to defy the laws of physics and figure out how to pack 200 pounds down to a manageable 80. It’s gonna be painful, but I know she can do it… ;-)

Most of you have already heard that we will soon be leaving Alaska to embark on a grand new adventure. On May 18, 2010, we will take volunteer positions with the U.S. Peace Corps, where we intend to commit ourselves to the service of others just as we have in our current and previous occupations.

In the service of others, we enrich ourselves with understanding, compassion, and experience that lasts a lifetime and lives on indefinitely through the lives of those we touch. Countless others throughout history have committed themselves to the greater good, including Ghandi, Mother Theresa, Jane Goodall, Jacques Yves Cousteau, and Martin Luther King Jr. One thing common among all of these figures is that they led not by words, but by actions. And through their actions, they changed the world. We can never hope to even slightly compare to these great men and women of history, nor do we expect to change the world. However, we do hope to give at least a little of ourselves to the greater good of humanity in the hopes of leaving the world, even if infinitesimally, a little better than when we came into it.

The Peace Corps traces its roots and mission to 1960, when then Senator John F. Kennedy challenged students at the University of Michigan to serve their country in the cause of peace by living and working in developing countries. From that inspiration grew an agency of the U.S. federal government devoted to world peace and friendship. Later, in 1961, President John F. Kennedy established the Peace Corps to promote world peace and friendship. The Peace Corps' mission has three simple goals:

· Helping the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women.

· Helping promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served.

· Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans.

In recognition of these goals, with a renewed call to service, and in observance of the 50th anniversary of the Peace Corps, we are proud to accept an invitation to serve in the Peace Corps in Fiji. We feel very fortunate that we have been selected for the South Pacific not only because only 5% of all Peace Corps volunteers are ultimately selected for service in that region, but also because it is difficult to place married couples together in service. The Peace Corps has asked Bubba to continue work in Fiji that is not much different from what he has done in recent years, promoting sustainable fisheries and marine resource protection in a biologically rich environment on which many communities depend. They have asked Michelle, to utilize her own skills in public health, very much an extension of her own work with the American Lung Association. Given this unique opportunity to use our skills to give back to the community in a meaningful way in a region that needs the help, we are very excited about our upcoming Peace Corps service.

We are sure to miss Alaska, but are also looking forward to Fiji and all that it has to offer. Moreover, we hope that our friends and family will visit this blog from time to time to see what we are up to.

Lastly, while our accommodations will likely be very modest, you all have a place to stay should you find yourself with a desire and means to visit Fiji!

Life is calling, how far will you go? - Peace Corps Motto