We're going where?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nits and Snot Bubbles

There are three things in Fiji that I have determined are absolute certainties: (1) a dropped slice of buttered toast always lands butter side down…on a trail of ants; (2) a cat that falls out of a tree always lands on its feet…immediately before being eaten by the village stray dogs; and (3) the child with the largest snot bubble inevitably targets the biggest germaphobe in your group like a heat seeking missile…and I’ve seen some trophy snot bubbles since arriving in Fiji! From the single-nostril slinger to the nose-to-lip green double runner, I’ve seen some whoppers. Now, this gets me to a discussion about public health in Fiji.

It wasn’t that long ago in the U.S. that people thought getting wet when it was cold outside caused head colds, so I make no judgments about the Fijian peoples understanding of what causes disease or illness. Since Leuwenhoek first peered through his pinhole microscope at the little monsters in a droplet of water over a century ago, western science has come a long way in understanding that disease is not caused by evil spirits, curses, or the weather, but by tiny little critters we now know as viruses and bacteria. Fiji, especially rural Fiji, is still learning about these advances.

One volunteer, who came down with a particularly bad case of explosive diarrhea, was told by his Fijian host family that it was the result of him walking past the “devil tree.” Now, this is not like the proverbial and hypothetical “ugly tree” that many of us in the U.S. have experienced either first hand or after a long night drinking and the donning of the “beer goggles.” These particular folks genuinely believed that this devil tree, which happened to be a common tree in the region, caused sickness just through the simple act of walking past it. Why they just didn’t cut the tree down and solve their disease problems altogether I have no idea, but my suspicion is that they felt an even greater curse than the trots would befall them if they did. Either way, it makes no logical sense to those of us with even the most rudimentary health education.

In Fiji, ailments are also often blamed on the weather, the wind, and, of course, missing church. However, when people do not have access to the same level of health education that we in the U.S. benefit from, you can’t expect them to understand that bacteria and viruses spread through human contact, water, or food are really causing the disease and, moreover, that it could be easily prevented, or at least mitigated, by simply washing using soap and water and thoroughly cooking food. But even “cleanliness” has a subjective meaning here in Fiji no different than it does in the U.S.

One good example of the impact of culture on the concept of cleanliness involved a volunteer living in an Indo-Fijian settlement. This volunteer, in an effort to win over her family, committed to preparing an entire Indian meal for a special dinner. After hours of preparing roti, chutney, and various curries she came to the point where she was ready to serve the meal. What she didn’t know was that despite the hundreds of times she likely washed her hands and dishes throughout the day she was unclean!

In the course of conversation with one of the older Indo-Fijian women, they came to the subject of women’s cultural role in the Indo-Fijian society where, through some unexplained diversion the subject of women’s monthly visitor came up and that women experiencing this are deemed “unclean” and are limited in things that they can do during this time. So the volunteer expressed, “Well I guess it’s a good thing that I’m just coming off mine!”

Collective gasps and shocked expressions preceded the women virtually picking her off the floor as they shuttled her to the most remote part of the house in a swirl of saris and indistinguishable panicked Hindi expressions in an effort to remove the unclean creature from the presence of others and the food that had been prepared…by her. Yes, the most offensive of offensive things that one can do when Aunt Flo comes to visit is to prepare food with unclean hands! After some discussion, and the realization that the ENTIRE meal for about 15 people had been prepared by this volunteer, they were able to rationalize that since it was the end of her period that they could overlook her filthiness just this once.

But there are issues of genuine hygiene and sanitation that have a profound impact on public health in Fiji. Much of it stems from the lack of clean running water or the fact that when it comes down to buying two loaves of bread or a bar of soap for $1.15, the bread is generally going to have priority. Shampoo isn’t even a consideration for a number of reasons including expense. Nonetheless, some of the most problematic health issues could be resolved with these simple substances.

A good example is the profound existence of boils in Fiji. A boil is a staphylococcus infection that encysts at the base of a hair follicle. For those of you unfamiliar with what a boil is, imagine the worst zit of your teenage years so large and swollen that it hurt to look at or touch, much less squeeze. Multiply that times 10 and place it anywhere on your body and you have a boil. These things are so tenacious and painful they can prevent you from walking or sitting…depending on where the boil is located. And, as many Fijians exhibit, they can leave physical scars if not treated properly. They can be treated with antibiotics, but it’s much easier to simply avoid them to begin with by washing with an antibiotic soap. The soap may not prevent them completely in Fiji’s brutal heat and humidity, but it least it improves your chances of not having a swollen, red, oozing sore the size of a golf ball where your lip should be.

Boils are just the beginning. There are plenty of other preventable health issues in Fiji as well. One of my favorite stories from a current volunteer involves the prevalence of lice in the rural areas. Keep in mind this is an absolutely true story, or, as we called it in the Navy, a “real no shitter.” This volunteer was walking home from training one day when she came upon what appeared to be an outdoor hair styling session where the person standing appeared to be removing bobby pins from the hair of the woman sitting in the chair and placing them in her mouth…only they weren’t bobby pins and she wasn’t just holding them in her mouth… It seems the current method, at least in this village, of dealing with lice is to use an herbal wash to try and remove the crawlies and then pick the nits, or the eggs, from the hair using one’s fingers…followed by placing it in your mouth and biting down to a crisp ‘pop’. It makes sense, really. This way you’re killing the lice whereas if you just through the nit in the grass another person could get lice from that discarded egg. And if you’re wondering, neither I nor the volunteer who witnessed this asked what it tasted like, but my guess is the response would be “like chicken.”

This volunteer kept her composure, though, and, very matter-of-factly, asked about lice and how common it was in the village. Unfortunately, her inquisitiveness was misinterpreted by some of the young girls standing by and one fresh-faced youth stepped forward to proudly exclaim, “I have the most nits of all the girls in my village!” I guess everyone needs to be the best at something… How this volunteer suppressed an expression of being completely appalled I have no idea, but she has my respect and admiration.

Nevertheless, overall the people in Fiji are relatively clean, happy, and healthy. Every day education, and public health, improves and, maybe one day, things like boils and lice will be concerns of the past and they can have the luxury of worrying about things like cancer from environmental toxins and type II diabetes caused by a processed food diet like we do in the U.S.

Blessed are the children...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saraswati Training

Bees, Coconuts, and Fish!

The Video Documentation - Enjoy!!

The Beginning



The Site Visit



Cultural Experience 1



Cultural Experience 2



Cultural Experience 3

Au lako Mai Merika.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O' lako i vei? (Where are you going?)

We’ve been in Fiji for a little over 3 days, but it already feels like it’s been several weeks. From the moment we stepped of the airplane in Nadi it feels like we’ve been going non-stop. We stopped first in a town called Deuba (pronounced Day-oom-bah) and attended our first sevusevu, or traditional welcome ceremony, where our “chief” represented us before our Fijian counterparts. Our chief was a fellow Peace Corps volunteer named Tony, a silver fox in his 60s with a personality reminiscent of a combination of Don Rickles and Mickey Rooney and a personal history that reads like a character out of a Jimmy Buffet novel…experience ranging from high school dropout to enlisted Navy, then Air Force officer, then lawyer, and then one of the most prominent purveyors of menswear in California prior to retiring and joining the Peace Corps. In Fijian culture they place a strong emphasis on age as a measure of respect. Since Tony was of an age that he probably personally knew the inventor of the wheel (Come to think of it, he does remind me of Mel Brooks’ 2000 year old man…), undeserved or not, he received the status of “chief.” Unlike in the U.S., wisdom is just assumed with age even if in fact you possess the wisdom of a garden slug. Don’t get me wrong, I do sincerely like Tony…he’s one of my favorite people in the group and I have tremendous admiration and respect for him. Nonetheless, I only hope that I’m half as cantankerous and crotchety as him when I’m his age...

At a community hall not far from what would be our night’s accommodations, our new Fijian families treated us to both a traditional Fijian ceremony as well as a traditional Hindi welcome ceremony. The formal sevusevu ceremony is rich with tradition and custom and has an air of solemnity similar to any formal religious ceremony. The guests are seated in the “upper house” or the forward end of the room. Near the center of the room, the hosting chief squeezes pounded kava root in a cloth bag while facing the guests and flanked on either side of the kava bowl by two additional senior village officials. A large braided rope about 6 feet long with large symmetrically attached cowrie seashells extends from the bowl toward the guests. Before entering the room we were issued our Peace Corps sulus (yes, this is the first time Bubba wears a skirt), which consisted of a piece of silk-screened cotton fabric about the size of a large beach towel. We all put on our new skirts…over our clothing of course…at least until we all learn to sit cross-legged without giving everyone a show…it is a family engagement after all. Then we entered the room, removed our shoes, and followed Tony to the head of the room, crouching slightly to show humility and respect before sitting cross-legged in a semicircle behind Tony.

Chief Tony sits immediately before the extended braided rope and the Fijian chief recites a series of what sounds like prayers as other members of the Fijian contingent chant abrupt affirmations that seem to punctuate the end of the chief’s long, methodic hymns. The Fijian chief then offered the first bowl of kava to Chief Tony, who was obligated to drink it all in one fail swoop. Now remember my previous description of kava…muddy water sucked through a dirty sweatsock. The look on Tony’s face was priceless…

We all then shared cups of kava as it was passed around to all the new Peace Corps volunteers. With each cup handed out the recipient was required to ceremoniously clap once before grasping the cup and then clap three times upon passing it back toward the chief. And the clap is important, too…no golf claps or girly claps. The goal is to get a deep, manly, resonant clap by slightly cupping your hands and using your palms more than your fingers. After everyone had received a couple of cups of kava, the Hindi ceremony began with the Indo-Fijian Chief bringing out a tray containing a flammable incense, a colored paste (tikka), and an additional tray of sweets. The incense was ignited and a black, sooty smoke was wafted in a circle around Tony’s face and the colored paste was smeared on his forehead…again, the look was priceless…and everyone was offered a variety of Indian cakes and candies representing the “sweetness” of the new relationship. This concluded our initial introduction to the Fijian way of life less than 3 hours after we set foot on Fiji.

We then attended a training on appropriate dress and some cultural and security concerns…basic things like “watch what the locals do” and, regarding personal security, what boils down to “don’t be stupid.” Actually, those two rules work well in any general situation where you’re trying to fit in, especially the latter.

Later in the afternoon, we had water safety training. (Hallelujah! *angels singing*) Five hours in Fiji and we’re headed for a secluded sandy beach to relax in swimmable water! Coming from Alaska, you have no idea how much we appreciate this considering that any water in Alaska is cold enough to make any man question his gender upon entering…usually you squeal like a little girl and George Costanza’s “shrinkage” is given a whole new meaning shortly thereafter.

Water safety training requires us to wear life preservers as a mandated protocol. Now, at least they don’t issue us the orange bricks that fit like a public square stockade around your neck, but the ones they do issue are the full vest-type that basically perform the same function as an 800 fill power down ski vest in addition to being a floatation device…keep in mind that it is what has been described to me as “oppressively” hot during certain times of the year here. Nonetheless, we were basically told in no uncertain terms that we were to wear these mobile ovens any time we were on, near, or even thinking about being near the water. One current volunteer described how she was required to wear a life preserver crossing a stream that was 50 yards across and slightly better than ankle deep. We may die of heat stroke, but at least we won’t drown! Ah, the government…

In any event, it was great to get in the water and feel the gentle waves rhythmically lapping against our skin. We went through some basic water safety rules (again “don’t be stupid”) and had sort of a swim test where a small boat took us out about 50 yards and dropped us off to swim back. After learning about some of the dangerous sea creatures in the area (stingrays, stonefish, sea snakes, cone snails, and fire coral…oh, and sharks…lots of sharks) we were allowed to swim and snorkel around the area. At that point I was thinking, “hmmm, I could get used to this Peace Corps thingy.”

After heading back from the beach (which, if I failed to mention, was about 75 yards from where we were staying) one of the volunteers named Sarah offered to conduct a yoga session that evening. Now, I’ve never done yoga, but I decided there was no time like the present to try. So later that evening, as the sun was setting, we went back down to the same beach to participate in a free yoga lesson. Sarah went easy on us, but I definitely discovered that guys named Bubba simply just aren’t made to bend or balance certain ways. Nonetheless, stretching and breathing on a South Pacific island beach as the sun was setting was spectacular!

We then went back to the compound we were staying at to eat for what felt like the 8^th time that day. It turns out Fijians LOVE to eat…and they love meaty, starchy foods that they serve at every meal as well as morning and afternoon teas. They had chicken and fish served along white bread, white rice, and white potatoes. The only green on the entire table consisted of a few peas mixed in the chicken stir-fry. Green vegetables are not very popular here, cooked or otherwise. Furthermore, I asked the Fijian cooks what kind of fish it was and they looked at me and said “fried” as if I had an arm growing out of my forehead.

The combination of jetlag, no sleep on a cramped, stinky, and hot overseas flight, and being stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey led to one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had in a long time. Moreover, it’s been a long time since the most important thing I’ve had to worry about is when the travel constipation might subside (the plumbing has since been working smoothly in case you were wondering). There is something truly amazing about being able to unload all your existing responsibilities. It’s like taking that evil monkey off your back, beating the crap out of him, dropping an elbow from the top rope, and tossing the little furry bastard bleeding and whimpering into a gutter…and not feeling any remorse whatsoever. It took about a day, but once I accepted that all my previous responsibilities are now someone else’s (sorry, Heather!) it was incredible how good that felt. No email, no Blackberry, no calendar, no meetings…aaaaahhhhh! Needless to say, I slept like I’d been chloroformed.

The next morning started with a breakfast of Chinese cereal knockoffs that included “Weeties,” “Happy O’s,” and these small bricks of supposedly whole-wheat product with the consistency and flavor of drywall called “Wheat Bix”. I can only hope that these were the “melamine-free” versions (I think that’s an ad campaign for Chinese products now, like “fat free” or “cholesterol free”). We had fresh papaya, too, which was great, but I got the impression that fruit might have been reluctantly placed there on request. On the other hand, there was plenty of white bread…

We then loaded up and traveled another 2.5 hours by bus through Suva to a facility just outside Nausori called the Center for Appropriate Technology and Development, where we would spend the next few days in training. Now, I’m not sure why you would want to put such a subjective term like “appropriate” into your title, but my guess is that people here like the idea of giving it their own individual meaning. What is “appropriate” technology or development? I guess only an attorney would even pick this out…”go with the flow” I have to keep telling myself.

I was actually somewhat stunned by the accommodations we had received thus far, with Michelle and I actually receiving a separate room from the rest of the folks crammed into boot camp style barracks. Not that I regret missing the belching, scratching, snoring, and farting that was surely pervasive in the men’s barracks, but Michelle and I came prepared to actually be separated for the first 7 weeks. Moreover, we both expected much more Spartan accommodations, when in actuality the quarters we received were much nicer than where we would stay if traveling independently. One of the places we stayed while traveling in Honduras we had to ask the staff to please clean the cat poop from in front of our door…before we even paid for our room. Not that I’m complaining, but so far this is not what I expected from Peace Corps. We’re OK with that, though! For now we’ll enjoy the running water, showers, scenic overlooks, and all the greasy, starchy food we can eat. I’m sure we’ll be tried and tested soon enough!