TASHY TRAVELS

Every Sunday, I am going to upload a post about the different countries I have visited and/or lived in since 2002.

I can assure you of some interesting stories.

POTTYED FIJI

My slightly surreal observations while travelling through Fiji began almost as soon as we arrived. We had spent the our first week in Nadi, pronounced Nandy, where the international airport is, and Suva, the capital city. This may tell you something about Fijians as the two places are on opposite sides of the main island. It’s a four or five hour drive to get from one side to the other, unless you fly, in which case you may well ask, why stop at Nadi. By the way, Fijian pronunciation is such that “d” is pronounced “nd” and I thought about taking this into this article. But then, my children would call me NDandy or to be more precise NDandndy, London would only need to be Lodon and the lads of England would be green and pleasant, one of which they often are after going down to the pub on Saturday night. I would go to the beach and sit on the sad, listen to the bad playing and clap my hads in delight. Now wouldn’t that be grad.

But let’s return to Fiji, shall we. When we were journeying through the Pacific Islands we had no car and when you are in a small island country it is always better to sample the local transport system. In Fiji, or at least on Viti Levu, it is also a pretty good way to get around but you need to understand how it works.

Firstly, there are buses. Long, low, old with open windows covered by fold-down tarpaulins when it’s raining, these buses trundle, and that is just the right word, around the two cities and even along the Queen’s Road which connects the two places along the south of the island. Fijians, being fairly conservative sexually it would appear, have the Kings Road on the top. They were converted by missionaries weren’t they and so I suppose they just adopted their position on things. The buses are cheap, sparse inside but a good way to get around. More about these later.

Then there are minibuses. These are newer, the word minibus having not been invented when the buses were built. Looking at some of those buses, writing was in its infancy. The minibuses tend to hide around street corners until ready to leave. A group of young men will usher you into the minibus, the driver will maybe hear where you want to go and, for a fare, usually a little less than the bus, they will take you to your destination or as close as they can, on their route. The buses, oh one came along sooner than I thought, have a rope along each side of the roof attached to a bicycle bell and you pull this when you want the driver to stop. Minibuses have no such modern system and we discovered that you tap loudly on the window nearest you and amazingly the driver hears this, especially if you tap loudly and the glass shatters, and pulls over to let you get off.

I say amazingly, because you are normally accompanied on these journeys by extremely loud Fijian music. No Isa Lei here, in fact no chance of any lei; sleep would be impossible. Like the buses, these minibus also go all the way from Nadi to Suva and back again, a journey for them of about four hours. I must say they are very clean, often with plastic over the seats and the journey is really pleasant.

They stop along the way, although when my girlfriend wanted the toilet, the driver was seemingly quite prepared to stop at the side of the road for her, which is not the normal female way of doing things in Europe. He may, of course , have spotted that she is not really normal anyway although her toilet habits are pretty close to that of most people. Like my mother, she has a fear of toilet seats and usually pees in a squatting position in public, well public conveniences, avoiding contact with the seat. Sadly, unless you like a laugh, this once resulted in her peeing while the seat was completely shut. If this makes you laugh too much, and is some sort of eye watering experience, for her it was more foot watering. Anyway eventually our driver found a cafe and we were all relieved, some more than others.

Finally there are the taxis. We are back on transport here having left my girlfriend, as I have now done, and her toilet needs to one side. These are frequent, oh, maybe we haven’t. Anyway taxis are frequent too and while you can identify them by the word taxi on the roof, simple but true, the other way to do this is by the fact that if you are walking they will slow down and ask if you need a taxi. They are not rude or persistent, just frequent and inquisitive. Taxi fares are about three times those of the buses and minibuses but they do go off main routes and so sometimes they are essential.

Talking of going off main routes brings me back to a bus journey we made in Suva. I said these buses would be along again. We had taken a five-minute taxi ride, FJ$10 to a shop we needed to visit and decided that we should try a local experience and go back by bus. We duly made our way to the bus stop and, as had happened a few times before, we only had wait a few minutes before one lumbered up. Now we were standing by two bus stops. Forget that. Then a bus came along. We climbed on, paid our 50 cents and off we went.

My first lesson was that there are no designated bus stops or, if there are, the bus will stop anywhere else as well. We had gone but 500 metres when two potential passengers stuck out their hands and we stopped. I saw a person some 30 metres further on and thought maybe he was a bus spotter but no, we engaged gear, moved forward and stopped for him. He climbed on. Another thing to note here is that the passengers operate on Fijian time. In other words once they have rung the bicycle bell, see above, they don’t stand up until the bus has stopped and sometimes they have to walk the whole length of the bus. Also being very polite people, no one gets on until the last passenger has got off. Time waits for every Fijian and so must you.

Anyhow we continued this stop-start process for a while and then turned up a no through road. At the end, having picked up passengers on the left while some waited on the right, we turned and went back for them too. We did this a few times and I began to notice familiar landmarks as our journey continued. I am sure we passed one shop four times as we looped our way around Suva. Eventually we made our way back, the journey having taken us some 55 minutes. So much for a local experience.

One final point on Fiji buses. They have a strange way of classifying people. They have this sign at the front saying how many passengers it can take or how many school children. Sixty five passengers equal ninety-one schoolchildren. It would appear that a school child is about two-thirds of a passenger. One side of the bus has two seats and the other three. Mathematically I am therefore unsure how this works. As you can have three kids on the two side, this being the correct ratio, but not four and a half on the other side, are you following this. Where do the half children sit or do they have very small whole ones in some seats? Oh, OK forget the Maths, but on a scenic but repetitive bus journey what else is there to do and why are schoolchildren not passengers?

The next week found us on the Coral Coast at Mango Bay and then we went on to Beqa, pronounced Benga and no I can’t be bothered to do all that again, island. Mango Bay is full of……….., well it wasn’t actually. This is the trouble when you name things after a seasonal fruit. It only works at certain times of the year. We were in Fiji and the Mango season had not quite started. They were there, on the tree but hard as a rock and sour as anything. Well not anything, because sugar isn’t sour but anything else that is.

My girlfriend, a well-known fruit lover, was not happy but to make up for the lack of her favourite fruit and with water being bountiful, she tried scuba diving in the swimming pool. I know what you think but there we are. Looking on the bright side, she wouldn’t get the bends although as the sides of the pool were not straight she did have yet another opportunity to go round the bends. She also found, and I was surprised too, that she couldn’t go down as easily as she would have liked. She just sort of floated there, bum above the surface, mask below. Let’s face it, you couldn’t get much cheekier. So they added a bit of weight to her, using a weight belt around her stomach, something the good lord gave me without my even asking, and she sank a bit. This “how do I start things” has often worried me with certain activities. I now see you can start your scuba diving in a swimming pool. I suppose if you haven’t got a pool you could even use the bath. Could you wind surf there as well? Floating just ten inches above the plughole and balancing on your board where one false move could see you crash into the taps causing untold damage to you and your boogie, board that is. Hey, wait, this is more dangerous than the real thing. But ski jumping how do you start that? Cross-polar walking, now you only two chances of doing that and one is a bit fluid I believe. But wait, I may be wandering off on an ice shelf a bit here.

Let’s leave the water and ice for a while and turn our attention to the fire-walkers of Beqa. I don’t know about you but the soles of my feet are pretty tender. To be honest, they have not been exposed to the great hardness of life having led a sheltered existence mainly underneath the tops of my feet where they have spent many, many happy years. Sometimes they get tired, even look soulful, but a quiet, almost publicity-shy existence has been theirs. Occasionally, when I lie on the beach they will pop out and take a look at the sun; if I do a Fosbury Flop they may be on view for a few seconds (before accompanying me to the hospital) and, once in a while, as a treat, I expose them to the full force of a shower, if of course there is no bidet. I’m sorry, isn’t that what everyone does?

Quite frankly, the idea of these tender pieces of flesh walking over hot stones scares me and them. Two questions come to mind about this activity, firstly why, and that happens to be the second question too. We can all show off, some have more to show than others but size isn’t everything, but why walk on hot stones. Cold ones are bad enough and, according to my mother, who I feel we may meet quite often in these pages, can give you kidney problems; I never asked. But walking on hot stones is something that some of the villagers of Beqa do and they believe they were given this power by a little spirit who made everything the opposite of what it is. In other words for them, as they walk, the hot stones are cold.

I will leave the hot stone walking idea to them, but this idea of turning things to the opposite could catch on. For the rest of this year, 2007, and next, the United States could have an intelligent President, Britney Spears could be sane and the world could stop fighting. Given the choice, we probably have more chance with the last one, but still. What else could be changed? Hot ice cream that didn’t melt, day clubs instead of night clubs so you could all get some sleep and party, and missionaries who stick to their intended position, i.e. as preachers, without ramming things down your throat, an entirely different position, according to the book I’ve been reading and paragraph two. For the innocent amongst you, who got lost there and couldn’t see the relevance of that sentence, it was weight loss. Something that would make many of us a bit fitter and many people do achieve this. For the rest of us, you’ll just have to take it on the chin and swallow it. I’m talking about weight loss here in case there are any really non-innocents around.

Anyway these people, I’m back with the fire walkers by the way, choose to walk on hot stones and actually suffer no damage. The “don’t try this at home” adage is pretty strong I would say. Firstly, and most seriously, you could get burned; secondly you would make such a mess of the garden making the pit to put the hot stones in; thirdly it’s such hard work. In fact if you want to dig a big hole in your garden why not just jump in. Why go through the pain and burning bit and the effort of creating it; just leap in and sit in your own hole. Maybe only a contortionist can really benefit from that comment, but even if you feel like going out and digging a big hole in the garden, putting stones in it, piling on wood and then setting fire to it, I would suggest you might like to follow another Fijian, or indeed Pacific Island, tradition and throw a few shrimps on it and turn it into a barbie, food not doll. That is far more pleasant but no, we, the human race, don’t. We have to take it further and see what we can do with this hole.

We are such an inquisitive race. We see something, hear something, smell something, touch something or taste something and we always need to know what it is. Well those of us who don’t, just enjoy the blindfold bit. That was in the book too. But that maybe answers my first question. You should call it Mango Bay even when the Mangoes aren’t there because out in the big wide world, there are a plethora of plebiscites who want to find out where the mangoes are, so they come and visit you. Inquisitively speaking I should perhaps ask, and you click the photo and look at the bigger version, can they actually walk on these stones because they have their feet on the wrong legs?

Our final week in Fiji was spent on the little island of Wayalailai and there we could relax among real Fijians. One afternoon we went on a herbal medicine walk with an elder, possibly an elderberry, called Napota and this really got me thinking. Walking does that to me you know. It requires so little other thought. All I have to is put one foot in front of the other, making the choice of which one first is sometimes a problem. In fact when I was young at sports day we would have the 100 metres race, well I am so old that when I was young it was the 100 yards race, and being the 1950’s, the school didn’t have starting blocks so we stood on the starting line and I would always be thinking which foot first. And by the time I had just about worked it out, the gun would fire, and I would hop the first few steps and then break into a sprint. Looked funny but I still set a reasonable time. Talking of looking funny, these are Napota’s feet and where the phrase “toe-in” started. Something for the mechanics amongst you; this is such an educational set of blogs.

So, here I was on the medicine walk, one foot was already in front of the other, and I was thinking. Those of you who are actually taking notice here will know I was briefly stationary until, of course, the feet exchanged places. By the way let’s not make this column a complete waste of your time, in English we have two different words, stationary and stationery. The first one with an A toward the end means stopped as in a cAr while the second one, with an E toward the end means papEr etc as with Envelopes. More learning snippets later as necessary. This may be sooner than later as some people can never remember with the word necessary, how many c’s and how many s’s. The answer is that it is just like a shirt, one Collar and two Sleeves or one c and two s’s.

There are quite a few ways to learn things, memorising little snippets like this being one of them but another way to learn is by doing and this is what these indigenous people of old would do. I have no doubt that these people and indeed their ancestors were and are extremely knowledgeable about plants and their different properties. But learning by doing can have a few pitfalls. Come back with me now, bringing your imagination, a thousand years or so to a small Fijian community. Here we have a village of, let’s say 100 people, and one man who claims to be the medicine man. His name is Bert, not Fijian but it was your imagination we brought so don’t blame me.

“Hi Bert.”
“Hi Fred.”
“How are you today?”
“Not too good, Bert, got a bit of a stomach ache.”
“Well Fred, try this berry I just got off a tree, It should cure you. Just swallow about three. Here you are.”
“Wow, they taste really good Bert. I’m sure I’ll soon feel uck, gluck, uck, gluck”, followed by a small earthquake as Fred hits the deck.
Bert goes out and calls Fred’s family who come and collect the body. We knew he didn’t feel well they say, he probably came to you too late.

Later that day
“Hi Bert.”
“Hi Harry, how’s it going?”
“Well Bert, I seem to have that stomach ache that Fred died from, could that happen to me?”
“No chance Harry. Look I’ve just rubbed these leaves together for you and there is so much goodness in the juice, that stomach ache will be gone before you are”. (this is called irony)
“Thanks Bert. It tastes so good I’m sure Fred would still be here if, gluck, uck, gluck”, followed by small earthquake as Harry hits the deck.
Bert goes out and calls Harry’s family who come and collect the body. We knew he didn’t feel well they say, he probably came to you too late.

That evening
“Hi Bert.” (don’t you wish we called him peractive)
“Hi Arbuthnot, you look down.” (Thinks, so would I if I had a name like that)
“Well Bert I seem to have that stomach ache that Fred and Harry died from, could that happen to me?”
“No chance Arbuthnot, unless I’m going for a long-winded joke.”
“Sorry Bert?”
“Don’t worry Arbuthnot, try this brew. Just collected some leaves from that plant we never saw before. That will cure it.”
“Thanks Bert. Oh it’s just like camomile tea. I’m sure Fred and Harry would still be hereif, gluck, uck gluck, gluck, gluck”, followed by small earthquake as Arbuthnot hits the deck.

By now Bert is getting a bit worried so rather than saying anything, and knowing a joke is just around the corner, he pushes Arbuthnot under the bed.

Midnight
“Hi Bert.”
“Hi Jim, Can’t you sleep?”
“No, got this stomach ache that seems to be killing people off.”
“Hey Jim, I have the very thing for you. Just ground up this root to a powder and mixed it with water. Try that.”
“Great Bert.”
“But wait don’t drink it here as it’s a bit crowded under the bed at the moment.”
“Sorry?”
“I…I….I mean you may fall asleep straight away and I don’t want you under my bed.”
“No problem.”

Next morning “Bert, that drink you gave me last night was so good. I have no trace of my stomach ache and I slept so well. If only Harry, Arbuthnot and Fred had come to you. By the way no one can find Arbuthnot, any ideas? If he’s dead, his family won’t be able to pay the tax they now charge for burials.” “Oh dear Jim. (and this has been a long time coming) I think I can safely say that Arbuthnot coming any more; it’s only taxis now.”

Right, now you may have got slightly lost here, but my point is how many times did they try, before they got it right and how many lives were lost. Obviously some of the sayings that have been handed down to us, in my case mostly by my mother who was a great sayer although lacking somewhat in the sooth department, came from this period. I mean we always talk about trial and error don’t we? It’s almost as if we know we won’t get it right first time. It’s never trial and success. I bet with these medical things it was the same. WMD’s, wonderful medical discoveries almost always failed first. You got the wrong berry, the wrong leaf or, most serious of all, the wrong bush. That really hurt. In fact you could kill any number of villagers if you got the wrong bush.

Another of these sayings is “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again. Three goes and still no promise of success. I once heard Spike Milligan, in one of his sudden asides, say “if at first you don’t succeed, give up.” Sounds far more sensible as a proverb. Maybe we could improve others too:-

You take the high road and I’ll stay here – no sense in us both going.
Do unto others before they do it to you.
When one door closes, you’re trapped.
The light at the end of the tunnel is the train coming the other way.
You can fool some of the people all the time, or all of the people some of time, or the American people at election time.

Let me finish with two worrying pictures, considering the above story. When we arrived on Wayalailai, Napota, he of the pull-rod feet, had appointed me as the tourist chief. The actual owner of the island resort came across while we were there, he rather worryingly lived on the mainland, and we had the traditional kava ceremony. Therefore, once the owner had drunk, the poisoned chalice, sorry coconut shell, was given to me. Napota, on my right, looks a trifle worried as I sup the drink. So do his two colleagues.

Then, as I hand the cup back, getting ready to clap three times, Napota closes his eyes in prayer, hoping he had mixed up the right kava. One colleague joins him while the second drops his eyes in a slightly apprehensive gesture. But it was fine: I’m still here.

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