Organically Yours

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...

Fruitcakes in Common

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!

Cancer, Heart Disease, or Unborn Baby

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.

An Ocean of Possibilities

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!

Meet the Critters

“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.

Swear Words

“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 5^th 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!”